“Wait!”
The intensity of his tone draws my interest. “What?” I place it on my ear again.
“My mother is attending the memorial service for Angelique. She personally requested your presence. She wants you to say a few words in Angelique’s honor.”
I swallow the ugly words I really want to say. Like where was Angel’s bitch of a mother when her brothers were going to sell her like a piece of livestock to the highest bidder when she was sixteen? Or how could she continue to live with herself when she missed her only daughter’s funeral? I don’t, though, because I know people hooked on drugs don’t think clearly. I’ve watched several brothers lose the battle against heroin and alcohol, only finding relief after they’re six feet under the ground. And Angel’s mother is a hardcore junkie.
I’m not heartless. But I’m an Iron Norseman. There’s no way I’m making an appearance without a security detail wearing our colors. “My brothers are coming, patches included.”
“Memorial services are considered neutral territory—no colors.”
“Not anymore.”
There’s a brief pause. “Fine. Agreed. Next Saturday, sunset at the cemetery.”
I hang up, wondering what I just let myself get talked into. I open the center drawer on my desk and pull out a small framed photograph of Angel and me. She’s wearing black leathers and her enigmatic smile still tugs at my heartstrings. Like she’s been with me all along. “Hey, Baby,” I whisper, running a finger over the glass.
I close my eyes, pretending I can see her, smell her, feel her. That’s how potent our love was. Pure and rare. As powerful as the first spring rain that washes all the shit and muck away left over from winter. That’s what Angel did to me. She cleared all the bad from my life and gave me a reason to live. Even from the grave. My eyes pop open and I stare at the picture again.
“I know you’d want me to be happy.” I tuck the photo back where it belongs. In reach but out of sight. The same with my own life. Within reach . . . I’m guilty of treating myself the way I do Angel’s photograph. Whenever an opportunity to move on presents itself, I tuck my heart in a drawer somewhere, refusing to let go of the past.
Funny how life moves along without any planning. I wake up every day to the same thing—my brothers. Twenty-three to be exact, with a second club in Beaumont. We’re not the biggest MC in the state, far from it. But we have the respect of ninety percent of the other clubs. That takes years of precise planning and diplomatic skills. When it comes to growing our charter, we’re selective about choosing prospects.
We have three cooperative treaties in place in Louisiana, Texas, and Oklahoma. Our mainstay is money laundering for the cartel. No drugs. No sex slaves. No kidnapping. We provide bodyguards occasionally and sell some guns when we need extra cash. That’s as close to legitimate as you can get these days. And the bike shop and garage are a success. I’m damn proud of my club for it. Keeping my brothers on the straight and narrow can be a challenge sometimes, but we get through it.
Someone taps on the door.
“Come in.”
Maverick, Tonsils, and J.P. file inside. “Come on, Prez. The bike is done.”
“Which one?”
“Yours,” J.P. says, beaming like a teenager. “It’s ready for a test ride.”
The perfect distraction. I’ve waited eight months to restore my grandfather’s 1960 custom Pan Head. With a seventy-four-cubic-inch motor, it’s everything I want. Blazing red with lots of chrome and chopper style, and my soul is already longing for the open road. I follow my brothers outside, across the street, and into the bike store. We’re the only custom shop within a two hundred mile radius. The gray concrete building has three overhead garage doors and six work stations. We employ four full-time mechanics and a couple local girls answer the phone and man the showroom floor.
Evie greets me. “Hey, boss.”
“How’s it going, sweetheart?”
“Pretty sure I’m reeling in that guy from Memphis on the Electra Glide Ultra Classic.”
Evie is a shark. She could talk the pope into buying a Harley. And with all the rich urban bikers who think buying an American legend will make them look badass, I’ve finally learned to leave the sales to the girls. If I have to see another engineer on a goddamned Harley, I’ll slit my wrists.
We pass through the breakroom and into the work area. Two of my mechanics are busy. The others are waiting for me. I see the outline of a bike under a sheet. Rubbing my hands together, I wave at Tonsils. “Uncover it.”
As soon as the machine is visible, I’m all over it, circling it like a hungry predator. Even the original spring solo seat has been carefully refurbished. I slide my hand over the black leather, then eye the new paint job with appreciation. “Who did the silhouette flames on the tank?”
“Johnny,” Tonsils answers.
“Stick a couple C-notes in his mailbox. It’s fucking incredible. All of it.” I walk a few feet away and gaze at a color photograph of my grandfather on his bike that’s tacked to the wall. He’s wearing a bell rogue helmet and a scuffed up leather jacket with patches from all the states he rode through. I check the original color and flame design against the new. It’s a match. “If I’m not back before dinner, hold off on the meeting. Church can wait. Today I’m resurrecting an old friend.”
I roll the bike outside and kick start it. It rumbles to life and I grin ear to ear as I straddle the seat. My brothers form a semicircle around me and clap.
Some kids went fishing or hunting with grandpa. I didn’t. He threw me on the back of his bike as soon as I learned to walk. Never mind that a two-year-old could fall off and crack his skull. Old school. That’s what he was, and that’s what I’ll be until the day I take my last breath. I let out the clutch and soar out of the parking lot, feeling better than I have in a long time.
Chapter Ten
Serafina
I directed the driver to park a fair distance from where I’m going. There’s no chance Eagle will suspect anything if Percy tells him where we stopped. This is one of the largest cemeteries in southern Louisiana and it would come as no surprise if I had a family member buried here. I cross the narrow roadway and hustle around the corner of a shed, my heart hammering. I stop to catch my breath, wondering if this was a wise decision.
Too late now, I remind myself.
The indoor columbarium is surrounded by flower beds and mature magnolia trees. The stone building has a marble archway and opens into an atrium with rectangular windows on both sides. My sandals echo on the marble tiles as I walk, searching for the number plate for my row. Finding it, I swallow and brave the final few steps to my commemorative plaque. I read several on the way, appreciating the simple beauty of the colorful wall.
I find the rose-colored tile with my name inscribed on it. It reads Angelique Marie Orani, beloved daughter, sister, and friend. May the angels keep you.
Tears burn my eyes as I trace the fancy lettering with my index finger. It’s surreal. Seriously so. This is the summation of my existence. A one-foot by one-foot square with my name carved on it. Yes, there are individual vases anchored to the wall where flowers can be placed next to each plaque. And yes, there are fresh white roses in mine. Someone misses me enough to visit. I can’t imagine my brother coming here. Maybe one of my girlfriends, or even Eagle. He’s sentimental enough to do it.
I retreat a couple of steps and palm the tears off my cheeks. Sarah Burlington and Joel Smith are my neighbors and I take a moment to wish them peace. Then I spy a marble bench a couple feet away, almost perfectly aligned with my spot on the wall. There’s a metal dedication plate on it and I pause to read it.
In memory of Angel Orani, the woman I will always love and worship.
Until we meet in paradise. Love, Eagle.
Unable to hold in my emotions, I drop to my knees in front of the bench and weep. I never expected a memorial from Eagle. Not such an open one. I’m even more surprised that my brother didn’t have one of his MC
members vandalize it first thing. Maybe this place is too sacred for a Dead Dog to ruin. After all, the Dogs are a superstitious group, most of them born in the backwaters of Louisiana.
I stay crouched until my knees ache, then slowly stand up, my whole body shaking with such a deeply rooted sadness I can’t see straight. I ease myself onto the bench, careful not to cover the dedication plate with my legs. I read it again and again. Until we meet in paradise . . . We sure as hell didn’t find heaven in Holly Beach. All we found was trouble. Hatred. Jealousy. Vengeance. All the things my family represented after my father’s murder.
That’s when my mother got drunk the first time. That’s when my two brothers found something my father had never given them—unconditional acceptance—with the Dead Dogs. Like any impressionable teenagers, they were blinded by the motorcycles, money, and women.
The rest is history. Reggie assumed the role as head of household, paying the mortgage and feeding my mom’s multiple addictions. It makes me sick to revisit memories I’ve learned to ignore. But this unwelcome yet unavoidable trip down memory lane has opened my eyes in more ways than anything else.
I thought reading my own obituary in the newspaper was hard. Or that undergoing plastic surgery and changing my name scarred me so deep I’d never look back. I was wrong. This is pure torture. Add seeing Eagle, talking to him, and nearly sleeping with him? Well, I’m lost again—forced back in time to that emotional place where I was prone to uncontrollable crying fits and shaky hands.
I close my eyes and bow my head, praying to the God my father taught me to believe in. If there’s any chance at peace here, I’m pretty sure God is the only one who can grant it. Finished, I stand and try to collect myself. I left my purse in the car, so no sunglasses to hide my swollen eyes. And I’m pretty sure I’ve cried all my mascara away. Determined to go home, I exit the columbarium and return to the town car.
Percy takes one look at me and shakes his head in sympathy. He doesn’t mention the way I look. “Where to?”
“Texarkana, please.”
“Yes, ma’am. Right away.”
Eagle
I take Highway 82 all the way to Beaumont, then circle back to Lake Charles before I notice the time. The bike is everything I expected. Its responsive and loud, the way my grandfather intended. Though I won’t ride it every day, having the vintage bike in my garage connects me with my past. I lost my grandfather to cancer when I was fourteen. He bequeathed his house and bike to me—everything he had left in the world. When I get back to the shop, I’ll ask Tonsils to paint his name on the tank. A fitting tribute to Alex Laramie—World War II veteran and the best friend I ever had.
I stop at a convenience store for a cup of coffee and a hot dog. Just as I’m about to climb back on my bike, my cell rings. Its Percy Williams, a friend and the driver I hired to take Serafina home because I wasn’t ready to spend more time with her yet. I accept the call.
“Percy. Where are you?”
“Halfway to Texarkana.”
“Has she said anything?”
“Hardly a word. But we did stop at the Holly Beach Cemetery on the way out.”
“She has family in Louisiana?”
“I didn’t ask. But judging by the way she looked and acted when she came back to the car, I’d say yes. Definitely.”
“Damn.” She’s a hard one to figure out.
“Do you want me to bring her back?”
“No. Get her home safe. I plan on contacting her soon.” I disconnect and tuck my phone in my vest pocket.
An hour later, I arrive back at the MC compound behind Iron Mechanical. Surrounded by a seven-foot fence, the area includes the clubhouse, a big yard, my grandfather’s old house where I live, a bunk house, and a three-car garage. I park my bike in front of the clubhouse, then head inside. Several of the old ladies are busy in the cafeteria-style kitchen making a late lunch.
I greet them with a smile and hugs. “Lori. Janice. Mercedes. Belle. What’s on the menu this afternoon?” I snatch a cherry tomato from the salad bowl and pop it in my mouth.
Belle slaps my hand like a mother would. “Did you wash those grubby things yet?”
I chuckle and examine my hands before showing them to the older woman. “Look clean enough to me.”
She rolls her eyes. “See that black stuff under your nails? That’s dirt.”
“No,” I disagree. “That’s oil.”
“Gross.” Mercedes scrunches her face as she looks over Belle’s shoulder at me.
“Paranoid, aren’t you?” I tease Belle. She’s the vice president’s wife and in charge of the old ladies and passarounds who hang out at the clubhouse.
“You try living with a man in a cast for eight weeks who informs you he hasn’t washed his hands.” Belle looks completely disgusted.
“Not even his wiping hand?”
“Don’t get me started on that conversation, Eagle. The man is disgusting. Trust me. After that cast came off I took a wire brush and half a bottle of dish soap to his ass.”
“And invited me over to help spray the house down with Lysol,” Mercedes adds as she walks across the kitchen with a pan loaded with hamburger buns. She stuffs them in the oven and turns toward me again.
I laugh so hard it hurts. “What would we do without you ladies?”
“Masturbate?” Lori chimes in. She waddles over, least seven months pregnant.
“Is that what Charlie has been doing?” I ask.
Belle signals for a time out. “TMI,” she says. “I don’t want to know how Charlie gets his rocks off.”
“With all the kids you ladies are popping out, pretty sure I can guess.”
“Speaking of which . . .” Belle never misses a chance to harass me about my marital status. “When are you going to give us the next Iron Norsemen prez?”
I clear my throat. The idea of becoming a father makes me nervous. Always has. But not as much as having to face the reality that in order to have a child, I need to pick an old lady. “When I’m ready.” It’s the perfect excuse to leave the kitchen.
Before I clear the dining room, I hear Belle yell out, “Heard you were pretty tight with a girl at the bachelor party!”
Goddamn it, Tonsils. The man tells Belle everything—except club business.
Several brothers are playing pool in the living area, hovering close to be the first in line for lunch. I stop and shake hands with them.
“Anything happening?” I ask.
“We need your approval on a special order from the Lake Charles PD,” Snake says.
“Why are they sending their vehicles to us?”
“Five squad cars were vandalized last week. The usual body shop they deal with can’t get the job done until next month.”
I rub my chin. We’re on decent terms with most of the police around southern Louisiana. The Iron Norsemen don’t cause unnecessary problems. In fact, we’re an integral part of the community. We cleaned up half the town and volunteered for the beach restoration projects after Katrina. The population is around five thousand permanent residents. During the winter, that number jumps to six thousand with all the snowbirds parking their RVs on the beach and in our parks.
“I can’t say no. Schedule them for tomorrow. Everything else gets pushed back. Let’s cycle these vehicles through as quickly as possible.” The last time the Lake Charles PD came here, they were armed with a search warrant for the clubhouse, compliments of an anonymous call by the Dead Dogs claiming we were a crack house.
The lunch bell rings, and I follow my brothers to the dining room where the ladies have laid out a spread of hamburgers, chili, chips, and salad. I sit at the head of one of the three stainless steel picnic tables we made in the shop. Everyone waits for me to serve myself first, then the room jumps to life.
I watch as Tonsils and Belle interact, laughing and enjoying private conversation. I miss that the most about everyday life. Having a good woman to come home to. Someone to trust and laugh with. Someone to make love to at night.
Someone to wrap their arms around my waist when I’m flying down the highway on a club run.
One name comes to mind: Serafina. Maybe it’s time to emerge from my emotional hibernation and take a chance. It’s too early to say where it could go, but I can’t get her out of my head. And that’s a tight space at the moment, because Angel has lived there for a long time.
Now if I can just get Serafina to open up a little and trust me enough to spend some time together.
Chapter Eleven
Serafina
Every Sunday morning, I eat breakfast at my apartment with my best friend, Asia. She wakes me up promptly at eight by pounding on my front door and I slink out of bed, still tired from my lack of sleep the night before.
“Open up, ’Fina,” she calls through the door.
I do, yawning and stretching. She takes one look at me, snorts, and comes in, carrying two white bags.
“Tell me that’s a double mocha,” I say, desperate for caffeine.
She places the bags on the dining room table, then faces me, one hand on her hip. “Tell me why you didn’t answer the phone yesterday? Or text, even.”
“Sorry,” I say, meaning it. “I wanted to be alone.”
“Why?”
Asia and I met four years ago after I decided to try and establish a new life for myself. I spent the first year in Texarkana holed up in this apartment, ordering takeout and paying my bills online. I was too afraid to venture outside. The threat of my remaining brother or any of the Dead Dogs finding me very real in my mind. Then one day I woke up and craved warmth and sunshine. I needed to be around people. To hear kids laugh and watch the birds flit around in the park. I got dressed and took the longest walk ever.
I randomly chose a café and grabbed a seat at the counter. Asia brought me a menu. I guess I looked as pathetic as I felt, because she told me there was no way she was going to let me eat alone, clocked out, then sat down next to me with a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. We talked for hours and I ended up giving her my cell number.
One Taste of Angel Page 6
