Doozer (Burning Saints MC Book 5)

by Jack Davenport

  “How about I break your backside? You need to confess your sins, and make yourself right with the Lord, Marco.”

  “Maybe, I’ll see you on Christmas eve,” I said, trying to sound as non-committal as possible, but Mama was having none of it. Shooting me the mother of all glares until I broke. “Okay, okay. I’ll do my best to be there. Okay?”

  “Good. Now say hello to everyone else,” she said, and I gave her a kiss before making my way down the table.

  My grandmother sat quietly. Her eyes transfixed on the DJ’s light show. The palms of both her hands lay flat on the table as she bobbed her head along with the pulse of the music.

  “She’s been that way since the music started,” Gia said.

  I bent down and kissed my grandmother’s cheek. Her eyes met mine and she smiled briefly before turning her attention back to the light show.

  “I think she recognizes us less and less every day,” Gia said. “But she seems happy and at least she doesn’t ask about Pop-Pop as much.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  Gaga, who was my father’s mother, was suffering from the effects of advanced Alzheimer’s. She would sometimes forget about my grandfather’s passing and it was a heartbreaking event every time she had to be reminded.

  “What do you think about Pop retiring?” I asked, taking a seat next to Gia.

  “I think I need a drink,” she said.

  “So, what’s stopping you?”

  “The fact I’ll be expected to make a speech later and I’m already nervous enough about stumbling over my words like a blithering idiot.”

  “A speech, huh? Does that mean you’re taking the old man up on his offer?” I asked.

  “How do you know about that?” Gia asked.

  “Just because Pop and I don’t talk doesn’t mean I don’t hear things,” I replied.

  “Carmen,” Gia said.

  “Who else would I hear it from?” I laughed.

  “What did she say? Was she mad? She was probably pissed off that I made senior partner so quickly, right?”

  “Jesus. No,” I said. “She sounded happy for you. Are you okay?” I asked, noticing the color quickly draining from my sister’s face.

  “I think I’m gonna throw up,” Gia replied.

  My older sister was as “A type” as they came. As much as Carmen and I may have displayed the traits of middle child and baby, stereotypically, Gia was first born, to the core. Overachieving, in charge, and by the book. She was a great lawyer and would no doubt be a worthy successor at his firm. She was also caring, sweet, and far more sensitive than most people would ever know. Gia also had a sensitive stomach and known to hurl at a moment’s notice.

  “Here,” I said, spotting a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the table. I removed the bottle and dumped the ice in a nearby potted plant before handing the bucket to my sister.

  Gia took the bucket and stuck her face inside. After a few tense moments, she popped out. “All clear. False alarm,” she said, handing the bucket back to me with a smile.

  “Marco,” my father’s voice boomed, and I turned to see him standing behind me, arms extended, smiling. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said he looked happy to see me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Trouble

  I STARED IN amazement at Dr. Sinofsky’s massive fish tank. It held three hundred gallons of water and dominated almost an entire wall of his office. I watched as various brightly colored, oddly shaped fish swam busily within the safety of their predator free environment. Some fish swimming tightly together in synchronized order, while others cruised alone.

  Of all our donation pickup spots, this was by far my favorite, and this time of year meant weekly visits instead of our usual once a month schedule. Usually, I avoided dentists’ offices at all costs, but I loved coming here. Mostly because Dr. Sinofsky’s donation barrel was always full of brand new, top of the line, toys. I suspected the good doctor himself was largely responsible for this. Secondly (and selfishly), I loved looking at his aquarium. I swear I’d do it for hours if I could. Cowboy was always sweet enough to schedule Dr. Sinofsky’s office as our last pickup of the day and instead of our normal “run and gun” operation, he would park the truck so I could stay a while.

  “Where are Bonnie and Clyde?” I asked, noticing the absence of Dr. Sinofsky’s prized Discus fish.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to notice,” he replied with a grin.

  Over the years of visiting his office, Dr. Sinofsky had taught me all about fresh-water tropical fish of South America and Africa. Much like their ocean-going cousins, these fish were exotic and mesmerizing to observe, but required much less tank maintenance than saltwater setups. I’d especially become fascinated by the Discus fish of the Amazon river, who’s bright blue and orange colors glowed like neon. According to Dr. Sinofsky, Discus were as difficult to breed and keep as they were beautiful. He’d been working for almost two years, without success, on mating Bonnie and Clyde.

  “I have one more gift for you,” Dr. Sinofsky said, pulling a small, wrapped package from his coat pocket.

  “This load’s already full, Doc,” Cowboy said, while loading the overflowing barrel onto the hand truck. “You put anything more in here, and my back may not be able to take it,” he joked.

  “This one isn’t for the kids,” Dr. Sinofsky said, handing the package to me.

  “For me?” I asked stunned. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given me a gift and I couldn’t imagine what would have possessed Dr. Sinofsky to do so.

  “Well, don’t leave me in suspense, go on,” Cowboy said, his Texan accent still evident even though he’d been in Portland for nearly twenty-five years.

  “It’s not Christmas yet,” I said, the heat of embarrassment creeping up the back of my neck. I wasn’t a big fan of being the center of attention. Even when among those I liked the most.

  “I’d love for you to open it now as well,” Dr. Sinofsky said sweetly.

  “I can’t say no to you Dr. Sniffy,” I said, using the nickname his younger patients called him. Dr. Sinofsky was as far as I could tell, a saint. For two days out of every week his pediatric dental practice provided free care for underprivileged children in Portland, and he sat at the head of one of the largest charity fundraising committees in the area. Our club, Bikers for Kids, had worked with him for years and considered him to be our very own bow-tied mascot.

  I carefully began unwrapping the box with Cowboy and Dr. Sinofsky looking on.

  “Aw, for fuck’s sake. Before next Christmas, shall we?” Cowboy teased.

  “Shut up. It’s my present and I can open it as slowly as I’d like,” I replied.

  After removing the wrapping, I could see the gift was an over-the-counter pregnancy test, still sealed in its original packaging, and card which read, “It’s a Boy! It’s a Girl! It’s a Girl! It’s a Girl! It’s a Boy! It’s a Boy! It’s a Girl! It’s a Boy…”

  “Wait,” I said excitedly. I turned to the aquarium and did a quick scan. “Bonnie and Clyde?” I held up the pregnancy test. “Does this mean…?”

  Dr. Sinofsky smiled wide and his eyes lit up. “Mommy and daddy are resting comfortably at the private maternity ward, also known as my tank at home. Bonnie lay somewhere around two hundred eggs, which Clyde successfully fertilized. This time around Bonnie finally managed to successfully clean and guard her eggs, and now has sixteen thriving fry.”

  “Congratulations,” I squealed and gave Dr. Sinofsky a hug. “I can’t wait to see them.”

  “I knew you’d be as excited as I am. You’re always so kind to me. Letting me talk your ear off about my fish.”

  “This is the best present ever. Thank you.”

  “Well, that’s not the whole gift. Don’t you see?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Once the fry are a little bigger, I’d love for you to choose a pair of your own. I have a tank for you as well,” he said excitedly. “You seem
to have such a genuine curiosity and affection for these Discus, and I’d love for you to know the joy of raising a pair of your own.”

  I’d already been touched to the core that Dr. Sinofsky had included me in his good news, but this was too much. My eyes began to well up, but I did not allow myself to cry. I’d learned to stow that shit away years ago.

  “That is the sweetest gift anyone has ever thought to give me, and as much as I’d love to accept it, I can’t.”

  “Why not?” He asked.

  “I don’t have a permanent place to keep ’em. I have a room here in Portland, but I’m on the road most of the year, and when I’m not, I’m usually crashing on someone’s couch.”

  “Speaking of the road. We’d better get back on it soon. I’ll go take this out to the truck and wait for you to finish up with the Doc,” Cowboy said, before adding, “Merry Christmas and thank you again. As always, the club appreciates your donations but not as much as the kids do.”

  “Always happy to give, Cowboy. Be safe out there and remember to floss.”

  Cowboy left and I thanked the doctor once more for his thoughtful gift.

  Dr. Sinofsky turned his attention back to me. “Next time you’re here you can pick out your pair and I’ll keep them in the community tank. Should you ever find yourself settled down in one place for a while, I’ll have your tank set up and they can go home with you. You just let me know.”

  Must not cry. Must not cry. Must not fucking cry.

  “Okay, I’d better go help Cowboy. That barrel looked heavy and his back isn’t what it used to be,” I said and made a hasty retreat before I completely lost it.

  Dr. Sinofsky’s dentist office was in a small strip mall right next to a popular record shop called Village Vinyl. As much as I appreciated much of the music they promoted, it was the type of hangout I tended to avoid as I had little tolerance for whiney suburban kids.

  Immediately upon exiting Dr. Sinofsky’s office, I was hit by a huge cloud of cigarette smoke. I turned to see two hipster dudes puffing away directly outside the entrance of the record store. Their backs were turned to me and they were laughing loudly. Smoking so close to the building’s entrance was not only in clear violation of Oregon’s ten-foot rule, but extremely douchey considering their proximity to a pediatric dentist office. As I passed, I could see they were both wearing Village Vinyl staff shirts.

  I despised the smell of cigarette smoke, and normally would have already told them off, but today’s visit with Dr. Sinofsky had put me in the Christmas spirit and I wasn’t about to spoil my good mood by even acknowledging these thoughtless assholes. Walking by, I said nothing. At least that was the plan. Until one of them flicked a lit cigarette butt onto the ground directly in my path.

  I stopped dead in my tracks and my head snapped to the pair, who were completely oblivious to my presence. That was about to change.

  “Excuse me,” I said, several times before finally getting the attention of the village idiots.

  “Yeah?” the butt flicker asked, in a disinterested tone.

  “I think you dropped something,” I said, giving him the opportunity to act like a decent human being and pick up his litter. “Plus, it would be great if you didn’t smoke so near the entrance of Dr. Sinofsky’s office,” I added.

  He glanced down at the smoldering butt before turning back to his co-worker without a word.

  I felt the Christmas spirit rapidly draining from my body.

  “Hey,” I said. “You flicked your filthy butt on the sidewalk, right in front of me.”

  “I’m sorry, okay,” he replied without turning around.

  “You don’t sound sorry, and the butt is still on the sidewalk,” I said, trying my best to keep my cool. Nothing made my blood boil faster than a bully. The fact that this bully was also a litterbug and an entitled prickwad made me burn twice as hot.

  “Never mind, then,” he said, his back still to me. “I’m not sorry, bitch.”

  His co-worker laughed as I reached my hand into my jacket pocket.

  “I don’t give a shit if you are or aren’t sorry, asshat,” I hissed. “You’re gonna come pick this cigarette butt up.”

  This got the litterbug’s full attention, and he marched right up to me as his co-worker stood by, snickering.

  “What are you? The fucking trash police or something? How you gonna prove that’s even mine?” he asked through a menacing grin. His nametag merely inches from the tip of my nose. The stench of his cigarette breath pouring down on me.

  “Tony, is it?”

  He nodded.

  “Tony, you’d better back the fuck up, and pick up your cigarette butt, now,” I growled.

  “Or what?” he challenged once more. It would be his last.

  I leaned in closer, casually removing my hand, now fitted with brass knuckles, from my pocket. “Wrong answer,” I whispered.

  Tony’s height advantage and our proximity made it easy to deliver a clean inside shot, straight up the middle. My armored fist connecting with his jaw, dropping him straight on his ass, blood pouring from his mouth.

  Tony’s little toady co-worker bolted inside the store. No doubt to call security or the police.

  I grabbed a stunned Tony by the hair, pushing his head down to the ground. “Does it look familiar now or do you need a closer look?” I asked, picking up the still smoldering butt, and holding it to his face.

  “No,” Tony whined through what was likely a shattered jaw.

  I moved the butt closer, inching the smoldering end toward his eye. “How ’bout now?”

  Cowboy rounded the corner and bellowed, “Get the fuck off him!”

  I scrambled to my feet and slid the blood-covered brass knuckles back into my pocket.

  “That bitch hit me,” Tony slurred.

  “Did I ask you a fucking question, pecker head?” Cowboy growled down at the bleeding man.

  Tony shook his head, and wisely kept his broken trap shut.

  Cowboy was normally a sweetheart, but when he was pissed at you, you could feel it in your bones. He wasn’t the kind of man who demanded respect, but rather commanded it by the way he handled himself. Both his words and presence carried weight.

  “Get in the truck, now,” he snapped at me.

  I didn’t argue, scrambling into the warmth of the cab.

  Twenty minutes later, Cowboy climbed in beside me, started the truck’s engine and without a word, drove off. For almost twenty minutes we rode in complete silence until I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Would you please just yell at me or something?” I begged. “I can’t handle the silent treatment.”

  Cowboy looked at me for a second then set his eyes back to the road.

  “Come on. Say something,” I begged.

  “What do you want me to say, Trouble?” he growled. “Should we talk about how much cash it’s gonna cost the club to pay that guy’s medical bills and keep him from pressing charges? Or about the three years’ time you’d do just for having those knuckles, not to mention what you just did with them.”

  “No one was around.”

  “Except the six security cameras that no doubt caught everything from several different angles,” he pointed out.

  “I’m sorry, but that guy—”

  “You wanted me to say something, didn’t you?” Cowboy snapped, checking his side-view mirror, before pulling the truck to the side of the road. He turned on the hazard lights then faced me. “Do you remember the story I told you when you patched into the club? The one about choosing what kind of person you’re gonna be for the rest of your life?”

  I nodded. “The one about the wolves, right?”

  “That’s right. What do you remember me telling you?”

  I cleared my throat, feeling like I’d been called to the front of the class by a stern teacher. “You told me that everyone has two wolves living inside them. A good one and a bad one.”

  “And which wolf wins in the end?” Cowboy asked softly.

&nbs
p; “The one you feed,” I replied.

  “No matter what that guy did back there, was it worth you risking your freedom? Or beating him to death?”

  “I only hit him once,” I protested.

  “And you know damn well sometimes once is all it takes. Plenty of bar fights land people in prison or the morgue.”

  I blushed. “I know.”

  “And I know you’re smarter than how you acted back there, so you’ve gotta tell me what the hell you were thinking by going off on that guy like that? When I left, you were all smiles. I came back to fetch you because I thought you’d fallen into one of them fish tanks,” Cowboy said, his smile finally returning.

  “I fed my bad wolf. I’m sorry, Cowboy. I really am.”

  “I know you are, and I appreciate that, but sorry don’t make things right.”

  “Are you kicking me out of the club?” I asked, breaking into a cold sweat.

  “No, dummy. I’m asking if you’re okay. I haven’t seen this side of you in quite a while and I’m worried.”

  “I’m okay,” I lied. “That guy, Tony, just set me off, I guess.”

  What I didn’t want to tell Cowboy was how much I hated this time of year, and how cigarette smoke didn’t just bother me. It triggered me. I didn’t want to burden him with my “daddy issues” when I knew the club and kids needed his full attention right now.

  Christmas was the busiest, and most important time of year for our club. Bikers for Kids earned more in donations between November first and New Year’s Eve than the rest of the year combined and doubled. We were also most visible in the community around the holidays and were to be on our best behavior when in public. For many BFK members, myself included, the club provided a shelter from a turbulent past. For some of us that past is far in the distance, and for others, it’s staring at us from the rear-view mirror. Normally, I looked forward to the distraction of this busy season as it helped keep my mind occupied. It was easy to avoid focusing on my own pain when I had so many other people and tasks to keep me busy. But so far this year’s holiday hustle had failed to distract my demons and I felt myself missing my dad even more than usual.