by Cat Porter
“Soup okay?”
I nodded, and she fed me again. And again.
We didn’t have much time left. No time left. I wanted to listen to her speak. Hear her. Anything I could get.
I asked, “Why do you like tomato soup?”
“When I was a kid I used to make this soup from this can every Saturday. I’d heat up the soup, and my grandma would make the grilled cheese sandwiches.” Her face flushed.
Imagining her as a little girl, an innocent, laughing child sharing a meal with her daddy, made my chest pinch together.
Look where she ended up.
“When were you going to tell me about you being Med’s old lady?”
She didn’t answer.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Twenty-one.”
“How long you been here?”
“Almost four years.”
“Med’s around fifty or so, isn’t he?”
“Fifty-two.”
“He likes to collect women, huh?”
“He likes to collect a lot of things,” she replied. “He wanted to keep you, actually. But he knew he had to give you back otherwise there’d be a huge war.” Her thumb lightly brushed the edge of my jaw, and a shiver raced over me. “Now he left his mark on you. Made you his for everyone to see.”
“I’m not anybody’s. Nobody owns me.”
“I’m sorry about what I did.”
“What? What did you do?”
“Getting you off while they—”
“He made you do it. He makes you do lots of shit, huh?”
“Yeah, but not like last night.”
We stared at each other. She didn’t have to explain or go into any other sure to be fucked up details. It was in the dull steadiness of her gaze. Unspeakable things, humiliating things.
“He doesn’t own me inside, though, and he knows it. He used to be really possessive of me, but that’s changed lately. Before, he never would’ve suggested I bring you food or have any contact with a prisoner. I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t know what it could be.”
“He’s crazy. It’s got nothing to do with you. You can see that, right?”
She swallowed hard, her eyebrows knitting close together. She was struggling with reality. Med had really done a number on her. “Last night was a first, so I don’t think—”
“I’ll help you.”
“Help me?”
“I’ll come back for you.”
Her face tightened. “Why? What for? So I can be yours? So I can suck your cock whenever you want?”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. I don’t want to own you like some slave. I meant so you could be free.”
Her face blanked.
I wanted to see her free. Even if she wasn’t with me, knowing she was out there with a smile on her face doing her own thing would be great.
“That’s nice to hear, but you’re just another prospect and from an enemy club. Kid, you and me don’t matter. We’re the cogs in the wheel. The little people who get stepped on and used. We’re just jagged stones in their path. They kick us out of the way as they move along. You realize that, don’t you? After last night, after what he made me do, I think my old lady status is done. There are plenty more girls waiting to take my place too.”
My pulse kicked up. “I want to get you out of here. You want that don’t you?”
She averted her gaze. “I’ll bet you’ll be a hero when you get back to your club. I’m sure you will be. You survived, you showed bravery. You never ratted them out. But me? Me, I’m just a nothing. An empty bottle they toss after they’re finished drinking their fill. And now...”
“You’re no empty bottle. You’re beautiful, you’re—”
“Shh. Please. You’ve got a fever as it is. You need to rest.”
I licked my cracked lips and tasted my own blood. Would they really let me go? Maybe they’d pop a bullet in the back of my head or knife me in front of my bros. Maybe I’d pass out from the pain any minute.
Would I ever see her again?
I wanted her to know my name. A name no one ever used for me. I was desperate for her to think about me and have my name for my face, for the memory of us, for the intense feelings between us, whatever the hell they were. A dull ache clouded my head, and I couldn’t catch up with my choppy breaths. Anguish streaked through me along with a strange kind of anticipation, each pulling me in opposite directions.
Our discovery of each other, our stolen orgasms in the dark, had been nicks in the chains holding us both. The conversations, the small laughs and threads of understanding between us, had been moments of warmth and sun in that shithole dungeon. Med making us perform for him had been brutal. Fucking was something that we’d both wanted bad but hadn’t done. Having been forced to do it in the spotlit center ring of Med’s circus was all sorts of crazy.
But here she was, not a dream, not a phantom who’d visit my cell and disappear. Here she was making sure I got something to eat. Caring about me.
We had to see each other again. We had to. A wall of dark water towered over me, threatening to crush everything to bits.
I said, “My name’s Justin.”
Her brows knit together. “I’ve got to go.”
“Hey!”
She stopped in her tracks. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Please say it. Say my name. No one says it. Not ever. I want to hear you say it. I need to. Say it,” I begged. There was nothing more important than this right now. Nothing. “Say it.”
Her blue green eyes lifted to mine. They were heavy. “Justin,” she whispered.
A thrill spinning in the mud of misery, the vehicle stuck, going nowhere. Hello and goodbye. Whatever was between us was all over before it began, but somehow I felt as if I’d lived a hundred lives in this dungeon and now had to let them all go.
“Again.”
“Justin.”
My heart squeezed. Her saying my name was a touch, a hug. I didn’t remember being held before by anyone. Patted on the back, a clap on the shoulder, a ruffle through my hair, but not ever being held, the life squeezed out of me. Someone really psyched to see me, someone not wanting to let me go.
Now all I wanted was for her to take me in her arms, hold me close and whisper my name, whisper goodbyes in my ear.
Fucking goodbye.
“I’m going to miss you.” My voice broke.
She sucked in a tiny breath. “Me too.” She grabbed the mug and the spoon. “I hope you can forget all this. Maybe someday you will. Maybe one day everything that happened to you here won’t matter. It’ll just be a story you tell around the fire over a few beers to impress people. A wild piece of your club history.” Her teeth scraped her lips. “You go and have a good life.”
“Forgetting this means forgetting you. And I’ll never forget you, Serena.”
“I’ll never forget you either, Justin.” She scrambled for the door.
Something bright and sharp slid through me. “When I come back for you, will you come with me?”
She stopped in the doorway and turned. Her lips parted as if she were listening to beautiful music, astounding music.
“Hell yes.”
6
I was delivered back to Missouri, dumped on the icy hard ground in a field in the middle of winter like a sack of garbage. Familiar faces filled my vision.
“You’re home now, Kid.” My heartbeat settled at the sound of my Vice President’s deep voice. Chaz held my head in his lap in the back of the van that barreled toward the clubhouse.
Once there and settled on a pool table, needles punctured me, an IV inserted. The doctor scowled as he unwrapped the gauze bandages covering my hands.
“Ah, shit.” Chaz groaned. “Oh man, oh man,” he muttered over and over again, rubbing a hand down his mouth, stag
gering back a step.
I succumbed to the dull throb of the tugging, cleaning, wrapping.
Where was she?
I searched for her eyes, her touch, those soft fingers skimming my skin. A slight tickle, soothing, slow. Yeah, that was it. Up my arm. A kiss inside my elbow, her lips lingering there, her breath a soothing mist over me.
Rena.
Wait, no, no.
Serena.
A needle pricked my skin.
I sank and flew with her whispering sweet words into my ear, her hands in my hair, fingertips trailing up and down my arms. I reached for her like I always did.
Touch me. Touch me.
“Get these antibiotics, more of these bandages. Pain meds. He’s badly dehydrated too.”
My other hand was being tugged. My eyelids stretched and strained toward the dull ache. The doctor was bent over my hand, concentrating. Stitching. My head knocked back against the table. I searched the faces that hovered over me. I was back at the club. Back at the Flames of Hell.
It all came rushing back like a movie at high speed.
Siggy? Dad? Where’s Dad?
My chest caved in. Siggy was gone. The old man was dead. I’d forgotten. For a split second I’d fucking forgotten.
The bandages on my face were peeled back. I breathed through my mouth, my heels digging into the table, grunts escaping my lips.
“Jesus.”
The medicinal smell of cleaning solutions, careful dabs.
I settled into a dark pool and floated on the murky surface.
Floated into the dark.
I forced my eyes open.
My leather jacket hung on my chair the way I always kept it. “Black Elk”, my used paperback about a Sioux mystic, sat on the same corner of the desk where I’d last left it.
My desk. My bed. My room.
“He’s awake.”
“Finally. It’s been a few days.”
People visited and smiled at me. A shiny vase with a top on it I’d never seen before caught my eyes on the dresser opposite my bed.
“Chaz?” I gestured at the vase with a lift of my chin.
“It’s your old man, Kid. Cremated.” Chaz shrugged, gnawing on his lower lip.
I stared at the vase. It stared at me.
The old ladies ran around applying ice packs, aloe vera, and vitamin E gel on my wounds, making sure I took my meds on time, feeding me soups and stews.
Some young girl I didn’t know set down a paper plate filled with small sandwich squares. “It’s smoked turkey with bacon and Swiss. They told me to make it for you. That it’s your favorite.” She smiled nervously. “I cut it into small pieces so it would be easy for you to handle.” She darted out of my room.
My eyes landed on the sandwich. A dizzying spiral uncoiled in my stomach, looping through my gut, squeezing in my chest.
Sliced white bread. Sliced white bread.
The stench of the cell.
Serena feeding me.
The touch of her hand. A slight smile in the dim light that lit my world.
The cold slime of the concrete under me.
Drip of the hose.
My mouth dried, and I heaved for air. Cold sweat prickled at my hairline.
The vase across the room.
The vase.
Have to get away. Have to make it stop.
I kicked my legs.
The sandwich stared back at me. If I ate it, would she come to me? My Serena? No, no, she wasn’t here and we weren’t together. There wouldn’t be any touching, there would be no—
“Honey, you want me to help you with the sandwich?” Kerry, Chaz’s old lady, stood over me. “Kid, you okay? You don’t look so good. Is the fever back?” She leaned over me her hand moving toward my face.
Not her touch, not hers… “Don’t!” I choked on my breath.
“What is it, baby? What is it?”
My arm wouldn’t obey my command. It wouldn’t lift, wouldn’t point at that fucking white Wonder bread a few inches from me. Block it from my view.
“No!”
Kerry snapped up the dish and handed it to the sandwich girl who appeared behind her, eyes round. “Get it out of here.”
I collapsed back on the bed, moaning.
“It’s all right, baby, it’s gone. Is that what it was, the sandwich?”
I wanted to bury my face in my pillow, but I couldn’t do that. My face burned.
“No more sandwiches, okay?” she said.
Sandwich girl brought in a bowl of chili and dashed back out of my room. Kerry helped me eat. When we finished, Kerry brought in Ryan, an occupational therapist friend of hers to look at my hands, at my stumps.
Ryan examined me and said I was going to have to work on “fine and gross motor coordination.” He told me we’d be using small balls and hand grips to strengthen my forearms, wrists, and fingers to help compensate for the loss of my middle fingers. Gripping and grasping exercises to accelerate the return of my grip strength and improve my dexterity would become my new everyday habit. As I got stronger, we’d add a variety of dumbbells and weight plates for me to pinch and claw and pull, and different kinds of handles to hold and drag all kinds of weights.
Both Kerry and Ryan waited for some kind of response out of me.
I had to be able to ride, hold a gun, use a knife. I didn’t want stiffness to get in my way, hold me back, and I sure didn’t want arthritis when I got older. No fucking way.
“I know you’re in pain now,” Ryan said. “And all this probably sounds overwhelming, but—”
“Bring it on,” I said.
He smiled. “I’ll set up a schedule for you.”
Ryan left my room, and Kerry handed me a tall plastic cup with water and a straw. I wasn’t thirsty. I wanted answers.
“Kerry, tell me what happened with my dad.”
She set the cup back on the desk by the bed. “They haven’t told you?”
“No one’s said a thing. I’ve been asking. But—”
“They don’t want to upset you. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for a few days now, honey.”
“Tell me.”
“Kid...” She pressed her lips together.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Calm down. You just got over a high fever.”
“Tell me the fucking truth!”
Kerry let out a breath. “Fuse had a heart attack. He collapsed on the spot.”
What Serena had told me was true.
“He was real upset about you going on that drop,” Kerry said. “He’d followed you and Siggy that night. He saw them kill Siggy, he saw them take you.”
“I knew it. I thought I’d heard him yelling.”
“He came back and flipped out. Then the not knowing what they were doing to you, hearing the threats and what it meant for you, for the club. He wasn’t eating right or getting any sleep, constantly wired. He wouldn’t let me take him to the doctor. Probably wasn’t taking his pills. You know how he got.”
“Did you see? Were you there? Was he alone?” My scratched voice choked on itself, I couldn’t get the words out, goddammit.
“It was late at night. He was in the office with Reich. Reich said—”
“Just the two of them?”
“Yeah.” She let out an exhale. “Why don’t you take a nap? I’m gonna get a move on and get home. I’m real sorry, baby. Real sorry. We all miss him.” She folded over the napkin she’d used on my mouth, dropped it in the empty chili bowl, and left.
My pulse rattled in my throat, and I took in a deep breath to fight it. My dad never liked Reich. Dad was the veteran, the old codger, the has been, the back seat driver, but a figure to be respected. Around the club, the elders deserved special consideration, and they got it. For the most part. F
use had made his mark on his club and had been a bro for over thirty years. Reich was the up and coming officer, the Sergeant at Arms with new ideas and a lofty sense of self.
I needed to keep my cool, keep it together, find out more.
My head sank back into the pillow, my eyes landing on the vase again. Urn. Whatever.
A swirl of dizziness overtook my brain, my stomach twisted. I moved my hand, and the numbness and stiffness of that ugly paw only made my chest heavy. That aching, shooting pain was still there where my finger used to be.
I jammed my eyes closed and clung to the fact that my dad had stood up for me to his literal dying breath. I clung to that like it was a piece of scrap metal skimming the surface of the ocean after the plane crash of my life. Whenever he had stood up for me, which wasn’t too often, he did it big.
The first time Fuse stood up for me was when he’d got me out from under my mother’s crazy. He’d actually given a shit.
I laid eyes on my father for the first time when I was seven years old. He was this giant of a man from where I was playing on the floor in front of the television at the neighbor’s house. His dark brown eyes flashed at me, his wide shoulders and massive chest expanded under a worn black leather jacket, and a chill raced up my neck. I dropped the Hot Wheels car in my hand.
He plucked me up from the floor, and we sailed through the living room, past Miss Sally, through her front hall that always smelled of Lysol right to the front door.
“Wait, wait, what’s going on now?” Miss Sally said, her voice shrill, her worn house slippers shuffling behind us.
He didn’t stop or slow down as he moved us out the door. “This is my kid,” he said as he lifted me up onto the saddle of his towering, two-wheeled, metal monster. His voice was sure, firm. He would not be denied. My fingertips curled into the thick leather of his jacket.
Finally. Finally my dad had come for me. I had a dad like I always believed I did. Mom would never talk about him. Never ever. She’d just ignore my questions every time, huffing and puffing, making faces, grabbing another cigarette.
