by Lucas, Helen
“That’s right. They say that recovery never ends, so maybe I still am,” I said with a shrug.
“How’d you beat it? Did you do a program?”
“That shit’s too expensive. It’s all for rich kids who start to embarrass their mommies and daddies at parties in Miami. No real person can afford it.”
“The VA won’t help you out?”
“They tried but the fact is, they’re more trouble than they’re worth half the time.”
I sighed.
“And this was one of those times.”
“Did you start while… While over there?”
“Over there” meant Afghanistan. I knew that well. The way civilians talked about that desert rock most of them had forgotten about.
“No. I was an upstanding citizen back then. It was after I got back.”
I sighed once more, taking a deep breath.
“My body was halfway torn in two back in country. When I got back, they started me on pain meds—heavy ones, while I did therapy. And then, they try to wean you off, but your body doesn’t want to stop. It’s like weaning someone off sex or air or water—no one in their right mind would want to stop.”
“And so you started buying heroin.”
“It’s cheaper, and fuck if it doesn’t feel better,” I said with a grim smile, the smile of a reaper on the edge of an abyss. “The first time I shot up—that was the first time in months that I didn’t feel any pain.”
“But that gets you addicted.”
“I was already addicted. Now, I could just afford to indulge whenever I wanted. That’s when I started running with the Damned. I had always liked bikes. I had always been good at riding and good with fixing things. They took me right away and they looked the other way if I skimmed a little bit of my stash, so long as I didn’t cause any trouble.”
“That’s not normal gang behavior.”
“What is?”
“Not caring if you’re using the drugs you should be selling.”
“You’re right, but Fatman looks at it this way—he knows that addiction is more powerful than loyalty, so he’d rather have you addicted to something that he can provide cheap, than having you profess your loyalty and all that empty bullshit.”
Claire lapsed into silence. I watched her the expression on her face drift away, away from the thoughtful look of listening into a silent, almost ecstatic expression of transcendence.
“She’s fading fast,” Joel murmured. “I can feel her starting to shake.”
“How much more do you gotta’ do?” I asked.
“Maybe… Ten minutes? I could leave it like this but…”
“No, finish it,” Claire said, lapsing back into consciousness. “Fang, tell me about your childhood. Give me something to focus on.”
“My childhood?”
“Yeah. Just talk to me.”
This was way the fuck out of my comfort zone.
“Let’s see. I grew up in Tallahassee. We were poor as shit. Trailer trash. My dad was a drinker but he rode a real souped up chopper until he crashed it and splattered his brains all over the freeway.”
“And you still don’t wear a helmet when you ride,” Claire murmured, her voice almost a coo.
“Yeah, us bikers, we’re not a clever bunch…” I said through a grin. “My mom pushed me to go to college but we ran out of cash after my first two years of community college and my grades weren’t good enough to get a scholarship.”
“So, you joined the Marine Corps to pay for school?”
“That’s right. Boot camp, then straight to beautiful downtown Kabul.”
“Kabul… That’s where my husband was killed…” Claire murmured.
“I know.”
She looked at me pointedly.
“You’ve mentioned it, I mean,” I said quickly. “I remember my dad riding his chopper home from work—he worked at a grocery store, while my mom worked at a JC Penny and then a Wal-Mart. I remember finishing up my homework and running outside to watch him roaring down the dirt path to our trailer. Kicking up dirt. Hot, sticky summer sunshine and sweat everywhere. I remember him picking me up and hugging me, the smell of beer already on his breath.”
“Where’s your mom now?” Claire asked after a few moments of silence.
“Died last year. Lung cancer. She was a smoker her whole life, since she was thirteen. That’s how it was. If it’s not lung cancer or liver cancer that kills you, it’s a car accident.”
“But you got out.”
“Out? Hell, honey, I ain’t out. I’m just in a different hole,” I said with a growl, my voice little more than an angry snarl. “Life’s just one who after another and there’s always motherfuckers trying to push you in and get you trapped.”
“That’s pretty cynical…” Claire said, her voice still strong despite the sleep and exhaustion tugging at her face.
“You’ll understand why when you meet the Damned. There’s a reason we call ourselves that.”
“Why you call yourselves the Damned?”
“Sure. Joining the Damned is no one’s first choice. It’s not even plan B. Hell, it’s so far down the list that it doesn’t even have a letter.”
She cracked a smile. I liked that. I liked that smile.
“And… Done!” Joel announced sitting back and letting out a deep sigh. Claire sat up as much as she was able to without irritating her other fresh tattoos, squinting at the fresh one running up and down my leg.
“I can’t see it from here…”
“You’ll see it in the mirror. Fang, am I doing any work on you tonight?”
“Actually…”
“Shit, man,” Joel sighed, shaking his head. “I was fucking kidding!”
I ran my hand over an empty space on my neck.
“I want a needle here. Maybe dripping blood. Come on—how long will that take you?”
“Fine, fine…”
Joel changed his gloves, his inks, and the needle. In a few minutes, he had sketched something out and he was tattooing me. The itch and sting of the needle was comforting, strangely. Like an old friend.
Claire lay in a heap on the table, snoozing, her body finally having given up.
“She’s one hell of a trooper,” Joel murmured as he finished the black lines on my newest piece and began to start in with color.
“She sure is.”
“You fucking her?”
I sighed.
“I just gotta’ ask, man,” Joel laughed. “I know, I know… She’s a Fed… Hey, this basically makes me a government contractor. I should put that on my Instagram.”
“Hell no you won’t,” I growled. “Everything that happened tonight—you take to the grave. You’re getting twice your normal hourly rate, so you’ve just worked—what, two weeks in one night?”
“Man, I’m joking, I’m joking. I’m not going to say nothing to no one. I know how to keep my fucking mouth shut.”
He did. Joel was a good one. He finished up my newest tattoo, slathered it with ointment, and wrapped my neck tight with saran wrap.
“You know the drill. Keep it on overnight, keep that shit as clean as your daughter’s pussy, ointment three times a day and don’t scratch at it.”
“I know, I know. I know.”
We both looked over at Claire, who was snoozing gently.
“Yeah, she sure is something…” I murmured, a note of sadness in my voice.
The kiss on my lips burned hotter and ached deeper than the tattoo on my neck.
With Joel’s help, we led Claire out to the parking lot, where my chopper and Joel’s car were the only vehicles.
“I’ll take her in mine,” Joel offered. “I don’t think she’s in any condition to hold onto your crazy ass while you drive.”
“Fine. Follow me. I drive real fucking fast, though, so keep the fuck up.”
Joel rolled his eyes at me. I knew his vintage Mustang was no slouch on the open road.
CLAIRE
I came to as Joel was easing me into
the front seat of his car.
“Oh, morning already?” I asked, hoping that he heard the sarcasm in my voice. Joel just laughed.
“We didn’t think you’d want to hold onto Fang while you two made your way back to his place, so I’m going to drive you.”
“That’s sweet of you guys…” I said with a yawn. I felt like I had been beaten within an inch of my life, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to me and not let up, no matter how much I screamed, before slicing off my skin—just a cheery image all around.
In moments, we were on the highway, heading back south to Fang’s place.
“He’s head over heels for you,” Joel said after several minutes of silence. “I’ve never seen him like that with any girl.”
“Fang?”
“Mhm.”
“That’s impossible. I thought he hated my guts.”
“I mean, Fang acts like that to most people. It was nearly a year before he’d call me something besides ‘motherfucker’ and by that point, I had already given him two tattoos.”
“How did you two meet?”
“We grew up together, actually. My parents ran the only Chinese restaurant on Fang’s side of Tallahassee. He’d stop in after school for crab rangoons. I was just learning to tattoo then. He was seventeen, I was fourteen. I gave him his first two tattoos using a needle, something guitar string, and Bic pen ink.”
“Ugh, that sounds disgusting,” I grumbled, making a face.
“Yeah, it was pretty nasty. Fortunately, I got myself apprenticed to a real artist and I was able to actually learn the craft, learn the art. I’ve got a nice thing going, but I try to treat Fang real nice, since he was the first person to ever let me come near ‘em with a needle.”
“It… It takes trust, doesn’t it?”
“Trust, stupidity, apathy—call it what you will.”
Sure. That was a good way to think about it, I supposed.
“All I know is… He’s not apathetic about you,” Joel murmured as we turned off the road and into the parking lot adjacent to Fang’s building. The night’s darkness was just beginning to give way to morning’s light, coming in from the south east. The sky was awash with light pastels beginning, just barely, to show their stripes.
“Thanks for the pep talk, Joel,” I said as I staggered out of the car. “But I can’t get involved with him. Not like this. Not right now. We’re working a case together. He’s my partner.”
“I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t,” Joel said, throwing his hands up. “All I’m saying it, be cognizant of it. I guess… I guess I’m just asking for you to be nice to my friend, about his feelings.”
He sighed and scratched his head.
“Man, I feel like such a fucking twat talking about this shit. Take it easy, girl. Ointment three times a day. Don’t fucking scratch those beauties or else they’ll scab.”
Fang was wandering towards us, just off his chopper, apparently unaware of our conversation.
“Ready to go? Are you looking forward to the deepest sleep of your life?”
“Fuck, yes,” I groaned as I took a few unsteady steps, my entire body aching with each moment, with each beat of my heart.
As we walked up the stairs, Fang guiding me and my steps coming slow, I savored the scent of his blood and sweat and the ointment and soap all mixed together with the tough, earthy scent of his jacket. It made me feel warm. It made me feel safe. It made me feel…
No. Don’t say love. Jesus, girl, don’t say loved.
This wasn’t love. Whatever this was—the insane things I was doing to prepare for my role as Fang’s woman within the Damned, all of it—it wasn’t love.
No matter how much I wanted it to be. No matter how much, maybe, Fang wanted it to be too. It wasn’t love and it couldn’t be.
As we staggered into his apartment, I turned my eyes to the book case again. I suddenly felt light headed, felt like I was going to collapse all over again. I felt my knees go weak and I slumped against Fang, gasping as my torn up arm pressed against his chest.
“Okay, okay,” he cooed. “You’re fine, you’re fine… Just relax…”
As he struggled to stand me back up, my eyes settled on one specific picture—an image of two young men in tan colored combat fatigues, standing side by side with desert, mountains, and shrubs behind them. They both held rifles, pointed down, and both their faces were muddied with sweat and grime.
Fang was obviously on the left—a bit younger than the other man, with a tan, and blonde hair. He didn’t have the scars or tattoos that he had now. Rather, he looked… Fresh.
Not idealistic, not anything that could be mistaken for happiness, even though both men were smiling. But he looked fresher, less jaded, less miserable than he did now. Softer. Gentler.
I could still see gleams of that old self in him now, I realized. That kind looking young man, who smiled through his sadness with his rifle in the brutal landscape of Afghanistan amidst the invasion and occupation—he was still here, still with us, with me.
And the other man? The man standing next to him? The tall one, with red hair I knew too well, curly even in its crew cut form, and bearing the broad shoulders that had wrapped themselves around me, that had hovered over me as we made love, that I had leaned on and fallen asleep against?
Who was that man, that man with Fang?
It was Fred. My mind couldn’t handle this. Not in the slightest. I remembered nothing else from that night as the blackness overtook me and I slumped against Fang, my body aching into twilight.
FANG
I made breakfast. I made breakfast for a woman.
And a woman I wasn’t even sleeping with, no less.
Not yet, anyway.
I’d be the laughing stock of the club if anyone found out about this. Not that they would, of course. Claire knew not to say anything. And I’d never tell.
I made eggs, and then, in a really, truly inspired move, I dug around in my pantry and found a box of pancake mix and an unopened bottle of maple syrup. So, we had eggs and pancakes. Not too fucking shabby, if I do say so myself.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” I murmured, nudging Claire’s pale, sweaty face. Back in my bedroom, she had had a fitful night, tossing and turning in bed as she struggled to find somewhere to get comfortable in spite of her new tattoos—what were, essentially, open wounds.
Her eyes fluttered open and then she held up a hand to try and shield her face from the sun.
“No, no, let me sleep…” she grumbled cutely, shaking her head like a child who just didn’t want to go to school.
“We’ve got work to do, Claire,” I said, feeling like a father trying to coax his child out of bed and onto the school bus. “And besides… I made you breakfast.”
At the mention of breakfast, Claire perked up and her eyes widened.
“Breakfast? Breakfast, really? You? You made breakfast?”
“Jesus Christ, don’t act so surprised…” I muttered. I went back out to the kitchen and brought in her tray, the smell of the freshly prepared food wafting up to our noses deliciously.
“Fang… I don’t know what to say…” she murmured, sitting up in bed painfully, squeezing her eyes shut with a small gasp of agony.
“Don’t say anything,” I said. “Just fucking eat.”
“Fine, fine, you win, I’ll eat your lovingly made breakfast.”
“I didn’t fucking say anything about love,” I shot back hotly. “Just eat your goddamned breakfast.”
She rolled her eyes. I could tell she was making fun of me.
I didn’t hate it.
I pulled up a chair and sat next to her while she chowed down. I had brought out a series of hot sauces for her eggs because, if you’re like me, you can’t have scrambled eggs without a heavy dose of hot sauce. I was pleased to see that she selected one of the hottest ones.
“That one doesn’t mess around,” I warned her.
“I can handle it.”
She tossed about a dozen drops onto her
eggs and then took a bite. She was fine for a second, chewing thoughtfully. And then, immediately, her face flushed.
“Oh, god, that really is hot!”
“Exactly. That’s what I like about it.”
“Fang, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever tasted! I don’t know if I can eat this.”
