Iron Goddess

by Dharma Kelleher

  Justin whispered into her ear. “Take the offer. No one’s saying you have to get involved with anyone. But if you happen to hear about something going on, let the detective know. No big deal.”

  “I don’t like snitching, Justin. I just wanna build motorcycles.”

  “This deal will keep you doing that. I suggest you take it.”

  Shea looked up at Detective Rios. “Fine. I’ll be your snitch.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Rios reached over and shook Shea’s hand. “I look forward to working with you.”

  “What about Annie?”

  “Once she’s released from the hospital, she’ll be put in a temporary foster home until the court can decide—”

  “I want her.” The words came out of her mouth before she realized she was saying it.

  “You?” Rios raised an eyebrow. “You want custody?”

  “Why not? She’s my niece. I’m all the family she’s got left, right?”

  “You sure about this, kiddo?” asked Justin. “An eight-year-old is a big responsibility. Trust me, I raised four kids and now have three grandkids.”

  “I’ll figure it out. Now that all this nonsense is over, I should be able to provide her a loving, stable home.”

  Rios sighed. “All right, I’ll get with the Department of Child Safety and see about transferring custody once you’re released from here.”

  An unexpected wave of calm filled Shea, more than when she finished the Pink Trinkets’ bikes. “Thanks. Now can a girl get some pain meds up in here?”

  “I’ll get a nurse,” said Justin as he ducked out of the room.

  “I’ll let you know when I hear back from DCS. In the meantime, get some rest.” Rios put a gentle hand on Shea’s arm. “And off the record, I’m glad you shot Sergeant Foster.”

  “For the record,” said Shea with a smirk, “I wish you had shot your asshole partner sooner.”

  —

  The next morning, Shea woke to find Jessica reading in a chair next to the bed.

  “Hey.” Shea’s throat felt dry and raw, but much of the pain from the day before was gone.

  “Morning, sunshine.” Jessica’s smile made the room feel brighter. “How ya feeling?”

  “Like I lost a fight with a Mack truck. How’s Annie?”

  “They moved her to a regular room just down the hall. Don’t know much else.”

  “I gotta see her.” Shea pressed the button on the bed’s control panel to lower her legs and raise her head.

  Jessica lowered the railing on one side. “You sure you’re up for walking?”

  Shea harrumphed. “Damn nurse forced me to get outta bed last night and I felt like shit. Can’t be any worse today.”

  With help from Jess, she maneuvered her legs to the edge of the bed, feeling twinges of pain in her back from the bullet and along her calf from the road rash. She tightened her jaw and pushed through it. Jessica grabbed Shea’s left arm and pulled her up into a sitting position. Shea waited a minute to catch her breath, then lowered her feet to the floor.

  An exhausting ten-minute walk later, Shea and Jessica arrived at Annie’s room. There was no guard posted, which Shea took as a positive sign.

  Jess opened the door. Shea shuffled in and saw Dr. Patel standing over the bed. “Oh, hello. Are you Annie’s family?”

  “I’m her aunt.”

  Annie’s head popped out from behind the doctor. “Aunt Shea?”

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  Dr. Patel tilted his head, as if trying to remember something. “Have I seen you here before?”

  “You’re treating my employee Derek Williams down in ICU. Gunshot victim.”

  “Well, I hope you can control yourself better than last time.” His nostrils flared as his Indian accent grew thicker. “I will not put up with any shenanigans this time.”

  “Seriously? Does it look like I’m up to shenanigans? I can barely walk.” She held his gaze for a moment. “What’s going on with Annie?”

  “We were able to reattach the ear, though we had to remove some necrotic tissue. We are using leeches to help maintain blood flow until her body can repair the veins that return the blood to the body.”

  “Did you say leeches?” Shea plopped into a chair as a wave of nausea hit her. “Is this some third-world, holistic bullshit from India?”

  Dr. Patel shook his head. “Not at all. The leeches drain blood from the injury site to prevent clotting. They do a far better job restoring blood flow than the best vascular surgeons. Trust me, it’s state-of-the-art medical practice.”

  The idea made Shea’s stomach churn. “Is it painful?”

  “Not at all. She’ll hardly know it’s there.”

  “How about her infection?”

  “We have given her antibiotics to treat the sepsis. Her temperature is returning to normal and her blood pressure is improving.”

  “How soon before she’s released?” asked Jessica.

  “Let me take a look real quick.” The doctor stepped toward the head of the bed. Shea moved back to allow him to check Annie’s ear.

  Annie whimpered and scrunched her face when he lifted the bandage and examined it using a penlight. “Yes, it looks good. The redness around the wound site is much improved.” He put the bandage back in place and stepped away. “It should take about five days to restore the circulation in the ear. Assuming there are no more signs of infection, we will release her then.”

  Shea thought about the idea of getting custody. Would Annie want to live with me? And what would Jessica think?

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “You are most welcome. Goodbye, Annie.” He waved as he walked out.

  “Bye.” Annie looked up at Shea. “What happened to you?”

  Shea grunted as she stood up and shuffled toward the bed. “Had a little motorcycle accident. I’ll live.” She frowned. “I don’t know if now’s the right time, but there’s something I gotta tell ya. I don’t even know how to say it.”

  “What’s wrong, Aunt Shea?”

  “It’s about your dad.”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Shea’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “I’m afraid so. How did you know?”

  “If he were alive, he woulda been here.” There was sadness in her voice, but not as much as Shea had expected. Maybe that’s a good thing, she thought.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.” The memory of shooting Hunter grew vivid in her mind. She didn’t regret it, but was sorry Annie was now an orphan.

  “What’s gonna happen to me?”

  Shea looked at Jessica and their eyes met. Jess nodded. Shea forced a smile.

  “I’m gonna see if you can come live with Jess and me. Would that be all right with you?”

  Annie studied Jessica’s face. “Are you Aunt Shea’s girlfriend?”

  Jessica cleared her throat. “Um, yeah, actually I am.”

  An awkward moment dragged on that felt to Shea like time had come to a halt. She tried to think of something to say.

  “Okay,” said Annie. “I’ll come to live with you.”

  Chapter 49

  A week later, Shea lay on the love seat watching cartoons, bored out of her skull and more than a little grumpy. The hospital had released her after twenty-four hours. Her right arm and shoulder were immobilized with a sling, forcing her to eat left-handed.

  “How’s the pain?” Jessica handed Shea a plate with eggs over easy, bacon, and toast.

  “It hurts.” She cut a piece of egg, but dropped it onto her shirt as she tried to eat it. She adjusted her grip on the fork. It slipped from her hand onto the floor. “Goddammit.”

  “When was the last time you took your pain meds?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want ’em. Makes me feel like I’m thinking through a fog.”

  Outside, a car pulled up in the driveway. Jessica glanced out the window. “I think that’s them.”

  “Shit, I got egg all over my shirt.” I’m such a klutz, she thought. “Great first imp
ression I’m gonna make with the social worker.”

  “Everything’ll be fine.”

  Jessica opened the door the second they knocked. Detective Rios walked in carrying two full-size suitcases, followed by Annie and a woman with dark mocha skin, high cheekbones, and a head full of shoulder-length braids. She wore a tan suit that matched her shoes and nails. Bandages still covered Annie’s reattached ear.

  “Shea Stevens,” said Detective Rios, “this is Evelyn Langdon with the Department of Child Safety. And you know Annie.”

  “Hi, Ms. Langdon.” Shea tried to stand, but had trouble getting her feet under her.

  “Oh, don’t get up. I heard about your accident. And please, call me Evelyn.” Her eyes scanned the room.

  “Hi, I’m Jessica, Shea’s…friend.” She shook hands with Rios and Evelyn, then kneeled down to Annie. “Hi, Annie. Nice to see you again.”

  “Hi,” said Annie in a timid voice.

  Evelyn looked at Jess. “You live here, too?”

  Jess smiled nervously. “I’m helping take care of her until she can move her arm again.”

  They were dancing around the lesbian issue. Shea wasn’t in the mood for games. “She’s my girlfriend. Is that a problem?”

  Evelyn shook her head. “No, not a problem with DCS, as long as it isn’t an issue with Annie.”

  Shea handed her plate to Jessica, got to her feet, and walked over to Annie. “Hey, Little Bug.”

  “Hey, Aunt Shea.” Annie hugged her tight. A little too tight.

  “Easy there, kiddo. I’m still a little tender.”

  She let go. “Sorry.”

  Evelyn scanned the living room. “I’d like to see where Annie will be sleeping.”

  “Jess, can you give them the tour?”

  “Sure. This way, ladies.” She led them to the spare bedroom.

  Shea turned back to Annie. “Wanna watch cartoons?”

  A smile crept up on her face. “Yes, please.”

  She sat beside Shea on the couch and Shea turned the TV back on. Not nearly as boring with Annie there.

  —

  A couple of days later, Shea showed up at Iron Goddess with Annie, who’d volunteered to be her personal assistant until she recovered from her broken collarbone. The place looked much as it had before the break-in, complete with four Pink Trinkets’ bikes front and center on the showroom floor.

  “Looks a little different, huh?” Monica stepped out from behind the sales counter.

  Shea couldn’t help but grin, despite the persistent pain in her back and shoulder. “God, I missed this place.”

  Monica crouched down to Annie’s height. “And who is this cutie?”

  “This is my niece, Annie.”

  Annie took a step back and grabbed Shea’s hand, a worried expression on her face.

  Shea chuckled. “Don’t worry, kiddo. Monica’s my friend. She won’t hurt ya.”

  Annie looked up at her. “Hi,” she said in a small, timid voice.

  “Hi, Annie. I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Glad to meet you, too.”

  “So when’s Derek coming back?” asked Monica.

  Shea’s smile faded. “He’s not.”

  “Why not?”

  “He started using again. I can’t have that in my shop.” Shea had decided not to mention his involvement in the robbery.

  “Can’t blame you there.”

  The bells on the front door jingled. Shea turned to see the Pink Trinkets walk in. Wicked, Vicious, and Nasty, as they were known, sported their signature pink leather jackets, skintight chaps, and pink-tinted shades.

  “I hear we got us some motorcycles in here.” Wicked sashayed through the showroom, flipping back her kinky long blond hair.

  Annie’s eyes went wide, and her jaw dropped open. “Is that the Pink Trinkets?”

  “Yeah, they’re my clients. You like the Trinks?”

  Annie nodded vigorously.

  “Welcome back to Iron Goddess, ladies,” Shea said.

  “Damn, girl, what the hell happened to you?” Wicked looked Shea up and down while Vicious and Nasty strolled over to the bikes.

  “Long story. Wicked, meet my niece, Annie. She’s a fan of your music.”

  Wicked glanced at Annie. “My goodness! What’d you do to your head?”

  “Someone cut my ear off.” Annie’s face darkened with sadness.

  “Oh my gawd! You poor thing.” Wicked gave her a hug. As she pulled away, she reached into her jacket and pulled out a CD in a jewel case. “Maybe this’ll make you feel better. It’s our new album. No one else has it yet. Would you like it?” Wicked glanced at Shea with a nervous grin. “Most of the lyrics are PG.”

  “Yes, please,” said Annie, eyes bursting with excitement.

  Wicked laughed. “Well, aren’t you precious.” She pulled out a black marker and signed the CD in the case. “Here you go, doll. Autographed just for you. Now let’s go see what your auntie made for us.”

  Shea followed Wicked over to the new motorcycles. Each gas tank bore the name of a band member. The fourth simply had the band’s name.

  Vicious, running her hand through her signature half-hawk haircut, sat astride her café racer–style bike. Nasty glanced over her heart-shaped shades to inspect the long and low cruiser with ape hanger handlebars.

  “These are amazing, Shea,” said Wicked. “But I contracted for three bikes, not four.”

  “The fourth one was sort of a backup. It’s on us.”

  “Yeah, I heard you had a little trouble.”

  Shea looked over at Terrance, who was walking over. “We did,” she said, giving Terrance the stink eye. “But we got it sorted out. Like I knew we would.”

  Terrance patted the seat of the fourth bike. “We were thinking about auctioning off this one to raise money for the charity of your choice.”

  Wicked threw a leg over the bike with her name on the tank. “I like it. There’s a rock music camp for girls we support. I think they’d be the perfect choice.”

  “Well then, ladies.” Terrance walked toward the office. “Shall we settle up?” Ever the businessman wanting to get paid.

  “I don’t think so,” Wicked said. “Not until after a test ride.”

  The office phone rang. Monica ran. “I’ll get it.”

  Wicked gave Shea a seductive grin. “So whaddya say, Leftie? Wanna ride bitch?”

  Before Shea could answer, Monica hollered from the office. “Hey, boss, phone for you.”

  “Take a message.”

  “I think you’ll want to take this.”

  Shea rolled her eyes, fearing Detective Rios was calling with new demands on her freedom. She walked into the office.

  Monica handed Shea the receiver with a sour expression on her face. “It’s your ex, Debbie.”

  “Hello?” Shea said into the phone.

  “Hey, darling! Guess who’s the president of the new Ironwood charter of the Athena Sisterhood? This girl! I was thinking you could meet us for drinks, considering you’re a hotshot bike builder now. Whaddya say?”

  “Oh fuck.”

  Thanks to my wife, Eileen, for picking me, teaching me how to ride, and believing in me.

  I love you, cutie patootie!

  Acknowledgments

  It’s been thirty-five years since I was a teenager typing out god-awful short stories on a manual Smith Corona typewriter. And now my dream of being a published novelist has come true. This would not have been possible without the help of countless friends and supporters. And so here is my chance to offer my humble thanks. If you weren’t involved with the process, feel free to jump ahead to the story. Nothing in this acknowledgments section will be on the final exam.

  First, let me thank Dr. Coleman Barks for showing up at key times in my writing career. I first met you when you came to my high school and recited poetry while tapping out notes on a toy xylophone. A few years later, I took two creative writing courses you taught at the University of Georgia. And then about eight years
ago, just moments after I reached the fifty thousand–word goal for my first National Novel Writing Month challenge, I heard your distinctive voice as I sat in my pickup truck in Phoenix, Arizona. Turns out you were being interviewed on NPR. It was a very serendipitous moment.

  I also want to offer thanks to Denise Ganley, Nanor Tabrizi, Tina Wahl, David Waid, Rissa Watkins, and Carl Wilson, my fellow members of the Fantastic Seven critique group. You have kept me on task and provided me with amazing feedback. But more than that, you are the most treasured members of my literary family.

  Thanks to John Daleiden, Bob Duckles, and all the wonderful writers at the West Valley Writers Critique Meetup and the West Valley Writers Workshop. You, too, have given me great feedback and inspiration.

  Thanks to all of the sisters and misters of the Desert Sleuths Chapter of Sisters in Crime. You have been such a great source of information and inspiration. Where else can you watch a grisly slideshow about blood spatter while eating pizza? God, I hope that’s tomato sauce.

  This story would have never been written had I not become a biker chick. So I want to thank the Desert Dames and most especially the late Anne Suiter, the best leader that group ever had. You nurtured me as a fledgling biker and your safety lectures kept me safe. Ride with the angels, Anne.

  Thanks to Omar and Geoff at MotoGhost for keeping Lady Midnight, my BMW R1200ST, running at peak performance. Their shop can’t be beat when it comes to servicing German motorcycles. But don’t ever bring your bike in with underinflated tires or Omar will put the fear of God (and physics) in you with one of his fatherly lectures. He scares because he cares.

  Thanks of course to my agent, Sharon Pelletier of Dystel & Goderich, who put up with my constant pestering as she pitched Iron Goddess to publishing houses. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

  And last, but certainly not least, thanks to my amazing team at Alibi—Julia Maguire, Kate Miciak, Ashleigh Heaton, Erika Seyfried, Gina Wachtel, and Kelly Chian. I’ll admit, I had some reservations about signing on with a digital-only imprint. But you have repeatedly demonstrated that you are all the cream of the crop. I couldn’t have joined a better team. Thank you so much!

  Okay, are we ready to ride?