by J. C. Emery
“Don’t know who you are, don’t care. But now’s not the time to find out. Best for you to go.” He takes the basket from me and tosses it in the garbage behind him. I barely catch sight of the bacon and ranch on top of my Coastal Fries as they sail into the trash.
“Time to go,” he repeats. I bite down on my bottom lip so hard I worry it’ll bleed. The very real possibility that one of the nearing bikes could belong to Grady makes me more agreeable to leave and find another place to eat lunch. With an empty belly and heart heavy with sorrow that I won’t be getting to taste that killer burger that I didn’t even get to sniff before it was brutally taken away, I stand from my stool and collect my purse. Just as I’m turning to leave, two men in black leather vests walk in. Each with patches, and each with their eyes on me. I drag my hands down the front of my pantsuit and smooth the material down. One of the men can’t be any older than early twenties, and the other must be no more than thirty—though both look as though they live hard lives with their faces in the wind, their bellies full of booze, and their veins pumping full of adrenaline.
The bikers are part of the club.
His club.
There is something undeniably attractive about the lure of bad boys—men who live by their own rules and don’t give a damn what you think about them—and they know it, too. Even though I grew up here, with the club always at a short distance, I’ve rarely found myself in the company of more than one of them at a time. Like Grady at Sea Salt Pizza—he wasn’t wearing his vest.
From the corner, the elderly patrons rise and pack up their chess set. The bikers part, and the men sneak between them and disappear out the door.
“Where ya going, babe?” the one on the right says, his voice reminding me of a snake, slithering and creepy. I stop and look up at them both, my eyes bouncing between them. The one on the right has dark features—dark hair, darker skin, dark eyes—and the one on the left has light brown hair with a pleasant summer tan. So different and yet so similar—their stances, their attire, their attitudes—both equally menacing, both equally dangerous. I’ve had my fill of menacing though.
“Leave her alone, dude. You’re gonna scare her,” the one on the left says as his eyes slide up and down my frame. He smirks. I open my mouth to respond before thinking better of it. I move to slide between the two men, but the dark-haired one takes a step sideways, effectively blocking my path.
“Just sayin’ hi, babe,” he says, leaning forward and grinning at me. I catch movement from out of the corner of my eye—the man behind the counter. He’s raising a bottle of Jack Daniels to his lips and chugging away.
“Hello,” I say in a squeak. An icy cold settles over me. Call it women’s intuition or a heightened awareness of my surroundings. Whatever it is, suddenly, I have a very bad feeling about standing here with these men. I’ve never known a member of the club to forcibly take a woman, especially in such a public venue, but there’s so many other things that can happen here and now that I’d like to avoid.
“You ever ride bitch?” the man with the snake-like voice asks. I don’t quite understand the question, but I get the feeling that no matter how I answer, the outcome won’t be pleasant.
“Excuse me?” I snap at him. His question has caught me off guard and left me annoyed. My temper’s ignited by his comment, and I find myself being more brazen than I should be. Then again, I basically threw my manners out the window when I called Grady an asshole. “Now, please move out of my way.”
“Tell me your name and I’ll move,” he says. His eyes fall down to my breasts and then drag back up. I know he’s lying. Everything from the look in his eyes to the way he smirks at the end of his sentence tells me that I can’t trust this man. But what options do I really have? I could lie and give him another name, but I have to live here, and his club runs this town. It seems like a bad idea to lie to him because, should he find out I’ve lied, then he has the potential to have a reason to have to engage in conversation with me again. And more than him knowing my real name, that’s one thing I don’t want. For some reason I haven’t had the same fearful reaction to Grady.
“Holl—,” I start to say when heavy footfalls distract me. From behind the men, a hulking form appears. It’s Grady. His wavy hair is slicked back, held in place by a pair of sunglasses. His heavy leather vest rests on his wide shoulders, covering an aged and faded black tee shirt. His strong jaw is covered with a few days’ worth of facial hair, and he has a smile on his face. Every encounter I’ve had with him tells me that his smiles are rare.
Just before he runs into the man in front of him, he comes to a halt. His smile widens, and he lifts his hands up and shoves the dark-haired man in front of him. I take a step back, but it’s not far enough. The man slams into me. He steadies himself by grabbing me by my hips. I should be afraid, but I’m flustered by Grady’s presence and not thinking clearly. Grady's broad smile becomes salacious as his eyes fix on mine. He licks his lips and winks. Feeling uncomfortable with the dark-haired man’s touch, I swat him away, and when that doesn’t work, I swat harder. He doesn’t even react.
Grady moves around us and walks over to the bar, hitches a thumb at me, and asks Mr. Personality, “What’s with the pussy?”
I blanch at the term. My mouth forms a hard line, and I narrow my eyes. From behind the bar, Mr. Personality pours both himself and Grady a glass of clear liquor. He mumbles something I can’t hear, to which Grady nods his head. They each toss back their glasses and set them on the bar. The dark-haired man has yet to let me go, and the proximity to him feels like an invasion.
“My name is Holly, now let me go,” I say. From the corner of my eye, Grady moves back toward us and sidles up to the dark-haired man.
“Let her go, Fish,” Grady says to the man. I don’t know what kind of nickname Fish is, but it doesn’t sound all that scary. Still, I don’t think I want to know how he got it. “She might report you.”
“I’m just playing around,” Fish says as his grip tightens on my hips. He pulls me forward, and I fight him off by placing my hands over his and pulling. His eyes narrow, and a snarl forms on his face. His name may sound silly, but the look on his face is anything but. “Holly knows that. Don’t you, Holly?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” I say and clear my throat. My voice shakes, and my words trail off at the end. His palms grow balmy to the touch, so I lift my hands from his and fold my arms over my chest.
“Fish, now,” Grady snaps. His voice brokers no argument from Fish, who removes his hands, steps back, and raises them in the air. He licks his lips and whistles. “If anybody is going to piss off the pussy, it’s me.”
“Dick,” I mutter as my eyes slice toward him. Fish raises his eyebrows and whistles, giving Grady a proud smirk.
“Get out of here,” Grady snaps without giving me another look. He moves beside me, reaches out, and taps Fish on the shoulder, then jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward Mr. Personality, who has yet to move from behind the bar.
Outside, a car horn beeps in short, perky sounds. The men around me tense, and their eyes fall on the front windows. I doubt they can see anything through the dirty gray windows that are half-covered by signs advertising the popular brands served here. The horn continues to blare, but this time in long notes that make me consider covering my ears. I take a half step toward the front door to escape, the only action I can think of that seems sane, but Grady raises a hand in front of me and shakes his head. His eyes never leave the front windows.
It all happens so fast that I can barely keep up. The men around me pull out black guns from their vests as a hail of bullets flies in through the walls and partially covered windows. Wood splinters, glass bursts open, and the men hustle around. An arm sweeps around my midsection, blocking me from the assault. A spray of blood bursts in front of me as a scream escapes my lungs. I’m pulled to the floor by the hulking man around me, and his glassy eyes glaze over and then close.
NOW ON THE floor, I’m being crushed by a sol
id wall of flesh. It’s like dead weight. Grady’s body lays over mine with such stillness that I fear for his life. My stomach hurts, almost like I’m cramping, but worse. I can’t quite figure out what’s causing it, only that between the weight of Grady and the discomfort in my stomach, I can barely breathe. The very thought that he could be dead sickens me to the point where I think I’d rather pass out again than to lie here underneath his dead body. I think of Cheyenne losing her father, no matter how questionable of a father he may be, and I feel just awful that he protected me and lost his life for it. It takes longer than it should to occur to me that Grady’s taken a bullet because of Grady and that I’m the victim here.
“Grady!” a deep voice shouts from somewhere nearby, though I can’t see where from. I can’t see much, really. All I can see is thick black hair that curls at the ends and has thin gray streaks in a few places, and tanned skin. He really doesn’t look old enough to have a daughter Cheyenne’s age, even this close up. He’s too much of a bastard to be this attractive.
“Ian,” an impossibly deeper voice commands, “help me lift him.” Just beyond the thick head of black hair, I can see the two men working to gently pull Grady off of me. A moment passes before they’ve made any progress, and then he is being lifted up. First, they drag his upper torso and then pull him to the side. For a brief moment, the respite from the impact leaves me breathless, then dizzy with relief. Then it happens.
A fresh wave of pain hits me right in my gut as the two men drag Grady off my lower torso. My muscles spasm, and my lungs fight desperately for air. It’s too much, the feeling, and not enough, the clarity, all at the same time. It’s awful. The whole thing, from when they first started lifting him until now, has taken less than a minute, but it feels like forever.
A half of a second after the pain subsides some, Grady gasps for breath and struggles against his friends. I watch with rapt attention as his eyes shoot open and lock on mine. A beautiful green—deep and rich—zeroes in on first my face before they lower. His eyes travel down my body, but not the way a lover’s do. It’s not the way I’ve imagined he would explore my flesh after a heated argument that’s left us both livid.
His eyes slide down my frame in a sterile manner as he inspects me. I follow his attention, and when I find the source of my discomfort, I gasp and let my head fall back onto the hard wooden floor. A spot of blood is seeping into my blouse from my abdomen. The deep red stain focuses my energy as I close my eyes and try to block out the awful throbbing. It’s no use. Now that I know what’s causing the pain—a bullet wound to my lower gut, just above my hip—there’s just no ignoring the horrible dread that’s set in.
Large, strong hands reach out and put pressure on my wound, providing absolutely no relief. It’s not like it is in the movies, when you’re injured and you can still talk and give orders, or when someone puts pressure on your wound and it feels better. No, that would be far too lovely. I arch my back and cry out for some relief, but nothing comes. The movement only makes it worse as tears stream down the sides of my face.
When I reopen my eyes, Grady is hunched over me muttering something to one of his friends. I can’t understand a word of it. His head is turned and he’s speaking quietly. But then he speaks louder, and I finally understand something. I’m fine, he says a few times to his friends before he turns his attention back to me. Blood darkens his once-black tee shirt on his upper shoulder and streams down his arm.
I force myself to keep my eyes open and to watch him as he puts pressure on my lower abdomen. Everything around me stills for a moment before a sort of white noise creeps up, low and in the back of my head, moving toward the front until it overtakes everything around me. Gone is the sound of my heavy breathing, and gone is the sound of Grady barking orders at his friends, who take off without another word. They’re gone, but Grady doesn’t move. Except for his lips—they’re moving. Slowly, I start to be able to hear him. He’s asking about a car and then it sounds like he’s asking about my wound. All the sounds start to cross and it sounds like a buzzer is going off in my ear. I squint my eyes at him to show that I’m trying to listen, but I don’t understand. It does no good. His lips move faster, and, with one blood-streaked hand, he reaches out and lifts my head off the wood.
Everything about him consumes me. From his eyes to his bulking frame to the smile lines around his mouth. He doesn’t look happy now, but I can tell—he was happy once. It certainly hasn’t ever been in front of me. I thought I could see a bit of it the other night at the pizza shop before he spotted me. It’s inconsequential to my current state, but I think I was wrong about him and Cheyenne. I’ll bet he’s happy around her. Probably never been happier than the day she was born. And I’ll bet he smiled a lot when she was little. Maybe he has a wife who makes him smile, or a girlfriend. Maybe it’s just the club. But his smile lines are deep and long, and they give him away. He’s been happy, and that makes me want to be happy for him.
“Hey,” he shouts in my face, loud and mean. I blink a moment before realizing that I can hear him. And I want to rejoice, but in my current condition, I know it’s not a good idea. Not that I can rejoice. “Good, you can hear me.”
I go to open my mouth, but it doesn’t work. I move my lips until I can force a breath out, and I finally croak, “What?”
“You’ve been shot,” he says in an annoyed voice. Yeah, still a dick. “And I need to get you out of here. Are you going to give me any trouble?”
“Why?” I say before I can finish the thought, and then try to correct myself. “No,” I say.
“Good,” he says. “Do you have your Jeep here?” I nod and manage to mutter that it’s in the parking lot. Before he can ask, I tell him the make and model, which is saying something because I didn’t think I could do much else aside from breathe heavy and let myself pass out.
“I have to remove my hand from the wound,” he says. I don’t think that’s such a good idea—last time there was no pressure on it, it hurt even worse than it does now. But it’s too late. I’m pressed hard against his chest as he strides out of The 101 Club with purposeful steps. I’m facing behind him, and the only thing I can think as I look at The 101 Club is that I never got the chance to try the lunch I ordered. For some asinine reason, that’s bothering me more than anything else right now. That and those damn smile lines on his face. I just want to see him smile. But the burger—that almost makes the bullet wound hurt even more.
He tosses me into the passenger side of my car. I scream out in pain as the throbbing comes back with a full-on vengeance. There’s little else I can do but cry and scream for it to stop. Not that my crying or screaming will do anything, but it seems a perfectly sensible option right now.
Rushing around the front to the driver’s side, Grady lumbers into my Jeep and adjusts the seat as quickly as he can. The Jeep rocks as he settles in, and I force my arms to move from my side and place them on my wound. And it hurts like a bitch. It hurts like how I imagine childbirth to hurt, only in a slightly different way. No less painful, though. Because I can’t imagine anything more painful than this.
I suck in a breath to tell him the key is in my purse, but I don’t know where my purse is. He reaches beneath my steering wheel and yanks down a bunch of wires. I’ve seen enough crime shows on TV that I’m only confused for a moment before I get it. He’s hot-wiring the car. And while I’d normally be panicking about him messing up my car, the blinding pain in my abdomen has me not giving a crap about the state of my old ass Jeep’s wiring. So I keep my mouth shut and try to focus on putting pressure on my wound.
A few seconds later, we’re pulling out of the parking lot at rapid speeds and flying down South Main Street toward the center of town. I want to caution him that Jeeps flip easily should we hit something, but I don’t. That’s just my dad’s wisdom seeping through at a very inconvenient time. And I don’t need to be telling him what to do right now. He seems to have it under control. I, on the other hand, might have a seriously embarrassing
accident if I don’t figure out how to control the muscle spasms in my stomach soon. I close my eyes and decide not to pay attention to where we’re going. It doesn’t matter anyway. For some reason, Grady has chosen to help me and make himself my nursemaid, and while I’d normally be freaking out that we’re heading away from the local medical center, I don’t really care right now. He could take me to a wood chipper and throw me in, and I’d have nary a complaint. Bullet wounds hurt that bad. I can’t say it’s something I ever wanted to experience, but now that I have—and I’m hoping I live through it—I think I can endure just about anything.
“Put more pressure on that,” he says and looks over at me. I catch his eyes before they slide back to the road.
“I’m trying,” I manage to wheeze out. “It really hurts.”
“I get that, but if you’re not careful, you’re going to bleed out. So try harder.”
With the way I’m slumped down in the seat and unable to bring myself to move, every time I put more pressure on the wound, my hand slips and my back bows towards the seat, shoving me down further. I manage to get a better hold on it and to force the blood to actually stop seeping through my fingers. A thin stream coats my slacks and arms. Looking down, I examine myself. There doesn’t seem to be as much blood as it feels like is pouring out. With how painful it is, I’m sure I could fill a kiddie pool in no time.
“I can’t,” I gasp. He swings the car to the right at speeds that I know for sure are illegal. My body shifts toward him, his right arm shoots out and he gives a tug on my left arm. My entire body tenses as he pulls me close to him. He wraps his arm around my back and places his hand on top of both of mine above the bloody wound and he presses down so hard it gives me a whole new reason to cry. I’m fairly certain he’s applying more pressure than necessary just because he’s a dick.
