DIESEL DADDY

by Naomi West

  “Who is it?” I ask, voice chirpy.

  “It’s Christopher,” he says. If my voice is chirpy, his is old and crooked and lecherous. It’s the type of voice I imagine being aimed at young women in bars by creepy older men. “I’m coming in.”

  I have no choice but to step back as the door swings open. I step back all the way to the bed, but I don’t sit down. That might give him the idea to sit down with me. I don’t think Dad would let him just attack me. I was here for months and he didn’t let that happen. But perhaps things have changed. Perhaps Christopher has been given permission to do anything he likes with me. I resist the urge to clench my fist. I have to remain nice and bright and flirty. I have to make myself into a man’s idea of what a woman like me should be.

  Christopher Michaels is every bit as decrepit as I remember him. He walks into the room with a weary gait holding a tray of breakfast. He places the tray down on the bedside table—toast, beans, bacon, orange juice—and then turns to me. He’s wearing a suit and a tie with a snot-colored hanky sticking out of the pocket. He smooths down his hair and flashes a smile with too much gum. “It’s wonderful to have you back,” he says. “Just wonderful.”

  “Uh, thank you,” I say, already struggling to maintain my performance.

  We’re standing a few feet apart, me closest to the door. I could make a dash to it, but for what purpose? He would only catch up to me. “Just wonderful,” he repeats. He steps forward so that the scent of him poisons the air around me. He smells like an old people’s home, like hard candy and bleach, like soiled underwear and impending death. “I wonder if you’d like to come to bed with me.”

  “Oh . . .” I take a step back, but he just steps forward, closing the distance. Did he really just say that? “Not right now . . .”

  “But there’s a possibility? Is that what you’re saying? All I’ll say is this. You might want to get used to the idea of being with me. Because one day, and one day soon, you might not have a choice. I don’t want it to be like that. I want you to want to be with me. But if I have to take you hard.” His face goes as hard as his words. “I will take you hard. Do you understand me?” He smiles again. “How about a smile? You look so much prettier when you smile.”

  The last thing my face muscles want to do is smile, but somehow I manage to contort them into the right shape.

  “Good girl. Now eat your breakfast.”

  He leaves the room, locking the door behind him. As soon as I hear the click of the lock, I run around the room, scrubbing myself with my fingernails. He always makes me feel like a bucket of maggots has just been tipped over my head. Then I go to the bedside table and look down at my breakfast. I don’t know much about being pregnant. All I know for sure is that one second I’m looking at the beans and the next I’m on my knees in the bathroom, retching into the bowl. I wipe my mouth and gargle mouthwash and then wolf down the bacon and toast, doing my best to ignore the beans.

  When I’m done, I go to the window and look out at the woods through the bars. A few cars drive down the winding road, but mostly there’s just the woods and the concrete. I don’t want Spike to come here since I still have work to do, but at the same time I can’t help but wonder where he is, what he’s doing, how he’s taking my absence. I hope he isn’t going too crazy about it.

  For the next hour and a half I’m left to sit in my room with nothing to do but stare at the wall and let my anxiety eat me from the inside out. Then another knock comes at the door. I don’t say “come in,” since the door is swinging open before I’m even on my feet. I realize my hand is on my belly, protecting the tiny life in there, so I let it fall away just in case they guess something. I can’t let them know I’m pregnant. Dad will use it against me. I know he will. I know what type of monster he is.

  One of the men steps in. I think his name’s Rust, but I can’t properly remember. He’s got sandy hair and is missing an eye, the place where it used to be now a jagged gash. “Boss wants to see you,” he says. Then, just to make sure I’ve gotten the message, he grabs me by the elbow and yanks me down the hallway.

  “I can walk, you know!” I snap, trying to tug my arm away.

  “Got orders, miss.” He pulls me along with him, leaving me no choice but to quicken my pace.

  The bar is full of men, around fifty of them, squeezed around the tables drinking and playing cards. It’s alive with sound, too. At least it is until I walk into the room. Then everything turns as quiet as a cemetery, the only sounds wind-like whispers, one hundred eyes staring at me, judging me, hating me. Some of them are full of lustful hunger and others are full of plain old sadism. I know that if Dad gave the order, these men would tear me apart. I swallow, so nervous part of me wishes I could turn back time and return to the superstore, call Spike instead of Dad. But I’m here now, and I have to play the game. If Spike is ever going to kill Dad, he’s going to need my help.

  Rust shoves me toward Dad’s office door and then steps away, watching me. For once I actually want to be in Dad’s office. Anything beats standing out here with those men sizing me up like they’re butchers and I’m a piece of meat. I walk into Dad’s office, telling myself I need to be composed, telling myself it’s time to play the lost lonely daughter who needs her daddy’s help. Does the idea make me sick? Sure it does. But sometimes feeling sick is the price that needs to be paid.

  Dad is sitting behind his desk with his back to me like some kind of movie villain. When he swivels the chair around I half expect there to be a cat in his lap. But he’s holding nothing except his cellphone, which is pressed against his ear. He doesn’t acknowledge me so I stay standing, hoping to play on his desire for control.

  “Really? That’s interesting, very interesting. Yes, yes, well of course you’ll tell me, won’t you? If you don’t tell me—I will threaten you if I feel that it’s necessary. I’ll also have one of my guys take a trip to the hospital if I think it’s necessary. Yes, I thought so. Fine. Keep me posted about any changes.”

  Dad hangs up and gestures to the chair opposite him. I sit down, making sure to smile at him as if I adore him, as if he is just the man I have been waiting and praying to see.

  “Cut the shit.” He squints at me, lips trembling. “You were always a dumb cunt, weren’t you?” He hacks out a coughing laugh. “A dumb cunt gave birth to a dumb cunt, and here she is. Listen to me, you stupid girl, I want you to stop this performance horseshit and tell the truth. You’ve been with the Vipers, sucking on their president’s cock and letting him spunk in your hole. In fact, you’ve let him spunk in your hole so many times that now you’ve got a whelp on the way—” He holds a finger up when I try to interject. “Interrupt me and I’ll cut out your dick-slurping tongue. Slut.”

  I close my mouth and sit back, wondering how the plan is crashing down so soon.

  “Good,” he says. “Now listen to me. My man Justin has just been on the phone with me telling me everything. About you staying in the basement, about you feeding them information … oh, yes, I know all about that. I had no idea how they were jumping us at every turn. I guess Justin wasn’t involved in your private meetings, was he? Just you and Spike, rutting like dogs. Here’s the thing . . .” He leans forward, watching me closely. “I have no love for you. I think you know that. You’re an idiot for coming here in the first place, a desperate whore. But once word gets around that the Vipers’ president fucked and impregnated my goddamn daughter, how do you think that’s gonna make me look? Don’t you dare answer! Don’t you know what a rhetorical question is, stupid bitch?

  “So now I’m going to have to kill Spike. It’s the only thing for me to do.”

  I remember Justin, Spike’s VP, the one whose mom has cancer. Justin, playing Spike the whole time. This changes everything. I can’t play the Scorpions now. I’m foiled before I’ve even begun. I open my mouth with the hopes of salvaging the situation, but then I remember his threat. I have no doubt that he’ll follow through with it.

  “I need to kill him, yes,
but don’t think that means I care one whit about you. It’s about respect. And, anyway, my man has given me some interesting information. The Vipers are going to raid us tonight. They’re going to come to my castle and try to knock it down. Ha!” He looks even uglier when he smiles. “I’m going to cut off Spike’s head and serve it to you on a plate. When the dust has settled, we’ll deal with that little spawn of yours. We can’t have half of Spike running around the place. Then it’ll be your time to marry Christopher, I think. That or die.”

  He waves a hand at the door. “Go back to your room, whore. Wait for the shooting to start.”

  I leave the office, feeling numb and foolish. Rust grabs me by the elbow and drags me back through the bar toward the bedrooms. I was going to play them. I was going to play them all. I was going to smile and look pretty and put on the best performance of my lifetime. But now it’s all gone down the toilet. Justin, Spike’s second-in-command, Spike’s friend, a traitor . . . And Spike’s coming after me. He doesn’t know they’ll be ready for him. He thinks he has the benefit of surprise. When Rust shoves me back in my room and slams the door, I pace for what feels like a day. I pace and pace and try to think of a way to get word to Spike. They’re going to kill him. I touch my belly, stroking my baby. They’re going to kill his father.

  I sit on the bed and stare at the wall, chewing my lip until it begins to throb. I keep telling myself that Dad has known all along about Spike, that Dad has known all along about what the Vipers have been doing, but I find it difficult to believe. I can’t believe that the father of my baby is going to die today. I just can’t. I need to warn him.

  I go to the window and study the bars. Maybe if I could break the glass, I could . . . But the bars are set too close together, even for me. I’d hurt myself if I tried to squeeze through. I walk around the bedroom, trying to think of a plan. Maybe I could break down the door and . . . And what? Charge into the hallway where Dad has obviously placed a guard, fight him to the death, and then sprint to the Vipers’ clubhouse, outrunning several dozen bikes?

  There has to be some way. I look around the room. A bed, two bedside tables, a wardrobe, some dresser drawers.

  I root through them madly, tossing clothes onto the floor, spilling out the contents of the bedside table. When I find the sheaf of A4 paper, I feel like I’m making progress. I go into the bathroom and open the mirror cupboards, but there’s nothing in there I can use. I dig to the bottom of the wardrobe, but there’s nothing. I search the bedside table at least ten times, but I can’t find a pen. I think about using my own blood, but that’s the type of thing that only works in movies. I’d end up smearing useless red patterns onto the paper. I find a box of toothpicks in the bedside table, buried right at the bottom.

  Holding the toothpicks in one hand and the paper in the other, I walk up and down the room, willing my brain to come up with an idea. I need ink, dark ink, ink that will be visible from outside. An idea hits me. It seems stupid but right now I’m all up for stupid ideas. Any ideas are better than nothing. I return to the bathroom and look at the shower. G was good about cleaning the shower, but Dad’s men are not. The grooves between the tiles and along the rim of the floor are covered in fine layers of grime. I empty the toothbrushes from their cup, collect some grime, collect some toothpaste, and mix it all together with the bottom of the toothbrush.

  My fingernails are crusted black by the time I’m finished. It’s worth it, though. When I dab the toothpick into the cup and bring it to the paper, I’m able to write out a crude message, the words jagged, but words all the same. I write: They Know You’re Coming. Stay Away. Then I place it on the bed and wait for the “ink” to dry. I wait for a long time, not waiting to smear it against the glass. When it’s done, I kneel down next to the window and press the piece of paper to it, knowing that it’s going to hurt my arm but having no other option.

  I turn on the lamps in the room when it gets dark so that the sign will be visible. My shoulder is already throbbing with the effort, my forearm aching, but I can’t let it go. I can’t let Spike get hurt. Holding a piece of paper shouldn’t be this hard, but I’m exhausted. All I want is sleep.

  I knew a girl once who grew up without a father and it really screwed her up. It screwed her up so badly that when she finally found her father, she went to him even though he was an evil psychopath who killed her mother. It screwed her up so bad she forgot who she was for almost a year. I won’t let that happen to my kid, ever.

  Night comes and I change my arm. I can only hope Spike sees it in time.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Spike

  As the sun sets, my men surround the compound, hiding in the woods and watching and waiting. From the number of bikes in the parking lot, we know there’s at least forty or so men in there, which is around the same number of men we have. I’ve posted scouts at our rear to watch for dogwalkers and lovers out on a stroll, as well as watching for the off-chance that some Scorpion come walking by. If there’s anything I learned in the army, it was always to watch your back.

  I stand with Justin, watching the windows of the dormitory wing. I remember creeping across to there what feels like a hundred years ago, spying into the window and seeing nothing but the finest piece of ass I’ve ever laid my eyes on. It’s mad how life can switch up so quickly. She was the finest piece of ass and now she’s the mother of my child, the love of my life, somebody I can’t stand the idea of living without. Life can be damn strange like that.

  I’m watching the window and loading my weapon at the same time. It’s nine o’clock. In two hours we’ll hit them, and hit them hard. We’ll wait for them to get drunk and sleepy and then storm in there with all the sudden violence of an air bombing. I’ll kill every man who stands between me and Yazmin. I’ll never stop. I’ll never give up. I’ll kill and kill and kill until each one of the bastards is dead. I’ll—

  “I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Justin says, shifting from foot to foot.

  “You’ve said that.” I’m getting goddamn tired of his grumbling, but there are men all around us and having them see the president and the VP at each other’s throat hours before a raid ain’t a good idea. “Your opinion is noted.”

  Justin sighs. “Come on, Spike. Doesn’t this seem like a bad—”

  “Is there something you wanna say to me?” I lead him away from the men with a nod, standing out of their hearing beneath a massive tree. “What is it, man? What is this shit? If you’re scared, stay at the back like I told you. But don’t start questioning my decisions where the men can hear you. The fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t want anymore of our men dead, is all.”

  “This will work. It’s time. It’s past time. Knuckles was right.”

  “If he was right, why didn’t you agree right away? The only reason you’re agreeing now is because your girl’s at risk.”

  “So what?” I snap. “She’s carrying my fuckin’ kid. I didn’t expect to get shit from you about caring about family.” I’m about to go on when I see something strange in Yazmin’s window: what looks like a white piece of fabric, or a piece of paper, with what could be her arm shaking against the glass. “Wait a sec.” I return to the men. “Has anybody got a scoped rifle?”

  “Boss.”

  One of the men hands me a scoped M16. I return to Justin, make sure the safety’s one—it’d be a cruel joke if I came this far just to accidentally shoot her—and then look through the scope. I was right. It’s her arm, the paper fluttering as she trembles. She must’ve been holding that sign up for ages. The words are written in what could be tar, thick and black and sticky-looking. They Know You’re Coming. Stay Away. I toss the rifle to the undergrowth, cursing under my breath.

  “Fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  But how?

  “They’re expecting us,” I tell Justin. “The fucking Scorpions are fucking expecting us.” I’m about to kick my bike when I remember that there’re men everywhere. In the army
whenever we saw the officers showing emotion it was always a bad sign. They were meant to be tougher than us.

  “Maybe they saw us riding in. Maybe they had lookouts.”

  “Maybe,” I mutter, but that pisses me off because I sent men out beforehand exactly for that purpose. If they’d had lookouts we should’ve known about it.

  “What now, boss?” one of the men asks from the darkness.

  “We return to the clubhouse,” I say, knowing it’s the only smart move. We can’t hit them now, not if they’re ready for us. We have to wait until morning, make them think we’ve given up. “Justin, gather the men. Get the order out to return to the clubhouse. And get the order out that at 0700—” I cut myself off, wondering. If they know, it could be lookouts, or Snake could’ve paid one of my men to tip him off. One of the lower-ranking men, somebody who needs the cash and doesn’t feel allegiance to the club. “Get the order out that the men need to be ready to hit the club at any time. I want them on standby all night and all day tomorrow. We’re gonna hit these bastards with everything we’ve got. Just let them relax first. And Justin.” I turn to him. “If you say one more word about backing out of this, I’m gonna smash your teeth into the back of your skull.”