Vulnerable (Barons of Sodom)

by Blake, Abriella

  And yet it was uncharacteristic of the chief to call midnight meetings. As there was much less crime to contend with in the new city, the riders had found remarkably little “business” to occupy their time. There were card games, there were short grifts, but nothing major was cooking. The subject of the gathering was either good news or bad news—but either way, it was something.

  “TUCK. DON'T MAKE THE CHIEF WAIT AROUND WITH HIS THUMB UP HIS BUTT!” Athena hollered, her voice sharp and shrill. The biker turned from the night and retraced his steps into the canned light of Athena's garage.

  “Sheesh, milady. I'm going.”

  Chapter Three

  BRIDIE: Mr. Reginald had brought over a cheap bottle of champagne, and Aunt Caroline struggled to pop the cork. Her date insisted that he wanted to “get to know me” before I was banished to the outdoors, so I knew I had a few moments to engage in what my auntie called “adult conversation.” These were merely the most basic of pleasantries, but I liked to jabber for a while when I got the chance. Rocks and lizards didn't exactly make for exciting prairie home companions.

  Mr. Reginald walked around our cramped little trailer like it was a movie star's—he had this way of walking, this kind of strut. He would pick up objects (my aunt's crotchety pottery) and then set them down again. Made me feel like our little shit-hole was a museum. And as he moved, I remember wanting so badly to impress him. I wished I could have convincingly told him one of my stories about my long lost, adventuring mother. He seemed like the kind of fella a gal could trust, you know? Perhaps he wouldn't have judged what my aunt was so quick to call an “overactive imagination.” Just as I was drumming up an intro line, he put his serious gaze on me:

  “You don't seem eighteen, you know. Bridie, was it?”

  “Maybe that's ‘cause I'm seventeen. Got two more days.”

  The tall man laughed. I watched the ebbing sunlight flicker around his face as he moved, the crown the tops of oak trees seemed to give him—we had this one crummy window, and light skewed through it during one particular hour in the evening. Fireflies were starting to hum against the screen.

  “I mean you seem much older. It's in how you carry yourself.”

  My aunt started to hum noisily from that teensy enclosure we called a room a few feet away. I briefly wondered if she could hear us. I didn't know much about the world, but I knew Caroline wasn't going to be keen on her date lingering over her niece's age...but then, she'd already had a hit or two, and her eyes were glassy and her motion was slowing down. It was funny even then—I had trouble situating Mr. Reginald amongst the usual cast of dweebos and super-creeps that Caroline liked to keep around. Didn't even seem like the type who cooked up. And again, the way he looked at me. Something...smart, behind his eyes.

  I don't remember moving toward him, just as I don't remember him moving toward me. But suddenly we were standing side by side and I could feel his body heat moving through the fabric of his cheap suit. I smelled his sweet musk again, wondering briefly what the name of his fancy cologne was.

  You have to understand—I was so lonely out there. No one talked to me, no one even looked at me. My only company was my aunt, and she got to the point where she was zonked all the damn time. So when Mr. Reginald put his hand on me, my whole body shivered. He took the pad of a thumb and moved it across my jawline.

  “You're a beautiful woman, Bridie. But you knew that.” I nodded, though I knew he was wrong, about my being a woman, that is. I was just a dumb little kid. Probably closed my eyes and leaned in to kiss him or something...some shit I'd seen from a movie. Next thing I knew he was chuckling softly into my hair, and I could hear the vehement clinking of our tin forks as my aunt set the table.

  “Better go,” Mr. Reginald murmured, “though we can continue this later, if you're keen.”

  My heart was throbbing. My stomach was balling into a quivering knot—a knot full of anxiety, joy, and what I'd figure out later was desire. He was going to put his hands on me, I thought to myself. One way or another. Just get through this dinner, and then this beautiful man is going to touch you in your secret places.

  Chapter Four

  “Hear ye, hear ye!” called Yak, the unofficial class clown of the Barons of Sodom. “Order in the court. Let it be known: the man upstairs is on his way down.” Yak stood over the assembled riders, smacking his fist against a tree stump as a judge might bang a gavel. All ritual meetings took place in a clearing behind the garage—well, it wasn't so much a clearing as a patch of desert bending around a man-made fire pit. There were some half-hearted live oaks watching over the earth.

  “Stop fucking around, asshole,” called Spivey. Spivey was... heavy-set. He was the largest of the Barons and—some said—the cruelest. When seated, his beady eyes and girth resembled nothing so much as Jabba the Hutt from the Star Wars movies. The only reason he'd been spared a related nickname within the club was that rumor had it he'd shot the last man who'd called him fat to his face.

  “No need to be such a princess, Spy,” Yak whined, “just mucking around. Lord knows we've gotta hold on to the little joys in a bumblefuck place like this.”

  “You watch what you say, shitbird. I'm loyal to the man upstairs.”

  “Oh, and I'm not? Just cause I don't get my rocks off in rural Waco?”

  “Club's not about you getting your rocks off.”

  “Fucking surprise there.”

  “Gentleman!” Tucker intervened. Yak and Spy were at constant war, as self-designated third and fourth-level leaders of the group. But they both cowered before the chief. Everyone did. “Assume your positions. Heard we got a midnight meeting.”

  “Nice of the lieutenant to fucking show up,” grumbled Spy—though he was sure to mutter the words. For all his game, he'd also come to fear Tucker, whose imposing figure and reputation with a lead pipe were not to be trifled with. He'd earned the respect of these men.

  There were twenty others in the motley crew, each of them tough and rude and fiercely loyal to the band of outlaws they served—there was Zeno, the war hero, fresh from two tours in Afghanistan. There was Judas, whose ugly, mysterious name connoted only that his parents hadn't loved him. The Barons were damaged men—convicts, runaways, men who'd seen action—and they were none of them afraid to live outside of society. As dumb as his cohorts could sometimes be, Tuck loved these fools. He was honored to govern them.

  “Let's all settle, gentlemen,” drawled a low voice from the back of the group, a baritone draped in a Delta accent. Then the chief stood. He'd been hiding in their midst. The riders assembled into neat rows on the ground, all but bowing before their leader: the man upstairs.

  He had no other name, or none that they knew—so they called him God. No one could say how old he was, or where he'd come from. But the man upstairs was the brains behind the Barons of Sodom, the key to their strange origins. He was responsible for brokering all business deals (illegal and otherwise) and securing homes and women and money for all in his employ. He'd instilled in each of his soldiers a contempt for civilian life and a love of speed. He'd taught them to respect nothing so much as the land and the engines which allowed one to traverse that space freely and alone.

  “Glad you all could make it,” God said, twisting his cracked face into something like a smirk. “It seems we've got ourselves a new bit of business, boys. Who's excited?”

  The little band hollered and stomped their boots against the dry earth. Not Tuck, though. Tuck stayed calm.

  “It's a funny shake-up for the Barons,” God continued. “We aren't really in the knights-in-shining-armor business, are we boys?” The men continued to stamp and holler, though some of the din registered confusion. Knights in shining armor? Barons were typically petty thieves, dealers, fighters. They killed when they had to, and they took what they felt they deserved. Not a one of them had ever been anyone's 'knight.'

  “Yet today, we're receiving a hefty sum from a private client who's asked us to house a witness,” God finished. Then he
clapped his hands together, and Bo Diddly—the brute-with-the-heart-of-gold in their number—appeared from the neck of dark land behind the garage. Bo was leading a young woman—shaking, tiny, her hands bound and her eyes covered by a blindfold. Couldn't have been more than twenty years old.

  “Fellas, I'd like you to meet our new housecat. Call her Baby.”

  The men cheered.

  “As I said, we'll be watching over this little one for a while. Making sure she's treated right, and no one funny comes looking for her. Now I know it's unconventional—”

  “I know you aren't asking us to do no babysitting, G,” hooted Yak, “not with some damn PYT around the place.”

  G, in his maddening way, waited until the biker crowd had settled before he continued. “I'm no fool, boys. I know Waco hasn't been easy on any of you. This land is pretty dry.” The men laughed. “So you bet your ass, Ms. Baby's gonna work for us in return. She's gonna earn her keep, and in turn, you all protect her as you'd protect your own fucking kin.” The leader's voice had hardened now. There was something about the way he spoke, the affected casual quality to it—it could fill a man with fear. The assembly of Barons of Sodom fell silent.

  It was confusing. As long as Tuck had been with the MC, they'd never been employed for any kind of private hoopla—they dealt mostly with shady businessmen and the occasional other club. They'd faithfully protected kilos of cocaine, but never a young woman. Tuck knew well how most of the men thought about women, given the passing comments they gave Athena and the way they'd curried favors in Louisiana. These were rough, Cro-Magnon types, who took their women like prizes. A motorcycle club sure as hell didn't seem like the safest place to hide some delicate little flower.

  In the city, the club had entertained a small cast of lovelies—women the chief kept around for “relaxation purposes.” The lovelies would pamper and spoil the riders in exchange for money and protection, but their positions were contingent on sex. These women were expected to move fluidly between all the club members, expected to be ripe and willing. Those kinds of women—and on the other end of the spectrum, the tough birds, like Athena—were just about the only two sorts a motorcycle man could register.

  Baby was quaking where she stood. Gently, Bo Diddly removed the binding kerchief from her eyelids, and her eyes rolled open. The men took in their charge.

  She was beautiful. Easily the most beautiful woman Tuck had ever laid eyes on, even counting all the professionals he'd encountered, casing the derelict streets of New Orleans. She was thin and long—willowy, but possessing a shapely, scooped ass and two breasts that hung heavy and looked juicy as hell. Her mouth was full and heart-shaped, a faint natural rose color. Her cheeks were blushed a furious red. Her hair was as dark and soft looking as his was light and thick; he watched it catch the moonlight. Though Tuck prided himself on a sense of serenity and control that could rival any biker, he instantly felt an erection stir in his jeans.

  She looked frightened. And, against all instincts he'd ever known, Tuck wanted nothing more than to scoop Baby into his arms and carry her to some cozy place. He wanted to peel off her rain-dampened clothes and kiss all her crevices—then, he wanted to nudge her quivering legs wide to let him move in. Then he wanted to fuck her, long and hard and deep. He wanted to hear this woman's screams of ecstasy echo across the dull plains and then he wanted to come deep inside of her, to feel the mingling of both their juices on his legs, before collapsing against that pale, perfect skin. He'd like to see that frightened face collapse into joy and peace.

  “We're all thinking it, Tuck,” Spivey murmured, licking his lips. “Looks like God's got a sense of humor.”

  “What? How do you figure?”

  “Knows there's restlessness in the ranks, so he brings home a pet. Gotta love him for trying.” The big man lurched forward, so his belly jiggled below its leather vest. “I'd fuck the shit out of her. Can't wait to get the chance, either.”

  Tuck regarded the beauty again. She still quaked where she stood. Though he'd enjoyed plenty of his own indiscretions in the city, time in Waco had made a stone of the Lieutenant. As much as he might want this young custody of the club, he knew immediately he could do nothing about it.

  Instead, he leaned forward on his tree stump seat and shoved Spivey hard.

  “Don't you fucking talk about the girl,” he murmured, his eyes growing flinty, “not when God is speaking.”

  It was like a war. Everything depended on one's loyalty to the winning side.

  Chapter Five

  BRIDIE, cont'd: You might have guessed this already, but dinner did not go as planned.

  As soon as my aunt had laid out all the silverware, she fixed me with a gaze I'd never seen before—this acidy face, all cruelty and contempt. I saw I was her enemy. Even through her high, she'd managed to determine that her date wanted me. And no—I'd never seen her look that way at me before. I was...taken aback, to say the least.

  “Now Bridie, whyn't you go play outside for a while? Drum up some fun with the other little girls?” She practically hissed. I waited for Mr. Reginald to come to my defense—say something about how he'd love to continue getting to know me over dinner.

  I know more about men now, thank the good Lord, but in that moment I felt only this deep sense of betrayal that the tall man wouldn't even meet my eye when my aunt—the only person in the world who loved me—was casting me out of our home.

  “I'm not a little girl anymore, Auntie.”

  “Ha, well, I'll be darned. What are ya then?” She set the spaghetti dish down hard on our linoleum slab. “A little princess? A little live oak tree? Tell me, Bridie: are you a little slut?”

  I ran from the house. I ran as fast as my long, almost-eighteen year-old legs could carry me. I went out to the farthest edge of the trailer park, a piece of land where armadillos scurried by in droves. I thought about Mr. Reginald. How he looked a little like Clark Gable, about his eyes. No one had ever taught me explicitly about sex at this point—it wasn't taught in school, I mean, and my aunt was tight-lipped about the things she did with her “gentleman callers.” All I had to go on was the content of those catcalls and the distant sounds I sometimes figured I was imagining coming from our trailer. Low moans moving across the plains while my aunt entertained her guests.

  I sat and cried in the shadow of someone's clothesline. I wished I could make myself small, small, small. I cried the way only little girls can cry, I think—those heaving, gasping sort of tears that hurt your chest after a spell. I didn't usually give myself the luxury of sadness, but something about that night felt irreparably broken. I felt like such a fool.

  I wondered if I could skip town, like my mother, or the characters in any of my books. I could see all the places I dreamed about: the oceans, the big cities, the landmarks. That night it was so quiet. I couldn't hear anything—not even coyotes. Not even wind. I set my little wounded heart to the task of “making a plan.” I drew lines in the dry earth with a stick—I'll go to San Francisco first. Get me some gold. Yes, I hear myself saying, officer. Was anyone ever so young?

  The night was quiet...until it wasn't. My ears perked up at a loud series of sounds—sounds loud enough to get the neighbors in even this distant part of the park to open their trailer doors. The sounds came so fast I could barely make out what might have been happening—whether what I was hearing was violence or joy. It was an argument, I gathered after a moment—or rather, I put together later. I heard what I thought were my aunt's low moans, only these turned into loud, long screams. Realizing this, I ran across the flatland as fast as I could—so fast that the wind pressed my hair flat against my back, like a series of whips.

  You'll forgive me if I don't like to talk much about what I saw, when I got back home. I've already told the police everything I remember. You fellas heard of this concept, “suppressing memories”? Well, right—of course you have. I just remember...blood. That's it. A liquid curtain that looked thicker and darker than I would have imagined, painted all
across our shitty carpet, our kitchen surfaces. Mr. Reginald lay face down in the living room, the fresh press of his suit all fussed up. I remember being surprised at how unkempt he looked in death.

  My aunt was on the couch. I...I just hope she didn't suffer. I pray to the good Lord every day that she didn't suffer.

  I remember screaming and screaming. I remember running across the plains. I remember sirens, but I barely remember the days that followed. I know I turned eighteen in the interrogation room.

  Again and again, your boys asked me what I saw, what I remembered—so many times I got to thinking, maybe I did dream it. Me and my little overactive imagination, we dreamed it. So much time passed under that bright white light. I know now what they wanted me to say—that I'd seen it. That I knew who did it. That I did it, even, that I'd taken the gun and shot my own aunt in the chest so many times over. They wanted some answer I couldn't give. Instead, I just cried and cried.

  On the final day, the chief of police came in. Sergeant Wicker, I think he was called. He was kind to me. Gave me a sweater to wear, because it was so cold in that room. Told me they'd let me out soon, and had men hunting for my mom. Said he'd get me a sandwich to eat. Then he slid a folder across the table and told me to look at the pictures inside. If I recognized any faces, he said, we'd go from there.

  It was a mean-looking little book. Mostly mugshots of young men, each scowling up at some poor photographer. I was exhausted, and I looked through them quickly. I knew so few people in town that I figured I wouldn't be able to recognize any faces.