by Celia Loren
Maybe last night’s tryst was better than it looked, because Rooster is in as good a mood as he ever is. I turn and begin cutting up some more veggies, carefully placing them back into the pan to soften. I cleanly crack three eggs into a bowl and whisk them with a fork. I hear Rooster move toward me and freeze as he pushes up against my back, softly moving my hair to the side. He kisses my neck, and that’s when I know something really must be up.
“Happy Anniversary,” he whispers, and I drop the fork into the bowl in surprise. I feel him smile against my neck. “You forget?”
“N-no,” I stammer, “I just didn’t think you’d remember.”
“How could I forget?” he coos in my ear.
Well, you forgot last year and were fucking some whore last night, I want to retort, but I keep my words to myself. I haven’t seen Rooster’s good side in a while, and I’ve seen enough of his bad side to hold my tongue.
He grabs me by the hips and spins me around. I meet his gaze and am taken aback by how handsome he is. Most of the time, his good looks are shadowed by his terrible personality. But there’s a softness to him this morning that makes me recall the earliest days of our marriage. I can’t remember the last time I was this close to him.
“I thought we could go to The Bitter End tonight,” he says, and I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at him.
“The Bitter End...where we had our first date?” I ask.
“You know another one?” he asks, rolling his eyes playfully, “Come on, let me take you out for a special night.”
“Yeah, sure,” I answer, completely bewildered by his behavior.
“Wear something nice. And don’t forget your cut,” he says, patting my ass. He breaks away and walks back toward the bedroom. I mechanically turn back to the skillet and pour in the eggs. Rooster reenters wearing his cut over a black t-shirt.
“I’ve gotta run,” he says, planting a totally uncharacteristic kiss on my cheek, “I’ll pick you up around seven-thirty.”
And with that, he walks out the front door. I hear the roar of his bike starting up, then fading into the distance. What the fuck was that? I wonder, as I plate the omelet that I guess I’m going to eat myself, now. I curl up in my favorite chair in the living room as Scout walks over to sit at my feet.
A small bloom of hope blossoms in my stomach, and I do my best to tear it up immediately. But a little voice keeps pestering me. Could he be changing at last? Going back to the Rooster I knew when my dad was still alive? The one who brought me flowers for no reason, who took me on surprise day trips on the back of his bike?
I roll my eyes at myself. He’s changed in the six hours since I saw him screwing a sweet butt on my own fucking car? I don’t think so.
The sun shines right on this spot in the morning, and I end up dozing off for a while, my head tucked into the wing of the armchair. I wake up around noon with Scout licking my feet and whining at me. I smile at him. He wants a walk. I throw on some shorts, a t-shirt, and baseball cap, then leash him and take him up to the trails behind our house, pausing just outside so he can relieve himself.
February in Arizona is temperate and mild. I let Scout off the leash and break into a jog, happy to feel the breeze on my face. He roams away from me but circles back to check in. He’s encountered some snakes up here, but he’s smart enough to keep his distance. We head uphill along the dry, rocky trail. At the top of the hill, we’re both panting, and I wish I had brought a water bottle for the both of us.
I sink down to pet him and spring back up, darting away from him, daring him to chase me. He barks with excitement and races back down after me. I haven’t felt this light in months. Years, even. Maybe my stone cold husband is starting to thaw to me again after all...
Back in the house, I freshen Scout’s water bowl and plop back down on the couch. I turn the TV on and get lost in reruns of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I’ve seen just about every TV show out there at this point. Twice. Not much else to do these days. I used to have my studies to keep me occupied, but those days are gone.
I take a break to make myself a turkey and avocado sandwich and settle back down on the couch. The couch. My old faithful friend. I wish Rooster had let me finish school and get my nursing degree. Without it, I feel purposeless. We’d had several big arguments about it, which he’d put an end to by breaking my nose, so the matter is pretty much settled now. I keep house, and I work three days a week at the repair shop, and that’s pretty much my whole life.
And when I start worrying too much about my waste of a life, like I am right now, I get up and smoke some weed, which I buy off one of the mechanics at the shop.
I fish my little baggie of pot and my pipe out of the sock drawer and pack a small bowl. I’m sure Rooster knows that I smoke pot and who sells it to me, because he keeps very tight control of everything I do. But as long as it doesn’t interfere with the meals I make him, I guess he doesn’t mind. I like to think that it’s my little secret, though. I never really planned on being someone who smoked pot almost every afternoon, but then I hadn’t planned on a lot of things happening, and it helps me get through the day.
Returning to the living room, I plop down and light up. I giggle at one of the Housewives doing her direct-to-camera interview. I wonder what Rooster is thinking, asking me to have dinner with him to night. Probably guilt, I think, though why he should start feeling guilty now I don’t know. There’s been a lot for him to feel guilty about before, and he’s never shown any sign of a conscience. Maybe it was the timing of fucking a girl on our anniversary that pushed him over the edge? Who knows. At least it’ll be nice to get a little dressed up for a change. I can’t remember the last time I had a night out. Rooster stopped inviting me to the club parties a while back, and I can’t even remember the last time I wore makeup.
Finishing the bowl, I decide to take a shower and do my hair nicely for the evening. I don’t know what’s up with Rooster, but I can at least dress up for myself. I wash my hair and carefully shave my legs. I really hope Rooster doesn’t want to have sex tonight. If he does, how will I get him to use a condom? More likely he’ll drop me off at home and then spend the night with some sweet butt. And I can spend the night with my vibrator, which probably needs another set of batteries at this point.
I towel off and stand in front of my closet. Rooster keeps all of his stuff in the master bedroom, so I have this small space to myself. I run my hand over the hanging clothes. It’s been so long since I’ve gotten dolled up, I haven’t even looked at these dresses in a while. I choose a light floral jumper with spaghetti straps—it’ll be better than a dress if I’m riding on the back of Rooster’s bike. I hope it still fits. I haven’t exactly been paying attention to and kind of diet and exercise routine.
Slipping on the garment, I’m glad to see that it still fits, though it is a little tighter than I remember. Not surprising, considering that I probably bought it three or four years ago. Back when I was a newlywed.
I head back into the bathroom and blow dry my hair into soft waves. I apply a little lip gloss and mascara, nothing fancy. Still, it feels nice to put a little effort into my appearance. I head back into the bedroom and slip on a pair of strappy sandals. I appraise myself in the full-length mirror and am pleased by my reflection. I don’t think I’ve been this content with my appearance since I looked into this mirror on my wedding day. Jesus, how time has flown.
Grabbing a purse and cardigan, I walk back down the hallway. Scout comes to greet me, dancing around my legs, aware that something a little different is going on. I realize I’ve forgotten my cut in the closet and go to grab it. I remember how proud I was when Rooster gave it to me. I run my hand over the patch that reads “Property of Rooster.” I haven’t worn it in a long time, and I wonder why Rooster has asked me to wear it tonight.
I head into the kitchen and pour some dry dog food into Scout’s bowl. I sit at the breakfast bar and thumb through an old magazine while I wait for Rooster.
Around 7:45 I hear my husband�
��s bike and grab my half-shell helmet. I kneel to say goodbye to Scout and he gives me a quick lick across my cheek. I head out the front door as I buckle the helmet strap under my chin. Rooster’s sitting on his Harley in the driveway, texting on his phone.
He looks up and runs his eyes up and down my body. I flush, feeling pretty exposed, and wonder again what his motives are for taking me out tonight.
“Well, hop on,” he says. He’s smiling, but the corners of his mouth don’t crease. I swing my leg over the back of his bike and have barely got my arms around him when he pulls a sharp u-turn in the driveway and turns right down the street. I quickly wrap my hands around his stomach like I used to, but he feels completely unfamiliar. I sit up stiffly, my cheek pulled away from his back.
The wind blows in my hair as we head toward town. The Bitter End isn’t far from our house, and I close my eyes, willing my nagging doubts to go away. Just enjoy the breeze for a while, I coach myself. Enjoy this while it lasts.
We pull up to the stoplight just around the corner from the restaurant and I open my eyes. The sun is low on the horizon, and people are walking down Main Street, enjoying the nice weather. Heads turn to see Rooster and a few men nod to him cautiously. Everyone in Clarksville knows the Devil’s Army MC, and they used to know me too. I wonder if these people have seen Rooster out with other women. What must they think of me now? Do they feel scorn for me, or worse, pity?
The stoplight turns green and we roar cross the intersection to the Bitter End. Rooster guides his bike right up to the restaurant’s windows. There are a few other cars parked in the lot, but it’s a Thursday, and this isn’t the most happening town. Rooster places a hand on the small of my back and even holds the front door open for me. The walls of the restaurant are exposed red brick, and the tables are small wood rectangles with yellow candles glowing in the middle.
The hostess is leaning on her little podium, checking her fake nails, looking bored. She raises her eyes to see me, then snaps to attention when she sees Rooster. She gives him a coy little smile and grabs two menus. Her eyes dart to my cut and her smile sours a little.
“Right this way, sir,” she purrs, beckoning us to a secluded back corner table. We follow her back and I’m aware of the other diners in the place eyeing Rooster’s cut as we pass. The back features a devil with an army hat and a machine gun, and the front has the word “President” embroidered on the left lapel.
We sit and the hostess hands us our menus. She leaves with a secret smile to Rooster. To his credit, he ignores her. I run my eyes down the list of appetizers. The Bitter End identifies itself as an “American Bistro,” which seems to mean they have a little of everything. I continue down to the entrees and decide I’ll have a salad and burger. I love cooking more than almost anything, but it’s nice to have a night off once in a while. And come to think of it, it’s been a long while since I’ve had one.
Our waiter, a bland-looking guy in his thirties, comes over and takes our drink order. Rooster orders beers for both of us without asking me. When the waiter comes back with them, we place our food orders and continue to sit in tense silence. I unfold my napkin and place it in my lap, then push the butter knife from side to side. I steal a glance up at Rooster and catch his eye. He’s staring at me.
He raises his beer to me. I automatically reach for mine.
“Cheers. Happy Anniversary,” he says, taking a deep swig.
“Happy Anniversary,” I echo, taking a gulp of beer myself.
“Sorry I haven’t been around a lot lately,” he continues. “We’ve been having trouble with the Satan’s Sons, this group operating out of Vegas. Real fucked-up dudes. They’re expanding. Trying to take over our territory.”
I cock my head at him, not understanding. He’s never talked to me about club business, even in the good times. I know some bikers share everything with their old ladies, but Rooster always said he didn’t want to worry me about all that stuff. It’s common outlaw wisdom that a happy home means having an old lady that knows everything or nothing—I’ve been kept firmly in the second category. Until now, it would seem. Peculiar.
“I mean, fuck. These guys are nuts, Violet,” Rooster says, leaning back in his chair and shoving his hand through his hair. “I really don’t like what I hear about them, but they’re powerful. They’ve got charters popping up all over the place. Even their clubhouse—it’s an old mental institution. How sick is that?”
I nod, polishing off my beer. I’m nervous about this turn in conversation, but a little excited too. Maybe he wants my advice about club business. I did learn a thing or two growing up around my dad. He was the best at all this stuff. Always knew when to be aggressive, and when to be diplomatic.
Rooster signals the waiter for two more beers.
“Now I know I’m no angel,” he says, “But I’ve heard some really fucked up things about the way they treat women over there.”
You’re one to talk, I think to myself.
“There are stories about how they’ll gang-bang some underage girl and then just leave her by the side of the road when she’s all used up,” Rooster goes on.
“Oh my god...” I murmur. That’s intense, even for the outlaw world. There’s a code of honor in these clubs that protects the defenseless. But I guess that’s not how the Sons do things.
The waiter brings over our food and two more beers. I start tucking into my burger. The beer is already going to my head. Better get some food in my belly before I get too tipsy.
“Another time,” Rooster goes on, jamming a knife into his steak, “When one of their club members betrayed them, they set his house on fire while his wife and two kids were in it. He survived. They didn’t.”
I put my burger down. I’m losing my appetite. Rooster, for his part, stuffs a big old bite of red meat into his mouth. He speaks around it as he chews.
“I just don’t know what to do about these fuckers,” he mumbles, swallowing hard, “I mean, it’s a lot of pressure on my back, being president. Your dad made it look so easy. What would you do?”
Wow, he really does want my advice.
“Oh, I, well...maybe you could negotiate?” I stammer, unused to the advisor role. God, I sound like a dumb little girl.
“Negotiate...” Rooster repeats, his expression unreadable. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to think of something they might want.”
“There must be something,” I encourage him.
“Sure. I’ll think about it,” he says, with a smile that finally reaches his eyes. “How’s that burger?”
“Really good,” I answer, picking it up again. I don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful for this meal. “So everything else with the club is OK, then?” I ask tentatively.
“What does that mean?” he snaps, his eyes flashing angrily. And there he is, the old Rooster.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just checking in.”
He smiles coldly at me. “Everything’s fine.”
Working part-time at the auto shop, I hear some things when people think I’m not listening. I’ve really perfected the glassy-eyed look that makes people think I’m either deaf or dumb, so I’ve managed to pick up a little info on club business. Like how Rooster promoted younger guys that were loyal to him to positions they weren’t ready for. Like how he doesn’t bring issues to a vote, he just decides on them himself. Like how a lot of the older guys aren’t happy with the way things are being done...
“You look nice tonight,” Rooster says, “I was beginning to think you forgot how.” I look up sharply at him. Rooster has perfected this way of giving me a backhanded compliment so that if I get upset about it, I end up looking crazy and overly sensitive.
“Thanks,” I respond shortly.
“I know everything was tough after your dad died,” my husband goes on, “But maybe it’s time for you to start making more of an effort.”
A lump rises in my throat. Rooster is so good at playing this game, using enough of the truth in what he says to make me q
uestion myself. It’s true that I went through a deep depression when my dad died, but it’s not like our marriage problems are all my fault. What about the abuse? The cheating? He’s so skilled at making me feel like I push him to that stuff. I know it’s useless to point that out to him, though. He will just argue it back around so that it becomes my fault, and then I’ll get some bruises for it when we’re in private. Best to just change the subject.
“So, how’s your mom doing?” I ask, “She like the new place?”
We talk for a while about his mom, who’s been living in some retirement community a few hours south of us. It’s neutral territory for us, and at least we finish up the meal with some conversation, even if it’s stilted. I bet if someone were listening in on our conversation, they would have no idea that we’re husband and wife. They’d probably think that we’re strangers on a first date. And not a very successful date, at that.
The waiter comes back around and clears our plates. He asks if we want dessert but I’m stuffed, so Rooster just asks for the check.
“So, you enjoy yourself tonight?” he asks, laying cash out on the table.
“Yeah,” I reply, “Thanks for taking me out.”
“No problem,” he winks, checking his watch.
“Got somewhere to be?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
“Yeah, I guess we should head out,” he responds, standing up.
I stand too. Maybe he just wanted to take me to a nice dinner on our anniversary so he could feel better about being such an asshole for the rest of the year. We retrace our steps out of the restaurant, but he pauses in the parking lot by his bike.
“You know, these Satan’s Sons...they’re really powerful.”
“Yeah, you said,” I reply. Why bring them up again?
“As president, sometimes I’ve got to make some tough sacrifices to keep club business going.”
I start to feel a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “What are you talking about, Rooster?” I ask, “Where is this coming from?”
“The thing is, I already did negotiate with the Sons,” my husband goes on, crossing his thick arms, “And what I negotiated was you.”
