by Casey Morgan
“I’m not going to some devil-cursed hospital, Celeste,” Dad snapped. “God will provide. He will heal me.”
“God will fix your broken leg?” I asked, in my most snarky tone.
“Celeste,” my mother barked. “You will hold your tongue. That comment is not helpful.”
“Sorry, Mom,” I said, but I didn’t feel sorry. I just felt angry.
We pulled Dad up the stairs and down the hallway to the upstairs bathroom. Mom and I gently sat him on the toilet and she shoed me out of the room so that she could wash his wounds. I closed the door behind me and stared at the wood surface.
This stops today. Now.
We couldn’t live like this. I balled and unballed my hands several times. My fingernails bit into my palms. I wanted to break something. I wanted to destroy something to ease my rage, but there was nothing close.
I stomped down the steps and fled into the kitchen. Mary was checking the ovens. The cinnamon rolls had burned. Another tragedy in a morning of too many.
My best friend pulled the smoking tray from the oven and slid it onto the counter. She waved one of the white kitchen towels over it to distribute the smoke.
“He won’t go to the hospital!” I yelled.
She turned towards my outburst, her blue eyes wide.
“Of course not, Celeste.” She shrugged. “You know the Church of the Path of God prohibits that. You shouldn’t even bother to suggest it,” Mary murmured.
“We can’t go on like this!”
She put the towel down gently and moved to my side. Her small hand closed over one of mine. Mary pulled me to the kitchen table that sat at the back wall. She tried to get me to sit in one of the wooden chairs, but I couldn’t. My body was too rigid with rage.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Mary murmured. “Just try to relax.”
I didn’t look at her. My mind was wondering and working. There had to be someone in Gray Acres who could help us. Someone had to strike back at the Southland gang.
An idea came to me. There was a motorcycle gang that ran a bar called The Grinder that was just down the street. My father had always lectured me to give the place a wide berth, even though it was on the way to the high school.
I had avoided it until now, because the gang members were big, scary, and mean looking men. Now we needed that. They would help us. I would convince them to help us.
I turned and walked towards the front of the bakery. Mary followed, trying to keep hold of my hand. When she lost her grip, she grabbed onto the sleeve of my sweater.
“Celeste! Where are you going?” she begged.
“There’s more than one gang in town,” I told her, marching through the door.
I headed down the street, with Mary pulling me back the whole way.
Down five blocks and on a side street was the destination I sought: The Grinder. Who could fight a bunch of thugs better than another bunch of thugs?
I had always found the bar slightly fascinating. Every time I got close, my eyes would always fixate on the old, paint-faded red door and the sign above it with the silver gears on it.
I supposed at one time the sign was meant to give the place an industrial feel, but now it was splitting and ill kept. I didn’t think anyone cared, however.
I never had an excuse to go into the place before. I had wanted to, even though Dad had always said to stay away. I couldn’t seem to help but be drawn to things that were supposed to be prohibited to me.
Now I did have an excuse. I needed help. I needed protection and something in my heart told me that this was where I could get it.
The red door to The Grinder opened slightly when I pushed at it and a wave of stale, beer-smelling air hit us directly in the face. Mary grabbed my arm just above my wrist and pulled me back towards her again, letting the door close in front of us.
“Seriously, Celeste,” she whined. “Don’t go in there. It’s dangerous. Someone might kidnap you or worse.”
I tried to shake off her grip, but she held me fast. There was something about the place that had me enchanted. Maybe the danger level was causing my brain to hype up on endorphins—who knows, but there was something in my whole body that urged me to go inside.
The place called to me. I was transfixed.
“Go back to the bakery,” I hissed at her. “I can do this myself. I don’t need you tagging along like…like some sort of chaperone. I’ll be fine. Just don’t tell my mother where I am.”
Mary looked shocked at my admonishment. Keeping one hand on my arm, her other hand rose to her chest and pulled together the sides of her old ratty sweatshirt. The zipper didn’t work anymore, but her parents were too poor to buy her another.
She frowned and looked like she was about to cry.
“Celeste, I’m scared. Please, let’s both go back and call the police.”
A single tear ran down her cheek.
I let out a deep breath and turned to my friend.
“Look. We both know the police don’t give a damn about us. I’m going in here to get help. You can come with me or go back to the Crescent Moon.”
Mary gathered her thoughts for a few seconds and then looked down at her hand that was grasping my arm. It was like she wanted to let go, but she couldn’t. Her loyalty wouldn’t let me walk into danger alone and in that moment, I loved her for it.
She nodded towards the red door with the cracking paint and whipped her eyes.
“Let’s go in.”
I smiled and nodded back at her. I put my hand to the door again and pushed inside. The interior of the bar was dark, and it took our eyes a few seconds to adjust from being outside in the noonday sun.
When I could see, I noticed that the bar was larger than I was expecting. The low building’s exterior gave the impression of being one small room, but once we were through the door, I realized that the space was larger than I thought.
There were at least three rooms, maybe more. It must have connected to some of the buildings that flanked it.
Amazed, I stood in the doorway and took in the band posters on the black walls, the dart board, and the large, dusty, red pool tables. Several booths with cracking red vinyl were on the far wall; above them hung a faded American flag.
The bar itself was large and made of wood. Several people occupied its bar stools and many more were sitting at round wooden tables, eating their lunches.
Mary clung to the sleeve of my sweater and huddled close to my back.
“Celeste,” she whined, trying to keep her voice as low as possible. “I don’t think we are safe in here.”
As if to prove her point, several large men clad in leather vests and ratty jeans pushed the door open behind us. Taking little notice of our smaller bodies, they shoved past us and knocked us both into the wall.
“Out of the way, bitches,” one of them said in a semi-joking manner.
Mary hissed in a breath. I held up a hand to keep her from whining again and started towards the bar. I assumed the bartender could point me in the right direction of who to talk to.
As we moved more into the room, a few of the patrons took notice. The fellas who were playing pool stopped their game and stared. Others swerved in their seats and made jokes under their breath. I ignored them all.
On my way to the wooden bar, I caught sight of the drifter with the chocolate chip colored eyes from the day before sitting in the corner. I couldn’t believe it was him, even though I guessed this was the type of place for someone like him. I just hadn’t thought I’d ever see him again. He glanced up and met my gaze but quickly looked away.
The bartender leaned forward to meet me as soon as I took a barstool. He was a tall man, well over six foot and built of compact muscle. A black braid lay over his shoulder. He looked over Mary and me, his tattooed forearms pressed to the bar.
“You two kids have ID?” he asked. “I can’t serve you if you’re underage.”
I felt to my side where I usually carried my purse and found that in my hurry to get here, I had forgotten
it. I looked at Mary and she shook her head. She hadn’t brought hers either.
The bartender started to say something about us leaving but I cut him off.
“We’re not here to drink,” I explained. “Please, I just need to ask a question.”
His gray eyes widened at this, but he seemed to relax, so I felt like I could continue.
“My family owns the Crescent Moon Bakery just a few blocks down.” In my nervousness, I pointed in the direction of the shop and my home, as if he could see it through the walls. “Well, we have been having trouble with the Southland gang. They want us to move, but we can’t.”
As I paused, I realized that most of the bar was now listening in to my little story. That was good, I thought. Maybe someone would volunteer.
“My father got attacked this morning. He was beaten so bad he can’t work, and, well, it’s one of our busiest times of the year—or it’s supposed to be. Anyway, my friend and I are looking to hire protection.”
There were a few laughs and whispers around the bar. I looked around, trying to connect with faces and look into people’s eyes to gather sympathy. Most looked away.
“I need a man or a couple of men to watch the bakery day and night, until the day after Valentine’s Day, when the bulk of our orders will be over. Its just a few days of work. I can pay a little, and we will feed you.”
I looked around, hoping for tons of volunteers, but no one came forward at all. There were more laughs and whispers—after a few minutes, people started going back to their business and ignoring me.
The bartender nodded to the room.
“Looks like no one is interested, little girl. Why don’t you call the police?”
Mary was pulling on my sweater again anxious to get us out of there. I couldn’t leave yet, though. This was too important.
“We called the cops,” I explained, keeping my voice loud enough to carry over the noise and reach the patrons. “Please, we are desperate! My father could have died!”
No one looked over. No one was listening. They were all pretending that the little annoyance that I was was nothing. Rage filled my heart and I clenched my fists.
“Are you kidding me?” I howled. “Are all you big, strong bikers too scared to take on the Southland gang?”
The bar tender laughed.
“Oh, honey. We can take on the Southland gang all we want. We just don’t care. Your problems are your own, little girl. Now you best be off, before you find something worse.”
I wouldn’t budge. Someone here was going to agree to help me before I left.
Chapter Seven
Mason
“I just need some help!” the young woman by the bar said.
Her voice was becoming more and more desperate. Tears were threatening to leak out of her large, beautiful blue eyes, but she held them back and looked about, as if trying to connect with anyone.
The people around the bar were starting to snicker. I also caught a few unsavory comments about the young lady’s anatomy. They weren’t wrong—she had a body so curvy that it would make a man weep—but the comments were in poor taste.
I took another sip of my whiskey and kept my head down. Part of me felt pulled to get involved. I wanted to help. I wanted to rescue the pretty little thing and take everything she could offer in return for my services.
But she was just a human and I was done with trying to have a relationship with a human. There were parts of me she would never be able to understand or fulfill, and it just wasn’t worth trying.
Her small friend pulled at her sleeve and huddled into herself. How the two of them managed to bring themselves in here was beyond me. They were either really brave or really stupid. I wasn’t sure which.
One of the men at a pool table set down his cue and walked towards the girls. He had his hands clamped on his large belt buckle and swaggered, throwing back his broad shoulders with each step. When he stood before them, he leaned so his pelvis pushed towards them both.
“I don’t want money, but if you offer something else, I might be game.”
He grinned down at the girls. I caught a flash in the light; most of his teeth were capped with silver.
“Like what?” the brave girl stood her ground, her friend crumpling into a ball behind her, and looked him right in the face.
The man leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. I didn’t catch what he said, but it was enough to make the woman turn a deep shade of red. She slapped him. Hard.
The man’s head jerked back, and he brought a hand to his cheek. But he didn’t get mad; luckily, he just laughed. The whole bar laughed with him.
“Hey! Hey!” the bartender yelled.
He was leaning so far over the bar, it was like he was going to jump over it.
“Leave the girl be.”
The man held up his hands.
“Whatever you say, Leon,” he said and sauntered back over to the pool tables.
His friends slapped him on the back in congratulations. I snorted to myself in disgust.
“Little girl,” the bartender addressed the woman now. “No one is going to help you. You might as well be off.”
He pointed towards the door, adamant that she leave.
Her round, angelic face dropped, and she pulled her honey-blonde ponytail over her shoulder.
“Cowards,” she muttered as she looked towards the floor.
A single tear slid down her cheek.
“Wait.”
My voice came out before I had become aware that I would speak. I was on my feet before I knew it, too.
“I will go. I will help,” I told her.
All eyes in the bar turned to me. Most turned back to their own concerns quickly, but her eyes—the color of the sky on an icy day—stayed on me.
It was in that moment that I recognized her. The day before, I had passed her bakery and she had offered me a cinnamon roll. I hadn’t taken it then. But she had been kind to me and now I had the chance to do the same for her. It was right.
With a new determination in my movements, I grabbed my bag and left my empty glass on the table. The two women waited for me in the middle of the bar. The brave one watched my every step; her friend cowered.
“Lead on,” I said, when I stood before them.
She nodded and turned towards the door.
“I’m glad one of you has balls,” she snapped loud enough for the whole bar to hear.
I laughed. This girl had some fire to her.
Once we were outside, I let them lead a little bit. My mind needed to process what I had just promised to do, and my eyes wanted to feast on the brave girl’s body. Watching her walk was the best treat I had had in ages.
Today, her long skirt was made of black corduroy. It hugged her wide hips, gripped her round ass, and fell narrowly about her legs. Her sweater was red. Its soft fabric was loose in the waist but pulled tightly over her huge breasts.
She would turn back to look at me every few seconds to make sure I was still there; the movement made her breasts jiggle and sway.
“I can pay,” she reiterated, “but not much. Just fifty a day. I’ll feed you and give you a place to sleep for as long as it takes. I’m Celeste, by the way, and this is Mary.”
“Mason,” I supplied, and she smiled a bit.
Celeste seemed a bit more nervous now. Maybe she hadn’t really considered the implications of letting a strange man into her life. A stranger that looked a little crazy.
I glanced down at myself. My duster was wet and muddy from all the snow I’d trod through this morning. The hems of my jeans were wet, too. This wasn’t the kind of appearance I wanted to give off, so I pulled off my coat and wrapped it over one of my arms.
I also pulled my hoodie down and ran my fingers through my wavy hair. It had gotten a little long. I hadn’t bothered to cut it recently.
When the girl looked back again, her eyes went a little wide at my change in appearance. I smiled at her, trying to appear friendly—trying to appear safe
. She grinned back.
“Perhaps, I can get a shower?” I asked. “I would like to be presentable to your parents.”
She nodded; her smile getting a little bigger.
“Of course.”
When we reached the bakery, the sign I had seen the day before was gone. Fresh graffiti was covering the windows and walls, and there were traces of blood in the street. The whole place was a mess and I began to understand why Celeste was so desperate.
A tall, narrow faced woman with jet black hair pulled into a bun was out front wiping at the paint. She turned as we approached and frowned.
“Where did you go, Celeste?” she scolded. “I’m upstairs trying to help your father, certain that our loving daughter is minding the shop, but no! I come down to yell. Mr. Francis walked in wanting a bagel and found no one to serve him and the outside of the shop a mess like it is. He became alarmed and almost called the police!”
“I’m sorry, Ma!” Celeste stood in front of her mother and held up her hands.
Her friend, Mary, rushed into the building without a word.
“I went to get help.”
Celeste pointed towards me.
The narrow-faced woman looked me up and down. Her frown stayed firmly planted to her lips and her eyebrows pulled closer together.
“How is this stranger going to help?” she finally asked.
“Mr….” Celeste turned her blue eyes to me.
“Whitepaw,” I supplied.
“Mr. Whitepaw is going to protect the bakery,” Celeste explained. “He will run off the gang members till Dad is well again. We need to be able to bake and get the cookie baskets done. Valentine’s Day is so close. We can’t be struggling or closing up during one of our busiest times of the year.”
Her mother put her hands on her hips; the rag she was using earlier was clenched tight and it dripped onto her skirt. She frowned at me more deeply. She clearly wasn’t liking this idea at all.
Celeste dropped her shoulders.
“Ma, come on. We have to do something. Dominic and Big Dog won’t listen to us.”
The desperation in her voice called to me in a way I hadn’t felt before. It was stupid, but there was something about this woman. Even though she was human, I had to help her. I dropped my bag near the door and reached my hand out to her mother.
