Road Refugees (A Motorcycle Club Romance)

by Layla Wolfe

  Town muttered, “A massive shitbird.”

  “Do you promise me, Arkie? Do you promise you won’t call Cornucopia?”

  “No problem, Heaven! I’ve been wondering about your life with those fundy Morbots anyway. Mom and Dad sure did you a bad turn when they stuck you up there. But I’m glad Dad is dead and won’t know you escaped.”

  Thud. “Wait. What?”

  “I’m glad Dad won’t know you escaped. I’m sure they already informed Mom.”

  “Wait. Dad is dead?”

  Pause. “Uh . . . yeah.”

  Squeezing my eyes tight, I dropped my fist that held the phone to my side. I had to puff about ten or twenty puffs of air through my nostrils until I calmed down a bit. Town was asking me what was wrong, but I didn’t want to include him in this nonsense. My eyes teared and burned when I jammed the phone back to my face. “Say what? I talked on the phone to Mom maybe six months ago and she didn’t say a thing.”

  “Oh. Well, it happened maybe two years ago. Don’t feel bad. I don’t talk to those fuckwads either. I only found out a month afterward. Not like I’d of gone to his funeral anyway.” He hurriedly added, “Heart attack. Only fifty years old. Figures, huh? His blood pressure must’ve been through the roof, the way he yelled and pointed fingers at everyone. I hate how they didn’t let you become a lawyer.”

  I exhaled loudly. “Yeah. Well. Not like that’ll ever happen. Thanks for telling me, Arkie. I mean Sock Monkey.” I giggled. My grief for my father had ended. He wasn’t even due that one minute of sorrow. “I’m going to see you tomorrow! Tell me where to meet you so I can tell my chauffeur.”

  “Sock Monkey” told me to meet him at an indoor archery range called the Hip Quiver, of all things, and I laughed. If that name was typical of this new town, then I was all in. The new Heaven was hip, breezy, took things as they came. Hell, maybe now that I’d found Arkie, I would change my name! Why couldn’t sweetbutts have street names, too?

  “Bye, Arkie,” I whispered. “See you soon.”

  “Come on,” said Bee, who’d been standing behind me. “Let’s get you some wine. You like wine?”

  Boy, did I like wine! She put the bottle and a couple of glasses on the coffee table then vanished with her buff husband. I was itching to get at the wine because I didn’t feel sufficiently lubricated, especially not to talk with Town, who was getting to me more and more. Why was a guy I’d just met that morning so important to me? I had to find out. Instead, we stood there idiotically staring at each other.

  At last I made a lunge for the glass, plopping myself on the couch.

  “I’m glad you found your brother,” said Town, still standing. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go tomorrow.”

  “He said he lives in a tiny apartment above an archery range.” I had no idea why I said that. But my coverup was even worse. I took a big glug of the wine and said, “Where will you be staying, with your friend Crybaby?”

  “Nah,” said Town, finally sitting next to me. “Crybaby lives with his brother. There’s no room for me. There’s got to be some hotel or Airbnb.”

  “What’s an Airbnb?” I asked, gulping some more. That was when it hit me. I was starting to feel the way I felt on the highway outside Cornucopia. You know, before I staggered and passed out in the middle of the road. I put my glass onto the table. I wanted the happy buzz to last, not the passing out part.

  Town chuckled at me! I knew I was a moron and would keep running into these things I knew nothing of. “I keep forgetting,” he said, “that you’ve been apart from the world for a long time. It’s like a bed and breakfast, but with private people offering their homes.”

  I made a circle in the air with my forefinger. “I’ll bet these Bare Bones guys have all sorts of places like that.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve heard they’ve got a whole hotel up by Mormon Lake. They call it a bud and breakfast because they’ve always allowed smoking weed. Maybe I’ll stay there. I need an environment like that, after all . . . all I’ve done.” Leaning forward, he laced his fingers together, like an official army captain. I could see him ordering people around. He had that steely jaw and flashing, black eyes. “How’d you wind up with the Friends of Distinction?”

  “Oh, right. Well, you see . . . My husband used to give me Mickey Finns in order to, you know, use me.”

  His handsome face fell. “Oh, God. Chloral hydrate. That’s horrible.”

  “Well, no, I welcomed the Mickey Finn part. It made me forget, especially when mixed with alcohol.”

  “Ah,” he said, as if now he understood why I drank so much. “But if he wasn’t doing that, you wouldn’t have needed the chloral hydrate.”

  That was true. “So apparently the other night I, ah, blacked out, and walked outside the compound with no one noticing me. I came to on a bus stop bench. But then I began, ah, feeling weird while walking. Apparently, I fainted in the middle of the highway, and Byron Riddlesberger found me. Luckily he had a sidecar for puppies he brings to people—”

  “Puppies? What kind?”

  “You know, I don’t know. He breeds them and brings them to buyers.” I left out the part where he’d stack them in cages per Orchid. With Linus lying at our feet, his black marble eyes looking up at us, I didn’t need to bring that up. I ruffled Linus’ head with my fingertips.

  “Well,” huffed Town indignantly. “That doesn’t redeem him in my eyes. What I saw inside that empty store was enough to convince me. I needed to get you out of there.”

  “And thank you for that!” I almost put my hands on his muscular chest. Fear stabbed me, fear of intimacy. I grabbed my wine glass instead and gulped some more.

  Town said, “Sounds like you went out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

  “Well, no more. Once I get situated with Arkie, I’m never leaving his side.”

  “Good. You like to farm.”

  I had to think. Did I like to farm? I sure had been talking a lot about it lately. “Well, yes. I think I like to work. A woman’s work is never done, you know. I’d wash and dry dishes while Orson smoked his pipe.”

  “I’d never do that,” Town insisted. “I work as much as a woman, if not more so. Though I might smoke the pipe.”

  Well! “I made moonshine, too,” I admitted. “It was a dark brown and smelled like burning explosives. When you drank it, lights would flash like pinballs.” That ‘shine had buoyed me through many horrifying days and nights.

  “Pinballs,” Town echoed, grinning.

  Oh, good God. I just showed my age. But I knew of no video games to compare the feeling to.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m glad you like to work, too. Even when we were allowed to watch TV, I never did. I would rather read. Seed catalogues were the highlight of my week. I was the one who did Monday wash day. I knew that if I put it off to the afternoon, I’d be straddling clothes baskets and washboards while cooking dinner. Or leaving the warm house to hang sopping clothes in the dark.”

  Town frowned. “Washboards?”

  “Yes, indeed! We believed in refrigerators and computers for the men, but not washing machines. Go figure.”

  Town laughed fully. It was a sight to behold, his crooked mouth even crookeder, his handsome face open and trusting. “Well. I’m going to discuss growing magical mushrooms with Crybaby. I’ll need to experiment first, so I know firsthand what I’m talking. If you want—”

  I practically leaped from the couch. “Oh, include me! I’d like to be on your testing team!” I tried to calm myself, squeezing my eyes shut and looking at Town again. Yes, he was still laughing. “I’d like to participate in your study. I want to expand my horizons as part of my new life.”

  “Sure,” said Town. Linus had risen, and Town was smoothing down the hair I’d ruffled. “I’d like to trip with you.”

  “Have you ever done it?”

  “No. I was raised a Catholic. I was a choir boy. That didn’t mean you couldn’t get fossilized and hammered on alcohol, though.”
r />   “Oh,” I said, pulling back my hand from the wine bottle as though it’d zapped me.

  “Oh! I don’t mean you. Go ahead. Drink.”

  I poured another glass. The bottle was already empty. “You don’t drink?” I tried to sound casual.

  “Not anymore. I was getting way too mangled every day and night after I got out of the service. Then I met Linus.” He said to Linus in that sappy dog talk way, “Yes, I did! Yes, you are a good boy!”

  It was my turn to giggle. “I love the way you are with him.”

  He dotted a kiss on Linus’ wet nose. “Well. It involved me opening up and saying this is who I am. I’m a loving but wounded person. I needed someone to accept me as I am.”

  “Dogs do that,” I agreed. “Accept you as you are. I had to leave behind a dog I loved. Linus is wonderful.”

  And that is sort of the last thing I remember.

  I guess I reached that saturation point I always strove for with Orson. Out of habit, I kept lurching toward it now, even with Orson gone.

  The rest of the night is a patchwork memory stitched together out of flashes, things that might not have even happened. I remember I had to pee, which is logical after drinking so much. When I opened the bathroom door after, Linus was there waiting for me. He must’ve had his nose pressed to the door because he was standing motionless like a cute stuffed couch, staring unblinking at the door. I cried out with a sudden affection for this button-eyed dog, and I squatted down to take his head in my hands.

  Town came forward, exclaiming how cute we were. I remember rising, and my nose was about a foot away from Town’s. I mean, we were close. I hadn’t been that close to a man who wasn’t raping me in years. Even in my besotted state, it made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to say or how to deal with a non-threatening man. It made me almost more nervous than the assailants!

  He said, “When I first got Linus, I’d prop myself on his body and fall asleep using him as a pillow. He took the place of my addiction. Now I’m addicted to this wonderful fluffball of joy. He watches YouTube while I drift off, and he turns to look at me with love and thanks in his eyes, then he looks back at the screen. I used to carry a Bowie knife around just out of habit, thinking someone would pop out of the woodwork and attack me. I finally put it away a month after adopting Linus. That’s the big difference he’s made.”

  The next thing I knew, I was in Bee’s guest bed. I burst into awareness when the light was already off. I had to sit up and turn on the light just to make sure Town hadn’t slipped in next to me. But of course he hadn’t.

  “He’s not a pervert,” I whispered, before switching off the light and passing out.

  Chapter Ten

  Town

  “In nature, magical mushrooms of the psilocybe cubensis variety grow naturally in cowshit,” said Dick Passwater. “After a rainy day, you can find hippies out there in farms, rooting around.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Lytton Driving Hawk. We were all gathered around the dining table at the Leaves of Grass pot farmhouse to listen to their mycologist friend, Passwater, lecture us on shrooms. So far, I’d discovered you’re not supposed to call them shrooms. Could’ve fooled me. “Up at our hangar on Mescal Mesa, we’re just asses to elbows with hippies looking in cow patties. Wolf has been working with them for years.”

  Wolf Glaser harrumphed. He was a strange one. Goofy patches emblazoned his cut, like “Biker Boys Make Good Toys.” I figured he must’ve had some other value to them. He wore a belt loaded with things like flashlights, knives, and actual M67 frag grenades. “They keep ripping off my tomatoes from my grow up there behind the Citadel.”

  Tobiah added, “The hippies think it’s got some great kundalini up there.” He turned to me to explain. “Vortices. There are vortices all over Pure and Easy.”

  Wolf snorted, maybe just because Tobiah had said something. There seemed to be a rivalry between the two dweebs. I didn’t even know why Tobiah was there, other than he lived in the house. He was their office manager. “Vortexes my ass. Those Shirley MacLaine lovers are nothing but lazy thieves. They keep messing up my compost pile, ruining the microbial balance it’s taken me years to reach.”

  “Shut up, you goobers,” said Pippa, a fierce, black-haired old lady. I learned that lambs and sweetbutts became old ladies when they married a patched member. She normally ran the bud and breakfast where I’d been staying. But when I’d told her about my interest in shrooms—sorry, mushrooms—she became intrigued. Apparently, she had a plant biology degree. I didn’t want a shit ton of folks pushing up on my private grow, taking buyers away from me, but I was a green outsider, and I had to be grateful for the smallest crumbs. That, and she had an adorable Great Pyrenees and Leonberger mutt named Monstro who had taken Linus under her wing. I’d even kissed Monstro on the head, discovering that Linus had a jealous streak. He lifted his upper lip at us, so I didn’t try to pet Monstro again. Now they lay under the table. Wolf’s giant mutt Beetle was down there as well, not leaving much room for our boots. “Let Passwater talk.”

  Crybaby was rapt with attention, a good soldier as always. It would be a blast if he could become my partner again, this time in a semi-legal operation.

  His buddy Passwater had a plastic tub filled with beautiful spores about to burst with magic, long-stemmed with rubbery hats of various sizes. He said, “But most people grow inside because you need a controlled, sterile environment. See here, Townshend. You start with these spore prints from the under veil of a mushroom, sort of the uterus and balls. You can make spore syringes for future grows.”

  “I can help with that,” said Pippa. I nodded.

  Passwater said, “Cubensis mushrooms colonize the best between 75 and 80 degrees.”

  “Oh, fucknuts,” I mumbled. There went the idea of doing it inside my own apartment. Even 75 was way too steamy for me.

  But Lytton seemed to know what I thought. “I’ve been thinking of that, Town. I’ve got an unoccupied log cabin about five miles before Happy Jack up Lake Mary Road. You guys could use that for your business. There’s a greenhouse out back with a separate thermostat. I could add a burglar alarm.”

  Crybaby clapped his hands. “Awesome! Then I could move out of my brother’s house. He keeps barbecuing in the front yard, smoking up my bedroom.”

  “Wait!” shouted Tobiah, rising up from his turtleneck shirt. Slamming his skinny arms to the table, his jaw hung low. “The one with the ping-pong table and mounts on the wall?”

  “That’s the one,” said Lytton with authority. I liked him. He reminded me of myself, an alpha in control.

  “But the renters just moved out! I can get two grand a month rent for that place.”

  Lytton jammed his fist onto his hip. He was standing, like Passwater, to show his power. It was funny how Tobiah visibly shriveled back like a crushed snail before Lytton even said a word. “Crybaby has vouched for Townshend. They’re going to be setting up a business.”

  I called out, “I’m sure we’ll give you a piece of it in exchange for all you’ve done.”

  “Right, right,” echoed Crybaby. “And Town here is a decorated war vet. Two Bronze Star medals, the Purple Heart, the Army Commendation Medal for Valor, the Combat Action Badge—”

  “Pshaw,” I said. It was par for the course for vets to downplay their accomplishments. Not like a Purple Heart was a huge milestone to brag about, because you were supposed to be doing it for your country, with no light shone upon individual exploits. One weird thing about hanging with Crybaby again. A lot of apprehension in me evaporated, being with him. I recognized him, you know? I’d see vets missing arms or legs, vets in braces, and suddenly I’d be Captain Spiro again. But the good parts. Not the fanatic workaholic Captain Spiro. A new Captain Spiro. I wasn’t sure who he was yet.

  “Well, it’s true!” cried Crybaby. “We expect our vets to serve and protect us, then do nothing to help them when they discharge! Well, the Bare Bones are stars and stripes forever, true blue, and we support our vets.”<
br />
  “Amen, buddy,” said Lytton.

  “Right on, right on,” said Wolf.

  Tobiah must’ve felt like a heel then. He propped his chin in his palm and listened to Passwater while rolling his eyes.

  “Can your thermostat keep them between 75 and 80?” Passwater asked Lytton.

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Good. You can make your own mushroom substrate or order it prefab.”

  Wolf asked, “Could they use my compost?”

  Passwater shrugged. “Sure. As long as you find the right grain for spawn.”

  Wolf crinkled one side of his face. “Eh?”

  “Rye berries are best. And you’ll need the proper containers. I can go over all that with you later.”

  It looked as though I might be working with the goofy Wolf Glaser as well. That was all right. Hell, I’d worked with the goofy Slappy Lomax for grueling month after tortuous month in Syria, and we remained on good terms. Passwater continued teaching us about autoclaving the substrate in a pressure cooker, which different strains to grow, and colonizing. The greenhouse would be called the “fruiting chamber,” and we would grow them in clear totes purchased at Michael’s. This is where we’d mix it with Wolf’s soil and layer it with vermiculite to insulate the spores, preventing “contams.” He taught us about humidity and hydration. It only took a week or two to fruit, another week to harvest, so we could grow many different yields during the year.

  Afterward, everyone other than me drank beer and went outdoors to gaze upon the vast grow houses containing Leaves of Grass’ famous hybrids, Young Man Blue chief among them. Lytton’s wife June was out there watering, emerging to give us some weed samples from last season. Linus played with Monstro and Beetle. Wolf had been given the giant, fluffy dog by patch holder Tanner, who used to fly rescued dogs around. Now he was in med school, giving me a vague hope that I could somehow help Heaven, if she still had the same lust to become a lawyer. Aside from thinking she was banging hot, I had a sincere interest in her welfare. I’d helped myself and Linus. Now we could help others.