by Trent Jordan
To think, it was still fucking hard to think those words, let alone say them out loud.
It was bullshit.
Fucking stupid bullshit.
“Why the fuck would you do that, Dad...”
It wasn’t a question. My tone was getting too heavy, too angry, too violent for me to be asking questions. I was more just lobbing accusations than anything inquisitive.
“Why the fuck would you put yourself in this spot,” I growled.
I shook my head.
“To get yourself killed!”
Seriously, why? Why? Why?
Why would he even have gone to the Fallen Saints in the first place? Even if my father had good intentions, he had to have known how bad that would have looked. He had to know that there were easier ways of upending the Saints; our problem after Roger’s death was leadership, not personnel or resources. “Our” problem...
Even if that wasn’t complex, he’d put me in a terrible spot of trying to make a damn bit of sense of anything. I couldn’t see my ass from my head at this point, I was so fucked. I’d left the Black Reapers on account of the Sergeant-at-Arms killing my dad, and now I’d just become a different shade of Reaper and become the very thing that had murdered my father.
I was sure some fucking psychiatrist could have a field day analyzing that one. Let them, I figured. I was drowning so much under the weight of my emotions and anger right now that I couldn’t even think.
“And now we’re split,” I muttered.
Cole and Lane are apart.
The Fallen Saints are going to come for us.
They already have for the Black Reapers.
How long until they learn come for us? Not like Cole gave up the last name Carter. Not like we haven’t partaken in the war.
I let go of the tombstone and stared at my father’s plot of land. He and I would need to have a lot more conversations before we could even begin to... I don’t know, have a relationship again? It wasn’t like we’d ever have a dialogue, just a bunch of one-sided monologues.
Fuck, my head was spinning so much I didn’t even know what I wanted. I just knew what I wanted to feel. I just...
I just didn’t want to feel the chaotic voices and violence that were going on in my head.
“Fuck...”
Half of me wanted to follow that curse up with “you, Dad,” and the other half with “everything for making me hate my dad.” Neither side had a distinct likelihood compared to the other.
I stood up from the grave and shook my head. I briefly removed my sunglasses and wiped my tears before putting them back on. I didn’t want any inopportune visits right now—not that I would have paused to say hello to anyone.
I began the trek back to my motorcycle, confusion continuously seeping into my brain. This wasn’t like I had just learned that my father had a secret past; this was like everything that I thought I knew about my father was getting thrown on its head. Up wasn’t just down; up was now no longer a direction; it was something that didn’t have a word with it yet.
And I was no scientist or genius. It was going to take me a long fucking time to make any goddamn sense of any of this.
I got all the way to my bike and swung my leg around when I paused.
There was the couple, standing over two tombstones before and now just one, that had their back to me. But even with their faces hidden, I knew immediately who they were.
Lane and his girlfriend, Angela.
They have to be over the tombstone of Shannon.
The incident that started everything.
I had barely known Shannon despite being close in age to Lane and Cole, certainly closer to them than any of the other Black Reapers officers. Lane was, at the time, the epitome of a cradle biker, brought into the club not so much because of his genuine interest in the club but because his daddy was the President. As a result, though he made the rounds and was a member, he was never really present like Cole was. And that went doubly so when Shannon and him got serious.
But Shannon’s death had shaken all of us. It shook me as a reminder that anyone could die in this world at any time, myself and my loved ones included. At least when my father had died, he was an old man. But Shannon...
Seeing Lane and Angela hold hands over her grave gave me pause. Lane had been lucky enough to find love again, but there was a whole good fucking year in there in which he had just moped like a whiny brat so much that it sickened every one of us. I think the officers were legitimately on the verge of mutiny and voting him out as President before he got his shit together.
But he could have just as easily not found love again. He could have just as easily been in my spot, leaving a club that he felt abandoned by. Actually...
You can have your Shannon now.
You could have had her today if you hadn’t fucked up.
But this was not the place or time to think about that.
“I’ll be back,” I muttered to my father’s spirit. “We still need to talk.”
With that, I drove out of the graveyard. I had no idea if Lane turned around and saw me. It wouldn’t have made a difference anyway; even if my father was proved to be the greatest rat in the Black Reapers’ history, he and I still had to talk, and a graveyard where my father—not Red Raven, the traitor, but Austin Smith Sr., my father—and Shannon laid at rest was not the place to do it.
But there was someone that I needed to call, and as soon as I got home, as soon as I got inside and to a quiet place, I picked up the phone. I didn’t even hesitate to call. And on the third ring, I heard an answer.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jess.”
Jess
One Hour Earlier
As I began the short trek from my apartment to the leasing office, I thought about what I had just allowed myself to do.
I’d given a biker a chance to date me.
A biker.
You know, the very kind of person that had participated in burning down the last place I worked at. While I was in there.
How crazy was that? Sure, Phoenix, at least before today, had been a real gentleman and sweet. And then, lo and behold, out of the comfort zone of his biker buddies and alcohol, he suddenly turned into a brooding, annoyingly anti-social, awkward guy.
I wasn’t interested in Phoenix, the man. I was interested in the ideal of Phoenix. Maybe the ideal of Phoenix was still there, or maybe Phoenix the man was still interesting, but the odds were too heavily stacked against that. There just wasn’t a plausible scenario in which that could be true.
Which was why I was headed to the leasing office of my apartment—because I wasn’t going to base my future on implausible or unlikely scenarios. I was going to base it on what felt right and most likely, and right now, that was getting out of a crime-ridden, biker-infested, war zone of a small town. I was going someplace that, almost by default, would be safer than this hellhole.
I pushed open the door to the leasing office and had to grab it before it slammed into the wall. There was already a spot where people less considerate than I had slammed the door, but it didn’t look like management cared in the slightest. There was no one at the receptionist’s desk, and when I peered into the actual office, there was someone on their phone, a woman in her upper forties.
“Hello?”
The woman looked up in surprise, as if she had forgotten that they were open at this time.
“Hi, umm, hi, how can I help?” she said, scrambling to look like she was on top of things and professional.
“I’m dropping off my two months’ notice that I’m leaving,” I said, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper that was my official note.
The woman took it and stared at it with absolutely no attempt to hide the confusion on her face, as if I had given her something that was written in Arabic. She looked at the computer and back to me.
“You could have just... emailed me?”
I shook my head. The woman didn’t even know the rules of her own place.
“My lease agreement sta
tes I have to provide written documentation confirming that I will be leaving at least sixty days before my lease expires,” I said. “So, this is it.”
The woman looked at the piece of paper again.
“Jessica Walters...”
It was painfully clear she had no idea who I was or even her own procedures. That was so typical of this place, it was embarrassing.
“OK, we will take care of it,” she said, but she didn’t even sound sure of herself. I made a mental note to myself to follow up in a couple of days when someone besides this woman was working so that I could make sure the damn thing got processed.
“Thanks.”
I headed out the door, expecting to find some new relief, some freedom that I could finally take advantage of. I would finally be free from the shackles of Springsville, Ashton, and small-town, crime-ridden, biker-infested Southern California.
But there was just one problem.
I didn’t feel that at all.
I felt like I had just made a mistake that, while I had time to correct, was still one, nevertheless.
Maybe moving to Ashton would be the right choice. But I hadn’t been “shackled” to Springsville. I’d settled in here because I’d found a job here without the temptations of downtown Los Angeles or other big cities. It had worked well for me. This desire to go out, to get away... that could very easily have just been my subconscious wanting to go back to the temptation that had so utterly wrecked me.
Fucking hell. At least I have a couple months to figure out what I want.
Or who I want.
I shook my head. What I wanted was a legitimate question; who I wanted was most definitely not.
Which, of course, meant the damn question was going to stick around a lot more than I had anticipated.
I returned to my apartment and sat on the couch somewhat numbly. I picked up a book about traveling in Oregon, but I found my mind still wandering and gave up reading it after about five minutes. I turned on the TV and started watching a Friends rerun, but my mind could barely pay attention. It at least killed some time, but was I really going to just want to kill time for the next two months? Or did I want to do something worthwhile?
Halfway through the second rerun of friends, my phone buzzed. I scrambled to pull it out of my pocket and paused when I saw the name “Phoenix” at the top.
Answer it.
Ignore him.
Block him.
Answer and be nice.
Answer and be rude.
A thousand and one different options for approaching that call rushed through my head as the ring tone acted like a timer for me; I knew when I’d only have a few seconds left to answer.
But it didn’t take me long, maybe five seconds, to decide that answering was best. After all, I still had a glimmer of hope that the real Phoenix was the ideal Phoenix. Just like imagining that the ideal in my head was real was a bit optimistic, thinking that the Phoenix I’d seen today was the true Phoenix was a bit pessimistic. It had to cut both ways.
But you still have to be careful.
“Hello?” I said, my voice as neutral as possible.
“Hey, Jess,” he said, his voice warm but with a hint of excitement.
I didn’t know if seeing him again would somehow be a sign of me becoming more stable or just another point along a lifetime of making unstable choices. But I was quietly hopeful about this conversation. I didn’t like things ending on sour notes.
“How are you?”
“Good,” I said.
“Good, good, I—OK, look, let me get right to it.”
OK, now we’ve got some hope.
“I was in a bad place during our date earlier today,” he said. “I acknowledge that I acted miserably, and you had every right to walk out on me like that. I don’t... I will get into why I was this way at some point, but I don’t want to right now, not on the phone with you. But I just wanted to say that I know I acted like an ass, and I’m sorry.”
Now we’ve got some real hope.
“I appreciate it,” I said as I took a quick breath.
It was a good start. But a part of me was sternly warning myself to remain calm and to give everything time to unfold. There was nothing suggesting that we were suddenly meant to be, nor could there possibly be on a short call like this.
“Jess, you said that if I wanted to try again, I should come by Billiards later this week, and I will. But I also felt like I needed to call you to say I want to try this again.”
Strangely, upon hearing that, I didn’t feel an increased surge in excitement. It was more like I knew the ball was in my court now, and it was up to me to decide how to proceed. I didn’t have the anxiety of not knowing or having the fear that Phoenix really was a certain way; now, I could act however I wanted.
“I didn’t want to show up at the bar and have it be weird. I just... I want to have a second chance.”
He’s saying it like he wants a second chance for more than just me. Bit odd...
“Well, I appreciate hearing everything,” I said. “I will be at Billiards on Tuesday night if you want to come by then. You can probably guess it’s not going to be too busy then.”
“Tuesday?” Phoenix said, sounding a little concerned. “I mean, Tuesday is usually club—”
“Decide what’s important, Phoenix.”
I couldn’t believe my own audacity. Maybe the part of me that wanted to get the hell out of California was the part that had spoken right there. Or maybe I was calling Phoenix on his bullshit.
“Fair enough,” he said. “I just wanted to call. Thanks for hearing me out.”
“Of course.”
It felt like our call ended rather abruptly, if not rudely. It had only lasted about a minute and a half.
But as I put the phone down, as I turned my attention back to the Friends rerun, I began to have an idea of which way Phoenix would go.
Tuesday Evening
It was about an hour before my shift ended, and Phoenix was nowhere to be seen.
Not that I could fault him, really. No one was anywhere to be seen.
It was the first shift I’d had in which no one had bothered to show up the entire time. I was reduced to just watching the TV and checking the internet on my phone to kill time. Although I would never say I wanted to go back to Brewskis, that bar never lacked for people, even if those people were criminals, thugs, and God knew what else.
I actually didn’t spend as much time as I had thought I would thinking about Phoenix. For the most part, I had told him he could show up tonight, and that was that. There was nothing to think about.
The door swung open.
My head tilted up. A large figure entered.
And a small smile crept over my face as Phoenix headed over to the bar, hands in his pockets, a cautious smirk on his face, his eyes probing me, and a slow stroll to his feet. He sat down, took a deep breath, and nodded to me.
“Bartender,” he said with a hint of playfulness. “Can you give this thirsty man a drink?”
If my intent had been to be anything other than to laugh as I usually did with customers, I would have failed mightily. Of course, I laughed because it was Phoenix, but I was generally pretty gregarious with my customers anyway.
“That depends on what it is that will quench his thirst,” I said. “Would he like some spirits? Some wine? Or perhaps some beer of the darker or lighter kind?”
“Well, you know me; when I’m feeling kind of blue and the moon is up above...”
He sighed.
“OK, while I can play jokes, I know that’s not what you want to hear, so just let me get down to it,” he said.
I nodded as I grabbed him a Blue Moon.
“I recently learned some things about my father that I’m not happy about,” he said. “I... it’s too painful for me to discuss with you right now. Not even because I’m trying to hide them from you, but because I don’t want to face them myself. I learned of them at the end of last week. If I had been a man or if
I had owned up to the fact that that shit was bothering me... well, fuck, I wouldn’t have acted like such an ass.”
It’s a start.
“Truth be told, I shouldn’t have been such a bitch,” he said. “I should have manned up and not acted like such a glum motherfucker, but—”
“Stop it,” I said. “You come to the bartender to let off steam, not to hide it.”
Phoenix gave a half-hearted grunt. I smiled to try to lighten him up a bit.
“Besides, you admitted that you were wrong. Doesn’t matter how or why you were wrong. OK? It just matters that you said you were.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re forgiving me, because I don’t forgive myself so easily.”
He said it with a laugh, but it didn’t seem like he was actually joking.
“Well, if it makes you feel better, I feel like I need to say something,” I said, thinking about my own father. “I said my father’s not around. And that’s true in the technical sense. I don’t talk to him much. But he’s alive.”
“Hmm,” Phoenix said. “How do you feel about him?”
Talk about a question that can have its answer change by the day. Maybe even the hour, depending on the most recent thing that he’s said.
“I love him,” I said, and when I said it, it felt genuine. I just don’t know how to show that love or how to have him show it. Maybe him telling me to come home... “We have our disagreements a lot of times, and I don’t think our relationship is as strong as it could be. But who’s perfect, right? Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate him.”
Instead of making Phoenix feel better, though, the words just seemed to confuse him further. I had no idea what it was—I’d seen his father maybe once at Brewskis, and even then, it was with a group; his father had never spoken to me. But it was something that had affected him.
“Look, that’s... that’s not important right now,” he said. “Here’s what is important. I want a second chance with you. I don’t want this, you and me talking like this, to be it. I want a real date.”
He took a deep breath.
“What do you say? You want to give this another shot?”
