by Hazel Parker
“It’s hard not to when a group of five burly men are in your restaurant and there’s no one else there to make a sound.”
Marcel smirked, seemingly impressed.
“Well, in case it’s not obvious, I am not some buttoned-up, strait-laced dude,” he said. “I’m someone who has a lot of baggage. I didn’t want to start talking about it so early, but I suppose it’s better for you to know about it now than to be surprised at some point down the road, wondering why I never revealed all of this information to you.”
I smiled gently at him. I almost reached out to touch his hand to reassure him, but that felt like it would have been much too fast. Then again, he did put everything out right now. Or close to everything else right now.
“I’ve dated the buttoned-up, strait-laced dudes,” I said. “I have a past too. And let’s just say I’m looking for something a little more real, a little more… less arrogant, let’s say.”
“Well, for better or for worse, you’re not going to get much more real than me,” he said with a short laugh. “I’ve got a kid. I’ve been in jail. I’m starting a motorcycle club. If you can handle that one-two-three punch and not call me struck out, then I think we’ll be just fine.”
I shrugged.
“I’ve got my baggage you’ll have to decide about. I’m far from perfect.”
“Oh, no one is, but what do you mean?”
I bit my lip.
“I know it’s a bad look,” I said as I chose my words very carefully. “But I don’t know that I’m ready to reveal it. I guess you’re braver than me.”
“Or dumber. I’m sure my brother would tell me to be more fun and upbeat about my topics. But you haven’t run yet, so I haven’t scared you enough.”
“Nothing you said scared me as much as that bike ride.”
It was a nice moment to laugh, if not entirely true. Of course, I had my worries about dating someone with a background like his. But his was not violence, but a drug offense. What was I supposed to do, have the same moral code as the United States?
“Well, speaking of, what do you know about bikes?”
I was grateful for the conversation change, if only because it allowed me not to have to dwell on my refusal to talk about some of my weaknesses and embarrassing moments. Yeah, I’d have to eventually. But if I could put it off until… well, at some point, things would feel a hell of a lot better than they were.
“Not much; maybe a guy like you could tell me.”
“Only if a girl like you will listen with the same pretty smile, curious demeanor, and positive attitude she always has when she’s bringing me food.”
Smooth. But I like it.
For the next hour and a half, the two of us just bantered about the easiest topics in the world—bikes, living in Brooklyn, favorite restaurants, and the annoyance of tourists in our city. He never did steer the conversation toward the embarrassing parts of me, nor did he press too hard. I almost felt a bit embarrassed that he had revealed so much and I so little, but he didn’t seem to care one bit.
By the time we walked out of the restaurant, the sun had almost dipped completely beneath the horizon. To say that time flew was an understatement; it seemed to have soared to outer space, long having departed from the original point. We’d covered so much ground in seemingly so little time.
“So I suppose I should get you back to your place,” he said with a smile. “Since you have plans later.”
“Yeah, I…”
I knew from my hesitation, Marcel would pick up on me lying. I had to tell him about my alcoholism. I had to. I…
“I should get going.”
He probably suspected me of seeing someone else, but if he did, he didn’t show it or seem bothered by it. He just smiled, nodded, and patted the seat of his bike again. He grabbed my helmet, I got on, and I wrapped my arms around him. It was just as exhilarating a ride as the last time, though this one seemed shorter.
As soon as he got to my place, he got off first. He held out his hand, letting me take it—letting me feel the thick callouses on his palms, feel the overall girth of his hands. I hopped off the bike, and though I made a small movement to let go, he did not, leading me all the way to the door.
It sent all sorts of rushed feelings through me. Feelings of excitement. Sexually charged arousal. Nervousness.
Fear, even.
Fear that this was moving much too fast. Fear that this was going to get me hurt. Fear that I was jumping into something with someone that I barely knew. I knew his skeletons, but I didn’t know why he’d buried those skeletons—or why he’d been so quick to unearth them. I wanted to know his tendencies, his likes… his dislikes… his…
“Christine,” he said. “This was great.”
I didn’t say anything, just kept my eyes on him. My head was spinning with thoughts. I wanted to hug him, go as slow as a woman fresh out of a monastery, and I also wanted to fuck him on the stairs.
He leaned in. I had to make a decision.
I made the same decision I always did.
The least complicated one.
I turned my cheek and fell into a hug. Before he could say anything, I pulled back and smiled.
“Call me. Let’s do this again soon.”
But I had a feeling from looking on his face of disappointment that I probably wouldn’t get to do it again soon.
And if that was the price I paid for getting myself right at this time, well, that was what I had to live with.
Chapter 9: Marcel
I didn’t leave the steps for a long time, even after Christine had gone up them.
I fumbled for my phone after I’d gotten out of my stupor. I needed to text her for a second date right then, because after the way it ended, if I chose to think about it or let time go by, I knew I wouldn’t see her again. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I would rationalize reasons for it not to work.
Or, worse, I’d rationalize reasons I had to move extra quick, pushing her when it was obvious she wanted to move slowly. If I texted her, I’d have the knowledge of having something else set up I wouldn’t need to confirm later.
But as I pulled my phone out, I wondered if it was worth reaching out to Christine. Everything about the date we had just had should have set us up for a great kiss at the end. Maybe we weren’t going to fuck, but shit, I could have at least gotten a nice make out session out of it.
And the worst part of it was, it seemed like that was what she wanted. It seemed like in the moments leading up to my missed kiss, she had wanted me to kiss her. The way her body was, the way she held me on my bike… I didn’t want to say women were impossible to figure out, but a girl like Christine was a tough nut to crack. Maybe that is your fault for telling her everything. Did you really think spilling the beans on your past like that would go well?
It hadn’t helped matters that for as much as I gave away, it was very obvious that Christine didn’t have any interest in revealing anything about herself. It was also painfully obvious that she had a lot about herself that she could have revealed if she so chose, but for whatever reason, she’d decided not to. I wasn’t one to push a woman—most especially when anyone who cried wolf on me would get my ass in jail—but shit.
I stared up at her apartment building. I had no way of picking out her actual place. There was no chance. Just like, if you have any sense, you won’t give this any chance. You’ll focus on building the Savage Saints, throw some kickass parties, and enjoy focusing on the club. If there are to be women, give them time, and they will appear.
Just sucks I had to go through all of the effort of going on a date to make this a reality.
With that, I put my phone back in my pocket, shrugged one shoulder, and got back on my bike alone. At least I was familiar with how to ride solo.
* * *
Two weeks passed, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say every single day, I thought of texting or calling Christine.
The first few days, the temptation was strong. So strong, in fact, that I had
her name pulled up on my phone multiple times, and all it would have taken to call her was the single press of a button. Even a simple accidental brush of my finger would have started the call, and as soon as that happened, there wasn’t going to be anything making me hang up except the confirmation of a second date.
The next few days after had been the “easiest.” I just resigned myself to not asking her out on a second date. She wouldn’t want it by now, I thought. I wasn’t ready to date again. I had too much going on.
But the past few days, the most recent ones, had demonstrated that Uncle’s words about there being no start and close time were more metaphorical than they were literal. The mindset made sense; being the president of the new Savage Saints chapter was something that I took seriously, and it was a thought that danced in my head for some time. But the actual work, at the moment, was quite minimal. I had to be on standby to answer any of Uncle’s questions, but other than that, there just wasn’t much to be done.
It made the fact that I had ghosted Christine that much more painful considering I could have spent time with her.
Rationalizations kept popping in my head, and the problem was that I couldn’t just dismiss them as the thoughts of the scared teenager that I had once been. I really couldn’t afford to get romantically involved in a tumultuous time in my life; the odds were high with my background and my situation with Lilly that no love would last. For every reason I could see pursuing it, none of it worked.
At some point, though, I knew I’d just have to slap myself in the face and stop being such a goddamn pussy. I hadn’t gone to jail so I could suddenly get soft around women. I hadn’t become a free man just so I couldn’t take advantage of that freedom.
But at least on this Friday, I finally had a reason for not calling Christine.
I had the official hand-off of the mechanic shop from the original owners to Uncle and Fitz.
In some ways, even though I was to be president of the new club, I was an outsider on this day. I was a man whom no one would know as important, most especially the owners selling. As far as they were concerned, the only people that mattered were Fitz and Uncle coming to take over, and they probably didn’t care. With their hands done with the club, they probably were heading to Florida or someplace else for retirement.
I walked up to the building just a few minutes before Brooklyn Repairs closed—and we became the rightful owners. I suppose in my head, I had expected some grand gesture to occur. I wasn’t crazy enough to think we’d get a parade and some balloons or some other silly nonsense, but it just seemed so… normal.
I saw Uncle and Fitz outside waiting for someone, talking amongst themselves. A mechanic was on a mini-break, taking a smoke, though I didn’t know why he couldn’t have just waited until close to do so. I tried to see Biggie and the others, but the cars inside obstructed my view.
An older man came outside then, smiled to Fitz and Uncle, shook their hands, and led them inside. Uncle and Fitz either did not see me or were too focused on the deal at hand. I walked up to the entrance, walked inside, and stood in the corner.
“Can I help you, sir?” the smoking mechanic said. Must not recognize me.
“Just waiting on my brother,” I said with a hoarse voice. So that we can celebrate this moment.
The mechanic shrugged and kept smoking as if he knew management wouldn’t care that he did. I suppose a part of me wanted to believe that the Savage Saints would come in and we’d make things better, but the mechanic shop was just our money-maker, not our passion. I didn’t need to waste time believing we were going to be economic or managerial heroes of any kind.
I stood by the entrance until five, at which point Biggie came over and patted me on the shoulder. His oil-covered, smelly hand was just what I wanted on my clothes. He waved Niner over, who came over and stood by us.
“Uncle and Fitz are in there,” I said. “I guess they’re arranging something with the owner.”
“So it’s going to be official, huh?” Biggie said with a grin. “Holy shit, man. Stones really do look out for each other, huh?”
“For the most part. But yeah, that’s what we do. Uncle’s looking out for us. Now we gotta look out for him.”
As if on cue, Uncle and Fitz emerged with the original owner, everyone wearing a smile.
“Appreciate you taking this!” the old owner said to Uncle and Fitz. “You have given me the retirement I have started to look for ever since Google threatened automatic vehicles.”
“It’s our pleasure, sir,” Uncle said, adopting an accent and a demeanor that almost perfectly mirrored that of the store owner. “We know you’ve done some great things for the Brooklyn area. Now it’s time to go and reap the rewards.”
“Hey, I don’t know what you see, but maybe that’s just because I’m an old man. Congrats. Brooklyn Repairs is yours.”
In what would amount to the only symbolic gesture that I witnessed, the owner handed the keys to Uncle, shook his hand, shook Fitz’s hand, and then headed toward us.
“New ownership, Jack,” he said to my brother. “They’re good people.”
Biggie smiled and wished the owner well. He didn’t make mention of the fact that the new owner was our uncle. We didn’t need to draw attention to anything more than necessary.
The owner got to the front door, paused, looked around, gave a wistful, nostalgic smile, and walked out the door. As soon as the door shut and latched behind him, I turned to Uncle.
“Welcome to the Savage Saints headquarters,” Uncle said with a smile. “Mr. President, what would you like your first order of business to be?”
Well, I really would have liked for us to celebrate with booze, a nice party, or something resembling fun. But alas, financial and time constraints had not allowed that.
“Let’s go have our first hall meeting, eh?” he said. “And this time, we don’t have to worry about keeping our mouths shut in public. We can say whatever the fuck we want!”
“Yeah!” Biggie said, applauding.
Even Niner cracked the smallest of smiles.
“Indeed,” Fitz said. “We managed to procure something for you in the room.”
My eyes widened. I brushed past everyone and headed for it. Inside, a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne awaited us. There was only one chair, and we’d have to stand in an oval-shape just to fit everyone in here, but it didn’t matter. It was our one chair, it was our tiny office, and it was our space.
“You only get to have one first-ever day,” Uncle said as we crowded in. “Keep in mind, you’re going to be on a full diet of cheap booze from here on out. You’re going to have to get reacquainted with Bud Light, Natural Light, Coors, cheap-ass vodka and tequila—you know the deal. But consider this a little gift. One Stone looks out for all the other Stones.”
“Hell yeah,” I said, admiring the bottle.
I couldn’t ever remember drinking a bottle of champagne or anything even close to this value. I think when I’d gotten my first job, my father had gotten me some whiskey, but it wasn’t whiskey of the same quality. This was special. This was Uncle’s way of saying we had enormous potential.
“Just don’t burn my fucking money now,” Uncle said. “I’m willing to burn a couple hundred to mark the grand ceremony, but I’m not willing to burn a couple dozen grand just so you all can dick around. Ya hear?”
We all laughed as Uncle’s serious face switched over to a laugh. I poured everyone a glass—well, a glass was a loose term, considering we were going to drink out of red solo cups—and then poured mine last. I held my cup out.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “To not burning Uncle’s money.”
“Here, here!” Uncle said far more loudly than anyone else.
“Wait, that wasn’t the real toast,” I said, stopping anyone from having a sip. I cleared my throat. “When I was in jail, I kept wondering what I was going to do to make myself better. I saw a world on the outside that, in some ways, was more chaotic than the world on the inside. Family losing
its value. Friends abandoning friends over the most bullshit reasons. A society coming apart at the seams. I wanted to make a difference, and, yeah, I wanted to make a little more money. It wasn’t until I got out that I realized what a motorcycle club could do.
“Make no mistake about it, boys, we are going to have fun. We’re going to ride our motorcycles around town. We’re going to party, have stories that’ll shock college kids, and make a name for ourselves. But what we’re really about is showing society what it means to be fucking men. What it means to have bonds that don’t break just because someone has a different political opinion. What it means to keep your friendship even after you get in a fight where someone punches someone in the face.
“We are the Savage Saints. We are the club that will bring that back to Brooklyn. So, with that all said, here’s to the brotherhood bringing us all together.”
“Here, here!”
This time, everyone matched Uncle’s boisterous voice. We drank nearly all of our champagne in one gulp, to which Biggie placed his cup on the table and let out a cry of triumph.
“You assholes have no idea how much shit I went through to get this building,” Uncle said. “Trust me when I say it’s not as easy as showing up, giving a dollar amount, winning a bid, and going home. Getting this building this quick required a fuckload of work. But you know what? My nephew’s goddamn right. I do it for y’all. So you better start fucking using it. Starting tonight.”
“Tonight?” Biggie said with a surprised laugh. “How the hell are we going to use this tonight? That seems a little fast, no?”
“What, you turn into a pussy who can’t have more than a glass of champagne? You going on a date?” Uncle said.
“No—”
“Then everyone here is staying the rest of this night unless someone tells me that they got to see their Momma.”
No one said a word. Obviously, Biggie or I couldn’t answer yes to that. Even still, even if our mother were alive, I don’t think we would have left this clubhouse for her. Frankly, I wasn’t going to leave the clubhouse for much of anything right now.
