by Domino Finn
Good, he thought, only a few tables of guests, and no one at the bar. Diego released the door to take off his gloves and it slammed shut behind him.
The right side of the establishment had a step down to an inlaid stone floor. As with the patio, the tread of heavy feet had worn down any finish that may have once existed, and the floor held the look of grit that was inherent in the desert. This alcove culminated with an empty stage that was really nothing more than a raised platform. Live music would surely return with the dusk, but for now the absence of activity was welcome.
A darkened stain was still visible on the stones where Diego had stabbed the man. According to police, the victim had managed to leave the roadhouse and die off-premises, but that didn't change that the act had happened here, and while nobody who frequented this building would dare tell the police what they saw, the few who knew what happened would certainly hold Diego personally accountable.
The biker didn't know much about the dead man. He had been massive, threatening, and drunk. He was also a werewolf.
Werewolves were much stronger than normal people, even in human form. A fist fight could be deadly if the wolf wasn't controlling itself. Entering this situation without a weapon would have been stupid, but the best strategy involved only talk. Besides, Diego liked to think that he had a way with words.
The biker stood in place as his eyes swept across everyone in the bar. Brown glasses, pink lipstick, jean shorts, baseball cap—he needed to be careful since any number of them could be wolves, even the pretty girl bartending. It was much easier to detect werewolves in the hours before they turned, but the full moon, along with first impressions, had already passed.
Mind your own business, bro.
His sister's words invaded his thoughts and brushed away his caution. Angelica was only twenty-two. At five years his junior, Diego had always taken responsibility for keeping her safe. She didn't generally like his meddling, but they came up in a bad neighborhood and she often made even worse choices. And this last time, with this last guy, Diego had made the mistake of letting him take her away.
He brushed his wavy black hair back and put his sunglasses on his forehead. Diego's right hand reached to his left wrist and patted the leather jacket sleeve, feeling the silver knife strapped beneath. Then he stepped up to the bar.
Diego took the farthest stool to the left, trying to keep as few people behind him as possible.
Mind your own business, bro.
She usually said it half-jokingly, even when she knew he had saved her ass. And Diego had tried. But somehow Angelica had finally gotten herself into real trouble.
ii.
"You're new in Sanctuary, ain't ya?"
Diego smelled cinnamon and looked up at the bartender. She had a milky complexion and long, dyed-red hair. She looked like a model with her high cheekbones and thin eyebrows. She wore bright blue jeans and a spiked black corset that clung tightly to her big hips and accentuated her breasts. Topping off her wardrobe were silk gloves running to her elbows and a choke collar loosely hanging from her neck.
"I've only been here a few days," Diego answered, "but I feel that I've been productive with my time so far."
"Oh yeah?" she asked playfully. "What have you been up to?"
"Looking for a girl."
She leaned her chest forward as she rested her elbows on the bar. "Isn't everybody?" Diego raised his eyebrows and chuckled. "What are you having?" she asked.
"Do you have a spicy Bloody Mary mix?"
"Everything's spicy here." The bartender grabbed a tall glass and filled it with a scoopful of ice and rested it and the pitcher of tomato juice in front of her. Then she picked up a clear bottle from the shelf behind her. "How about a Grey Goose?"
Diego shook his head and pointed. "Just that."
The voluptuous woman traced Diego's finger to the shelf but appeared confused. "Just the well?"
"No, just the Bloody Mary mix."
She laughed for a second then stopped, realizing he wasn't joking. "It..." she started, jutting her chin to the side, "I don't think that's in the system."
The biker smiled. "That's fine. Just charge me for the full drink."
The cute girl shrugged in acquiescence. "I'm Melody, by the way." The bartender poured the mixer and placed the glass in front of Diego. "What's your name?"
He slightly bowed his head to the side. "Diego de la Torre, madam."
"De la Torre?" she asked, her eyes lighting up. "What is that, Mexican?"
"Not that I know of." Diego sipped his drink. It was a good, peppery mix.
"Oh, man of mystery, huh? That means this girl you're looking for ought to be quite mysterious herself."
Without seeing any other immediate leads, Diego figured the bartender was the best person to start with.
"Her name's Angelica. Curly black hair, skin darker than mine. She came out this way with a guy from the motorcycle gang."
Melody threw her head back and let out a robust laugh.
Diego wasn't sure what was funny. "The Seventh Sons, do you know them?"
The bartender kept laughing and waved her hands to excuse herself.
"It's not like that," Diego said. "She's my sister."
"No, no, I'm sorry," said Melody, finally taking a breath. "That's not it. Why, did you think I was jealous?"
The girl really was determined to flirt. This was one of the few times where that insistence frustrated him. "What am I missing?"
Melody pressed her body against the bar and touched her glove to his hand. He felt the tension leave him as he looked into her pale green eyes. Her face was the most serene and welcoming thing he could imagine. Then her gaze snapped to a fixed point behind him, and just for an instant, he recognized fear.
iii.
"You've got some balls coming back in here."
Diego turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Somehow, the exact man he was hoping to avoid was standing at the front door.
"Gaston."
The man, who was in his mid-twenties, was tall, towering above most, yet he still seemed to have a wide build. He was clean-shaven down to his shaped sideburns, but he wore his cropped hair in wild spikes in all directions, longer at the top to form a messy fauxhawk, dark brown with blond highlights. Gaston wore several earrings; they were liberally hung on both ears and ran up the side cartilage. His broad forehead and eyebrows cast his eyes in shadow, but Diego knew what they were hiding.
Gaston aggressively strutted towards him. "I owe you a little something for Steve."
Diego presumed that was the name of the man he had killed. "You know the rules, Gaston. If a dog bites, you have to put it down."
Melody stepped back away from the bar and watched the two intensely. The sound of chair legs abruptly sliding on wood pierced the air as an older couple near the opposite wall stood up to leave. Gaston looked back and forth at the crowd as if to decide what he could get away with. It didn't matter. In this bar, the presence of witnesses was not going to protect Diego. That was for sure.
"Listen," Diego said, putting his hand up as a sign of peace, "I'm not here to fight, just to talk. Just like last time."
"Last time you got a little stabby."
"Granted, but you weren't being very helpful either."
Gaston's eyes glanced at the bartender and then back to Diego. The tall man turned his head and spit on the floor in a show of contempt.
Diego couldn't resist rubbing his fur the wrong way. "Not unless my sister was in hell and you were directing me to her." What was it about the cocksure, tough guy image that so easily baited him?
The bartender giggled, fascinated more by the tension than the words. Gaston roared at her. "You could go to hell too, Melody!"
"Oh, real tough guy," she responded, toying with him. "Just because I have a collar doesn't mean I'm wearing a leash, you know."
Interesting, Diego thought. There's some history between these two.
"Gaston," he restarted, determined not to escalate
things further, "if you had just told me where Angelica was instead of going to the back with that party girl, then I would've been out of your hair." Indeed, the biker gang seemed more interested in toying with him than telling him what he wanted to know. Diego had to make it clear that he was serious as many times as it took for them to listen.
"You think 'cause we hung out a few times with your sister back in Detroit that I owe you anything?" Gaston clapped dirt off his gloves dismissively. "I don't care what that bitch is up to. She was just along for the ride."
"That's bullshit! She fell in love with you. You practically kidnapped her."
Now it was Melody's turn to laugh at Diego. "Gaston?" she spat. "Ha! The only girls he can impress are the ones who use more hairspray than he does."
The man shoved strong fingers at the bartender. "Melody, one day you're gonna learn your place in this MC."
Diego turned to look at the girl in shock. So she was one of them, another Seventh Son. Melody just gave him a sideways wink as she addressed Gaston. "Yeah, yeah. You're all talk."
"Well maybe it's time to change that, huh?" Gaston took a step towards and turned his attention to Diego. "You wanna talk? Let's talk outside back."
Diego was still sitting on the stool with his back to the bar, facing Gaston. Again, just like last time, the man was being unreasonable. Diego watched as three truckers shuffled out of the lodge. The witnesses were fast disappearing.
Mind your own business, bro.
Diego shook his head. It didn't have to be this difficult. He looked at the red lights, the metalwork on the shelves, the animal heads on the walls, and sighed. "You know, Gaston, over the years I've discovered that there are really only two types of werewolves."
The tall man stood his ground and stared on. Diego heard Gaston's leather glove stretching as he balled his hand into a fist, eyes still in shadow.
"The first type," Diego continued, "are the loners. Some poor dude realizes he's different and either lives a long peaceful life as a hermit or goes wild and gets put down. You see that a lot."
Diego paused as he sipped more of his tomato juice. Melody and Gaston were a captive audience and idly waited for the rest.
"The second type of werewolf is more complicated. They decide to group up and live in a pack. They have others help watch their backs. These kinds of wolves usually withdraw and live amongst themselves. They know that they are stronger together. Harder to take down."
"You're damn right," said Gaston, exchanging a look with Melody. If Diego wasn't sure before, he was now. Not only was she in their gang, but she was one of them.
"But the thing about the pack, you see," said Diego, spinning the ice in his glass, "is that it exists to protect the whole. Just like that loner can step out of line, so can the pack member."
Gaston smiled. Behind him, an older woman in a cowboy hat approached.
"Except, usually," said Diego, finishing his point, "when a pack problem is corrected, it happens from within."
Gaston stood tall in silence for a moment. Melody let out a small gasp. Diego leaned to the side to get a better view of the woman watching. And that's when Gaston struck.
A right fist hurled towards Diego's face. He put his hand up to block the shot. The blow slammed Diego's arm into his own head, and he couldn't counter the overwhelming strength of the werewolf. He was knocked off the seat and landed hard on his back. A cocktail glass shattered inches from his face.
The big man kicked hard with his boots. Diego winced in pain as he reached under his sleeve and touched the silver knife with his fingertips. This dog was getting rabid.
iv.
The woman in the cowboy hat pulled Gaston back. "You boys cut this out!"
Diego eyed Gaston and was amazed that he was listening, moving behind her. This same woman had been sitting at a back table eating the whole time. How much had she heard?
Diego kept his hand on the blade under his sleeve.
He couldn't place her age, maybe fifty, but time had treated her well. Her clothes were simple, just a light pink tank top and faded blue jeans with black cowboy boots. She had long, light brown hair under her hat, some of it graying but all of it teased out as if it were still the eighties. Her sweet face was punctuated by bright, pink-violet lipstick.
Gaston appealed to her. "This is the guy that killed Steve, Mom."
"I know who it is," she snapped back, "and he's right. Steve was an asshole who liked to fight and finally went and got himself killed."
The woman spoke with a strong southern melody that almost sounded sweet even when stern.
Gaston's face burned as his voice hit a grave note. "He called you Mom, just like the rest of us."
Diego didn't think the two looked related but lumping the dead man into the same family was a stretch. Steve was Mexican.
Diego sat up slowly, leaving the silver strapped to his arm and wiping tomato juice off his face. "You're in charge of this gang, I take it?"
"It's a motorcycle club, honey." The woman turned to Melody. "Get Mr. Torre—de la To—Get Mr. Diego another drink, will you?"
The bartender smiled. "You sure he didn't have too much?" She began filling a glass with ice anyway.
Diego rubbed the bump on his head and saw that he wasn't bleeding. His body was sore, though. The last few days had been rough and being kicked didn't help.
He grabbed his sunglasses from the floor and stood up with a slight whimper. As he tried to put them back on his forehead, he noticed that one of the arms was broken and a lens had fallen out. Diego rolled his eyes and tossed them to the ground.
As he returned to his seat, the bartender placed a fresh glass in front of him. Gaston paced back and forth and then threw his arms up. "Wait, so we're just gonna let him sit in here like nothing happened?"
"Shut up, Gaston," said Melody in an almost musical yet certainly annoyed voice.
"Well," he stepped back a few feet with an indignant expression on his face, "I seem to be outnumbered by pussy."
"Don't forget to count yourself." Diego's eyes flashed. "It's a common mistake."
The tall man looked like he was going to go at it again, but it was the older woman who spoke up.
"Boy, what are you doing in this town? You can plainly see your sister ain't anywhere near here."
The answer caught Diego off guard. Finally, somebody was being straight with him. "What happened to her?"
Melody jumped in. "Sanctuary wasn't really her cup of tea."
Mom shook her head. "It was more than that. That girl wanted to be in the MC, but she didn't want to prospect. She wanted everything handed to her. I told her it wasn't a good fit and she moved on."
"What?" Diego felt the frustration coming back to him. He couldn't stand the thought of having to track her to a different town. "Well, where did she go?"
"Heads up, Mom," Gaston called out. He was looking out the front window. "Police." Diego saw a dark green car pull up.
"Well, great." Mom took her hat off, placed it on the bar, and fixed her hair. "He's probably just here for one of his drinking spells, but the both of you better get out the back all the same."
"I'm working, Mom," Melody pleaded.
"Shush now. Go back to the clubhouse."
She sucked her teeth and hissed through her lips, but Melody obeyed.
Gaston, on the other hand, walked slowly, pressing his boots hard into the wood floor as he stepped up to Diego. He cleared his throat in a measured manner and cracked his knuckles. "I think it goes without saying what happens if I see you again." Gaston cracked Diego's sunglasses under his foot. "If you were any kind of smart, you'd listen to Mom and disappear." Then the tall biker walked backwards towards the front door.
"I said, out the back," Mom insisted. Gaston just stood in place, grinning his big teeth at the woman in defiance. Then the front door opened.
Detective Maxim Dwyer stepped inside, draped in the same black suit he'd been wearing the last time, only now he had a white panama hat on as
well. It had a medium brim and an indented crown with brown trim. It didn't really match the rest of the outfit.
Gaston turned and purposely positioned himself in the detective's path. Maxim just stopped, cocked his head, and sneered at the man. Diego chuckled. He'd been the subject of that same stare before.
After a moment, Gaston just shrugged and walked around the man, leaving Sycamore Lodge. Then Maxim took off his hat and greeted Mom.
"Hello, Deborah. I'm glad I caught you."
Her cheeks almost exploded as a large smile crossed her face. "So good to see you, Maxim! You're here a little early today. And it's Debbie, hon."
The detective's eyes locked on Diego and had a slightly puzzled expression, like he was wondering what the biker was doing here. Maxim nodded his head slightly. "Noticed your Scrambler parked outside."
Once again, Diego leaned his back against the wooden bar. "Nice hat."
Deborah threw her hands up and acted shocked. "Well, I don't know where this bartender went off to, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you poured yourself one."
"Not this time," said Maxim quickly. "I'm here concerning the death of Esteban Varela. He was a member of your club, was he not?"
"Call him Steve, honey. This ain't Mexico."
"He was one of yours, wasn't he?"
Diego saw fear or apathy reflected from the other Sanctuary officers, but Maxim was different. Something was driving him. Two days ago he was investigating a murder and now maybe the wolves who had escaped, but something told Diego that the detective was chasing something altogether different.
Mom turned around and walked to the bar, putting her painted nails on the edge. "Yes. It was terrible what happened to that boy. Tell me," she started, "where are you with that investigation?" Her eyes looked a strange shade of orange in the red light, and they traveled from her hands to Diego's face. "Did you ever find the murder weapon?"
