It wasn’t King who came to her defense but Reno. Only a few days ago, he’d been the one accusing her of a weak sense of humor. He was growing on her, and she didn’t like it.
“Listen,” he said to her now. “You’re not riding safe. We need to get you fitted out.” He leaned over the counter and spoke to the biker chick manning the register. She disappeared among the racks and returned with a leather jacket and a pair of gloves. “I think these’ll fit,” she said with a smile and passed the items to Becca.
The jacket was heavy and stiff. “I feel like I’m holding an animal carcass.”
“That’s because you are,” said Bull.
“Go on.” Reno nodded. So Becca put on the jacket and zipped it. She felt constrained, almost corseted. “I know it seems uncomfortable at first. But once you wear it in, you’ll never take it off.”
Becca looked at the price tag. “Two hundred dollars? Forget it.”
“Your life isn’t worth two hundred bucks?” Reno asked. “And at the very least, this jacket will keep you warm. Jesus, girl, you were shivering so much tonight, you made me feel cold.”
“I’ll throw in the gloves for free,” said the cashier. She leaned over the counter and motioned for Becca to come closer. “You look pretty tough in that jacket,” she whispered. “Seriously. If you don’t want anyone to mess with you—just suit up.”
Becca looked around for her father to get his opinion, but King had disappeared.
“Come on.” Reno nudged her affectionately. “Become one of us.”
Becca couldn’t believe she was letting herself be talked into this, but she handed over her credit card.
“Hallelujah!” Reno exclaimed.
Becca downed her beer as though trying to dull the pain of her extravagant purchase. “Time for another,” she said.
On their way to get drinks, Reno, Bull, and Becca paused outside a small tent advertising tattoos. “My diabolical plan to convert you from human being to biker chick is nearly complete!” Reno rippled the tips of his fingers together like a cartoon villain. “Tattoo to seal the deal?”
He was only joking but Becca looked him dead in the eye. “Fine,” she said and pushed inside without looking back. She didn’t want to lose her nerve.
Becca had a terrible fear of needles, but she wasn’t going to back out now. She was so determined, she didn’t even realize that she’d cut the line and planted herself in an empty chair. The bikers who’d been waiting were so amused that they only laughed.
“You sure you’re old enough for this?” one of them said.
“Your mama know where you are?” said another.
“I thought this jacket was supposed to make me look tough,” Becca complained, and the men laughed harder.
“Becca, you really want to do this?” Reno had made his way through the crowd to her. It was the first time he’d used her actual name—called her something other than girl—and she understood that in a moment, she’d be changed for good. A jacket could come on and off; a tattoo was a commitment.
“What’s it gonna be?” The tattoo artist looked utterly uninterested, like a diner waitress snapping her gum. What’s it gonna be? But this was serious. Like the biker vets with their U.S. Marine Corps crests and American flags, Becca was taking a stand. She was making her own political statement. “What hurts the least?”
“It all hurts,” Reno said.
“You want a soft area,” her soon-to-be-tormentor advised. “But you don’t seem to have any of those.” She took her own tattooed hand and pinched Becca’s upper arm. “Solid as a rock, this one. Unlike them.” She nodded at the paunchy bikers. “How visible do you want it? If I do your back, you can hide it, but you’d have to sleep on your stomach for a while.”
Becca did not want the tattoo anywhere near Ben’s bruises.
“Inner wrist,” Reno said, and Becca could tell he’d been giving the question serious thought. “It’s visible but not too visible, but it’ll hurt like a mother.” Reno flashed his gold-toothed smile, and there he was—the Reno from King’s kitchen, the man Becca despised, reveling in her discomfort. Which was all she needed to be convinced. She offered up her left arm. “I want it to say King in black. Cursive but not too fancy.”
“No heart with an arrow through it?” Reno laughed. But Becca ignored him. The tattoo artist swabbed Becca’s wrist with alcohol and already she felt like passing out. “You need to bite on something?” Reno said.
There was a pressure on her arm and she flinched. This time, it was only the woman making the outline. Reno shook his head. “You don’t look so great.” Now he seemed truly worried about her.
“This good?” the tattoo artist asked. Becca looked at her father’s name, inked across her wrist, soon to be permanent.
Reno shook his head. “Your daddy isn’t gonna like this one bit.”
“You said to make an effort,” Becca snapped. “Let’s get this over with.”
And then pain. Specific and brutal pain, the nature of which she’d never felt in her life; it was like a hive of hornets had landed on her arm or like a blunt knife was sawing her hand off.
“Well, look at you, Rebecca.” This was Bull. He seemed to have materialized specifically to bait her, but then she saw that he was carrying another beer.
“No alcohol allowed in here,” the tattoo artist said, barely looking up.
“Give it,” Becca snarled. She grabbed the cup with her free hand and gulped it down like water. “Get me another one,” she demanded.
The tattoo artist shook her head, but she kept on working.
“Get the girl a double shot of whiskey.” Reno handed Bull some money. “You seen King out there?”
“He’s over with Elaine. Should I . . . ?”
“Just get the poor woman her drink.”
“Yes, sir.” Bull saluted and ducked out of the tent.
“Who’s Elaine?” Becca huffed, grimacing, feeling the urge to scream. But she was not going to let that happen. She was going to take this. She was going to suck it up.
“It’s a good thing your daddy doesn’t have a longer name,” Reno said.
Becca forced a smile. She felt cold, then hot. She was going to vomit. Her head swam in a nauseated blackness. The minutes passed. Bull seemed to have forgotten about her drink. Reno stood by, chatting with a couple of vets. He hadn’t told her who Elaine was, but who cared? How long had she been sitting here? How much longer was this going to last? Time seemed to have slowed; it was like entire minutes had been packed into seconds.
“What in the hell are you doing to my daughter?”
The whole tent seemed to look up at once. King stood in the doorway, as menacing as a madman. He pushed his way through the line, leaving the other bikers mumbling in his wake.
“Looks like Bull took a detour on the way to the bar.” Reno laughed. “Hiya, King!” He gave an exaggerated wave.
“Get outta that chair!” King lumbered forward, and the tattoo artist held her hands up like there was a gun in her face.
“All of a sudden you care what I’m doing?” Becca snapped, puffing through the pain, which continued to bite through her arm even though the pen wasn’t touching her.
“It’s your name she’s putting there,” Reno said and Becca held her wrist up. The tattoo artist had finished only three letters, so the tattoo read KIN; next to it was the g, much fainter, in pen.
“King,” Becca said. “It’s going to say King.”
King stopped his advance. His eyes were deep gray and glowering, like gathering clouds. His jowls quivered.
“You make that lady stop now,” Reno said, “and people will look at your kid and think, That’s one lonely girl who’s got to write Kin on her own arm.”
Reno was only trying to lighten the mood, but his words were like a kick in the chest. Becca was all on her own. She was all the family she had. “Finish it,” she told the woman. “Please.” The tattoo artist lowered the needle and Becca winced as the tip bit in. She kept he
r eyes fixed on King’s reddened face, staring him down as her body screamed.
“Branded!” Reno announced. And they left the tent with Becca’s wrist wrapped in a bandage.
King didn’t look angry anymore. More like resigned.
“She chose your name for her body. And she doesn’t take kindly to needles,” Reno said.
“You’re going to regret that, Becca,” King said, shaking his head. “It’s expensive to get those things removed.”
“I’m not getting it removed.” She turned from her father and beelined to the bar, wondering what in the hell she’d just done to herself.
Becca was drinking and watching the crowd dance to hair-band covers and rockabilly when a hand floated into her field of vision. She was confused at first—what was somebody’s upturned palm doing so close to her nose? But then she saw that the hand was attached to a wrist and that the wrist was attached to a forearm and that the arm was connected to a shoulder. The man standing before her looked Hispanic, possibly Mexican. He was stocky and thick around the stomach, with a glossy head of black hair. He flashed a large, toothy smile. He nodded at his palm.
Becca looked around, confused. “He wants to dance with you!” somebody shouted. She looked dubiously at the stranger but decided to get up. The next moment, she was in the crush of bodies on the dance floor. Her partner—who was hardly taller than she was—twisted and turned her with ease. He was keeping his distance and Becca could tell he must be making a huge effort at politeness, because around them, almost all of the dancers were pressed together, their hands squeezing each other’s asses. It was a baffling scene: gnarled bikers, many of them vets, so stiff and silent in their daily lives now out on the floor swinging their biker ladies easily by their waists.
Becca spotted Reno dancing with some townie with an exposed midriff and tight jeans. He looked downright elated, his gold caps flashing. A slow song came on and all the couples who weren’t already pressed close collapsed together. Becca was suddenly pulled against her suitor.
“You’re a good dancer,” he said into her ear. He smelled of cologne, the kind that was advertised as having the power to make women lose control of their faculties.
“No, I’m not.”
“Can’t a guy give a pretty girl a compliment?”
She didn’t answer. As uncomfortable as she felt in his meaty arms, she wanted to let the moment play out.
“You got a husband, huh,” the man said. Becca could smell the beer on his breath, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She glanced down at her wedding band and the engagement ring with the small square ruby. She didn’t answer this question either, which the man seemed to take as a good sign. He squeezed his hands tighter around her back and she noticed that the bruises were hurting less. They looked grotesque, were fading to a greeny yellow, but the ache was now a quiet pulse, much less painful than the frigid motorcycle wind or the sting of the tattoo needle.
It felt odd to have this stranger’s hands on her. They were different than Ben’s hands. Shorter, thicker fingers.
“You’re sexy,” the man said, and instead of feeling offended, Becca smiled. Why shouldn’t a man call her sexy? The hands began a descent down her lower back and onto the back pockets of her jeans. She let them linger there for a moment, then changed her mind and moved them back up. “Don’t push it,” she said, and the man laughed.
They danced in silence for a second slow song and she let her partner pull her even closer, his belly ballooned against her torso. Moving in and out, his stomach and chest felt uncomfortably alive. How strange, she thought, to feel the inner workings of a person whose name you didn’t know.
A fast rockabilly number came on and Reno cut in. She hesitated, but he just shook his head. “Come on, girl, you’ve had a couple beers, gotten a tattoo. You could do worse than dance with ol’ Reno.”
Every time he twirled her out, she felt like she was about to crash into the other couples, but just at the brink of disaster, he’d pull her back, safe.
“Watch the hand!” she shouted, worried that Reno was going to grab her wrist right over the fresh tattoo.
“I gotcha!” he called, as though she were dangling over a cliff, her feet kicking into the abyss. She thought she might throw up, but then Reno put one hand firmly on her back and they danced more calmly. Gradually, the world stopped spinning.
“I like you better like this,” he said.
“Like what?”
“A little drunk and without a damn pole stuck—well, you know.”
Reno was only slightly taller than Becca, and dancing with him, she could see his face up close in a way she hadn’t before. His skin was burlap tan and the furrows around his quick eyes made him look older than he appeared from a distance. He couldn’t have been much younger than her father.
“I like you better when you’re not a total hard-ass,” Becca said.
“That really is what you think about me,” he said, turning her slowly.
“You never gave me reason to think otherwise.”
“You know what I think, Becca?” She stiffened, her easy feeling fading. “I think you set your mind against most people and refuse to budge.”
She started to protest, but Reno shook his head. “I get it, okay? I know why you do it.”
He rocked them both, left, then right. He turned her in a slow circle, still swaying to the music.
“It’s not true,” she said.
Reno looked at her in a joshing way that said, Lies—after all we’ve been through? She looked back at him as though to say, You may be right, but you’ll never hear me admit it out loud.
The song ended. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Becca,” Reno said and gave a little bow.
Becca felt, suddenly, a swelling in her heart. It was sadness and uncertainty all mixed together. “Reno, what was in Kath’s letter?” She knew she must have looked awfully weak to him right then, but she didn’t care.
Reno fixed his eyes on hers, and Becca believed that he was finally going to tell her everything. But then his eyes shifted to something over her shoulder. “Brace yourself,” he said.
Becca turned to see a tsunami of frosted bangs rushing at them, led by a bosom that looked ready to burst from its denim halter.
“Becca!” The woman squealed like a teenager. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you!” Becca shrank back, afraid she’d be knocked over. Instead, the woman grabbed her shoulder and pulled her into an embrace. It felt more like a throttle. The bruises screamed.
“King, she’s the cutest thing. I mean, she’s perfection.”
“Perfection,” Reno mimicked.
Set free, Becca looked around for her father. He was hiding behind Bull as though cowering from this explosion of feminine excitement. Who was this person?
“Oh, I envy your shoulders, Becca,” the woman said. “So narrow! Those are model shoulders.”
Becca had never once thought about her shoulders. “Thanks?” she offered.
“I mean, just look at these hunks of flesh! I look like a linebacker.”
“Elaine, you haven’t even introduced yourself,” Reno said.
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes widened beneath eyelashes that looked coated in tar. “Well, I’m Elaine. Your daddy’s woman.”
King has a girlfriend? Becca was too stunned to feel hurt for being kept in the dark.
“You’re about as dainty as they come,” Bull assured Elaine, and Becca saw her father blush deeply. It wasn’t exactly true—the woman’s halter exposed skin that had clearly wrinkled beneath unnatural UV light. Her arms were more or less skinny for a woman in her fifties, though she’d deftly hidden her stomach paunch with high-waisted jeans. Her belt, Becca noticed, was stamped leather. Clearly, a present from King.
“We have so much to catch up on!” Elaine winked at Becca. “But first, your daddy’s promised me a dance.”
No way, Becca thought and then watched in astonishment as her father followed Elaine to the dance floor. He just went, l
ike dancing was simply something you did at a party where a band was playing. Which it was—for normal people. To be fair, what King was doing now could not be called dancing, exactly. His body jerked and folded and stretched and there was this expression of intense concentration on his face, like the activity was extremely complicated. Periodically, Elaine took his hand and tried to pull him into a rhythm. It never worked. They’d fall out of step, trip over each other, and then separate until Elaine coaxed him back into line. She smiled and didn’t seem to mind the mess that was King on the dance floor.
“Horrible, ain’t he,” Reno said. Becca nodded dumbly.
The song ended and Elaine returned. “Let’s get to know each other,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you.” I’ve heard zip about you, Becca thought but she followed Elaine anyway. “Truthfully, it’s good to have girlfriends to drink with, since, you know, I’d never drink with King,” Elaine said as they walked toward the bar. “He says he doesn’t mind, but I prefer not to have a beer when he’s around. It doesn’t seem fair. Don’t you agree?”
For the next thirty minutes, while they sat at a picnic table drinking Coronas, Elaine talked about herself. She was a nail technician in town but was studying acupuncture. She’d been riding motorcycles for nearly twenty-five years, ever since her husband—now ex-husband—informed her that women “weren’t fit” to ride. Elaine was living outside Flagstaff, Arizona, at the time, and the very next day, she’d gone to the DMV for her motorcycle license. Then she put her entire savings—all forty-two hundred dollars of it—toward a bike. “A beautiful bike,” she said wistfully. Her husband had gone ballistic over the purchase. “He was a red-necked, dimwitted brute,” she said and explained that the man had beaten her for years. Through all of this, Becca noticed that Elaine’s voice sounded cheerful, as though she were discussing a great movie she’d seen and not the tragedy of her marriage. “Of course he tried to stop me,” she said. “But things had changed. I had the bike!”
“You ran him over?” Becca asked, incredulous. She wasn’t sure that she liked Elaine, but the woman was certainly impressive.
The Heart You Carry Home Page 11
