by Paula Cox
I swallow, a tennis ball shifting down my throat. I don’t take trash like this from men. It’s the reason I’m not in the kitchen right now. All I’d have to do is take a little sexism with a healthy side of harassment from Lucca and I could be in the kitchen, turning this place into a Michelin-star-worthy establishment. But I’m not, because my mother taught me to not take this kind of trash. But my father taught me something equally important: Never let them see they’ve gotten to you.
“I am sorry, sir,” I say, my voice level, the voice of an unperturbed woman. Even though I feel quite a bit away from unperturbed. “This isn’t that kind of establishment. It is my understanding that there is a strip club thirty miles north of here. Just follow the signs. I am sure a lady there—for the right fee—would be more than willing—”
“Oh, baby, none so hot as you!” Patrick grins, showing yellow, crooked teeth. “Don’t be a tease, baby girl.”
“Yeah, sweet thing,” Gunny says. Gunny’ voice is deep like the rumble of a train. “He’s done his time like a man. Give him a reward.”
I sigh. There’s no getting through to men when they’re like this.
“Would you like to order any more drinks?” I ask.
“I’m not done asking you, sweet sexy thing, to sit on my lap!”
Patrick makes as though to stand, gripping the edge of the table and half-rising to his feet.
Killian reaches forward and touches his brother’s arm. When Patrick looks at him, Killian shakes his head, slowly. Patrick squints, confused, and then Killian shakes his head again. Patrick heaves a heavy sigh and collapses back into the seat. It happens so fast I don’t register the fact Killian just stepped in for me until Patrick cries: “More drinks, then! Whiskey and beer all round!”
The table cheers, all except for Killian, who watches, stares, eyes penetrating me.
“Yes, sir.”
I retreat from the table to the bar.
Nine o’clock turns to ten o’clock, and ten to half past ten.
Most of the couples have gone home, and now only three tables remain. The Satan’s Martyrs are still in full swing, laughing, cheering, drinking like fish. Across the other side, an elderly couple drinks coffee, talking quietly. Beside them, a lone man—a trucker, I guess, by his gnarled hands and low-pulled cap—nurses his second beer.
I stand at the bar, talking with Alex Dunbar, the kid who helps out on Friday nights and weekends. I’m not sure if a sixteen-year-old should be serving alcohol, but Lucca Berelli can pay him less than he can an adult, so of course he doesn’t care if it’s moral or legal.
“That one looks scary,” Alex whispers.
“Which one?” I whisper back.
We’re across the restaurant from the Satan’s Martyrs, they’re loud, and yet we still whisper. But the Satan’s Martyrs are a force to be reckoned with in Rocky Cove. If you talk about them, it’s in whispers.
“The one with blonde hair. He’s the leader, isn’t he?”
I nod. “I think so.”
“Why is he looking at you like that?”
“What do you mean?”
Alex runs a hand through his shaggy mop of black hair. “Come on, Hope, he’s been staring at you all night. Do you know him?”
“I know of him. But I’ve never spoken to him in my life.”
“Either he wants to kill you, or he likes you.”
“I don’t know which would be worse,” I mutter. “I’ve got too much to think about, kid, without adding the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs onto it.”
“I suppose—”
“Hey!” Lucca’s voice is a nail on a chalkboard, screeching from the kitchen door.
Alex scurries away to the opposite end of the bar and immediately begins to clear some glasses.
I turn and face Lucca. He stands with his hands propped on the top of the doorframe, so that his beer belly hangs over his jeans. He’s a short man, with an awful comb over which always seems to be stuck down with sweat. His eyes rove over me, but not in the same way Killian’s have been all night. When Lucca’s eyes rove over me, it’s like hundreds of insects are scurrying across my skin.
I think of all the times he has groped the other waitresses. Rachel and Allie and Lily and Jess . . . all of them, I am sure. He gropes them and laughs when they squirm under his grasp. I’m not certain, but I think I’m the only waitress here that he hasn’t groped, that doesn’t take his nonsense.
He watches me for a few seconds—his tongue licking his lips as a man does before tucking into a big meal—and then barks, “Back to work,” before leaping back into the kitchen.
Back to work? I think. The place is almost empty, you old pervert.
But I move around the restaurant, doing what service people all over the States do once the real work is done: pretend to be busy. Wiping down tables. Pushing in chairs. Folding napkins.
At fifteen minutes past eleven o’clock, a man walks into the restaurant and approaches the Satan’s Martrys’ table. He’s a young Mexican man who wears baggy cream chinos and a red-and-green plaid shirt. His shoes are shiny to the point of being reflective. I’m sure if I got ahold of them I could touch up my makeup in their mirror glimmer.
The Satan’s Martyrs stop laughing and cheering and watch the Mexican man. Killian holds his hands up and speaks for the first time tonight. “Business,” he says, and then rises to his feet. “Carry on. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes, boss,” half a dozen bikers say at once.
Killian nods and steps away from his seat, meeting the Mexican just beside the table. The Mexican leans in and whispers something in Killian’s ear, and Killian nods again. Business, I think, and for some reason a tingling sensation moves from the base of my spine, up my back, to my neck. Goose pimples appear on my skin. Maybe it’s because I know whatever business he’s dealing with, it’s probably illegal. And he doesn’t look worried in the least. He looks in charge. I didn’t think anybody could control that table of screaming jackals, but with a few short words Killian did.
After a short exchange, Killian and the Mexican make toward the exit.
Then Killian stops at the exit, pats the Mexican on the back, says something I can’t hear, and then turns. The Mexican leaves the restaurant.
I think Killian is going to head back to the table, but instead he walks toward the bar, where I stand helping Alex wrap the cutlery for tomorrow.
Maybe he wants another drink?
But then he’s standing before me, close enough to touch, his blue eyes trained on me. He’s so tall that I have to crane my head to look up at him. And he is wide with muscle. An immovable man. A solid man.
“Thank you for your service tonight,” he says.
He reaches inside of his jacket, takes out an envelope, and holds it out to me.
I stare down at it, my mouth falling open. The envelope is unsealed. The green of money pokes out of the top of it. At least one hundred notes.
“Take it,” he says.
His voice is cocky and cynical, as though he knows the punch line of a joke the rest of us can’t even guess the setup of. But beneath the cockiness, there is a note of command. This is a man who knows how to get his way. His face is implacable, his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a straight line. As I look down at the envelope, I notice that his knuckles are grazed and red. A dangerous man. A man who’s been fighting.
I know I shouldn’t take the money, and yet—
My hands begin to shake, but I don’t let that stop me. The fact is I need the money. Gift horses and mouths come to mind. My rent and bills are right there. Some stability for Dawn is right there. Some peace of mind is right there.
I snatch the envelope and shove it into the waistband of my skirt.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
He nods once, and then turns and leaves, swaggering out of the restaurant, the knife-impaled man of the Satan’s Martyrs gazing at me.
“What. The. Hell.”
Alex looks at me with wide eyes. Then he ra
ises his eyebrows. What was that about?
I shrug. “No idea, kid. No idea.”
I catch Gunny on his way to the bathroom.
“Excuse me?” I say.
The giant man turns to me, his face unreadable, dull. “Yeah?” he grunts.
“Killian—Mr. O’Connor, he just gave me an envelope. It had lots of—”
“If the boss gave you money,” Gunny says, “you take the money and don’t question it. It ain’t a mistake. Don’t insult him by trying to give it back.”
I won’t, I think. That’s not the point.
“But won’t he want something in return?”
Gunny shrugs. “Boss’s mind is boss’s mind. Take whatever he gave you. Keep it. It’s all you can do now. I need to take a piss.”
He leaves me standing in the narrow hallway which leads to the bathrooms, the envelope a brick in my waistband, pressing into me.
It’s all you can do now.
I suppose he’s right. I can’t exactly hunt the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs down and scream: “Hey, mister, take your cash back! I don’t want it!”
I go back into the main floor of the restaurant. Several of the Satan’s Martyrs are asleep at the table, their snores like the rumbles of their motorbikes.
I move to an empty corner of the restaurant, take out the envelope, and count the money.
Over $2,000. Over $2,000!
“Wow,” I mutter.
It’s all I can think to say.
When I get back to the apartment, Dawn is sitting bolt upright in the armchair next to the window. We live on the top floor of an apartment building owned by Frederik Manson, the man who also owns a few night clubs in towns scattered around this particular nook of Cali.
The lights are out. Dawn sits with moonlight shining on her face, her knees drawn to her chest, gazing out into the street below. Our building is two streets over from Main Street, and there isn’t much to see below apart from streetlamps and the occasional fast food wrapper blowing in the wind.
She doesn’t turn when I enter, but that’s okay. She’s sweating and rocking slightly, and in the reflection of the window I can see that her eyes are wide and alert. She’s not high. That’s something. That’s everything.
The money presses into my waist.
I’m about to take it out and show her, but instead I take my hands from my waistband.
Telling a recovering addict that you’re suddenly $2,000 richer isn’t a good idea, I decide.
“Dawn,” I say.
She turns to me mechanically, her face expressionless and empty. “Hmm?”
“Do you want something to drink? OJ? Coffee? Water?”
She nods as though with a great effort. “Water,” she sighs, and then turns back to the window.
Chapter Two
Killian
I ride the long winding roads that lead in and out of Rocky Cove. I don’t ride anywhere in particular, just ride for the sake of it. Clearing my head, maybe. Trying to get a handle on the way things are now that Patrick is out of prison. I ride past the Darkwood, a small patch of trees and fallen browns leaves bordering the eastern side of Rocky Cove, down the thin twisting road, and on and on through the darkness. My bike roars beneath me as I reach one hundred, and then one twenty.
Riding normally helps me think, but tonight thinking is difficult. Patrick doesn’t get that the Satan’s Martyrs is a goddamn business. That’s the problem. Maybe he watched too many movies in prison. Maybe he got some stupid ideas in that thick skull of his. The Satan’s Martyrs exist to make money. Of course, there’s pride and loyalty. That’s an important part of the club. But the club crumbles the second we stop making money.
Goddamn, brother, I think, roaring toward Sapphire Lake.
I stop my bike in the car park beside the lake. It’s empty. The night is clear. I climb off my bike and walk to the edge of it, looking down at the water. I’m not usually the stand-by-the-water-and-think kind of guy, but tonight’s been that sort of night. Hell, the last week since Patrick got free has been that sort of week.
Just yesterday we did a routine muscle job for some rich prick with a beach house one mile from the Cove. One of the pros of Rocky Cove, according to the tourist brochures, is that it's next to the beach but not right on it. It should’ve been an easy job. This rich prick had made some enemies by drilling some woman who happened to be married. All we had to do is sit round back and deal with trouble if any came up. The rich prick was throwing a rich-prick party and he was afraid the husband and his friends might show up. Easy. The easiest money an outlaw will ever make.
I slump to my ass next to the lake, stretch my legs out, and for a few minutes it’s like the events of the night are playing out in the water.
Five of us sit in the guy’s garden, around a plastic table at the back, in the dark, smoking cigarettes.
It’s me, Gunny, Max and Craig the Remington brothers, and Patrick.
“Imagine having all that money and blowing it on parties like these,” Gunny laughs in his deep voice. “Did you see what the guy was wearing. A goddamn mask?”
“It’s one of those masquerade parties,” Craig puts in.
“You're an expert now?” Gunny says. “Maybe you should hang up your leather and become a party planner.”
We all laugh, including Craig.
“Read a book or watch a movie, you giant lump, and you’ll know what a masquerade party is.”
“The only time I care about masks is when a woman’s face don’t match her body.”
“And that, my friend,” Craig says, “is why you’ll die alone.”
“Ha, ha.” Gunny shrugs. “I won’t die alone. I’ll be surrounded by hookers on a bed of Benjamins.”
“Jobs like this and it’ll be easy,” Max comments. “We’re here to sort shit out if some random guy comes here and starts causing trouble. This is a walk in the park compared to our normal gigs—”
“Is this my coming home gig, then?” Patrick suddenly snaps.
I sit next to him, close enough so that, even in the dark, I can see that his mouth is twisted into a grimace. He clenches his knuckles and his bulky cheeks tremble. He looks like he’s about to explode. I take a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my leather and hand them to him. “Relax, brother,” I say. “This is easy money.”
He ignores the cigarettes and shakes his head. “Years rotting in a cage, and this is what I come back to. Where’s the excitement in this? If I wanted to sit around and do nothing, I would’ve stayed in the cage.”
“You got a problem with money?” Gunny asks.
The only light comes from the house, which flashes like a disco, and from the embers of the cigarettes Gunny, Max, and Craig smoke. The lights from the house stop about fifteen yards from us, crawling up the rich prick’s massive garden and then cutting short.
“Money don’t mean a thing,” Patrick says.
I put the pack of cigarettes back into my pocket and lean back in my chair. Let him tire himself out, I think. He’s due a little rant. He took one for the club, after all. Screw that, he took one for me more than anything.
Gunny makes to speak, but I hold up my hand. He immediately closes his mouth. We sit in silence for a while longer as the party goes on. The sounds of music, giggling, and dancing reach us only quietly. The grass is dew-flecked and my boots are wet up to the ankles. When we breathe, our breath plumes in front of us.
“What good is money when you turn soft and weak and pathetic?” Patrick barks into the quiet. “Tell me that! Sitting here like cowards—like we’re the guy’s gardeners or something—instead of sorting this out directly. Why don’t we just find this husband and put him in the ground? Tell me that. It’d be a damned better way to spend our time than sitting here and talking trash and smoking—”
“Enough,” I say.
I don’t raise my voice, but Patrick stops his ranting and turns to me. His face trembles worse than before and he opens and closes his hands, as though wishing for somet
hing to squeeze, to break.
“Tell me, then, why we don’t—”
“Because this isn’t a movie and we weren’t paid to kill the husband. That’s why. Maybe you’ve forgotten, brother, but we’re not outlaws for free. We’re outlaws for hire.”
“Yeah,” Gunny murmurs. “Why risk putting one of us in the can—maybe even you again, Patrick—just to feel tough? We’ll set up the ring when we get back to the club and do some boxing, if you like. You can feel tough then. Hell, I’ll even bet on you.”
“Boxing.” Patrick shakes his head. “When did you all become such cowards—”
