Patriot

by Trent Jordan

  “Axle, help me,” I said. “You’re sane. You’re level-headed. Any chance Lane is the rat?”

  Axle thundered with a short laugh. He was so loud, even the bartender looked our way for the first time since she had delivered us our beers.

  “I’m not sane, not in the slightest. None of us are for being in a goddamn MC. But I’m not so insane as to think Lane would sabotage his father’s club. That boy admired his father way too much. We all did, but him and Cole...”

  Axle couldn’t finish his words. He didn’t need to. We all admired Roger Carter, even someone like me, who had limited interaction with him. And yet, our admiration meant nothing compared to what Lane—and yes, Cole—must have felt for him.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I still think Lane needs to grow a bigger pair of balls, but he’s not suicidal or stupid.”

  “Makes sense,” I said, an understated way of admitting I had acted an idiot. “I guess... I guess you could say everything that’s going through my head, all the memories of what happened in Iraq... fucking hell, man.”

  I took a long sip of my beer and stared straight ahead. I was afraid of how I might react if I wound up looking straight into Axle’s eyes. Even if they were the eyes of a steeled, hard-headed man, there was no reason those eyes couldn’t also convey compassion. And if anyone in the group could actually understand what I was going through, it was him.

  Which just made it all the more important that I not tell the whole story. Axle would know how I had fucked up. Axle would recognize my failures. Worst of all, Axle might have his own memories that he struggled with that he didn’t need to try and confront because of me.

  “I get it,” Axle said. “Some things are too dark for us to go back to. Otherwise, we wind up like this. I don’t want your story, and I’m not going to give you mine. You don’t want them.”

  No, I did not. I could tell by the heaviness in Axle’s voice that he had stories just as gruesome and tragic as mine. Us soldiers didn’t get into dick measurement contests over who had the worst war story because all bad stories were awful. We’d see who could do a keg stand the longest or who could slam the most cans down, but not a soul ever wanted to revisit the worst we’d experienced.

  “However,” Axle said. “I do want to see you get better because we fucking need you in the club.”

  Finally, I looked at Axle. He wasn’t looking at me, but there was no mistaking that his attention was on me.

  “I have friends who...”

  He couldn’t finish his words. Axle was nowhere near tears, but he took such deep breaths that I could hear them over the restaurant music.

  “They will never get better.”

  I understood what he meant.

  “But you’re still here, Patriot. You’re still a man who cares. For all that you’ve suffered, you still put other people first, you still care about others, and you still do well for the club. You can still make things right.”

  “Sure, but how?” I said.

  I really hope Axle didn’t suddenly turn this into a therapy session. I didn’t need a lesson on how to find God or how to psychoanalyze my soul to discover the truth. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, really.

  “Just forgive yourself and let go, brother,” Axle said.

  Finally, eye contact was made. It was brief and short, but right then, I could see that Axle wasn’t just speaking to me. He was speaking to himself.

  “Goes without saying we can’t change the past,” he said. “That’s more etched in stone than stone writing itself. But you can make a difference right now, you know what I mean?”

  Now, Axle made harder eye contact. Now, he was getting back into his comfort zone.

  “Right now, our club is getting fucking torn apart at the seams,” he said. “There’s a fucking rat. Lane is still learning how to be a leader. Cole has disappeared somewhere, and we can’t fucking count on a miraculous second appearance. Father Marcellus is there, Butch is there, Red Raven is there, but one of them is probably the rat. They are all old shits anyways that’ll need to be out of the club at some point in the future. I’m...”

  Axle shook his head, like a dog trying to shake off some fleas on him.

  “You’re the best we got, brother. You’re the calm one. You’re the one that can most easily interact with the outside world. Hell, just look at that girl, the nurse. You know how quickly she told me to fuck off? I don’t know how to do that shit.”

  He put a firm hand on my shoulder—one of the firmest I had ever felt—and squeezed.

  “You, brother, are the voice of reason for Lane right now,” he said. “Both of you may lose your minds, but even today, even after you knocked him up good, you’re still the only person in the club that he really trusts. If you want to make sure things keep going smoothly, then you need to make sure you’re there for him. You got it?”

  It hadn’t sunk fully in yet. The feelings that caused me to start a fight in the first place, the feelings that had driven me all the way down here to San Diego, the feelings that had made me question my own sanity and Lane’s loyalties to the club still lingered.

  But like soil desperate for moisture, Axle’s words were the nourishment for my rational side that I absorbed.

  I got enough of it for right now. I got what I needed when I came here—some clarity of the mind. I finished my drink, slapped a bill on the table, and stood up.

  “Enough so,” I said. “Come on, man. Let’s go home.”

  Axle did something I didn’t think I’d ever seen him do.

  He smiled.

  “Good man.”

  Kaitlyn

  Hours passed.

  I got nothing from Michael.

  I couldn’t make sense of it. Something had happened between him and the club, there was no doubt about that. And something had happened between him and Lane—that was pretty damn obvious from the bruise on Lane’s eye.

  But had something happened between us?

  Had I said something this morning or done something by calling him that triggered such avoidance? What, if anything, had I done?

  The more time that went by, the more I began to think about how the club life ultimately was like a cancer that hurt everyone. Even in good situations, like the one Michael and I had—or I thought we had—it led to spots like this. Best friends fighting best friends. Romantic interests becoming sullen and withdrawn, refusing to communicate with the outside world. Other forms of darkness. Death.

  The good ones, like Michael, eventually fell into darkness, and those already in the darkness just became even more evil.

  Of course, my mind was racing, and I couldn’t think straight right now. I hated that the girl I prided myself on being, the confident one willing to stand up to bullshit, was now suddenly the one acting like a teenager who had never been in love with Michael. But I also knew that any action I took right now to try and rectify that was only going to be a façade that would crumble under the slightest of weight.

  In my apartment, I pulled up his number and started to text him.

  “Hey, Michael, I hope you’re doing okay.”

  Was that enough of a message? Was that really what I wanted to send?

  “I’ve been thinking about the past few days, and...”

  There was no way I could start a message like that and not have Michael immediately just block me out. Even if my fingers wanted to write that this was done and I needed distance, that wasn’t what my heart wanted.

  I put the phone down before I could write anything else and took a moment to consider what I really wanted.

  I wanted the happy, cheerful Michael, the one who had first tried to seduce me at Mama Sue’s and at Bottle Revolution. I wanted the Michael who had taken me to Hidden Cellar and to the Griffith Observatory. I wanted the Michael that I had fooled around with last night.

  But could I really get that Michael forever? Which Michael was the one that had the mask on? That Michael, or the one that had to be tough and strong for the club?

&nbs
p; What if neither side is the mask? What if that’s just two sides of the same person? Did you consider that?

  And for that matter, could I get one without the other?

  My heart seemed hellbent on having a happy relationship with him. Too bad that my mind seemed to argue that no matter how much I tried to have that, there would be so many obstacles in the way that I just couldn’t make it work.

  I grabbed my phone and stared at the unsent message. It just didn’t feel right to send it like this. If I was going to end it, especially after we had fooled around some last night, I think I at least owed him the courtesy of an in-person meeting.

  For now, I just sent the message, “Hey, Michael, I hope you’re doing okay.” I didn’t think anything else of it.

  In fact, in an attempt to clear my head, I left my phone on my bed as I grabbed my keys and headed for my car. I needed to get some fresh air, and I needed to get away from all of the insanity that was happening in my life right now.

  I rode around Springsville at a slow but safe pace, more content to just drive wherever the road took me than to any one particular destination. I knew this town well, but like any other place, there were always nooks and crannies that I hadn’t yet explored that I welcomed as a distraction. There was the north side of Springsville, which people just didn’t go to because there was nothing but empty roads and highways beyond, for example.

  Hours passed. It was mid-afternoon, around the time when Devon would usually get out for her Friday shift. Though I knew she probably didn’t want anything to do with me, I still felt compelled to go and say hi to her. Maybe trying to make things right through kindness would wind up just being more annoying than helpful, but I had to start somewhere.

  I headed over to the hospital only to see something strange just before I pulled into the parking lot—Devon was walking to her car quickly, with her scrubs still on. While some nurses preferred to wash their garments at home and not in the presence of others, Devon wasn’t like that. Devon very much preferred to leave her work clothes at work.

  Briefly, I toyed with the idea of following Devon, especially if she was going to see the Fallen Saints. Maybe that would show me something that I hadn’t anticipated?

  But if the whole point was to stay out of harm’s way, that seemed stupid. You’ll ruin your relationship with her, and you’ll get yourself in danger.

  With some regret, I decided not to press my luck. I sat in my seat, my car in park, my foot far away from the gas pedal, as I saw Devon drive out of the parking lot. I was in a spot where she could have seen me, but if she was anything like I was after work, she was probably exhausted and just wanted to get home. The end of a long shift was about the last place where we wanted to be if we needed to think critically.

  I then got the idea to call her, but of course, with my phone back at my house, I needed to get home first. In any case, I felt I had cleared my head enough, or at least to the point that I had fewer concerns about Michael and more about Devon. I put my car back in drive.

  When I got home, I headed straight for my phone to see if Michael had said anything.

  He had not.

  He had not called me back either, and by this point, I was just convinced that he had changed his mind about us. Perhaps he had decided that he no longer wanted anything to do with me, perhaps he had had something come up that prevented him from giving me attention, or perhaps he had just been so busy today that he hadn’t had the time to say anything. I really wanted to believe it was the latter—

  My phone rang. It was...

  Devon?

  I tensed a bit as I anticipated her calling me out for having stalked her at the hospital. I could all too easily imagine the direction of that conversation as she justifiably accused me of stalking her, her telling me to never go near her again outside of the hospital.

  But then again, that was just ridiculous. My mind was playing games with me. Devon might have been upset about last night, but that was a far, far cry from not wanting to be my friend. I told myself to just calm down and answer.

  “Hey,” I said in an upbeat tone.

  “Hey, what are you up to?” Devon said, sounding normal.

  “Normal” was the best adjective I could have hoped for. Upbeat would have sounded fake. Angry would have sounded accusatory. Concerned would have provoked anxiety.

  “Nothing, just enjoying my day off,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Do you think you have the time to, uh, help me with something?”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Oh, um, can you just come to my house? I’ll explain it there.”

  My gut began flaring up. Something wasn’t right.

  But “something wasn’t right” with Devon was a far, far cry from other worst-case scenarios, such as they might have been with Michael. This suggested that Devon wanted to tell me something had happened at the hospital in person, or perhaps something had happened with the Fallen Saints. I didn’t think it could be that bad.

  “Sure, do you need me to come now?”

  “That would be ideal.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I let the silence linger for a couple of seconds, hoping that it might evoke something out of Devon. But she didn’t say anything.

  A sound did come, though—the sound of an incoming call.

  It was Michael.

  “Hey—”

  “So, you’re on your way now, right?” Devon asked.

  Her voice had suddenly become a lot more concerned. Now I was sure she didn’t want me there, but she nevertheless needed me there for something.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there within fifteen,” I said.

  I hung up shortly after. I had to ignore Michael’s call. It certainly wasn’t from a lack of desire.

  Rather, the timing just dictated that answering him would have to wait.

  When I pulled up to Devon’s house, though, I felt relief. Her car was the only one there. There weren’t any bikes or strange cars even on the street, let alone by her house. I began to think something had happened with her dog, and she just needed company.

  I rang the doorbell. I could hear Devon’s footsteps coming to the front door. I prepared myself to deal with a sick dog, a sick relative, or something else that Devon would need comfort for.

  When she opened the door, I felt that I had my suspicions confirmed. She looked worn out and weary, her hair barely kept together, her eyes looking haggard, and her expression generally one of utter exhaustion. There was nothing about her that looked like she was in a good place.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “You alright?” I said as I stepped inside and kicked my shoes off.

  “Yeah, I’ll show you what’s up.”

  I followed her and turned to her kitchen table.

  And that’s when I saw three large, tattooed men, wearing the jackets of the Fallen Saints.

  Including...

  “Oh, good, another Meade.”

  Jason.

  The one who murdered my sister.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I said.

  I didn’t even care that there were two other Saints here. I didn’t care that we were outnumbered. I didn’t care that anything I did was a bad idea.

  I went over and slapped Jason across the cheek as hard as I could.

  “Ohhhhhhh!” he said, clenching his face for effect—as if mocking me. “Oh, yeah! That’s what I like to feel! Just some unbridled anger. Come on, little Kaitlyn. Hit me!”

  I did so again. But this only caused him to laugh at me even harder. It took serious self-restraint to not hit him and not give him what he wanted.

  “You’re only going to encourage him more,” one of the other Saints said.

  When my attention turned to the man who had spoken, Jason violently shoved me with one hand. If not for Devon’s quick reaction, I probably would have slammed my head on the ground.

  “It is in your best interest not to get us riled up,” the man said, taking two steps fo
rward, towering over me.

  He spoke menacingly but in complete control. He didn’t have anger to him, at least none that was visibly apparent. He didn’t sneer or scowl at me. Instead, he just... controlled everything by the looks of it.

  He was clearly different from the others, not just in personality but in dress. While the others had black-and-gold cuts, he had on a red one. His silver hair and beard suggested years as a biker, and one who knew what to do in all situations.

  “My name is Lucius,” he said. “We understand your little friend here was a rat. Trying to help the Black Reapers as she helped us? Did she really think she could get away with it? Did she really think she could play both sides of this battle without consequences?”

  I backed up and stood in front of Devon. Lucius chuckled.

  “An admirable gesture, but ultimately futile. We have more than one bullet, you know.”

  I fought like hell not to show any reaction, but I was now convinced we were both going to be executed here. I just hoped they made our deaths quick.

  “Fortunately for you, we will not use those bullets if we do not have to. Contrary to the lies that the Black Reapers may have given you, we are not violent monsters. We are only capable of being them if need be.”

  “What do you want?”

  Lucius chuckled, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and arched his eyebrows.

  “What do you think we want, Kaitlyn?”

  The way he said that sickened me.

  “I’m not going to do anything with you,” I snarled. “Kill me for all I care. I’m not going to let you have me.”

  The three Saints looked at each other for a half-second before breaking into derisive, condescending laughter. It was like they had deliberately set up this moment.

  “You think we want to fuck you?” Lucius said, treating the words like a stunned Sunday churchgoer. “Oh, heavens, no, we don’t want the sloppy seconds of the Black Reapers. We have girls that are far more attractive and far more submissive than you.”

  I hated the Saints so much already that Lucius’ insults couldn’t have made me hate them anymore.