by Loren, Celia
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I reassure him. It’s true—I’m used to looking after myself.
“Look, Scott, I wanted you to come here today to see that there’s a place for you in this world. All the guys out there, they’re all people who felt like they didn’t fit in everywhere else. You enjoy yourself?”
“Oh, yeah…yes, sir,” I correct myself, not wanting to disrespect him.
“Good,” he replies with a smile. “I think there could be a place for you in this club, but you’re still a kid. Fifteen, you said?”
I nod. I feel a ball of hope and excitement build in my stomach. Belong to a place like this? I’ve never belonged anywhere.
“Well, like I said, there could be a place for you here, but you need to make a life for yourself first. You need to become someone that brings value to the club, it can’t just be one-sided.”
“How do I do that?” I ask, frowning.
“Well, I can’t plan your life for you, but for me…I didn’t have the grades or the temperament for college either. Joining the military taught me how to be a man, strength, control.”
“I want those things,” I say.
“Look into it,” he advises. “I’m no recruiter, and I can’t lie to you, there are plenty of things about it that are fucking rough. And dangerous. But I promise you this, if you decide the military is the right path for you, there will be always be a home waiting for you here.”
A home. Something I haven’t had since I was ten.
“I will. Thank you.” I struggle to form the words for what I want to say. “I’m used to…I’m used to people giving me the minimum, only what they have to…it’s been a while since someone’s done anything more for me.”
He nods and I think he really understands what I meant.
I begin to walk back down to the bike.
“Hey Scott,” Flint calls after me. I turn back around. “The military is pretty strict when it comes to police records. I’m just saying…keep yourself clean. Don’t get involved in anything that will jeopardize your chance for a future.”
“I won’t. I’ll be careful,” I promise him. With a wave, he turns back into the clubhouse and I head down to the main road.
I pull the bike from behind the tree and hop on. It creaks as I press down on the pedals, warming it up as I start back down the road. It’s about ten miles to the Ralstons’ house, and I take my time. I know they won’t be looking for me.
As I pedal, I hear the crickets begin to chirp, their melody providing a constant background to my ride. The woods are dark on either side of me, and there aren’t any cars on the road. I think over what Flint said, and a calmness spreads through me. I had the best time today that I’ve had in as long as I can remember.
It strikes me that most people don’t get to make conscious decisions about their future. Like the Ralstons, for instance. It seems like they just sort of wound up where they are, plodding through life. They do the same thing every day, stuck in some sad pattern, and they don’t even know when they learned it.
I don’t want my life to be like that. I want to feel in charge of it. I want to decide the kind of person I end up being.
Today, Flint laid out two very clear paths for me: I can keep doing what I’m doing, or I could make a new life for myself. Enlist, and have a home at the club. Be a member of Satan’s Sons.
All I have to do is stay out of trouble.
Chapter Twelve
Violet
Present Day
Even though I was up late the night before, I go through work at the hospital with a new sense of purpose. I feel like I’ve shaken off some sad cloak I’ve been wearing, and I feel reenergized.
When I come home, Drifter and Marcus aren’t there, but I’m not surprised. I open the back door for the dogs and walk outside. I take a spin around the perimeter of the yard with them, just like Drifter and I used to do with Kalb when we were first getting to know each other at the clubhouse. Though of course our yard’s not so big. I grab a couple sticks and toss one for Kalb and one for Scout until they’re tired out and go lie in the shade under a tree.
After I grab a drink of water, I walk back into the bedroom. I feel like putting something nicer on than just the t-shirt and jeans that I’m wearing, even though it will just be for me. Maybe I’ll go over the final vendor list for the fair while I eat.
I pull off my old v-neck t-shirt and toss it in the hamper, then I choose a silky, blue camisole from the bureau and pull it over my head. I’m about to go grab a skirt from the closet when my eye catches on something on the top of the dresser.
I must have really let the housework go while I’ve been at the hospital, because I can see that my old jewelry box has been moved slightly. There’s a sliver of the bureau next to the jewelry box that doesn’t have any dust on it. I frown. I haven’t worn jewelry in a while. I always forget about accessories, unless it’s for some big occasion. And Drifter wouldn’t have any reason to touch it.
I reach over and open the top. A ballerina springs up in the middle of the pink satin. It’s the same jewelry box I’ve had since I was a kid, and the ballerina will still spin to twinkly music if you wind up the key on the bottom. I dangle my fingers over the ring section on the right and instantly know what’s missing. It’s the most valuable piece, both personally and financially: my mother’s engagement ring.
My mom left it to me when she died of cancer. I keep it in here, trying it on a few times a year, usually on her birthday, holidays, or the day she died. I can picture it perfectly: a silver band with two small sapphires on either side of a square diamond. It has her and my father’s initials on the inside of the band. And it’s gone.
Anger rises from my stomach and swells through my chest. I inspect the rest of the main compartment of the jewelry box for more missing items. There’s also a gold necklace chain missing, though it doesn’t hold much sentimental value to me and so doesn’t get me nearly as fired up.
I reorganize everything neatly so I will know if anything else goes missing, then close the jewelry box, the ballerina bending on her spring as I shut the top. I walk quickly out of the bedroom and pull the door closed behind me. I wish we had a lock on it, because I know exactly who’s responsible for the theft.
I stride down to Marcus’s room and push his door open. He’s made an absolute rat’s nest of the room we’ve let him stay in. What a fucking pig. Dirty plates, sheet laid over a bare mattress (he must have really had to try for that one – I made it up for him when he got here!) and dirty clothes covering the floor. The room smells of stale musk.
I eye the nightstand and start there. I pull open the drawer and only see a crusty sock and lotion. Gross. I shut it and make my way over to the low dresser. It’s made of pale wood, and sits underneath a large mirror that I thought made the room look bigger. I check the right top drawer, but it’s only underwear. I open the left, and hear a rewarding jingle. His trinkets drawer.
Everything is all mixed together. I see a couple of different decks of cards, loose and shuffled in with the rest of the stuff. Some crumpled papers…one of those plastic bead necklaces, like they wear during Mardi Gras. My fingers pause over a faded picture. I bring it up to my face, my anger dissipating a little.
It’s a family photo. Of the Burrells. I stare at the taller of the two boys, standing in front of their parents on the steps of what must have been their house. The mother has her hands draped on either side of Scott’s narrow shoulders. He can’t be more than 9 or 10 in this picture. They’re all dressed casually, and for summer. Maybe a July 4th picnic?
I touch Drifter’s little face, smiling back at his happy grin. I never knew what he looked like as a kid. Happy. He looked happy.
I glance up to the woman above him. She’s beautiful, tall, and slender. And Marcus was right, they do have her blue eyes. The man next to her is broad-shouldered like Drifter, though his hair is short and his face is clean-shaven. His hair is dark, like Marcus’s, and his eyes are brown. He appears to hav
e his hands clasped behind his back, and is looking proudly at his younger son.
Marcus is grinning widely up at the camera, clearly a little goofball. I realize I’m smiling back at him instinctively, and frown. I can’t believe this cute little kid stole my mom’s ring.
“Finding everything you need?”
I jump as I hear Marcus behind me. I look up into the mirror to see him watching me from the doorway, an angry smirk across his lips. I drop the photo back into the drawer and shut it with my hips as I turn to face him.
“Just doing a little cleaning,” I say overly politely. I know he knows I’m lying, and I don’t care. Though I do wish he hadn’t caught me in this position.
“Scott really won’t like hearing that you’re rifling through my stuff,” he says, shaking his head at me.
“I guess your luck at the tables has changed. I thought it was ‘just for fun,’” I retort, taking a shot in the dark. If Marcus stole my ring, he must need the money, he seemed so flush before. The dark expression that flits across his face confirms my suspicions. Now that I think of it, he looks more tired too, and thinner. Must’ve been a really bad streak.
“Scott never has to hear about this,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Suppose you’re right…suppose I am in the hole…you help me out, Scott won’t find out about this. Seems like you two are already on the rocks, wouldn’t want to make it any worse.”
His insinuation about my relationship drives my anger over the edge.
“Blackmail?” I hiss at him, taking a couple steps across the room toward him. He draws back a little in surprise. “You dare to try to blackmail me after you steal my dead mother’s ring?”
The smirk resumes its place across his lips.
“Drifter was right, you are crazy. Your ex-husband really must have fucked you up.”
I draw a sharp breath in. He might as well have slapped me across the face. He sees he’s hit a nerve and keeps going.
“And what was the name of that ghost you saw? Ace? I’ll have to say hi to him next time I’m there.”
“I know what I saw,” I finally whisper, before walking quickly out of the room.
I want to just go back into the bedroom and hide, but I see the dogs scratching at the back door. I wish I had let them in earlier so they could have warned me that Marcus was home. As I open the door, they sniff me happily for a moment, then run past me toward the front door.
I turn and am surprised to see Drifter standing in the doorway. He’s wearing his work clothes, and looks tired. I run my hand through my hair awkwardly; it’s the first time we’ve seen each other during the daylight hours for several days.
“Hey,” he says, turning his palms out to the dogs so they can sniff and lick him.
“Hey,” I reply. I want to say something more, but I can’t read his expression.
“What’s for dinner?” Marcus calls out, striding in from the hallway. He grabs the remote as he walks by the couch and turns on the TV, tossing it back down as he continues to the fridge.
“There are leftovers. From last night,” I add, without looking at Drifter. Marcus starts rummaging through the fridge and Drifter follows him. I go sit in the armchair in the living room until they’re done filling their plates, and then we switch places. They park themselves on the couch while I fix a plate for myself and pour some kibble out for the dogs.
After I microwave my food, I pick my plate up and look hesitantly into the living room. The two brothers are seated on the couch, looking at the TV. I guess it would be too weird if I sat in the dining room or in the kitchen. I walk slowly back into the living room and sit on the armchair. We eat in what feels to me like painfully awkward silence. I want to scream, but we all just keep our gazes trained on SportsCenter.
I know I can’t tell Drifter about the ring, because I don’t have any proof that Marcus took it. It’s like Marcus has some power over his brother that I can’t shake. I frown down in frustration at my reheated chicken.
Drifter and Marcus finish their food faster than I do, though they both probably ate twice as much. Marcus puts his dirty plate on the coffee table and jumps up.
“I’m refueled and ready to go! You changing?” he asks Drifter.
“Nah,” he replies with a shrug.
“Fuck, I wish I could get as much attention from the ladies as you do lookin’ like that.”
I pause, my fork halfway up to my mouth. It has honestly never occurred to me that Drifter could be cheating on me during all these nights out. Until now. It seems like I should have thought of it a long time ago.
Drifter lets out a dry laugh and stands up. They head toward the front door and I hear Marcus say, “You can spot me, right? I think I left my wallet at that place last night.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Drifter replies. The door clicks shut.
So Marcus is trying to keep Drifter in the dark about his money troubles. Interesting.
I stand up, piling my half-full plates on top of their empty ones before bringing them into the kitchen. The thought of Drifter with another women is stuck in my brain, and I’ve lost my appetite.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’d ask you to try to get them under control, but it’s clear they don’t have control over themselves,” Liz says, narrowing her eyes at Marcus and Drifter. “What do you think they’re on?”
“I’d say coke, and of course liquor. I don’t know what else,” I reply resignedly.
Marcus and Drifter have managed to co-opt the Speed Pitch game at the Foundation for Muscular Dystrophy charity fair we organized. The crowd has given them a wide berth, and the man whose game it is doesn’t dare approach the two large men running all over his tent.
“Where the fuck is Flint?” Liz asks, looking around. “Fuck it,” she mutters, and walks over to them. I walk a little closer to hear what she says.
“I’m all for partying, but it is three in the afternoon and we are at a fucking charity event. Jesus Christ, look at the two of you,” she hisses. “Nat,” she calls out, turning over her shoulder and beckoning one of the prospects, “drive them back to the clubhouse.”
Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and comes back over to me. Marcus and Drifter laugh like two teenagers caught in a prank, but they follow Nat to the parking lot.
“Sorry,” I say to her, as we watch the vendor clean up after them.
“Oh, I’m not holding you responsible for those…two grown men.” She shakes her head. “I don’t expect this kind of shit from Drifter, though.”
“Me neither. He’s been acting strange ever since Marcus showed up, though.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah…it’s like whatever Marcus wants, Marcus gets. And heaven forbid I question him.”
“Huh,” Liz replies. “Well, makes sense. Marcus reminds me of an entitled little kid, you know? Thinks the world owes him something.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I agree. “I see that.”
“Come on, let’s help this poor guy out,” she suggests, indicating the Speed Pitch vendor. We play a couple rounds so that people get re-interested in the game. Liz just manages to beat me, but I put up a pretty good fight.
Plus, I’m distracted. So far, Drifter’s behavior seems to have been limited to his interactions with me. Now he’s being a jerk around the Sons. I hope his circle of asshole-ness stops expanding soon.
With Drifter and Marcus stowed safely back at the clubhouse, the rest of the fair goes smoothly. We rented out a public park space that borders on the main drag of restaurants and bars. Station House and the Avery are just down the street, and the fair is crowded. The food vendors that Cherish and I chose are doing well, though admittedly we didn’t really take a risk by booking a cart that serves fried dough and Oreos. I can tell Cherish is keeping an eye on me after what I told her about Drifter, but she’s discreet.
As the lights start to dim and the park begins to clear out, we get an idea of
how much money we’ve raised. It looks like it’s an all-time record for the club, and the representative from the Foundation for Muscular Dystrophy is ecstatic. Apparently it was hard for Liz to convince the people from the foundation that an MC with a wild reputation was a good fit for raising funds, but when they saw how serious and dedicated Liz is, and learned about her personal connection to the cause, they agreed. And now they’re glad they did.
I’m exhausted by the time we see all the vendors packed up and on their way. The maintenance crew we hired is cleaning up the park. We’ll get fined if we don’t leave it in pristine condition, and Liz always wants the club to have a shining reputation in the community anyway. I’m considering going straight home and blowing off the after-party at the clubhouse, but the girls are insistent that I go. They guilt me hard, reminding me that I’m an old lady now and that it’s been a while since I’ve shown my face. With a groan of recognition at the truth of their claims, I acquiesce, and follow them back to the clubhouse in my car, part of a mini-caravan of old ladies.
As we pull up to the gates of the clubhouse, I’m greeted with the familiar mixed wave of emotions that I always have when I return here. It’s the place I met Drifter, and found a strength I didn’t know I had, but it’s also the place that the Devil’s Army attacked, where I saw Twitch, a prospect, bleed out, and Rooster and his replacement old lady killed in front of me.
We park our cars on the thin grass by the separate garage building, and then gather together as we walk up the hill to the clubhouse. The music is loud even from here, and when we open the side door, I can see that the main room is as packed as I’ve ever seen it. I scan the room for Drifter and Marcus, and spot them playing pool with a couple sweet butts.
I’m quickly waved over by Flint and Bean, who want to know how much money we raised at the fair. I used to be intimidated by Bean in particular, but now I know not to take his sourpuss attitude personally. The crowd shifts and moves, and I say hi to Tag and some prospects that I know. The bar looks slammed, so I decide to hop back there with a couple of sweet butts and help out. It’s always easier for me to be doing something at a party rather than just talking. Or maybe I’m just resuming my familiar role at the clubhouse.
