by Evelyn Glass
She was turning away from the window when she heard her name called out. “Jess!”
She stuck her head back out and looked down. The bikers were going back inside, but standing below the window, her round face peering up at her, was her childhood best friend, Angela Zeiss. She had been so busy in the kitchen that she hadn’t noticed she was with them as the club had continued to roll in. In the dusk, her hair looked like a platinum halo, curling down her back in the loose ringlets you only saw on prom queens or well-paid strippers.
“Hey! I’m like Romeo. Come down, come down sweet Juliet, you bitch!” Angela laughed, making a goofy romantic pose in the empty street.
“I don’t think that was a part of the play!” Jess called down, “I don’t think Romeo called Juliet a bitch. I could be wrong, though.”
Angela laughed again, a delightful sound in the growing dark. “Fuck Shakespeare! What did he ever do for me! Why didn’t you come say ‘hi’ in there?”
Jessica and Angela had practically grown up together. Both Grim Angels babies, their mothers had been best friends. Devoted old ladies, they had ridden with their husbands until their growing tummies had forced them to settle down, at least for a bit. The two girls had all their shared firsts in common. First cigarettes, first boyfriends, first heartbreaks, first… Jess stopped herself. That was where things changed radically.
“There’s a big bonfire party tomorrow for the Angels being back in town! Let’s go hit it up!”
Jess cringed at the idea. A party? She had been avoiding them. The idea of facing the people, the music, and the inevitable social interactions and resulting embarrassment was almost too much for her to handle. “Yeah…I’m a little tired.”
“Look, bitch,” Angela called, her grin taking the sting out of her words, “we haven’t seen each other in months. You need to get out! Look at you, withering away up there. You look like a fucking stick bug hanging out of that window. It’s the least you can do for ignoring me all day.”
“I was busy!” Jess shouted down in mock exasperation. It felt good. “I’m tired!”
Angela had a familiar look in her eye. She was not about to give up. She put her hands on her plump hips, the sleeve tattoos that covered both her arms and chest almost neon they were so colorful. They must have been expensive. Apparently her friend was doing all right for herself. “Don’t make me get drunk and stupid without you.”
“I’m—”
“I’ll do it, too. You know I will. I’ll do some stupid dance, or end up getting naked, or some shit.”
Jess rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “I’m sure Ed would love that.”
Angela had been a devoted, but extravagantly flirty, girlfriend to one of her uncle’s best friends for the last year. He was much older than her and looked so beat up they used to call him road kill behind his back. He was kind, though, and patient – patient enough to put up with the roly-poly little Persian that was Angela.
“Oh yeah! I have a boyfriend, don’t I? Oh well, I’m still going to get naked if you don’t stop me.”
Looking down at Angela, all plush and lovely, it was hard for Jess to say no. It would be nice to forget for a bit, to be the girl she used to be. At least to try again to be the girl she was supposed to be. Jess took a deep breath as she tried to decide. “All right,” she said. “I’ll do it. I’ll stop you from making a fool of yourself tomorrow night, but that’s it,” she said as she wagged a finger at her friend.
Angela’s face lit up and she gyrated her hips for a moment, rubbing her hands behind her head and through her hair, her eyes closed, grunting and moaning loudly, looking like she was deep in a mind twisting orgasm. “Awesome! Fuckin’ right!” she grinned, her show stopping as suddenly as it started.
“You’re completely hopeless,” Jess said, wagging her finger again.
“You look like your mom when you do that,” Angela teased. “Val’s got some guys coming up from Atlanta and they’re supposed to show up. I do love the way those southern guys sound,” she drawled out, then switched back to her normal voice. “You’ll have fun. I will make sure that happens. Don’t you chicken out.”
Jess grinned sheepishly. “I won’t chicken out.” Actually I probably will, but I can’t admit that to Angela.
“I’ll come up there and drag your skinny ass down the street if you do. Then won’t you be embarrassed?”
“Ooh...you’re scary.” Is that my voice? Jess wondered. There was lightness to it that she barely recognized, and she liked it. The café door below rang and Jess could see the squat form of Angela’s man stumbling onto the sidewalk.
Angela squealed and jumped into his arms, immediately planting a deep kiss on him. Jess watched for a while as Ed lifted Angela up and swung her about like a ragdoll. Her heels dangled in the air, her hands buried in his greying hair, becoming oblivious to her old friend. She was lost in her love for this steady, strange, old man.
Would I ever get that? Do I even deserve it anymore? She turned away from the window and made her way to the bathroom, mindfully stuffing her jealousy away in that same dark space she seemed to put everything these days.
***
It had been some stupid late night talk show. When she opened the door to Luke’s house, some vacuous celebrity was having an overly animated discussion with the host while the audience clapped and giggled in all the right places. Was the sound even on?
It was hard for her to remember anything during the day, but the details were clear in her dreams, and tonight as she walked into the house for her nightly visit, she could hear the canned laughter blaring. The laughter didn’t stop. It didn’t stop when she opened the door to the bedroom. It didn’t stop when she saw the girl’s body. Hysterical laughter, deafening her as she stood at the base of the bed and stared. Whoever she was, she looked like a mannequin, painted with a deep and glossy red from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. Her hair was matted with it, her nostrils filled with it. So many cuts and all so deep, the only word for it was mauled. Like a rabid dog filled with inhumane hunger had attacked her, she had been sliced and torn apart. Oh how it must have hurt.
Luke had given her pain throughout their relationship, but he had saved this kind of hurt for others. Why? The girl’s eyes stared, shocked but lifeless up to the ceiling, her eyelashes thick with badly applied mascara.
Luke always had a thing for eyes. Whoever this nameless girl was, she knew him enough to know that. Canned laughter thundered from the living room, growing louder and louder until it sounded less like hilarity and more like screams. In her dream, the laughter became the shrieks of a tortured woman, screams and constant applause, egging on the pain and congratulating it. Jess’s mind hummed with the sound. She clapped her hand over her ears and her head began to vibrate until she was sure that it was going to burst. She pressed her hands tight, her hands over her ears, trying to block out the sound. But she couldn’t, and the screams of laughter mocked her.
Chapter Four
He was careful to ride behind him for the entire trip north so Jason would be the one with all the bugs in his teeth when pulling into Detroit. Smirking to himself, Scott Murphy thoroughly enjoyed each time he saw Jason raise his smallish hands to his eyes to swat something away or, even better, to his mouth to drag something out. He hoped it was a big juicy one every time. A June bug even because those big, hard shelled, bastards hurt.
Scott was sure Jason noticed what he was doing. How could he not? He was an intelligent man. After all, as he was sure to remind them at every opportunity that he was the future leader of the mighty Grim Angels. Chosen from the five charters, he was Val’s golden boy, set to inherit the throne.
Future despot or not, Scott had been careful to maneuver himself directly behind Jason all the way from Atlanta, using him as a human shield of sorts against the litany of insects that must have be pummeling him from mile one. It wasn’t a perfect solution since he still caught the occasional bug, but it was better than catching every bug. It was a
small victory, and a petty one, but Scott just didn’t care. Chances were that Jason didn’t care either.
Being the leader was enough to keep him happy. That was just the kind of creepy little ginger he was. Scott liked to think of Jason as the walking embodiment of little man syndrome. He was Napoleon with a southern drawl. He swaggered, he squinted, and he was dramatic in his speech and gestures. He had pretty much every quality you’d expect from a future motorcycle club leader, except for size. He definitely didn’t have size.
Jason MacGinnis’ little man complex was never more apparent than it was the night he announced he had been chosen to eventually replace Val. He’d gathered all the key Atlanta players in his basement, leaving a few of his larger cohorts and their salivating pit bulls upstairs to guard the place. In Scott’s experience, that usually meant to play video games and hit the bong while the real business was sorted elsewhere.
Looking back, Scott was pretty sure Jason had chosen his spot strategically beneath the naked bulb for its dramatic effect. In the cramped basement, with the heavy scent of weed and black mold in the air, Jason had announced in his most regal voice that he was to moving to Detroit in order to be groomed by Val to become his successor. Scott remembered how he had paused after making the announcement as if expecting a great gasp, a round of applause, or maybe even a triumphant blast of horns. He must have been so disappointed that the only response he received was a few grunts and the sound of video game gunfire from upstairs.
As soon as the word were out of his moth, Scott crossed his fingers and began to chant in his head, dear God, please don’t pick me, but he had. Under that stupid swinging bulb, Jason had named his good friend Scott and Wild Card Rick Wilders, as his advisors, saying he had already cleared it with Val and they had both proven themselves to be the best men for the job. They were to saddle up for Detroit the next week when they were riding up to be introduced to the mother charter. They would have to return, of course, to settle their affairs in Atlanta, but the deal was done and it was just a matter of getting there.
Everyone turned to look at the two of them. Scott, his face passive and his arms crossed, just happened to be standing next to Rick, who was grinning like an idiot who had just won a scratch and win.
“Right on! Fuckin’ Detroit, here we come!” Rick had said with his typical enthusiasm.
Scott ground his teeth as they rumbled through southern Michigan, once again swallowing his annoyance. Right on, indeed. He didn’t want to leave Atlanta. He had settled there, or as much as men like him could settle. He had an apartment, he was starting a bookshelf, and he’d found a few restaurants he enjoyed. Hell, he had even adopted a stray cat.
Now as he rode in the growing darkness behind Rick and Jason, he found himself wondering if Rocky, so named because he had obviously seen his share of fights, even missed him. Probably only for the kibble I put out for him every day, the ungrateful bastard.
He always had plenty of other companions lining up to spend their evenings with him. However, when they had taken their purses and he had shown them the door, it was Rocky’s purr as he rubbed himself against his leg that had given him the biggest comfort. Or course, if the only thing keeping him in Atlanta was a cat that didn’t even belong to him, maybe it was best he left.
***
After what seemed like an eternity as they rolled north through Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio, and, finally, Michigan, they could finally see the sparkling center of the city as they rumbled across the Rogue River on I-75. Scott was in a foul mood. Saddle sore from twelve hours of hard riding, in a city he didn’t want to be in, the city center seemed pathetic in its enthusiasm as it sparkled in the distance.
Detroit’s reputation preceded it, but, even so, the outlying suburbs they had ridden past struck him. They were in the better part of town, but they could see empty lots and collapsing houses and buildings. There were hardly any streetlights and it seemed there was nothing but miles of abandoned buildings, interspersed with empty lots, desolate looking parks, and the weary headlights of the occasional car. It looked like an apocalypse and he wanted to be anywhere other than this shithole of a city.
A few miles farther on, Jason motioned for them to exit onto Michigan Avenue. Their bikes vibrated and shook along the brick road until they rolled to a stop at a gas station. Scott unbuckled his helmet and slipped it off before dismounting. Sweaty from the ride, his hair flopped down almost to his chin and he pushed it out of his eyes impatiently.
“Sweet Jesus, fuck me. Look at this place,” he mumbled as he looked around. For some reason he thought of that big fat cat again. It seemed to help the lonely gnaw he suddenly felt at the pit of his stomach.
Rick laughed wryly as he tipped his bike onto the side stand and walked to the edge of the filling island, where he could see the skyscrapers in the distance, and extending his skinny arms out as if to hug the skyline. “Are you ready for us, Detroit!” he yelled in his best strip club DJ voice. Scott and Jason might have at least laughed at that earlier, but it had been a long ride and even Rick’s jokes became annoying after a while.
Still straddling his bike, Jason took a cigarette from a beat up pack in his jacket pocket and lit it, drawing deep to cause the tip to flare bright red. Scott mentally shook his head as he prepared to fill his bike. It was just like Jason to light up before pumping gas. Jason pulled off his helmet, his hair pulled back enough that Scott could see wings of the angel part of his tattoo curling up his neck behind his ears. You could say one thing about the little leprechaun: he was devoted. He was going to make an excellent leader; there was no doubt in his mind. In fact, the man was so enthusiastic that rather than wearing the club logo on the back of his jacket, like the rest of them, he took it upon himself to have the entire thing tattooed on his freckled back. He even had Grim Angels inked across his neck, just to top the whole thing off.
Scott had been there when he did it. Irish drunk in truly majestic style, Jason had sat on the tattoo chair like it was his precious bike, like a king upon his royal steed. Eyes bleary but still a magnetic blue, he had clenched his teeth around his smoke as the poor, terrified, tattoo artist did his best not to fuck up. It didn’t help that Jason had threatened to kill him if he did. That definitely didn’t make for a carefree atmosphere.
“You better make it perfect, man. The only way that’s coming off is if they skin me alive.”
Scott had to look away to hide his smile. The speaking through clenched teeth thing was so over the top that it was like he was following a manual. However, here he was, loyal to the little ginger, and following him to what, from his viewpoint, really did look like the bowels of hell.
“Welcome home, gentlemen!” Jason said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “This place isn’t going to know what hit it.”
“I’m starving,” Rick grumbled as he turned away from the view and leaned backward to crack his aching back. They had been pushing hard to make Detroit in one day, stopping only when the bike were hungry. The flesh could wait.
Out of the three of them, Rick was definitely the tallest. Almost as tall as the infamous Val, but skinny as a twig, he was like a hyperactive, genetically enhanced, puppy. Truly an example of adult ADHD, the only thing that seemed to help him focus was the almost constant cloud of marijuana smoke he surrounded himself with. Scott wasn’t sure he’d even recognize him if he weren’t high. He’d heard stories, though. Horrible ones. Rick wasn’t a man to cross and definitely one to keep on your side. Someone had paid for every scar that man had on his lean body.
“Hungry, hungry, hungry…think there’s anything to eat around here?”
“Val’s set us up in his own basement for starters,” Jason said. “We can grab something to eat once we get there. I don’t want to be in this shithole after dark any longer than I have to be.”
Scott pulled the nozzle from his bike’s tank and pursed his lips. For someone in a hurry, Jason was taking his own sweet time. He was the only one that had filled his bike and was ready
to roll. “Is his place in the bright parts or in fucking hell? This place looks like a something out of a fucking zombie apocalypse movie.”
“Aww…what’s wrong, Prada? You miss your old home already?” Rick had wandered back to his own bike and had paused as he lifted the nozzle from the pump. “You worried they won’t have Evian like they do in Atlanta?” Jason barked with laughter as began to fill his own bike, his voice very loud in the silence.
“Fuck you, Rick,” Scott growled, making both men laugh harder still. They had been calling him that horrible nickname, Prada, since they rode past a billboard in Cincinnati. Glowing with spotlights and spread wide across the sky, the advertisement featured a male model that could’ve been Scott’s twin.
He turned his back to the men, as he tightened the cap on the tank, so they wouldn’t see him blush. He hated that shit. He barely noticed the way he looked. He avoided mirrors out of a complete lack of interest, not because of any confidence issues.
