by Bijou Hunter
As he helps set up the Christmas decorations, I recall what Bronco told me about Wyatt back in September.
“If the little shit ever beats me in a fight,” my president said while we stood with Lowell in my backyard, “and he takes over leadership, you need to immediately snap his fucking neck. Apparently, he’s telling his bitch wife that he plans to end you once he’s president. If that’s not him just wagging his dick, he’ll also kill Lowell. Maybe a few other guys. For that to happen, he’ll have killed me. Whatever happens, I don’t want that asshole running the Executioners, Elko, or the Woodlands. Our families won’t be safe. Get it?”
“I’ll do to him what I did to my president in Cleveland. He’ll never have a chance to fuck over anyone.”
Bronco only nodded. I don’t know how he learned about Wyatt’s shit-talking. Yet, if he warned Lowell and me, he’s no doubt discussed the same thing with the founding members of the Executioners. Those men include Wyatt’s father. While Rooster loves his boy, I suspect deep down inside, he loves his club more.
I don’t know if Conor ever got keyed into where things stood with Bronco and Wyatt. The holidays aren’t the time to mention anything, even if I wanted to stir up shit.
Especially since this time of year has always been unpleasant for me. Most people fucking love to rub their happiness in the faces of the less fortunate. Or, in my case, the less loved. My grandparents often had friends over during the holidays. Our house was well-decorated, and underneath the blinged-out tree were dozens of gifts. We looked like a normal, happy family.
But it was a lie. During those parties, they claimed I did well at school. A lie. They told their friends how I was quite the athlete. A lie. They laughed over how I’d been such a good boy that Santa put me at the top of the “nice list.” All fucking lies.
Through it all, I stood in my stupid white shirt and black slacks like a choir boy. Except we didn’t go to church because my grandparents claimed I’d burst into flames if I ever tried to enter.
Now, I have a family that loves me. When I turn on the holiday lights, they clap as if I’m amazing. Then, they go absolutely wild when the inflatable reindeer starts wiggling.
That’s how my new family works. My honey knows I’m a dickhead and loves me anyway. My little brother and sister think I’m cool. My mother always makes sure I’m fed and comfortable.
I even hear Fairuza bragging about me to her Dandelion friends online. Not lies either. She tells them about real shit I do.
Admittedly, when I learned Barbie found the missing Dandelions, I needed two joints to avoid freaking out. Were Pixie and her family leaving? Could I go with them if they ditched Elko? Why couldn’t Barbie have left well enough alone?
Except, of course, my newly pregnant honey wasn’t bailing on me. Pixie’s heart isn’t fickle.
Yet, I remained leery about them contacting their friends. That first night, I stood very still in the kitchen while they crowded in front of the computer. Always a troublemaker, Barbie set up the video call. Soon, Fairuza, Pixie, and Dove were in tears at the sight of people they’d known for their entire lives. Their happiness filled the house, and I couldn’t imagine competing with a lifetime of friendship.
Then, Future walked to me and asked for up. I took him in my arms without thinking. He showed me the colored pencil he was holding and then rested his head on my shoulder. The feel of him comfortable against me did more than any joint could. I wasn’t a monster, the devil’s son, or some other lie. I was a flesh-and-blood man with a family, and the Yabos love deep.
I’m learning to love deeply, too. Which is why this little boy means everything to me by the time the new year rolls around. When he goes sprawling one day on the hardwood and busts his lip, I decide to install carpet in most of the downstairs.
“It’s just a little blood,” Pixie says after the boy calms down and returns to playing.
“I was a clumsy kid. What if our baby is too?” I ask and glance at Future. “You mentioned how much you like the carpet upstairs and in the basement. I see you weirdos rolling around in the playroom.”
Pixie throws her head back and laughs. Nearby, Fairuza grins while cooking a big pot of chickpea stew. Dove looks up from her book to giggle at how silly they are to roll around. No one does that shit except the Yabos.
This odd family welcomed a scarred, tattooed titan like me into their hearts. Their love didn’t magically change me into a healthy man. My head is still stuffed with ugly lies telling me to give up and push people away. Three decades of bullshit can’t be fixed overnight. But my heart is stronger now. I no longer want to live in the shadow of other people’s lives. My need for heroin doesn’t hit so often or hard anymore.
An entire new path is open to me now. All because I was seduced by the sight of a flower child dancing on the side of the road.
PART 8: WELL, THAT HAPPENED
For years, Rooster’s Tavern was my second home. With nowhere else to be, I was here every night. Of course, my house is no longer an empty reminder of a warmer home. That’s why I can’t hang out at Rooster’s for more than a few hours before I miss my family and need to bail.
Still, I visit the clubhouse several times a week. Basically, if Bronco is here, I join him. If he stays home to be with his family, I take the night off to be with mine.
Tonight, I think back to an evening I remained at the house, and Pixie had me burn the names of the people who did me wrong. I wrote every asshole’s name on a piece of paper, along with things I hated about them. Then, I threw the paper into the firepit while Pixie and Fairuza sprinkled dandelion-root powder into the flames to cleanse my past.
“Make sure to create one for the lady on your back,” Pixie said, mentioning the tattoo I often forget exists.
“Her name was Melanie.”
“Is she dead?”
“Let’s hope so,” I muttered, thinking of how sweet Melanie was when she lured me into Lonnie’s trap.
“Were you in love with her?”
Frowning, I couldn’t believe Pixie asked me that question. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever been in love with.”
Pixie grinned as if she knew the answer. Sharing her smile, I added Melanie’s name to a piece of paper and burned it.
The process was supposed to help me face those who wronged me and release my anger at them. I doubted it did much more than remind me of how many people I wanted to decapitate. Still, the Collective’s ritual helped Fairuza release her anger toward many people at the Village, along with the men who attacked the Dandelion commune and killed Zest. Pixie wrote down the names of those people, too, plus DeAnna, Wyatt, and Taryn.
“I can still hate them for new things, though,” she said afterward. “And we both know there’ll be new things.”
I’m thinking of those future battles when I notice Wyatt talking up a bunny nearby. He hasn’t started shit in a while, but I know he wants to.
Normally, the honeys don’t linger at Rooster’s in the evenings. They’ll drop by for dinner or a drink. Then after eight, the bunnies appear to flirt and fuck.
That’s why Topanga’s decision to stick around feels odd. She came by last night, too, and remained for hours. Lowell claimed he didn’t know why she wanted to hang out, and he refused to make a stink by asking.
“I haven’t stayed married this long by asking questions with answers I might not want to hear,” he insisted.
At our table, Rooster and Akron sit to my right. They’re telling stories to the bunnies about the “good old days.” A normal Tuesday routine for them.
To my left, Bronco and I sit across from Lowell and Topanga. She’s telling stories about how she used to sneak into enemy territory and talk up the other club’s old ladies.
“I know how to learn shit,” Topanga says and winks at me.
Despite her smiles, the woman is clearly irritated. Lowell acts as if he doesn’t notice. Must be part of his recipe for a long marriage.
More than once, I catch Topanga eyeballing
the bunnies, who are scattered around the back area. A few girls work the bar while others hang out with the men.
Topanga barely notices most of them. Instead, she focuses very hard on the new girl, Monroe. At first, I assume she’s curious. Not long after the young woman arrived in Elko and talked her way into a job here, Conor called dibs and threatened to steal a nut from any club brother who took a taste. So, despite being a bunny, Monroe hasn’t actually done more than waitress at Rooster’s and move into the apartment building where the other girls live.
Is Topanga here for the gossip? No, most likely, she’s at the bar due to the new girl’s very clear fixation on Lowell.
Conor might have eyes for Monroe, but the young blonde is always peeking at our club VP. Bronco regularly teases his nephew over how his new obsession has a thing for older men.
“Maybe in a few decades, she’ll give you a ride,” Bronco told Conor a few days ago.
Conor chuckled at the razzing, but he has to be annoyed by Monroe’s interest in another man. Did he ask Topanga to scare off the newest bunny?
My mind is back on the burning paper when Monroe heads to the table to drop off a round of beers. Bronco goes very still as if he’s hoping for a chick fight. Topanga stares hardcore at the younger woman, but Monroe only sees a purposely oblivious Lowell. She doesn’t even peek at Conor off in another corner near Drummer. No, Monroe’s got sugar daddy fever—as Bronco calls it.
Giving up on subtlety, Topanga slaps Monroe square in the cheek.
“You scheming little whore,” Lowell’s honey sneers as the bunny backs away, wide-eyed. “How dare you flirt with my man right in front of me? Do you want to get fucked up? Because I’ll have him kill you if you disrespect me again.”
The room falls silent except for the still-playing music overhead. Everyone turns their gaze to the two women. A few bunnies glance at each other, clearly sensing this moment was coming. Other girls look scared as if Topanga might slap them next. My club brothers wear expressions ranging from amusement to boredom. Conor remains absolutely unreadable as he watches the women’s standoff.
Lowell glances at his wife and the bunny before focusing on Bronco and shrugging as if to say, “Chick drama.”
Struck silent, Monroe shrinks under the weight of all the eyes on her. Her left cheek is bright pink. When she doesn’t defend herself right away, Topanga looks ready to sit back down.
Then Monroe blurts out, “I don’t want to fuck Lowell.”
Smelling blood in the water, Topanga leans forward until she’s an inch from Monroe’s face. “Then why, ya basic bitch, are you always slobbering over him, huh?”
“I think he might be my dad.”
Topanga gasps, dialing up the drama as she glares at a now wide-eyed yet frozen Lowell. “You sloppy fucker,” she growls at her husband.
Loving drama, Bronco hides a grin behind his hand. Besides, not so long ago, he got razzed plenty over his surprise baby, Carina.
Topanga turns back to Monroe. “Wait, how old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
Topanga’s entire demeanor shifts, and she flashes a bright smile. “Oh, then, that’s fine. You were conceived during the pre-Topanga era,” she announces and pats her husband’s back.
And that’s how Lowell and Topanga added a pumpkin to their porch.
PART 9: EPILOGUES
PIXIE
I’ve never loved the winter as much as that first one with Anders. The chilly weather and dangerous roads force him to stay home often. We spend hours together, talking, watching movies, and cuddling. Anders craves the quiet with me.
Familiarity is how he grew so attached to Bronco. Following his president around, day after day, created a bond that Anders didn’t know how to build otherwise. Unsure how to get close to people, he forgets to talk and rarely asks questions.
But our first winter together allows him to become part of my family without having to learn new skills. He does nothing more than share a space with us. When we sit in the family room and watch shows, he does, too. When we go upstairs to the empty playroom, he joins us. Of course, he never actually crawls or rolls around. But that’s okay. Anders doesn’t take part in a lot of stuff that Bronco and Lowell do, either. I notice how quiet he is with them. That’s what Anders does.
There are times when we sit in the family room and watch the snow fall outside. Next to the back doors, Future and Dove build towns with their blocks. Mama will read a book. Sitting with Anders, I use his heartbeat to keep time. Like us, Anders is satisfied with the quiet, just as long as he isn’t alone.
Another favorite activity is when Anders watches his sports shows in the family room while the rest of us work in our coloring books. Mine has fairies—which are like pixies. I often rest a pillow in Anders’s lap and relax against him while he puts his feet up. The five of us are safe, warm, and together. That’s all a family needs to be truly happy.
Soon, our baby will make us six. Anders isn’t afraid to be a father. He is very good with Future, always patient and gentle. I also notice how he studies the way Bronco raises his girls.
Besides, Anders won’t be a parent alone. Mama, Dove, and I will help when he’s overwhelmed. And he most definitely will get overwhelmed.
Anders still disappears when Future gets too loud, or Dove begins pacing frantically. Not always, but there are times when the cruel voices in his head feed off people’s emotional distress. He starts believing the lies and obsessing over problems from long ago.
I help him when I can and let him hide when he needs to. If one day, he has to take a ride on his motorcycle or go to Rooster’s Tavern when our baby cries, so be it. I’m unbothered by small things. I trust Anders will always come through in the big moments.
By spring, our house feels like a home. I love the warm colors Anders chose for our family room, kitchen, and dining room. Over our bed, I hung up the dandelion artwork that Lana found on the computer. Mama has a different one in hers while Dove owns several.
Over the family room’s fireplace are pictures of our family that Summer took with her fancy camera. There’s Anders with his half-grin and pale blue eyes against a handsome, tanned face. Next is a picture of Mama wearing a look of determination while gardening with Barbie before the cold weather arrived. Dove’s photo is beautiful with her shy smile and flowing, wavy brown hair as she sits in the sun. And a picture of a laughing Future, so blessed today that he’ll soon forget his suffering from not so long ago. Summer also took a smiling picture of me, feeling silly after my time on the trampoline.
And there, with the other photos, is one of my papa. Our fellow Dandelions sent us every picture and video they could find of him. My memories of Papa faded during the years in the Village. I’d almost forgotten how much he smiled.
“You have his eyes,” Anders says one time when he finds me standing in the hallway looking at the many photos of Papa.
“I often think of how you and Papa are so much alike. The only difference is he grew up loved while you didn’t. Yet, your hearts are similar. I believe that’s why I loved you so quickly. I sensed in you those qualities I loved so much in him.”
Anders almost blushes when I praise him in such ways. He knows how valued Papa was by Mama, Dove, and me. To be compared to someone like Zest Yabo fills Anders with a pride he struggles to embrace.
While praise puts him on the spot, he’s very good at enduring teasing. He receives plenty when our first child is a girl. After all, he copied Bronco’s house. Now, he’s having a daughter. But Anders proves he’s no copycat when he names his first child, Chili, rather than something more normal. Ha, no way did he copy that name from his president!
I suggest “Chili” after I spend much of my pregnancy craving spicy food. Every time I get nauseous, I reached for muamba chicken or anything with chili powder. Anders loves heat, too. He’ll devour any rich and spicy meal.
“Food is precious,” I tell Anders a few nights before our baby is born. “I see no harm in naming our d
aughter after something we value so much. You and I both know what it’s like to go hungry.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me,” he says, resting my back against his chest as we sit in the backyard and enjoy the mild weather. “We can name our kid whatever we want. If people give us attitude, I’ll stand too close to them until they shut up.”
And he does! When his club brothers or their honeys tease him too much about Chili’s name, he’ll move closer and closer until they get scared and go away.
Chili inherits Anders’s pale blonde hair and light blue eyes, but she has my face. She also gets her papa’s size, meaning I can’t push her out through my pussy.
“Don’t use that word when you’re in labor,” Anders begs, and we laugh since he’s so particular about the names for things.
The doctor has to cut Chili out of my stomach. Months ago, he explained how we ought to plan for surgery, but I was certain I could push her out. I’m not a tiny woman, and I’ve witnessed the birth of many babies. However, Chili won’t come out.
“Her head is too big,” the doctor says, making me laugh.
Then I ask, “Can we make the hole bigger?”
The doctor looks at me as if I’m crazy. I hadn’t wanted to be in a hospital anyway, but now I have to get cut open. Well, I think he’s the crazy one!
“Let’s do the C-section,” Anders insists. “We can’t take a chance with you and the baby.”
There are times when I know I have to give in to my grand sequoia. He gets too scared or angry to be reasoned with. Besides, I accept later how getting my baby stuck was a dangerous situation, and I should have listened to the doctor.
Though I was wrong about her birth, I’m comfortable once Chili’s home. We keep her in our bedroom, so I won’t need to walk up the stairs after my surgery. Despite Chili having her own room with a baby cage like Carina’s, I’m uncertain when we’ll move her. Future continues to share a bed with Mama. One day, he’ll be too big. Or so Anders claims, but I shared a sleeping area with my family until moving into this house. I’m curious about how different my children’s upbringing will be from mine.
