Scrap: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

He tilts his head back and rests it against the wall. He’s silent a long moment before he sighs. God, I hope this is it. This is when he gives up and goes away.

  “Shit, Crista. I shoulda never done it.”

  I thought I’d accepted it, his regret, but still, the fact of it knocks the breath from my lungs. He’s right. He shouldn’t have. I know this, but the guilt cuts so deep, my eyes sting.

  “Yeah. It wasn’t worth it.” Can’t this just be over?

  “Huh?” He shakes his head. “No. I mean I should have never sent you away, told you I didn’t want to see you. I was bein’ a pussy. See, when you first go in, it’s—Nevermind. That don’t matter now. What matters is…I thought you’d be okay. I fucked up.”

  My brain offers up a fragment of memory. A plastic chair. The faint scent of bleach and metal. My broken sobs echoing against pale green tiles and his hard, blank face. Not as sorry as I am.

  His face isn’t blank now. Not anymore. There’s anger there, almost crowding out the pity. “I trusted you were taken care of. I was wrong. I’m gonna fix that.”

  “What are you even talking about?”

  “I’m gonna make this right.” He tries to meet my gaze. Hold it tight. “I’m gonna get you straight.”

  The words feel like a backhand. I mean, I know I’m a loser, but at least Annie and Mom and Dad and everyone else in my life have the tact not to rub my face in it.

  Still, it stings, so when I answer, I swing wild. “How? What are you gonna do for me?”

  Annie grunts and wriggles herself back upright, trying to calm me down and rouse herself fully awake at the same time.

  Scrap’s calm is totally fled. His hands are fisted, his eyes flashing. He’s pissed, barely holding it in, and part of me is ugly and glad. He’s gonna pity me? No. I feel sorry for him.

  “You can keep your savior bullshit, you know? I’m fine. You take care of yourself.”

  I struggle to stand, careful to stay as far from him as I can, and then I duck past him and haul ass as soon as I’m up.

  He’s getting to his feet, stepping forward while I bolt, and even though I’m racing away, plowing through drunk brothers and dancing sweetbutts, the fear still nails me like a wrecking ball. The outline of a man, looming. A malevolent presence at my back. Gasoline and piss. Cold concrete. Copper.

  I can’t hear what he says, but I can see him shake his head.

  Like how sad.

  Like crazy bitch.

  I can’t believe I blew up balloons for this shit. My own goddamn pity party.

  CHAPTER 5

  SCRAP

  About four in the morning, I lay Nickel out with an uppercut. I been takin’ all comers by the sand pit since Crista ran off, so the odds were 3:1 against me. Guess my brothers figured I’d be tired out by now. Guess they figured wrong.

  Don’t know where these rednecks are gettin’ these fat rolls, but I ain’t gonna complain. It’s nice having cash on hand that doesn’t feel like a hand out.

  I offer Nickel a hand, but he groans and waves me off. At least one thing’s the same. That fucker’s still insane. It was a good fight. No pulled punches. I wander back toward the clubhouse, my gait none too steady. I been workin’ on a bottle of Jack in between rounds.

  At least the sweetbutts stayed back at the pit. Shakin’ ‘em off has been tweakin’ my nerves. I turn one down, two show up to take her place. They ain’t what I want.

  Shit. This whole scene is gettin’ to me. It’s so damn loud.

  The party’s still goin’ hard, but all I want is peace and quiet. I want to pass out on a bed somewhere without a dude jerkin’ off in a bunk beneath me and fluorescent lights flickering overhead, but I ain’t nowhere close to bein’ able to sleep. I figured takin’ a few beatings would wear me out, but it only fed the sick feeling that’s bloomed in my guts ever since I caught sight of Crista behind that bar.

  I didn’t even realize it was her at first. No one said she’d picked up weight and gone butch or whatever the fuck you call it. Short hair. Men’s clothes. That was a surprise, but whatever, I get it. After what happened, she don’t want to draw no attention to herself.

  Her looks ain’t the only thing that’s changed, though. Not by far. She’s worn out now. Faded. In that room, I would’ve never picked her out if Charge hadn’t pointed to her. She’s like the dudes inside who you don’t notice when they come and go. Months later, you’re like, “When did Joe get out?” And everyone’s like, “Who?”

  God, Crista Holt used to be a fuckin’ picture. I warned off so many pissants, sniffin’ around, checkin’ her out. She had these tiny freckles across her cheeks. Always wore pink lip gloss and blue eyeshadow which made her look even younger than she was. I felt like such a dirty fuck ‘cause I never could stop watchin’ her. She was real shy, but Annie’d make her giggle till she couldn’t stop, and when Deb and the other old ladies bossed her, she’d swish her walk with just the smallest touch of sass.

  The sick in my belly turns full sour, and I stumble through the back door into the clubhouse. A chorus of “Scrap!” greets me, and a drunken arm is slung around my shoulder.

  Grinder huffs over, starts shoutin’ some story at me, drunk as shit, and a couple sweetbutts I don’t recognize saunter over. Damn. I just want a place to rest my carcass. Regroup. Figure out what the hell even happened back in Deb’s office.

  And then an enormous paw claps me on the shoulder, and everyone steps back. It’s got to be Heavy. Dude’s the only one I know who’s got a wake when he moves.

  “My office?” Heavy raises an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker.

  I nod and follow him to the annex, down the corridor Crista raced through a few hours back like her ass was on fire. This part of the clubhouse is all new since I went away. It used to be a fenced in yard for shit meant for the dump.

  I hear boot steps behind us, so I ain’t surprised when Charge and Forty follow us in to Heavy’s office, takin’ seats around a huge, wood coffee table, each guy gravitating to a certain chair like dudes inside at mealtime.

  Damn, I been gone a long time. I ain’t got an assigned seat.

  There’s an engine sittin’ on a drop cloth on a side table. There’s enough room next to it, so I prop my ass up there.

  Heavy snorts. “Guess I need to get more chairs.”

  “He can sit on Forty’s lap.” Charge kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. Forty flips him the bird, and it cracks me up. Forty got out of the service on a medical discharge a few years back, but they ain’t been able to take the Army out of the man. Watchin’ him give the finger is like seein’ one of those guards at Buckingham Palace scratch his jock.

  “Maybe next time.” I wink at Forty. No reaction. Dude is a stone.

  Heavy throws me the Johnnie Walker, and I catch it. Check the label. “Blue? When I went away, we was happy with Red.”

  “Times have changed.” Heavy lights a stogie, shakes the match.

  “I can see that.” Heavy’s dad was still president when I went upstate, and Slip Ruth didn’t have no fancy office. He ran shit from the pool table beside the bar.

  “Expense ain’t much of a concern no more.” Forty pulls his own cigar from his breast pocket, offers it to me. I decline. Never was one for smokin’.

  “’Our barns are filled with plenty, and our vats are bursting with wine.’” Heavy leans back and folds his hands over his gut like some fat pasha.

  “What’s that? Book of Genesis?” I guess.

  “Proverbs.”

  Heavy’s been quotin’ the Bible since we was in school. His ma, Miss Linda, was a real Christian woman before she hooked up with Slip Ruth, and she had a verse for every occasion.

  “You got a job for me, then?”

  The club’s been keepin’ my commissary topped off this whole time, and I know they’ll float me as long as I need, but seein’ Crista, I’m gettin’ anxious. I’m gonna need a way to take care of her, ‘cause I’ll be damned if shit’s gonna keep goin’ like it seems to have been
.

  “No rush, man. Settle in. Relax.” Heavy waves his hand like it’s nothin’.

  I force my voice to stay even. “Sounds real good, brother, but I need a way to pay my bills.”

  I don’t know what I said, but Charge and Forty both bark a laugh.

  “You’re covered, man,” Forty says.

  “I ain’t no fuckin’ charity case.”

  “Simmer down, brother.” Heavy taps the ash of his cigar. “Your dividends are in the bank.”

  “Huh?”

  “From the company. We told you this. All patched-in members get a cut from Steel Bones LLC now. You’ve got a nice nest egg. I invested for you. Went big in ride sharing and porn sites.” Heavy winks.

  “Pig Iron said there was some set aside for me. I figured it would be a few hundred.”

  “We ain’t makin’ runs for peanuts no more.” Charge gestures around the place. It is hella nicer than when I went away. Wide screen hangin’ on the wall. Recessed lighting.

  “Crista know I got money in the bank?” I ask.

  The brothers share a look.

  “It’s club business. We don’t publish it, but it’s common knowledge.” Forty lifts a shoulder. “We’ve had to get kind of particular about the club pussy. Lots of gold diggers sniffin’ around. Lookin’ for an eighteen-year free ride.”

  “Why do you ask?” Heavy leans forward. He ain’t dense. He can feel the turn in the conversation.

  “Something she said earlier. She was pissed at the time, though.”

  “What she got to be pissed about?” Forty’s tone ain’t unfriendly, but it still raises my hackles.

  “Ain’t your concern.”

  Forty raises his hands. “No offense meant, my brother.”

  I ease up. Take a breath. These are my brothers. Whatever they’ve let happen, it ain’t been out of malice.

  “With Crista…this all has thrown her off.” Heavy’s bein’ careful with his words. He needs to be. The shit between Crista and I is just that. Between us. I wish there was more we had—some piece left from before—but if that meltdown in Deb’s office is it for now, well, it’s where I begin.

  “She got every right to be thrown,” I say, and to a man, they shift uneasy in their chairs. They know they’ve dropped the ball. “Wish I’d had a heads up, though. Ain’t like I didn’t ask. Every visit. You said she was good. This what y’all call good?”

  There’s a quiet that descends on the room so thick you could lift it.

  “Well?”

  “In comparison…yes.” Heavy’s searchin’ for the right way to say it, but my patience is past run out.

  “You said she was doing great. Got her own place. Workin’. Takin’ classes. Got a dog. You made it sound like she was a fuckin’ co-ed, spring break at the beach, the whole nine.”

  “We ain’t lied to you, brother,” Charge says.

  “Where she livin’?” In my head, she’s got one of those apartments over in Shady Gap that they rent to singles who work in Pyle. A place with a pool and a gym. Maybe with a roommate she goes out with to karaoke like the people on sitcoms.

  Heavy answers me this time. “Pig Iron put in one of those mother-in-law apartments over his garage.”

  Not what I’d imagined. “What classes did she take? Where at?”

  “I don’t know. Them G.E.D. classes. Online. To get her diploma.”

  “She didn’t fuckin’ graduate?”

  Heavy’s slow-shaking his wooly head. Despite the interest in boxing, I’m at core an even-tempered man, but damn if my blood ain’t startin’ to pound in my ears. They promised me she was good.

  “You don’t understand,” he says. “There were a lot of surgeries at first. They had to put her back together, and then there were all these follow-ups.”

  “It was a long road, and she came through like a champ, but there was lot of time she was recovering from this or that,” Charge takes over tryin’ to explain, and he’s the easy, charmin’ one, but his it’s alright, it’s all fine schtick ain’t makin’ this sound better. It’s makin’ it sound like my brothers were keepin’ shit from me.

  “What do you mean, follow-ups?”

  Forty steps in. You can hear it in his voice. He ain’t got patience for sugar-coating shit neither. “She needed surgery twice for, uh, uh—"

  “Obstructions. Of the large intestine,” Heavy supplies.

  “And they had to—” Forty circles his hand in front of his gut.

  “She had a uterine reconstruction.” Of course, Heavy knows the medical terms.

  “What the f—No. Stop.” I hold up a hand. No one told me shit about this. They said she was doin’ well. At first, it was she’s feelin’ better all the time. Then she was gettin’ out more. Then, she was good. Real good.

  And damn, but I didn’t ask too many questions, did I? Never asked to see a picture. Waved it off when a brother offered. It was too much, being stuck there, so far away with so much time to go. I thought if I saw her, I wouldn’t be able to do the hours. The days.

  To do real time, you got to narrow everything down to the box you’re in. You think about time passing outside, you’ll go crazy. I had to come out whole—for her, for Crista—so I got real good at living in the moment. The reps and sets, the pages and chapters, the playing cards or the tools I held in my hand.

  When I thought about her, after lights out, I remembered pink lip gloss. Chipped purple nail polish on delicate hands, clutching a clarinet case. A sweet blush rising up her neck onto her freckled cheeks.

  It was so hard to keep my face blank when I saw her earlier behind the bar. Dark circles under her eyes. Face pasty white. Chapped lips. The skin around her fingernails all red and chewed to shit. How that lime juice didn’t burn her fingers like hell, I don’t know.

  This is a girl ain’t no one takin’ care of right.

  I let my shoulders fall against the wall, and I take a deep, deep swig of whiskey. This is not how this day was supposed to go down. It’s all wrong, and it’s been wrong for so damn long.

  I look at Heavy. “I need a job.”

  “Yeah, brother. Of course. I talked to Big George. He’s gonna set you up at the Autowerks.”

  I did some automotive work on the inside, besides the restoration shit I used to do with my old man, but the thought of spending my days inside depresses the fuck out of me.

  “I’d rather work on a crew. Roofing. Framing. Whatever.”

  Heavy glances quick at Forty then shifts in his seat. What was that?

  “If it’s all the same, I’d rather work outside,” I say. “You get that.”

  “I do.” Heavy nods. “It’s just…anyone told you what’s been going on with the Raiders?”

  Nobody gossips as much as an MC. While we were waiting at my parole hearing, Pig Iron reenacted the whole scene at the Patonquin site when Knocker Johnson blew the place up with repurposed fireworks. He even did voices. Cue himself told me about how the Raiders sent two fuckers to trash The White Van, a tear in his eye for his shattered glassware.

  “I heard some.”

  “Basically, Knocker’s stirring shit up, lookin’ for a little revenge.”

  “Eighteen years inside is a long time to only want a little revenge.” I should know. If the fucker who put me there wasn’t dead, my plans would be quite a bit different than get with my woman and start workin’ construction.

  Charge gives me a chin jerk. “That’s what I’ve been sayin’. These two fuckers don’t listen to me, though.”

  “Knocker’s lettin’ off some steam. It’s only money. We wait him out. He’ll find something better to do with himself.” Heavy’s sayin’ the words, but even I can tell he don’t believe ’em. What the fuck? Since when did we bullshit each other?

  “He comes at me, I’m takin’ him out.” Just layin’ that out there.

  By all accounts, he had no knowledge of what Inch was up to when he attacked Crista. When that shit went down, Knocker had been inside several years already on charges
from the blown job. The Rebel Raiders was Inches’ club, his big “fuck you” to Steel Bones for what happened to his dad and brother when federal agents pulled over a truck and it turned out they were hauling guns under the crates of cigarettes they’d agree to run across state lines.

  Far as I know, Knocker never patched in to the Raiders. He served his time at Wayne, same as me, but he was up the hill at maximum. I heard shit through the grapevine. His dad passed. He blacked out his Steel Bones ink. I thought he was unaffiliated, but If he’s looking to start where Inch stopped, I have no compunction about ending him.

  “He ain’t comin’ at you. Listen.” Heavy gets serious, leans forward in his chair, makin’ it creak in protest. “The work we’re doin’ now, it ain’t what Slip had us doin’.”

  Yeah. Slip mostly had us humpin’ cigarettes into New York and providing protection for the Russians when they ran guns out to Chicago. Lots of time on the road. Not much construction.

  “What are you sayin’?”

  “I’m saying when you check out your bank account, you’ll see we’re not doing bitch work anymore. And we ain’t makin’ union construction wages, neither.”

  I don’t follow. A few years after I went inside, brothers were always goin’ on about how we were goin’ legit. I didn’t think too much about it. Didn’t apply to my day-to-day.

  “Steel Bones specializes in a very particular clientele with unique needs that require the utmost confidentiality.” Heavy sounds like a fuckin’ brochure.

  “You mean Des Wade.” He’s the fat cat Harper’s got her claws in, the kind of criminal who gets his picture taken with the mayor.

  “He’s a client. One of many.”

  “Make it clear for me. What are you sayin’, Heavy?”

  “I’m saying we run a different kind of organization now. Construction is the core business, and we fulfill a niche in the market. Our clientele pays a premium for discretion. Exits that don’t appear on the papers filed with the county. Safe rooms and bunkers no one ain’t never gonna talk about.”

  I don’t think I can take the commercial much longer. “The point, Heavy?”