by Hazel Parker
“Prospect!” I shouted, holding up a finger, asking Carrie for one moment. “Take over for the evening. I’ve got some matters to attend to.”
“Yes, sir,” the prospect said, saddling up.
But instead of pulling her in, I stepped outside and began walking down the street with Carrie. I wanted to get her far, far away from the party—perhaps a continuation of my overly cautious nature with her, but I preferred to think of it as me just doing what was best for us.
“Not one for that scene, huh?” Carrie said.
“I hate parties.”
“Me too!”
We shared a laugh at that. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had made me laugh so quickly; it was pretty rare for me to be amused by something as to do anything more than give the briefest of laughs.
“It’s just so loud—”
“And you can’t have real conversation with anyone—”
“And everyone wants to get drunk when you don’t—”
“And few people truly enjoy it; they just say they enjoy it—”
“It makes me wonder why the hell anyone ever does it!”
We must have gone back and forth like that, trading glib statements about parties, for a long time, before we suddenly realized we’d walked a good half-mile from the shop.
“I don’t want to keep you too far from the place,” Carrie said.
“Nah, you’re fine,” I said, putting my hand on the small of her back. “If Fitz wanted me to spend time with you, then he would have known that this would happen.”
Take a risk. Fitz wanted you to be in this spot. So shoot for it.
“So, question I hope you won’t mind me asking,” I said. “Are you single?”
It was a little more straightforward than I’d wanted to ask with Carrie. It definitely wasn’t being delicate with her. Anyone else, I probably wouldn’t have felt this way about the question.
Carrie brushed her hair back and giggled.
“Yeah, yeah, I am, why?”
Well, you gotta do it now. Stop acting like a nervous eighth-grader and ask her out, Lane.
“Well, I’d love to take you out for an evening sometime next week,” I said. “I, uh, I don’t want it to be at a party, as we’ve already established that parties suck. And, I don’t want, well—yeah, that’s it.”
I probably sounded like an embarrassment to men in their thirties everywhere with how awkward I sounded. I really didn’t sound like this; only because of who Carrie was to me, I swore, was I this way. If the boys at the club or in the police force saw me like this, they would have wondered if Carrie had drugged me.
As for the girl I actually asked…she just giggled.
“I would love that, Lane,” she said. “I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to the past, what, twenty-five years?”
“Crazy when you put it like that,” I said. “But yeah, I think you’re right. I think it really has been that long.”
Twenty-five years. Long enough that most people would have barely remembered the incident, let alone the name of the person that had helped them. The number of years, to me, proved that I really would never forget this girl.
Now it was just time to see if she would also stay in my life from now until, well, who knew? I didn’t want to get too carried away with myself, especially since we hadn’t even gone on a first date, but it was so hard not to think about the possibilities. To think about what we could be and where we could go.
“Well,” I said, clearing my throat after what felt like an awkward pause to me, one that was probably completely normal. “I would love to hear what you have been up to as well. Besides the cooking and opening a restaurant and such. You know, that.”
She giggled and grabbed my arm.
“You’re so cute when you act this way,” she said. “Just relax. I’m not some big fifth grader anymore. I’m just a woman trying to make her way in the world, looking for someone else to share this journey with.”
Sort of like me.
“We should get you back to the party, though,” she said. “I don’t want them to think anything bad has happened to you.”
“Nonsense,” I said, though of course, I immediately started walking back in that direction. “What’s going to happen? I’m a former cop. I know how to defend myself. If something does happen to me, it’ll be because I’ve protected you.”
“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that!” she said with wide eyes. “I am curious about one thing, though. You said you were a former cop. But not anymore? Why’d you quit?”
Hah. Quit. I wish it were like that.
“Let me tell you about it later,” I said, my tone suddenly going very flat and sharp. “It’s a long story. Too long for just a five, ten-minute walk back to the shop.”
“I have all night.”
I sighed. I hated to have to say no to Carrie here, especially with the way things were going. But that was one of the few subjects that were so sensitive to me that not even the best thing from my past could get me to talk about it. Not even alcohol would get me to open up about it, though I imagined it would get me to hint about it more.
“It’s just a tough thing for me to talk about, and it’ll be better if I save it for later.”
Carrie nodded, again squeezing my arm.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to come across as someone who’s trying to pry into every little detail of your life.”
“Nonsense,” I said, waving my head dismissively. “You have a right to ask questions about my life. I just may not answer them, that’s all. Do you want to hear the story of how I got involved with Brooklyn Repairs?”
That was a much more palatable story to me and one that Carrie was eager to hear. Granted, she seemed like she’d be eager to hear anything from me.
I told her how Biggie had recruited me with the promise of a brotherhood that I had not had since the NYPD. I skirted past the part about it being like the NYPD, instead focusing on how close Biggie and I were from our previous employment together. I told her how much I valued the friendships in the club—even if they went behind my back about being a wingman for me.
“So Fitz didn’t ask you,” she said, surprised. “That’s a good friend.”
“Really,” I said dryly.
“Yeah. He put us together.”
And just like that, as if she had meant to time it accordingly, we had returned to the party.
“I take it you don’t want to go inside.”
“Not at all,” she said with a laugh. “I just came here to see you. I’m happy that I’ll get to do it again soon.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
I found myself at a loss for more flowery language—not that I was glib much of the time anyway. I just wanted to believe that with Carrie, I could summon majestic, romantic language to sweep her off her feet, metaphorically speaking. You don’t ever feel this way about anyone else.
The two of us held a gaze, and for a moment, I thought we were going to kiss. The way our bodies started to come together like two magnets, the way that our gaze never left, the way that her eyes started to close…
I pulled her in for a hug.
A kiss would have been too much. It would have done too much to my mind. I needed to take this slow and get this image of Carrie, the angel, out of my head. Yes, she was an angel in some ways, but doing this to her wasn’t doing anyone any good.
“I’ll come by the restaurant and let you know,” I said. “But let’s say…Tuesday for now?”
“Tuesday sounds great.”
She started by sounding deflated before her voice perked up by the end. Poor girl. I hoped that she didn’t have high expectations for me because this one made me some mess in the head.
“Alright,” I said, nodding to her, walking back into the party. “Have a good rest of your night.”
“You too.”
I slid into the doorway, let it shut behind me, and looked at the debauchery before me. Uncle was surrounded by four girls. The prospe
ct who was supposed to be at the door was barely able to stand up. Marcel and Fitz looked reasonably sober, but Amelia had already left. I folded my arms.
Yeah, being with Carrie was much better and much more peaceful for me than this nonsense.
Fitz saw me, waved, and came over. I didn’t unfold my arms.
“How did it go, man?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine? Did you get a date with her?”
“Yes.”
Fitz gave an actual fist-pump. The whole motion looked ridiculous. The whole situation was ridiculous, honestly. How else was I to describe going from someone who could barely unravel his tongue around a beautiful woman to someone surrounded by women eager to drop panties at command who couldn’t care less about what he said?
“Awesome, Niner, really happy for you. You’re the—”
BANG.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.
“Hit the deck!” I roared as I dropped down.
Everyone did so as gunshots rattled the garage door. Most of them did not break through, though a couple of holes formed in the glass higher up. I crawled on the ground to the office, grabbed a rifle, and made my way back outside. I pushed open the door just in time to see a bunch of motorcycles driving off down the road, well into the reaches of public Brooklyn.
“Motherfucker,” I said. Looks like we got the violence aspect of being an MC now.
I went back inside and turned the lights on.
“Anyone hurt?”
No one bled, and everyone moved. It looked like the strike had meant only to intimidate, not to kill.
But we had never experienced something like this. We were about to find out what sort of a club we had. We weren’t playing around with politicians or even people that wanted to force our hand in negotiations anymore. We were dealing with real killers.
“Niner!” Marcel shouted. “Did you see what happened?”
“Negative,” I said. “Guys on motorcycles driving away. I’ll go outside and look to see if I find anything. Clear out the area once I confirm it’s safe.”
No one argued with me. No one was in much of a mood for drinking or sex anymore.
I stepped outside. On the street, in red graffiti, someone had spray-painted a crude outline of our logo with a giant red X through it. Additionally, beneath that, they had written “Bloodhounds Run Brooklyn.” Guess we got ourselves a rival club now. I headed back inside to deliver the bad news.
“It’s all clear,” I said. “But we have some street cleanup to deal with. And Marcel. We’ve got ourselves a rival now.”
Fear crossed his eyes.
But that didn’t stop him from rising, taking a breath, and raising his hands.
“Everyone, go home,” he said. “Officers. Stay behind. We’re going to clean up this mess and deal with whatever we have to. No questions. Let’s get to work.”
* * *
I ended up spending all night trying to get rid of the spray paint outside, as well as cleaning up the bullet shells in the area. The cops never showed up, which was weirdly a blessing; we didn’t need news to spread that our shop had been hit. That would have been a disaster for business.
I didn’t get home until about five in the morning, at which point I immediately fell asleep. As soon as I woke up, I checked my phone. Marcel had sent a message—one that I knew was not a coincidence.
“Kyle dropped by this morning and commented on us,” he said. “Said we deserved this. I call BS.”
He’s involved.
I knew this would happen.
Chapter 6: Carrie
Tuesday couldn’t arrive quickly enough.
Lane seemed almost obscenely cautious about how he had treated me on Friday, but that only made me more excited and more eager to see him. I couldn’t wait to see what happened when he finally let his guard down. How would he be uninhibited and unhinged?
And for that matter, am I finally going to learn what happened during his time as a cop? That didn’t seem likely, given how quickly he had shifted from engaging, if a little awkward, to closed off. But the exciting part was getting the possibility of learning more, not the guarantee of it.
And anyway, even if that wasn’t the detail that he revealed, there was so much to Lane that I wanted to know about. What had the rest of his childhood been like? What had his adult life been like? What had made him move to New York City?
These were the questions that danced around my head on Saturday afternoon as I sat in the back office of Southern Comfort around two in the afternoon. Although the weekends usually made the slow hours a little busier than usual, we still had a couple of employees up front that were handling orders and cooking while I handled the administrative tasks. It felt mighty good not to have to worry about if I could pay those employees, at least for this pay cycle.
I was about to head home for the day when a knock came at the door from my employee Sam.
“What’s up?” I said, feeling happier than normal around the restaurant.
“A man’s looking for you, brown eyes, shaved head—”
“Ah, yeah, one second.”
I stood up and brushed past Sam, practically speed walking to the front of the restaurant. Sure enough, Lane stood there, but he didn’t smile when he saw me. In fact, his eyes were darting across the room, as if investigating.
“Hey, what’s—”
“Can I talk to you in private?” he said.
I gulped. If he was going to cancel the date, at this point, he could have just sent a text. Why did he—
“It’s nothing with you,” he said. “But I need to speak to you somewhere where we won’t be eavesdropped on.”
What is going on?
“OK, follow me,” I said, taking him to the back.
Caroline would be furious if she saw me with a customer in the back, but Caroline wasn’t here. And in any case, it wasn’t like I had never caught her with someone in the back either. I smiled to Sam, nodding that all was well, as Lane followed me back. It helped that Lane had a serious expression, not the expression of someone about to engage in some questionable activity.
I let him in and shut the door. Lane leaned against the wall, his arms folded. I wouldn’t say he looked stressed, but he looked absolute in his determination to speak.
“Alright, no one else is coming in here.”
“Good,” Lane said. “Something happened right after you left Friday that you deserve to know about.”
You slept with someone else?
“Probably only a few minutes after you left, our club got attacked by a rival motorcycle club. They fired upon our building and spray-painted their name on the ground right outside. I think that this is the start of a battle between the two MCs.”
“Jesus Christ, are you OK? Did anyone get hurt?”
“No. No one got hurt. But Carrie, you have to know what you’re getting into.”
Are you part of a gang? Is that why you left the NYPD?
“See, the last two guys in the club who started dating and seeing their respective women didn’t tell them of their status in the club until well after the fact, which stirred up a lot of drama and almost killed those relationships before they ever got started. You’re someone that doesn’t deserve to go through that, so I’m going to tell you everything about the Savage Saints.
“Brooklyn Repairs is a legitimate business, and I am a legitimate car mechanic, but the real purpose of that shop is to house the Savage Saints. I could speak a lot about us, but I’ll just leave it at this. We’re a group of men who have been wronged by normal America—the laws, the institutions, and so on. We believe in setting our own terms of justice. We believe in having our freedom. We believe in protecting those we care about and destroying those who try to hurt us.
“But invariably, that produces violence when other groups want to infringe on us. We’re law-abiding, for the most part. Our president, Marcel, spent time in jail, and he doesn’t want to have to go back if he can help it. I don’t feel like
crossing paths with my old colleagues for various reasons. But if we have to? We will strike back.
“You may get caught up in that if you are so much as seen with me, let alone anything else. We have clubs like us in Las Vegas and California, and both groups reported having their women targeted. No one killed, but it’s something you need to be aware of. If you don’t want to be around me after I tell you this, I will understand. You just need to know the truth from my mouth, rather than seeing it with your own eyes.”
That was a lot to take in.
I needed a few moments to think through everything that Lane had just dumped on my lap.
First, I liked him even more for telling me all of this upfront now. I could easily see how secrets kept would reveal themselves in pernicious ways, and even if this secret was brutal to hear, that was nice.
But on the other hand, this was pretty violent as far as secrets went.
“So, do you think this would happen frequently?” I asked. “Do you think these attacks would occur with some regularity? Do you think that they will go after the women?”
“Regularity? Hard to say. Yesterday was the first attack. Most clubs understand that anything more than a quick strike will result in all-out bloody war, which benefits no one. In general, most of these strikes operate on a sort of Cold War approach. Someone might steal some secrets, cut off a profit supply, strike with intimidation. But the Savage Saints out west…their violence grew pretty badly. So it’s possible.
“But I will say this. It’s early. Whenever you are with me, I will make sure you don’t get hurt. That would be my promise to you. If you stay with me, you would be fully protected with me.”
“I know,” I said. “I trust you with that.”
If you go with Lane, you’d be with someone who was once in the NYPD. You’d have the protection of not just him, but everyone else in the club. You’d have, really, close to the best on-the-street security you could have.
“And is there any guarantee they wouldn’t cause trouble for me just because I said no?” I said. “I need you guys for business at the shop. I’m not going to say no to you or ban you just because of a vague threat.”
