BAKER

by Scott Hildreth

  I gazed beyond him, into the living room. “I’m not going to.”

  “Might not have a choice.”

  I shifted my eyes to him. “I’m in control.”

  He spit out a laugh. “The pussy’s in control.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Poking your dick in this chick has got you feeling like you’re fucking a high school cheerleader that does Kegel exercises while she sits in an algebra class she don’t quite understand. She’s got a dynamite little pussy so tight it causes you to bust a nut that makes your head spin. That’s what you said, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Guess what?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  I cocked mine. “What?”

  “If anybody else was fucking her it wouldn’t feel like that. Her twat fits you. It’s not as much her twat’s composure that makes you come like a faucet as it is the chick that’s carrying it around. You feel the way you feel when you fuck her because of who she is, not what she’s packing in the gap between her thighs.”

  I felt like I was sitting across the table from Doctor Phil. I wasn’t prepared to give his advice as much consideration as I wanted to, so I simply agreed with him. Kind of.

  “I suppose we’ll see in time,” I said.

  He stood. “I suppose we will.”

  I walked into the living room. In complete contrast to Andy’s contemporarily furnished home, mine was decorated with an eclectic mix of old world meets modern society. A grandfather clock from the nineteenth century told the time. Music was often listened to on a forty-year-old turntable I’d purchased while on a trip to England.

  My furniture was gathered one piece at a time, and none of it was bought new. Some was from the 1950’s, some from the 60’s, and a few pieces were modern. Quality and price didn’t always go hand in hand, and I made my selections based on a quality and a piece’s unique nature, regardless of price.

  I walked to the buffet that was centered along the far wall. As I admired the craftmanship of the fifty-year-old piece, I noticed a chip of wood beneath it. Puzzled by where it might have come from, I bent down and studied it. When I stood, I hit the back of my head on the edge of the buffet.

  Frustrated, I dragged my finger along the edge that nearly knocked me senseless. A piece of wire tucked neatly beneath the ornate wood came loose as my fingertip hit it. As it dangled into view, the hair on my neck stood on end.

  I stood, faced the kitchen, and snapped my fingers.

  Goose turned around.

  I raised my index finger to my lips and then motioned for him to come to me. Without speaking, he obliged.

  I knelt and pointed to the wire. At the tip was a what appeared to be a small microphone. The quality of the device led me to believe whoever had planted it wasn’t a private detective or an amateur of any sort.

  It appeared the government’s finest were attempting to listen in on my life.

  Goose inspected the listening device, crawled under the buffet, and removed it. Silently, we walked to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.

  Not knowing if the home was fitted with more devices, we went to the elevator, down to the parking garage, and into the alley. As he nervously smoked a cigarette, we discussed what we’d found.

  “You sure it wasn’t her?” he asked.

  The possibility had crossed my mind, but only long enough for me to rule it out. “Positive,” I said.

  “How positive?”

  I glared at him.

  “Just asking.” He took a drag, and then blew a ribbon of smoke into the air. “Wonder how long they’ve been listening.”

  “Hard saying. Be a boring job listening to that recording. We don’t ever discuss anything in there.”

  “What about the clubhouse? Your office?”

  The thought anyone listening to the conversations in either of those locations made me cringe with fear. After a moment’s consideration, I looked at him with wonder in my eyes.

  “Seems that they’ve had arrested us long ago if they were listening to our meetings.”

  He took another drag, and then went wide-eyed. He coughed out the smoke, and gave me a bug-eyed look. “How’s the building set up? Who owns it? On paper?”

  “My LLC owns the building. I lease the second floor from the LLC. City has it set up weird. Each floor is a different address.”

  “But you lease the second floor in your name?”

  I nodded. “Graham Baker.”

  “They’ve got to get a search warrant to plant that shit.” He tossed his cigarette aside. “If they planted it on the up and up. Bet they got a warrant for the place in your name. The LLC is the deed holder to the building, and you’re the person who leases the second floor from the LLC?”

  His logic was beginning to make sense. I hadn’t initially set up the LLC to offer me the protection it was offering me, but I was glad I’d done what I did when it came to ownership.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But, on paper, I don’t own the LLC.”

  “Who does?”

  “My mom’s sister.”

  “Karen? The gal who raised you?”

  I nodded.

  “Thank fucking God,” he said. “I feel better about everything now.”

  He may have felt better, but I had a mind full of questions that I was afraid no one could answer.

  I glanced at my watch and immediately began to laugh hysterically.

  “What?” he asked.

  I shook my head in sheer disbelief. “What day of the month is it?”

  “Thirteenth,” he said. “Why?”

  I didn’t bother responding.

  THIRTY-THREE - Andy

  Baker invited me over to listen to music and hang out. Spending the evening with him changed my Sunday from blah to something I was sure to cherish. Nervous about what the future held, but pleased at the growth we were both making, I sat cross-legged on the floor with my eyes closed and listened to the cleanliness of the music.

  When the record stopped, I opened my eyes. “I’ve never enjoyed listening to the Rolling Stones until now. Holy crap. Listening to them on vinyl is awesome.” I opened my eyes.

  Sitting on the floor in front of the turntable, he looked cute barefoot and in jeans. His head was bobbing ever so slightly, and his eyes remained closed. “Exile is a great album on vinyl. It’s got to be one of my all-time favorites.”

  “Tumbling Dice was great, but I really like that Sweet Virginia song. You could tell they were really having fun with it. Music has changed so much.”

  He opened his eyes. “Where’d your love of music come from?”

  “Boredom. I started with an old-school cassette player that my dad had. I listened to his box of cassettes over and over.”

  “Cool. What was in there?”

  “In his cassettes?”

  “Yeah. What did your dad listen to?”

  “Everything. Velvet Underground. David Bowie. Van Morrison. Bob Dylan. Stuff he really had no business listening to.”

  “How old was he?”

  “He was born in nineteen seventy,” I said. “He was a January baby.”

  “That’s an interesting assortment of music.” He crossed his legs and rocked back and forth. “I started with vinyl. I was always fascinated with it. That nothing more than a groove in a piece of plastic could reproduce sound.”

  I widened my eyes. “I still don’t understand it.”

  “It’s a mechanical representation of sound waves. Grooves are cut in the record. The depth of the groove is developed based on the changes in atmospheric pressure caused by the sound waves while recording. When it’s played, the turntable’s needle does the opposite. It sends the measurement of the groove to something that turns it back into a sound wave. Viola. Music.”

  “Who turned you on to records?”

  “My aunt.”

  I had a mental pause when he responded. I found it more than coincidental that his aunt introduced him to music, and my aunt raised me
after my father died. I didn’t want to ask, but eventually the girl in me exposed herself.

  “Were you and your aunt close?”

  He grinned. “She raised me.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Alive and well in Montana. She lives an easy life. Last time I was there, she had no television, no internet, and no desire to embrace technology. I used to walk from her house to town. It was five miles. Run is more like it. I did it in Chucks.”

  “You ran five miles in Chucks?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair and grinned. “Pretty much every day.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “Me and a bunch of friends decided Southern California would be more receptive to our way of living life than Great Falls Montana. I was a pretty wild kid, and spent a lot of time in trouble. Doing dumb shit in Montana gets a kid arrested every time. Doing dumb shit in Southern California gets overlooked.”

  “So, you and your friends moved here?”

  He nodded, sending several strands of hair falling over his eyes. “Four of ‘em. Right after high school.”

  “Are they still here?’

  “Yep.”

  “Do you get to see them?”

  “They work for me.”

  “Oh wow. That’s cool.”

  “Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t. Friends can get annoying. They tend to hold your past over your head just to remind you of it.” He stretched his legs, stood, and extended his arm. “Coffee?”

  I smiled and reached for his hand. “Sure.”

  When I stood, I looked at the Grandfather clock that sat beside the turntable. It was almost one o’ clock in the morning, and I had to work the next day. I didn’t want the night to end, but I felt coffee might not be in my best interest.

  “Does that clock tell accurate time?”

  “It sure does.”

  “It’s almost one.” I gave an apologetic look. “Maybe no coffee.”

  He glanced at the clock, and then sighed. “Would you want to…” He brushed my hair behind my left ear. “Do you want to sleep over.”

  Until that point, I was sure the night couldn’t have been any better. It wasn’t the first time in my life I’d been wrong.

  “Stay all night?” I asked excitedly.

  He did the same thing in the left side of my face. “Yeah.”

  “I would. I have to work in the morning, though.”

  “Well.” He gestured toward his bedroom. “We better get to bed.”

  He must have been expecting to ask me, because he had a brand-new toothbrush for me to use. When we were both done with our end of the night rituals, he walked into his closet and quickly returned with a pair of sweat shorts and a tee shirt.

  He handed them to me. “Might not fit great, but you can wear those to bed if you’d like.”

  I was hoping to cuddle naked, but I accepted his offer. “Okay.”

  I changed into the clothes, and while I did, he went back into the closet. When he came out, he was wearing a pair of similar shorts and a different tee shirt.

  “Are you going to sleep in that?”

  “I am.”

  I’d wanted to ask for a long time, but I hadn’t. I reached a point that curiosity got the best of me, though. “Why don’t you ever take off your shirt?”

  He pulled back the comforter. “Let’s say there’s something underneath there I’m not quite ready for you to see.”

  He’d seen me from the inside out. I took offense to the statement. “A scar?” I asked.

  He climbed onto the bed. “No.”

  “A tattoo of your former lover?” I asked jokingly.

  “Close, but no.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “What?”

  “You’ll find out some day.”

  “When?”

  He patted his hand against the bed. “When I’m ready.”

  He turned out the lights, but left the blinds open, allowing the light from the street to filter into the room. The same cool blue glow that filled my home at night filled his.

  I got in bed beside him, not angry, but not as happy as I’d been during our music session. I played the pouty role for a few minutes, but it did little good. About the time I decided to accept his decision to tell me when he was ready, he repositioned himself.

  “Lay your head here.” He placed his palm on his shoulder.

  I did as he asked, scooting so close to him that every inch of me that was able to be was touching an inch of him. He searched the top of the nightstand blindly, and eventually lifted something. Then, music began to play softly in the background.

  “My playlist,” he said. “It’ll play for an hour. Is that alright?”

  I couldn’t fall asleep without music. I tilted my head to the side and smiled. “It’s perfect.”

  I guessed we weren’t going to have sex, and I liked it that he hadn’t tried or suggested it. I closed my eyes and let his choice of music entertain me while I considered what a life with a man in it would be like.

  The Wind, by Amos Lee started playing.

  My eyes opened. It was the song that played the night he hugged me in front of my door. For me, it was a turning point. I wondered if it was for him, too. Before I had a chance to mention the song, and how I would always associate it with that night, he rolled his head to the side and kissed me.

  “Good night, Andy,” he said.

  “Goodnight, Baker.”

  I closed my eyes and grinned. When the song stopped, I decided when Helen grew up, I’d want her to meet someone like Baker.

  Just like Baker.

  THIRTY-FOUR - Baker

  My mother and father were killed before I could walk. He was a small-time crook and wannabe bank robber who couldn’t plan dinner, let alone a bank heist. Holed up in a motel in New Mexico after a botched bank job, he decided to try his luck in a shootout with the FBI.

  He soon found out his marksmanship skills and his ability to rob a bank were comparable. When the room was searched, they found the two of them on the floor. His archaic revolver, a half-eaten bag of Doritos, a few empty bottles of malt liquor, two thousand dollars, and a gram of heroin were scattered about the filthy room.

  When their bullet-riddled bodies were laid to rest, I was in Montana, developing a palate for Malt-O-Meal. No one cried, no one cared, and no one attended the funeral. My first birthday was celebrated three months later with a big bowl of home-made ice cream and a two-layer white cake with chocolate fudge frosting.

  When I was a kid, I wondered if I was destined to follow in his footsteps. As I grew older, I learned there were no genes for intelligence, and that the mutations that lower intelligence in mankind were non-specific, and idiosyncratic.

  In short, my father was one of a kind.

  Consequently, so was I.

  I got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, and walked into the living room. My morning trip to the window revealed another sunny San Diego sky. A black Dodge Charger was parked across the street, Alfredo’s truck was at the curb, and the bookstore that doubled as a hipster coffee shop was preparing to open.

  It was almost seven in the morning, and Andy was still sleeping in my bed. Making the decision to have her stay the night wasn’t as easy for me as it should have been.

  My life didn’t have many firsts left in it, and her sleeping over was the first time I’d ever had a woman sleep in my bed. It was also the first time I’d ever been in bed with a woman and not had sex with her.

  I didn’t regret the decision. As I admired the lines of her face, however, I was reminded that getting her out of my house would require that she walk past each of the MC’s men. It was something I’d realized before asking her to stay, but not something I was eager to deal with.

  I turned away from the window and walked into the bedroom. “Andy,” I said softly. “Wake up.”

  She turned from her back to her side. After a moment, she opened her eyes.

  “Good morning,” I
said. “How’d you sleep.”

  She smiled. “Good.”

  I smiled and nodded before I turned toward the bathroom. “It’s six forty-five, you should probably get up.”

  I took four steps before she said something. I had doubts I would have made it that far.

  “Whoa. Stop. Hold on a minute,” she said, her voice dry and coarse from the night’s sleep. “What’s that deal on your back?”

  I tensed. It was something that had to be done. It didn’t make doing it easy. I glanced over my shoulder. “It’s a tattoo.”

  “No shit. Devil’s what? What’s it say?”

  I turned around. “Disciples. Devil’s Disciples.”

  “What is that?” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Are you in a gang?”

  “No. I’m in a motorcycle club.”

  “Oh wow. Like Hells Angels?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Why didn’t you just put it on one of those little leather vests? Like all the other motorcycle gangs do?”

  “Club. We’re a motorcycle club. And, I didn’t do that because I’m not like everyone else and this club’s not like anyone else’s.”

  “What makes it different?”

  I walked to the edge of the bed and sat. “Most motorcycle clubs are filled with men that need the club for one reason or the other. They didn’t have enough attention paid to them when they were kids. Their parents got divorced. Someone took their lunch money in school. They tried to join the police force and couldn’t pass the psychiatric exam. Whatever it is they wear their colors on their vests proudly as a deterrent to outsiders. That patch says, don’t fuck with me, I’m a badass, and I’ve got a hundred brothers that will kick your teeth in if you don’t believe me.”

  “And this Devil’s Disciples club isn’t like that?”

  “Not at all. We’re not in it for recognition. Actually, quite the opposite. We’ve got the tattoos to prove our loyalty to one another. To prove our lifelong commitment.”

  “So, it’s a forever thing?”

  “It is.”

  “I guess that’s okay.”

  I drew a long breath and then looked at her. “It’s an outlaw club.”

  “What does that mean?”