by Paula Cox
When I turn back to Aimee, she’s gone, completely disappeared. I panic as I turn the van back on and dial up the burner number. But then she reappears, right around the corner of the bank. Almost naturally, she slams her body into his so that she falls backward, stumbling onto the ground. I watch as he moves the small package of money to his back pocket as he offers her his other hand. She rises to her feet only to fall on him again, and she laughs with a full, open mouth and her head back.
Aimee’s hand rests on his arm, reassuring him that she’s all right. The gentle massage works like a charm. While she’s soothing him, stroking his ego, he doesn’t even notice her hand wrapped around the backside of him, grabbing the yellow package of money. She makes an excuse, pointing towards the incoming bus before darting away with the club’s cash in hand.
I dial her phone as she hops on the bus and it speeds off in the other direction, but there’s no reply. I try again as I start the van up, hoping to catch her at the next bus stop. Still, no answer. She doesn’t get off at the next stop or the one after that. I pull in front of the bus with enough time to board. As the driver screams at me to pay, I run through the length of the bus, calling her name. But every seat is empty.
My pulse quickens as I realize what’s happened. Aimee hasn’t just conned the Devil’s club worker—she’s managed to pull one over on me as well.
Chapter Three
Aimee
I really, really despise running. Back in high school, my parents forced me to be in track, and I spent most of the time plotting ways to get out of it. I mean, no one looks good when they’re running—not even those tiny-waisted, WASP-y girls in short-shorts passing batons to the next girl with the high ponytail and uber-tight sports bra. But even beyond the aesthetics of it, running just hurts.
Today is no exception. The outfit those motorcycle chicks lent me isn’t that conducive to running. The shirt, if that’s what you can even call a thin little thing like this, has beading threaded along the neckline that’s chafing my sweating skin, and the fake leather pants aren’t exactly up to the challenge of running at faster than a fifteen minute per mile pace. Thank goodness I still have my sneakers on from last night.
My feet can’t move fast enough away from the park bench, past the cars in the bank’s parking lot, and towards the neighborhood streets. I figure I have about five to ten minutes until that guy Breaker catches on that I didn’t actually get on the bus. He’ll follow me to one, maybe two, bus stops, with each being about five blocks a piece. That’s a good head start for most, but there’s a factor I can’t forget—Breaker’s a hunter.
All these motorcycle guys are—whether they are by the real sense of the word or they have been trained up to be an urban version, with their bikes, guns, and street smarts. Breaker looks like he could be both. There’s something in the richness of his skin and the hawk-like features that make it seem to me that he walks on the earth as if he owns it. It’s the same thing that runs through Polynesian girls like me, and I’m a damn good hunter.
So I count the minutes when I don’t hear the roar of a motorcycle to be absolutely sacred. I can’t take them for granted. I sprint through the blocks, searching for somewhere to hide. I could break into a house, but this bank job has me in an area that appears as if every home would have some fancy, high-tech alarm system with a direct line to the cops. Frankly, I’m surprised neighborhood watch hasn’t been trailing my ass with these manicured bushes and open bay windows.
Eventually, I find the worst home on the block. It has some overgrown weeds and a wrought iron fence instead one of those white picket versions. It’s the perfect height for me to jump over, but I make a crucial error—dogs. As soon as I make it over, I am swarmed by three large, barking mutts chained to a tree with only thin cables. They are just out of arms throw of me, but that doesn’t make the situation any less frightening.
Over the sound of their barking, I hear what sounds like thunder, but I know better.
He’s here.
At least, he’s near my block. With the dogs practically breathing down my neck, I have no other option but to try to bail. As I take off on the run again, my jacket, the leather rhinestone monstrosity those chicks lent to me, gets stuck in one of the holes in the fence. I’m basically strapped to the bars with nowhere to go.
I yank desperately at the piece of cloth, praying that it will come free. I even use my mouth to try to get the stuck part to budge, but there’s nothing. I have to leave it behind. I take the money out of the pocket and pull my arms out of the coat. I leave the skeleton behind, hoping it won’t lead back to me. Now plastered against the wall of the brick home, I shimmy my way around the dog’s perimeter and through to the other side of the home.
I hop the fence again, this time making around the back of another house, but as I turn the corner, a floodlight flashes on. My mind goes haywire as I look for some way out of this. In this area, I am completely exposed, and the sound of the roaming motorcycle is only getting closer.
Luckily, I spy the house’s storm doors. There’s a metal padlock attached, but I’ve been busting those open since I was old enough to steal a bike.
Every lock has a weak point, just like humans. It takes time and experience to know how to find it, but once you get the hang of it, you can just about bust any lock wide open. This one doesn’t lock in properly. It doesn’t snap like others its size usually do. I only need the little hairpin stuck in my hair to break it free within minutes.
After I drop myself into the storm cellar, I close the door behind me. The cool, damp ground is actually a relief after all that running. I slump down against a storage container, pulling my knees to my chest. I try to make myself alert, listening to the sound of the leaves, the road nearby, the wind blowing the boarded door against the hinges, but there’s nothing. FinalIy, my eyes close and my mind wanders as I countdown the minutes that pass….
Fuck!
Two hands haul me up onto my feet. My body swings wildly up against the wall of the cellar, but it’s too dark to make out anything but outlines. A head towers over me, nearly a full foot above, and an arm comes crashing down to my chest.
“Give me the fucking money, Aimee!”
Breaker doesn’t even bother waiting for me to respond. He dives his filthy hands into my back pocket, pulling out the wad of cash.
“You think this is some damn joke? You want to fucking get us killed?”
He makes it clear that he doesn’t want me to answer. His knee pushes into my hips and up against my pubic bone. His warm, strong body presses against mine so that I’m not shivering anymore. I try to push him away, to get him out of my space, but he grabs my wrists and pounds them again into the wall just above my head. He breaths in against my neck, sending goosebumps down my spine.
“I should kill you right now. Any other guy would fucking kill you.”
“Then do it,” I spit back; too angry at being bound again to care. “You think I don’t know that that is what your boss has in mind for me when he finds out I busted out of there? How about when the Devil’s discover the money is gone and they go looking at tapes or for evidence? I’m a walking death wish. Just get it over with.”
I’m not suicidal. If anything, I’m a survivor. I make a living on living through the unthinkable. Part of it is gut instinct, and something tells me, by the way that Breaker holds me to this wall like I’m about to take off again, that he doesn’t exactly want to make a bloody mess. I soften my body, letting him know that I’m not the one fighting here.
I’m all his.
He grits his teeth, grinding them so loud that I can hear it. The arm in my chest pushes down even harder before finally he pulls away with a yell of frustration.
“What the fuck were you thinking, Aimee?”
I rub my hands against the imprint he’s made in my skin, trying to soothe the soreness away. For some reason, his touch is like fire, sending ripples of both chills and heat through my veins.
“I thought it w
as pretty obvious,” I answer once I’ve recovered somewhat. “I was running the hell away from you. You really think I want to work for Biggs and your sorry ass, two-bit motorcycle club?”
He runs at me again, pushing me even harder into the dust and grimy wall. The shelf next to us wavers back and forth with the vibrations. I bite my lip; knowing that this is the time I should shut up and just let it go. Sometimes you have to let a man think he has control over you, no matter the cost.
“Don’t you ever say another fucking word against the Gravediggers, Aimee. We’re the ones protecting you now—keeping that pretty face alive. Don’t forget that you robbed big Vice and the Devil’s and they’re not as… lenient as we are. The cops wouldn’t be either if they got word you robbed a decent customer outside that bank.”
He pulls away, running his hands through his thick wave of hair. He zips his jacket up to the collar, concealing the lower half of his face. But still, those eyebrows arch slightly as he says muffled through the fabric, “You ready to go back or do I need to carry you out of here?”
I don’t bother answering. With a huff, I sweep past him and up the ladder. I try not to notice how bad my hands shake at each rung or how he follows me so closely I almost sit on his shoulders. I just try to keep my eyes straight, looking for any other opportunity to take off or call for help. Though Breaker was right—even if I managed to find some good Samaritan to call in a suspicious guy trailing an innocent girl like me, I doubt it would matter when the cops called in my info and found a line of warrants about a mile long.
Breaker takes my arm, pulling me close to him as he leads me back up the block. We retrieve that damn jacket still stuck to the fence.
“It was your giveaway,” Breaker notes with a slick smile that I really want to slap off his face. His bike is parked just by the fence where the dogs still bark and howl at anyone even remotely in the vicinity of the house.
He hands me his helmet as he ties a bandana around his head and puts on a dark, oversized pair of aviator shades. Keeping a low profile seems to be a huge priority for a man like Breaker. For a moment, I’m tempted to ask why all the precautions, but I could guess. A guy like him working for Biggs as an enforcer has a past as dark as mine. Why bother getting the details?
He doesn’t even give me time to wrap my arms around his thick waist before we take off with a long lurch forward and back. Riding motorcycles was never my thing. I once had a boyfriend who owned one, but how he drove made me sick to my stomach. At least Breaker is much smoother with his turns. Even though he is relentless on his speed and constantly running signs and lights as we head back towards the old office building,
I half expect him to dart off the bike and find Biggs to rat me out. But he takes the helmet off my head, picking at the hairs stuck in the vinyl straps before walking side-by-side with me through the office. As we pass a load of men standing around counting packages, I can’t help but ask, “Why all of these boxes? Where are they headed?”
Breaker shrugs his shoulders. “With us. We don’t stick around places very long. I supposed Biggs got the Intel that it was time to head out. He’s been talking about that for a while now.”
“Jesus. All these guys go? That seems like a pain in the ass. How many states have you guys ridden through?”
Curiosity got the cat, Aimee…
“Seven. Mostly in the plains. They picked me up in South Dakota in Sturgis a few years ago. I was looking to join up with a club, but I didn’t like the local scene. Not much was going on. I hitched a ride with Biggs and my friend Henry, and the rest was history. We hit Montana, Nebraska, Idaho, Wyoming, Utah, and North Dakota before making it down to Colorado. Biggs wanted a more urban experience and Denver’s really as urban as you can get in these parts.”
He’s listed off states even I haven’t seen yet, and my count is at twenty-nine. Then again, I don’t make it a business to stake out a territory or lay down a real business. I also don’t pick up strays like Breaker either. I just stay long enough to see the sites, make some trouble, have a good meal or two, and then get the hell out of there. Though it’s looking like Colorado was going to be the last place I could really be an independent nomad.
We head back to that conference room where I was previously held. Biggs is inside, ruffling through my clothes when we walk in. He doesn’t even bother to stop when he sees us. He just mutters as he passes over my skirt.
“Did you get the cash, Aimee? I heard the Devils were riding that square block for hours afterward.”
I look up towards Breaker who has transformed into a stone-faced statue. Every part of his body is tense—from his feet plastered together to his raised chin jutting out over his chest. I stand a foot ahead of him.
“Yes. Breaker has the cash,” I reply.
Biggs sits down as he lets out a long howl of laughter. “Jesus. You say it like it was a walk in the fucking park.” He smiles up at Breaker. “How much did this dame take those assholes for?”
Breaker drops the wad of cash onto the table. “It looks like a couple thousand, Biggs.”
“And were they one the wiser or did she catch them totally off guard?”
“Off guard.” He side eyes me as he adds, “Aimee was pretty professional about it. I didn’t even see her put the drop on him.”
“Really?” Biggs strokes his graying, dirty beard with his fingers. “Then I guess this makes my decision easier. Breaker will take you wherever you call home tonight. Pack up a backpack. We leave tomorrow morning.”
“What?” I leave my guard, approaching Biggs. “What the hell do you mean ‘we leave tomorrow?’ I’m not going anywhere with you all. I held up my end of the bargain. I worked for you, and now you have to let me go.”
He sits down in one of the rolling chairs, pulling himself into the center of the u-shaped table. “I never said how long you’d be under my employment, girl. You do what I say, and you come when I say come. And I’m telling you that you’re on the road with us.”
“But… but… where?” I look back towards Breaker. He had mentioned they were nomads, roaming the state looking for territory, odd jobs, and a place to call home for months at a time, but he never cleared up just how far they went when they did hit the road.
“Texas.” He looks straight at Breaker when he adds, “It’s gonna be a long run. Breaker will be your companion; making sure you stay put and get your work done. When we get to Dallas, we can talk about next steps.”
“This isn’t fair!” I shout, yet know it won’t do me any good. “I am not one of your guys. You can’t command me to follow you!”
Biggs suddenly gets to his feet, his hands firm on the top of the table. He leans over me, totally engulfing my body. “You fucking dare to steal from me and think there won’t be no consequences for that? You were the one that got yourself in this mess. You’re the one who will have to pay the damn price. And yes, when I command you, you listen, or I’ll have Breaker shoot your fucking head off!”
I don’t register anything else that happens in that room. Breaker and Biggs talk to one another for a while, each going back and forth on logistics. But it’s all white noise to me over the rumbling of my worries. I had tried to escape twice and failed both times, and now I was being forced into a cross-country road trip on the back of a motorcycle with Breaker. Along the way, I would be working jobs for a man who is so deranged he goes from laughing to threatening me in minutes.
I’m still in that fog as we approach the door of my hotel room. My hands shake so much that Breaker has to insert the key card for me.
“Be quick,” he says with a dispassionate look. “We don’t have much time before we need to get back and help with the load out.”
I take the old backpack from his hands and take it into the bedroom area. As I unzip it, the smell of cigarette smoke and pot fills the room. My stomach hurls.
“Is there any other backpack I can use? This one…” I cut myself off as I notice Breaker handling a few of my pictures I have taped to t
he hotel wall. He eyes the one with fifteen-year-old me leaning up against my older sister, Eva. She holds me tight as we balance on the deck of our parent’s boat. She’s in her wedding dress. It was the last time I saw her.
“Your twin?” Breaker breaks the silence.
“No. My older sister.” I grab the picture out of his hand and stuff it into the front pocket of the bag. “That one is my mom and dad.” He hands me the other picture of my parents and me at my middle school graduation. They beam with pride as they smile into the camera. I look away towards something else, completely ignoring them at that moment.
“I wouldn’t figure you’re the type of girl to have a family. It doesn’t seem like it would be your thing.”
“It isn’t my thing,” I snap back. “There’s a reason why I’m not in Hawaii right now. I’m an orphan. I’ve been kicked out of every house I’ve ever been in.”
I have no idea why I decide to lie to Breaker. It’s not like he matters to me. Still, I swallow the mass growing in my throat, praying it doesn’t jump up any higher.
