by Fobes, Tracy
His heart racing, he picked himself up. He flexed his fingers and wrists. Moved his arms and legs. Nothing felt broken, just a little bruised. He stood there for a moment, inspecting his motorcycle for damage, and realized his hands were shaking.
He’d thought he’d put the war behind him. Apparently he hadn’t.
He lifted his motorcycle up off the ground. The handlebars were badly bent. He was going to have to take it down to Alex’s shop tomorrow.
Frowning, he mounted, took a moment to will his trembling hands to stillness, and then started his bike up. Relieved the engine sounded normal, he put it in gear and turned onto Jersey Avenue once more. He rode in the other direction this time, toward the north, sweeping in a big circle around the outskirts of the town. He cruised past the Victorian mansions, most of which still stood intact. A few of them, however, had red signs on them that declared them unsafe for human occupancy, and the houses themselves had that abandoned look of an inner city tenement. He drove past the surf shop, remembering how he’d gone there as a kid and stared in the window at the surfboards. He’d never learned how to surf, but he’d always wanted to.
From there, he continued on past the bridge, and around smaller houses, stores and motels, slowing as he did so to look at the giant sandboxes that now surrounded former driveways, at the parked backhoes next to pits of sand, and at wooden spars that stuck up from the sand like bones. Despite the fact that Hurricane Sandy had passed through over a year ago, many neighborhoods in Rockport Grove still looked like war zones.
His mood plummeting at the sight of this seemingly endless devastation, he turned onto Ocean Drive. Once there, he drove slowly, his gaze drifting to the left, where a long stretch of sand led up to the Atlantic Ocean.
Above the thin layer of fog that seemed ever-present during the warmer months, the sky held only wispy clouds, and the moon’s silvery-white radiance provided more than enough to light to see by. He noted a deserted expanse of beach, a luminous ribbon of foaming surf, and breakers that surged steadily out of the black ocean beyond. When he reached the spot he’d been looking for, the one with special meaning for him, he rolled his motorcycle onto the sidewalk where he had an even better view, geared down to neutral and paused.
A sandbar composed of large boulders jutted out from the beach and into the ocean. Jake had fished on it many times as a kid, so he knew exactly what it was made of, how long it was, and where the sand crabs liked to hang out. He stared at the sandbar and at its tall rocks, which barely managed to keep their uppermost parts above the churning sea. Beneath the moonlight and mist, sea spray exploded against the rocks in a frenzy, as if the ocean had become tired of their defiance and was determined to drag them to a watery grave. Even from the road, he could smell the barnacles that clung to their undersides, and the rotting seaweed that swirled between them.
He pressed the engine cut off switch, turned the key to the off position, and dismounted from his bike. Thoughtfully, he walked toward the rocky outcropping, his boots sinking into the soft white sand. When he stood about two feet away from where the outcropping began, he paused and gazed out across the rocks, which were painted silver with moonlight. Far away across a black ocean, the lights of a fishing boat winked like stars. Sea spray misted against his face. White froth from the ocean clung greedily to his boots. The only sound was the low rumble of the breakers.
Slowly, deliberately, he unzipped his pants and took a long, deeply satisfying piss. Then he zipped his pants, turned on his heel, and walked back to his motorcycle.
He mounted and held the bent handlebars in a tight grip. He laughed, but the sound had no humor in it. He stood there looking at the outcropping for a moment or so longer, and then turned his bike eastward, away from the ocean. Although midnight had drawn close, he decided to drive to Rowdy Ray’s Roadhouse. His two friends from childhood, Alex and Luke, liked to hang out there, and he thought they might be there now.
Visiting the place where his dad had washed ashore always left him feeling gray inside. He needed light, warmth, and the friendship of people who understood him.
Chapter Two
A blast of hot air that smelled like cigarettes, whiskey and French fries hit Jake in the face as he opened the door to Rowdy Ray’s Roadhouse. Wondering how a smoke-free bar could smell like cigarettes, he nevertheless took a deep breath of it into his lungs. It was the scent of life; and after the damp, briny coldness of the ocean, it would have rivaled the sweetest perfume.
He stepped inside.
Music, conversation, heat, light, color, the yeasty odor of spilled booze—they all hit him at once. A boom box was blasting out some Bruce Springsteen. The members of a local band were sitting around on break, drinking beers. Pendant lights shaped like old-time saloon lanterns created a dusky, almost candlelit glow that would have made an octogenarian look good. He saw that Ray had tacked an American flag up on the wall and smiled. It felt good to be here.
A mahogany bar stretched the length of the room and was facing the door. He nodded toward the bartender, a college co-ed he’d met just a few days ago. She looked like one of his old summer girlfriends: a honey-gold tan, silky long blonde hair, a cute little body.
“Hey Stephanie, how’re ya doing?” he called out as he walked past.
She gave him a big grin as she rinsed out a few beer glasses. “Better now that you’re here.”
He paused to stare thoughtfully at her. “Have I asked you out yet?”
“No. But I wish you would.”
He returned her grin. “Remind me about it later.”
She nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.
His friend Luke was working the other end of the bar, and when he saw Jake, he pointed over to a booth by the pool tables. Jake looked toward the booth and noticed two men—Alex and Rowdy Ray--sitting there. They both had leather motorcycle jackets on, with the words Rockport Grove Rebel Guardians emblazoned on the back. He threaded his way through a crowd that didn’t seem to care that midnight had come and slid into the booth next to Alex.
“So, you joined the Guardians,” he said to Alex. “You didn’t mention that when I saw you last week. What are you doing, hanging around with a bunch of has-beens?” He slanted a smile toward Rowdy Ray, a sixtyish man with heavy sideburns and thick gray hair.
“I like the brotherhood,” Alex replied. “I like riding with the group.”
“You have the tat now, too?”
Alex pushed his shirt sleeve up to reveal that grim-looking deer skull and hunting knife that had haunted Jake’s dreams when he’d been a kid.
“Wow. Nice,” Jake said.
Alex exchanged a glance with Ray, one Jake thought was filled with secrets, then refocused on Jake. “You gonna join?”
“No fucking way.” Jake shook his head. “I don’t ride a Harley.”
“Your dad did. His motorcycle is still in your garage,” Ray pointed out.
“I’m selling it for parts.”
Alex laughed. Tall, lean, and mean, he was built, but not muscular, and his eyes were gray flecked with blue. Clever eyes. Wicked eyes. “Give it up, Ray. He’s not club material.”
“Never will be,” Jake added.
Ray shrugged. “Well, you can’t fault me for trying.”
Jake sat back and looked at the other two men. “Glad I found you two in here. At least I won’t have to drink alone.”
“Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight,” Alex said. “Don’t you have to get down to the construction site early tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but that’s tomorrow. Tonight was a good night for a ride.”
“You take the back roads?”
Jake nodded. “Towards the Pine Barrens.”
“How’d she run?” Alex asked, referring to Jake’s rebuilt café racer.
“Like a wet dream.”
“Next time, let me know. I’ll get my bike out and go with you.”
Jake glanced toward the bar, where Luke was slinging beers and mixed drinks around. “We should
ask Luke, too. Heard he just bought a Triumph.”
“A Thruxton,” Alex confirmed, “with old-school styling. She’s a beauty.”
“Imagine that,” Ray cut in, with a glint in his faded blue eyes. As Luke’s dad, he’d seen a lot of Alex and Jake over the years, and he’d always done his best to give fatherly advice to Jake. “The three of you, out riding again like you used to. That would be a sight to see.”
Jake exchanged a quick smile with Alex. “It’s good to be home.”
He shifted his attention over to two girls who were playing pool at one of the pool tables. They were dressed in tight miniskirts, net stockings and high heels. As they leaned over with their pool cues to shoot, their cleavage tempted him. A smile curved his lips. He remembered a saying on a plastic wristband some of the guys in his unit had worn: Boobs make me smile. Whoever had thought of the saying was truly an astute observer of human nature.
“How are you doing, Jake?” Ray asked, drawing his attention away from the girls.
“I’m fine, Ray. Great, really,” Jake replied. This was the first time he’d actually sat down with Ray. Up until now, the older man had been bartending, and they’d only managed to exchange a few quick words when Jake had stopped by.
“How long have you been back from Afghanistan? A month now, right?” Ray asked.
“Almost two weeks.” He rubbed his chin with two fingers and felt the scruff of beard there. He didn’t shave anymore like he used to.
“So you’re still fresh from the service.”
Jake nodded. “Freshly retired. I’m finally a civilian.”
“It’s going to take some getting used to,” Ray predicted.
Just then, a waitress paused next to their booth. Her hair had a few streaks of gray in it and fine wrinkles framed her eyes. Jake didn’t recognize her. She playfully smacked Ray on the side of the head with her pile of menus, and then slung them into the middle of the table with a saucy smile.
“Careful, Charlene,” Ray warned. “I’ll dock you for being ornery.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she quipped. “What are you guys drinking?”
Jake had a quick look at the drinks list. Ruckus Lager, Fat Lip Ale... He turned to the next page and looked through the hard liquors. When he saw the Macallan 25, he smiled. “I’ll have the Macallan.”
“On ice?”
“Straight up,” he corrected her.
“You got it, honey.”
Ray and Alex ordered too, and then the waitress went off to get their drinks.
“My unit used copters to get around in ‘Nam,” Ray ventured. “What kind of birds did you fly over there?”
“Chinooks, Black Hawks, Little Birds. For three tours and almost ten years,” Jake replied.
“And now his vehicle of choice is a café racer built from a Honda CB450 donor bike,” Alex added. “I’ve been sourcing parts for this pain in the ass from the moment he stepped off the transport at Fort Dix.”
“I’m going to need you to source a new set of handlebars for me,” Jake said, and went on to tell Ray and Alex about his run-in with the deer with no mention of the girl, and how he’d had a highsider as a result. “I jumped an intersection,” he groused. “After that, I raced a train and won. But a fawn brought me down, for Christ’s sake.”
“We all learn a lot of lessons in our lives,” Ray remarked sagely, “But the lesson about life not being fair is the most important one.”
The three of them traded tales about the various accidents they’d had on motorcycles, and debated who’d had the worst, before the discussion turned to the military once again.
“You ever see active combat?” Ray asked, his gaze sliding down to the tattoo Jake had on his lower arm: silver aviator wings with an American flag shield.
Jake hesitated before answering. How could he make them understand what it had been like to fly his Apache into enemy territory, all the while wondering if he’d ever make it back? Overall, though, the war had been unusually kind to him. He’d survived it despite several combat engagements: in-and-out flights where he skimmed above the desert and whipped the sand below into a storm as he worked toward achieving various mission objectives. “Yeah, I flew into unfriendly fire.” He shrugged. “You learn how to deal with it. How to survive. Just like anything else in life.”
Ray nodded, and Jake could tell from the look in the older man’s eyes that Ray knew all about enemy territory.
The waitress returned with their drinks. Jake took a sip of the Macallan. He sighed with pleasure as the well-oaked whiskey rolled slowly down his throat and created a warm glow in his stomach. Jake and Alex both ordered Knuckle Sandwiches, while Ray ordered Road Rash Hash; and then for a few moments, they just drank and watched the pool-playing girls.
Jake shifted on his seat. The girls were starting to interest him. He noticed Alex watching them and knew they’d caught his buddy’s interest, too. They seemed to be almost flirting with each other as they played, their smiles soft, sweet, and inviting. Jake also saw how they were both sneaking glances at their booth, and realized that they were playing the lesbian game. He had to admit it was working. He hadn’t gotten laid since he’d come home and he was tired of jacking off. He needed a lay—and a choice lay like that was always welcome.
Their food arrived and they dug in. Jake hadn’t eaten dinner and had to force himself to eat slowly. Once more he reflected that he was damned glad to be back home, where the food didn’t have little grains of sand in it.
“Ah, God, I’m getting old,” Rowdy Ray announced, after they’d finished eating. “I think I’m gonna head home. Luke’s got the bar. He can close down for me tonight.”
Jake dragged his attention away from the last of his sandwich. All at once, he noticed that Ray had shadows beneath his eyes. His eyes looked bloodshot, too. “How about you, Ray? Everything okay?”
“Well, you know.” Ray glanced around the bar, his gaze resting briefly on the laughing, happy crowd before refocusing on Jake. “Hurricane Sandy really ripped the heart out of this town. Left us in ruins. It’s been tough rebuilding it. The government is a damned tightwad, and the insurance companies are crooks. We just can’t seem to squeeze enough money out of anyone to set things right.”
Jake had heard about the hurricane’s effects and seen first-hand the devastation. But Rowdy Ray’s didn’t show any signs of it: the walls looked freshly-painted, the bar countertops and taps all sparkled like new, and the furniture had been upgraded. “Your place looks good. I guess your insurance company paid out.”
“Fuck the insurance companies,” Ray answered, an edge to his voice. “And the government. We found another way.”
“What other way?”
“You let me know when you need some money, and I’ll tell you.”
Jake dropped his gaze from the older man’s fiery, combative stare. For the first time, he noticed that Ray had lost his middle finger on his right hand, from below the knuckle. “Hey, Ray, when did you lose that finger?”
“A month or so ago,” Ray bit out, his anger seeming to grow.
Jake waited for Ray to elaborate, but when the older man simply got up, said his goodbyes, and headed toward the door, he turned to look at Alex. “What happened to Ray’s finger?”
Alex took a quick look around the bar, as if confirming no one sat close enough to overhear, and then spoke softly. “He said he lost it while he was fixing up the roadhouse. Something about an accident with a saw.”
“All right. So, what did you mean by ‘he found another way?’?”
“You know that the town has seen bad times since the storm,” Alex replied. “It’s been vulnerable, and there’s always someone willing to take advantage of vulnerability.”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Some people didn’t have insurance, and didn’t get enough from the government. So they made a deal with the devil. And as you know, those type of deals come at a steep price.”
Jake shook his head in confusion. “What are you talk
ing about?”
“It’s like From Russia with Love here, man,” Alex replied, his voice even lower. “They run this town now.”
“Really?” Jake looked at his friend and tried to process the information he’d been given. He didn’t get it.
“I guess I shouldn’t complain,” Alex continued. “Without them, Rowdy Ray’s would be nothing but a sand pit. And Rockport Grove needs Rowdy Ray’s. We need a place where we can forget about the things bugging us.”
Jake shook his head. “Still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, bro. You’re part Russian, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I’m Ukrainian,” Alex muttered. “Forget I said anything.” He glanced over at the two girls playing pool. “Let’s just enjoy the show.”
“Okay by me,” Jake agreed, though in the back of his mind, he kept turning over what Alex had revealed.
From Russia with Love.
The band ended its break, picked up their guitars and noisily began strumming a few chords. Couples lined up to dance. Toward the front of the bar, the door opened, and two women walked in, bringing with them a gust of chilled, misty air.
He and Alex turned to watch them. It was well past midnight, and Jake was wondering what college campus they’d escaped from. He couldn’t see their faces—they both had their backs to the booth. Both girls were tall and slender, and had sleek, silky hair that reached well past the middle of their backs: one a reddish brunette, and the other, blonde.
“They’re out late,” Jake murmured. “It’s going to be a bitch for them tomorrow morning, getting up for class.”
Alex squinted their way, and his expression became almost comically annoyed. “That’s my sister and her friend. Christ. Mom is going to kill her. Sophia knows she’s not supposed to be out late like this.”
Jake stilled. Sophia.
All of a sudden he was looking much more closely at the brunette. She turned around then, and he saw her high, super-model cheekbones, sultry greenish-gray eyes and full pink lips. He stared at those lips and memories of that night on the beach assaulted him. That body of hers, quivering violently as she’d rubbed herself against his already rock-hard erection. The swift determination with which she’d unzipped his pants, slipped her hand inside and closed her fingers around him. She’d been hot and wet, her bud already swollen when her slender, muscular thighs had straddled his waist, her hair a sleek curtain around her curves, her eyes closed, her head thrown back...
