Disruption of Desire

by Rob Somers

  “What?” she says sarcastically, raising her hand up.

  Dad quickly changes things over to Frankie, wanting him to elaborate on his private investigator job. Dad seems really interested in what he does for the company.

  “Well, for the first few months, all I did was ride around with my boss. I needed to learn how to be hidden in plain sight so no one could find me. He taught me everything I needed to know about being a private investigator. Now that I’ve been there a year, the company has been giving me my own cases.”

  From what he says, he’s damn good at it.

  Connor lets out a “Pssshhh!” and Dad looks at him, puzzled.

  “You think you could do his job, Connor? My understanding is that you have been working some crazy hours as it is.”

  Connor snaps his head over at me, obviously pissed off I talked to my parents about this. Fuck. Well, who else am I supposed to talk to about it? He’s never home for me to tell him how I feel about it. Like I said, we literally only see each other in the mornings. Then I head to my office and start writing and editing, and he goes off to work; me, never knowing when he’s coming home. Granted, he has been home a lot more lately, but still. He goes to work and I honestly don’t know if he is coming home or staying there to work. While we were dating, we didn’t live with each other, so I never realized he worked so much. Now that we’re under the same roof, I notice it every damn day.

  “It’s not that I’m saying I could do his job. I’m just saying that I don’t think it’s a very strenuous job.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Now, don’t get me wrong, Frankie, what you do is your own thing. But don’t you think that what you do kind of ruins people’s lives, in a way?” Obviously, Connor is trying to backtrack on this.

  Frankie puts his beer down and looks Connor dead in the eyes. “I wouldn’t be ruining people’s lives if they weren’t already doing it themselves!”

  “He has a point there, Connor-O!” Brit butts right into the conversation. I give Brit a swift kick in the shin under the table, letting her know to butt out of it. Whipping her head around to look at me, she opens her eyes wide, and mouths, “What?!”

  I can tell Frankie didn’t care too much for Connor’s comment. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, and excuses himself from the table to go have a smoke out back. Brit hops up as well. “Good call there, Frankie. I’ll join you.”

  As the two of them walk out back and shut the door behind them, I glare at Connor with a perfected resting bitch face. “Seriously, Connor? That was a real dick thing to say, don’t you think?” Connor sometimes opens his mouth when he should just keep it shut. “Mom, will you help me clear the table, please?”

  I pick up my plate up and put it on top of Connor’s, while Mom grabs Dad’s and hers. We walk into the kitchen, leaving Connor with Dad, who is obviously a little ticked off at him. I hear Dad start what sounds like the beginning of a man-to-man talk with his son-in-law.

  “Really, Connor? Why did you have to say that to the kid? You know the hell he has been through. How about having a little respect for him.” Dad pulls his cigar case from his pocket. “Now, I have a nice stogie here for you. I think we should go out back and join Frankie. And I’m sure you’re going to apologize to him. Right?”

  “Yes, sir. I didn’t mean anything bad by it,” Connor replies.

  “I’m not the one you should be telling that to.” Mom and I can see them through the kitchen window, as they walk out to the back porch. It looks like Connor is apologizing to Frankie, and I sure hope he does, because that was a real shitty thing to say to him.

  Peering out the window, trying not to let them see me looking, I can see Connor and Frankie shaking hands. Whew! Glad that’s over with. I’m assuming Dad got on his ass about it. Brit and Frankie walk back inside and start helping to clear off the table, while Dad and Connor sit on the porch, smoking their stogies and having father-son time. It’s good to see the two of them sharing this time together. Connor’s dad was never around when he was younger, so Dad has really taken on a fatherly relationship with him, basically treating Connor like his own son.

  Cleaning up the rest of the dishes, Frankie stands next to me and puts his arm around me. “Thank you!”

  “For what, Frankie?” I as,k as I wash the dish soap off the plate.

  “For having me over for dinner. I really needed this. It’s always feels good to be around this family.”

  Giving him a light punch in the shoulder, followed by a comforting hug, I reassure him,

  “You know you’re a part of this family. Just don’t let it be so damn long before we see you again!” Mom gently slaps his other shoulder, obviously agreeing with me.

  We squeeze in together for a group hug. As we break, Connor walks in from the back porch with that look on his face, the look of “I just got called into work again.” He doesn’t even have to say anything; I already know.

  “Seriously, babe? The one night I asked you to say ‘no’ to work.”

  “I’m sorry, Piper, but they need me.”

  Mom looks at Connor. “What could you possibly have to do at work at this time of night?”

  “People call out all the time, Mom. Besides, the extra hours I’m putting in right now gives us the extra money to set aside for our vacation to the mountains this year, for Christmas.”

  Mom isn’t buying it one bit. Jokingly, she suggests, “Maybe we should hire Frankie to keep an eye on you.” She laughs under her breath as she walks out to the porch to join my dad.

  “I don’t get why they can’t call someone else in, Connor. You are always the one they call.” With a pouty face, I wrap my arms around his neck.

  “Babe you know I’m the best welder this side of New York.” Smiling, his lips touch mine.

  It’s true, though. Connor is a Master welder. Hell, he’s been welding for as long as I’ve known him. He has even been known to work with dad on a few projects. Connor works for a metal fabrication shop; he was hired on after accepting the job offer and has been there ever since. He may be a damn good welder, but fuck, I need my husband around. I may have to drive my happy ass down there one of these days and give Ronny, his boss, a piece of my mind.

  Probably won’t work out too well for Connor, though – he gets paid really good money for what he does – so I’ll just end up sucking it up. There was a point though, when he was running with that motorcycle club, where he almost lost his job. That club was dealing cocaine, and Connor became a part of it. Not only selling, but using, and he was hooked on that shit for a year. Thank God he isn’t anymore.

  “Thanks everyone, for stopping by. I’m sorry I have to leave, but duty calls.” Connor grabs his leather vest from the coat hanger and slips it on as he hurries into the garage. He really does look fine as fuck when he wears his biker gear, but all I see are bad memories. Memories I want to forget, but I’m reminded of them on a daily basis. Connor has been riding that bike almost every day. The garage door shuts, and I hear the loud rumble of his bike as he drives off into the night.

  Riding off from the house to go grab Brock, I think about how I’m lying to Piper about still being in the club. I hate the fact that I am hiding this from her, but the club is a huge part of my life, and I’m not ready to give it up. I know, eventually, I’m going to have to tell her, and it’s going to kill her, knowing I’ve been doing this behind her back. That is the one thing I don’t want to do.

  Pulling up in front of Brock’s house, I give the bike a little bit of throttle so he knows I’m here. I’d walk up to the house, but I know his wife and kids are there, and really don’t want to bother them and have his dog, Diesel, start barking up a storm.

  The garage door opens and Brock walks out, black bandana on, halfway over his eyes, wearing his worn-down cut covered in patches that he has earned through his years in the club. This dude is so thick, it’s ridiculous. His shirt is tight as fuck and I swear, if he flexes, he’ll tear the seams. Both arms are completely tattooed all the way down to his knuckl
es. Not your traditional tattoos, but skulls and some serious dark shit all over his arms, with “LOVE and HATE” tatted on his knuckles. Brock has a complete back piece of heaven and earth, which is sick as fuck.

  Brock’s wife is totally down with him being in the club. I really wish Piper was on board like Cassy, but what can you do?

  “What up, fucker?” Brock yells out from the garage as he mounts his 73’ Harley Davidson ShovelHead chopper. He’s been putting a lot of time in on his bike. I remember when he first bought the frame for it. Building this bike from the ground up has been a challenge, but I’ve been there though, welding all his tanks and fenders to make it custom for him. He has spent many hours getting this chopper up and running, and it is fucking amazing.

  “You ready to do this, bro?” he asks, backing his bike out of the garage toward the street.

  “You know I am, brother!” Firing up the Shovelhead, it vibrates the house windows, and I know his neighbors must get pissed when he starts it; it’s loud as fuck. Brock doesn’t give a shit, though, as he throws the throttle back on it a few times just to aggravate them.

  As we leave his house, Brock hits the throttle hard, and I’m really surprised his bike doesn’t shatter car windows as we buzz by a bunch of them parked on the street.

  We are headed into the city to pull off a job for the club tonight. Our club VP has asked us to meet up with our local dealer, who has been running into some problems with a local gang of misfits not paying up on their debts. Apparently, this group of fucking hoodlums owe Brett for some handguns they purchased from him on credit. They should have paid him back by now, but these guys have been avoiding him and purposely not returning his calls. Eleven thousand dollars is a lot of fucking money to owe someone. Brett reached out to our club for some help with these guys. A little persuasion, you could say. He has been a good friend and a “hang around” – an unofficial member that hangs in the clubhouse – so we will do whatever we have to, to help him out.

  Pulling up to Brett’s apartment, the rumble of our bikes brings him outside. He knows we are there, ready to fuck shit up. He walks out in his Santa Claus pajama bottom pants and white wife beater, holding a cig in one hand and a forty of Old E in the other.

  “How you guys doin’ tonight? I can’t thank you enough for taking this on for me!” He flicks his cig to the ground and takes a swig of his beer.

  “It’s not a problem, dude. You know I’m always down to fuck up somebody’s face!” Brock throws down the kickstand and hops off his bike. He holds his hand out to shake Brett’s and gives him a bro hug.

  “Easy killer, you’re like a fucking moose. You squeeze me any harder and you’ll make me shit my pants.” He steps back to catch his breath.

  “The old lady let you out of the house tonight, Connor? Or she still have your balls in her purse?” Lighting another Marlboro red, he tilts his head to the side like a gangster.

  “Fuck you, ass clown. Coming from the guy who’s wearing Santa Claus pj’s in public.”

  “Hey, my mama gave me these for Christmas years ago.” Brett grabs his balls and adjusts himself.

  “Enough of the bullshit. What’s on the agenda for tonight?” Brock fires up his cigar, and cracks his knuckles as if ready to smash some skulls. This dude would pick a fight with a brick wall if you’d let him.

  “Let’s go inside so I can give you the skinny on the situation.”

  Following Brett back into his apartment, so we can discuss our plan, I can’t get over the fact that this dumbass is wearing Santa pajamas. I look at Brock as he’s shaking his head at this dude. Brock looks back at me.

  “What the fuck, bro?” There’s snicker in his voice and he rolls eyes.

  As we walk up to Brett’s door, I instantly get a whiff of some good-smelling weed. Hopefully this guy isn’t stingy and rolls a fat joint before we get into what we need to take care of tonight.

  The three of us walk into his crib, and there is a girl laid out on the couch, who doesn’t even give us a look.

  “Bro, is your girl okay?” Brock walks over to her to make sure the girl is still breathing.

  “Yeah man, she’s good, just stoned out of her mind. Don’t worry about her; let’s talk business.” Brett reaches into the fridge and grabs another forty, and holds it up.

  “You guys want a brew?”

  Brock looks at him and waves his hand. “Nah man, I’m good, but if you wouldn’t mind rolling a fucking fatty, that would be great.”

  “I sure as fuck can do that. I have some of the best weed in this fucking city.” He grabs a ziplock bag out of his kitchen drawer filled solid with some green.

  Brock takes a seat in the nearest chair and pulls out a philly from his vest. “How about cleaning this shit out and filling it back up with your good stuff, boss.”

  As the three of us sit at the kitchen table and watch Brett cut open the philly to make us a nice blunt, he gives us the lowdown on what’s been going on. Apparently, he had an agreement with a local gang on getting some black-market pistols for them. According to this agreement, he gave them the guns and a week later, they were supposed meet up and pay for them. Well, it’s been almost a month, and they still haven’t made payment to Brett.

  “These fuckers owe me eleven G’s, and every time I try to get in contact with them, they never answer. I mean, shit, I had to pay my connection on the spot for them. Yeah, I get it. I shouldn’t have given them the guns without the money, but I thought I knew these guys well enough to make the deal.” He glances up, packing the philly solid with some good-smelling weed.

  “Well bro, to be honest with you, yeah, it was a stupid fucking move giving them the shit without getting paid. Do you sell your weed to people and ask for payment later?” I say with a smart-ass tone.

  “Yeah, you’re right, Connor. Like I said, I thought I could trust them.” He licks the philly to seal it, and puts his lighter to the end of it to spark it up.

  “Bro, they are buying eleven thousand dollars’ worth of hardware from you. You gotta be fucking stupid not to get the money. But anyway, you have the Bash Brothers here now, so hopefully we can get this shit taken care of.” Brock reaches over and takes the blunt from Brett and takes a huge puff off of it.

  “So where do these fucks hang out?” Smoke billows out of Brock’s mouth.

  “They have a bar they all hang out at, down on 34th Street, called Wacko’s. It’s a strip club. It’s a shithole, but you’ll find them all chilling there and drinking their asses off!”

  Swiping the blunt from Brock, I take a little hit from it. I don’t want to get too high, because Piper will be pissed if I come home fucked up. I try my hardest not to give her any ideas I still run with the club. Me coming home high, and she’ll automatically know I was up to no good. Not to mention, she thinks I’m at work right now.

  “Where’s the pisser, bro?”

  Brett points down the hall. As I walk past the chick who is still fucking passed out on the couch, I notice the first door on my left is cracked open. My curiosity sets in and I peek into the room. This dude has a shit ton of hand guns and assault rifles all over the floor. What the fuck, it’s like an arsenal in here. I quickly close the door and continue on my way to the bathroom.

  Standing over the toilet, I try to play out in my head how this is all gonna go down tonight. I’m thinking the best scenario will be to go in like a couple of customers, and see what we have going on in there. Basically, case the place out, know our exits, and if shit goes down, where would be our way out as quick as possible. Knowing Brock though, he’s gonna want to take them all on.

  “Yo Connor, you ready, brother? I’m ready to hit this bar!” Brock takes another big hit of the blunt and hands it to Brett, as I walk back into the room.

  “Yeah man, let’s do this.” Holding my hand out to shake Brett’s, he looks at me in hesitation.

  “Did you wash those dick beaters?” What an ass. I should have left some water on my hand and told him I pissed on myself. Tha
t shit would’ve been funny.

  “Alright bro, we’re gonna go handle this shit. I’ll call you tomorrow with either good news or bad news.” As Brock stands up, he reaches up behind his head to tighten his bandana. You can tell he is getting into his beast mode. I have seen Brock shatter a guy’s jaw in one punch, and I definitely wouldn’t want to be on the other end of this dude’s punch. So glad he is on my side.

  Brett walks outside with us to our bikes. “I can’t thank you guys and the club enough for helping me out.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, bro. You hook us up with some of that green tomorrow and we’ll call it even for our services.” Brock straddles his bike, leaning it upright, and firing it up.

  “That was some good weed, dude, and my old lady likes to smoke. So when I come back tomorrow, it would be nice to get her all fucked up when I get home.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls his chain wallet out. Brett holds his hand out and waves him off.

  “No need, I got you covered tomorrow. Come on by and I’ll give you enough for you and the ol’ lady.” Brock shakes his hand.

  “I appreciate it, homey.”

  Brock looks over at me and smacks his vest in the vicinity of where his pistol is.

  “You’re strapped, right, bro?”

  “Always!” I open my cut to show my 1911 I have stuffed in there. “Never leave home without it.”

  Brett looks at us both, his eyes wide as fuck.

  “Oh, hell yeah, boys! Shit is about to go down. You sure you don’t want me to tag along?” He walks over to Brock’s bike as if he is about to hop onto the back of it.

  “Bro, what the fuck! You are not getting on the back of my bike! Go back in there and take care of your woman!” Brock points back at the apartment, and Brett turns to head back toward his door.

  “Call me tomorrow, homies.” He holds up a peace sign to us both. Fucking hippie!