Los Banditos: A Biker Romance Collection

by Hazel Parker

  “You’re still talking about that shit ten years later?”

  I kept talking as if I hadn’t heard his outburst. “You pushed me to do that job even though you know I wasn’t ready and now you’re trying to force me to do something I don’t want to do. Again! You’re never going to change, are you?”

  Just saying it out loud hurt. I thought that at least I could have my dad. I convinced myself we could have repaired whatever happened and that at least, at the very least, I might have lost the guy but got my family back. But that was not the case either. I turned to see Paulie and realized he was still hoping I’d change my mind. But goodbye to my dad was goodbye to him, because Paulie would never leave the Skulls.

  “You kicked mom out and had everyone convinced she was some kind of whore who deserved to live on the streets than be with us. You convinced everyone but me. I wondered if I had made a mistake in staying with you and I was right. I should have left with her. You were never any good for us. You’re a poison. You kill everything around you and one day, all that poison’s going to kill you too.”

  I looked at his smug face and the words flew out without any thought. I knew the instant they made their mark.

  “Goodbye, dad,” I said, walking out the door for good.

  Chapter 11

  Ethan

  I sat on my bike in front of Flagstaff Assisted Living. It looked so happy, with bright colors and smiling faces on their logo. It was the biggest lie I’d ever seen. I could feel the coldness coming from the inside. If I didn’t know better, I might have believed them. I knew the kind of horrors that were behind those doors.

  This wasn’t my first time visiting my mother, but I didn’t make a habit of visiting. She had another son with the exact same face. I doubted she noticed the difference. The few times I visited were early on when she first checked herself in. She’d been strong still, and aware of where she was then. She’d been conscious enough to know she needed help and strong enough to know she didn’t want to break the club by asking us to look after her. So she’d checked herself in, packed her own clothes, signed away her rights and power of attorney to the home, and moved in. She hadn’t even told us about it until she was already there.

  She didn’t like it and often joked about it – the wacky routines and personalities some of the other residents. There was one woman who was suspicious everyone was trying to steal her lucky dollar.

  Mom liked the Jell-O and didn’t mind too much the schedule they pushed on her. She said she got more sleep than she ever did when she was in the club house. It was true, the club house was known for playing loud music well into the night. She used to joke with me when she first came in, pretended that she didn’t know who I was and then, when my face changed, would laugh. She’d done it more than once. I did not find it funny. Not in the least.

  Aging was the gift that kept on giving – kept on taking. I watched my mom sitting on the bench in the middle of the garden. She held a bag full of bread crumbs. She threw the bread out, sprinkling the crumbs a short distance from her feet to the birds there.

  I could see the years on her face. It was strange to see an older version of the woman who birthed me. I could see the woman who’d told me to stand when I fell off my bike and was bleeding, the woman who’d refused to dress Evan and I alike. She’d let us have our own personalities and had told my dad to shush when he got onto my ass about causing trouble. I could recall with fondness the younger version of myself laughing while Evan pouted because he wanted to be older. He’d figured out he couldn’t change that and had lorded it over me that he was taller. She’d found me pouting about it in my room and had comforted me like she’d comforted him. She hadn’t poked me and told me to be a man; she hadn’t minded letting me cry if I needed to.

  I remember my dad joined the club when Evan and I were still young. We didn’t understand the prospect phase or all the errands he ran for the club but we did understand him owning a new bike and his reverence for the men who rode alongside him. I could remember his obsession with motorcycles and the group of men who would gather in our house. Mom had been the perfect old lady – better among them than she’d ever been with the housewives.

  The age spots and shaking hands were not a reflection of the woman she used to be. I signed in and walked out to sit next to her on the bench. I found it was best to play to her lead. If she turned to me with a courteous smile I would know she wasn’t herself, and if she squinted with recognition before shock that her son was so big, I’d know that it was a good day.

  “Mind if I sit here?” I said, sitting on the bench.

  “Not at all,” she said, smiling up at me.

  The map of wrinkles on her face told of the incredible life she’d lived. Her eye lines told of laughter, of warm smiles and affection. Her face told of late night worries and present confusion. The lines were engraved deeply. They told of a woman who’d traveled almost seven decades to that moment and she was still standing strong. To be dismissed as old would have been disrespectful. She was so much more.

  “Do you come out here often?”

  “Every day,” she said, throwing a handful more. “You have to take advantage of the sunny days when you get them. Doesn’t happen too often.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “You don’t like the cold either?” she asked, extending the bag of stale bread to me.

  “No. I don’t mind it at all. My mom though, she hates it.”

  “Is your mom here?” she said, turning to me with concern in her eyes.

  Her eyes showed the kind of gentle concern they always had. She laid her hand on my arm, soothing as it always was, though she was extending the hand to a stranger and spoke in such a soft voice. It felt as if I were wrapped in a blanket of her caring.

  “Yeah. She is,” I said, hoping that she’d somehow wake up and realize who my mom was.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said, patting my hand. “Has she been here long?”

  “Yeah,” I said, accepting her hand.

  “Well, you don’t have a thing to worry about. This place ain’t so bad,” she said, smiling. “Honest. It may be full of people who forget, but they never forget chocolate chip Fridays and they give extra Jell-O if you ask.

  I chuckled. I saw she hadn’t forgotten her sweet tooth.

  “And the facilities are nice. They keep it clean here,” she said, nodding her head. “And we play board games after dinner.”

  “You don’t have to sell it to me,” I said with a smile. “She’s already here.”

  She laughed loudly and clapped her hands. “I guess you’re right.” She threw her last handful of bread and turned to watch me. She took in my dingy jeans and my wild hair. Her eyes lingered on my vest with the patch that said “Bandits” and the patch that said “Legacy.”

  “Where’d you get that vest?” she asked, not looking up from the patch.

  “My club gave it to me.”

  She still hadn’t taken her eyes off the patch.

  “Can I see the back?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  I turned so she could see it in all its delicate trimming. The white thread against the black leather tracing a face with a bandana concealing any physical characteristics and a cowboy hat.

  “Do you ride?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with pleasure.

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Can I see your bike?”

  “Uh. No.” The residents were not allowed to leave under any circumstances without a whole bunch of bullshit paperwork. “It’s outside, but I can show you a picture of it,” I said, digging into my pocket for my phone.

  My bike was the background screensaver. I swiped until none of the apps covered the picture and handed her the phone.

  “It’s so shiny,” she said. “Clean.”

  “It is,” I said, nodding. “You know you can judge a man—”

  “By the quality of his bike,” she said, finishing my sentence.

  It was like a
trigger, bringing her back from wherever she was lost.

  “My husband used to say that,” she said, but stated it with a slight quiver of uncertainty.

  “He did. My dad did.”

  She stared at me.

  “I think I know you,” she said, her head tilted to the side like she was trying to decide.

  “You do.”

  “You’re my… son,” she said, throwing her arms around me. We hugged tightly; I couldn’t tell who was holding onto who.

  “Ma,” I said, trying not to choke.

  “Oh, my boy,” she said, leaning back to brush the hair from my face. “My boy. Let me look at you.”

  I smiled, trying not to show the sadness that was just behind my eyes.

  “Do you know which one I am?”

  “Of course I do,” she said, smacking my thigh. “I’m your mother. I could never confuse you two. You’re Ethan,” she said, staring into my eyes. “I can tell by the sadness behind your eyes.”

  I looked away. She’d already seen it, but to know she saw was too much. It made the hurt feel heavier.

  “You’ve were never the same after your dad died,” she said, turning my head softly so she could look into my eyes again. “But this hurt – it cut deeper than that one.”

  How could a woman who could barely remember who she was suddenly remember me and my brokenness with clarity? “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Ma.”

  “Well, too bad. You’re the son. I’m the mother. I’ll be deciding who does the talking. Plus, I’m the one in a home – not you. So talk before I lose myself again.”

  She had a point, and so I sighed heavily and admitted what she already knew.

  “Her name is Molly.”

  “Do you love her?” she asked, cutting me off before I could say anything else. “Don’t overthink it. Don’t think about whatever happened between the two of you or what you think you have to do. Think about her. Just her, and tell me, right now, yes or no. Do you love her?”

  “Yes but—”

  She held her hand up to stop me. “That’s all that matters. I remember how stubborn you can be, so please listen to me, love,” she said, caressing my face. “All I’ve ever wanted was for you to find someone who loved you the way your dad loved me. If you love that girl, don’t let her go. I know you think everything is so complicated and you’re afraid to let people get close. I know you’re afraid of someone seeing you for who you really are, but trust me: when it’s true love, the scars don’t matter.”

  “You know Ev’s got a girl now?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I bet they’ll get married sometime soon. He really loves her.”

  “And what about you? Will marriage be in your future?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I hope it is. You deserve everything he has. He’s no more deserving than you just because he got in a little less trouble than you,” she said, smiling.

  “Okay, Mom. I hear you.”

  She glanced upward, her mouth pursed but slightly open and loose. Her eyes fixed pointedly on something behind my head. I turned, and finding nothing, I turned back to see she was still entranced by something behind me. I called her name and shook her softly by the shoulders.

  “Mom! Mom?” She blinked and refocused. “Lynn, can you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” she said, focusing before frowning. “I can hear you. You don’t have to yell.” I wasn’t yelling, but now that she wasn’t unfocused, I let go of her shoulders. She looked around the garden, then paused at the pink and yellow flowers before turning back to look at me. “Where am I?”

  “Happy Hands,” I said, withdrawn and unsure. I wasn’t sure, but I was willing to bet that she was gone.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Flagstaff, Arizona. “

  “Is this my home?”

  “Yeah. You live here.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking around.

  A nurse came to the door and smiled at us. “I think it’s time for lunch,” I said, standing and offering her my arm. “Would you mind if I escort you?”

  “Sure,” she said taking my arm. She came just below my shoulders and was skinnier than I would have liked. I could barely feel the weight of her body as she held onto me as I walked her to the door.

  “What’s your name?” she said as the nurse took her from me.

  “Ethan.”

  “It was nice meeting you,” she said with a smile.

  Seeing her forget and disappear right in front of my eyes, it shook me. It hurt to watch and was even harder to forget. I couldn’t take it. It hurt too much. Everything in me hurt. It hurt to wave goodbye to a mother who thought I was a kind man helping her inside. My chest was barely together from all the emotional beatings.

  I sighed, rubbed my chest, and climbed on my bike. My fingers were itching to call Molly. I wanted to call her, hear her voice, and hold her, anything – something. Just thinking about it quelled the ache in my chest. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t call her. I couldn’t trust her to take care of me when I was hurting and at my worst. She nearly took me out when I was at my best, God knows what she’d do to me if I was broken. My mind said she’d comfort me. My heart said there wasn’t anything left to break.

  Chapter 12

  Molly

  I pulled out my phone and scrolled through all the names in my contacts. I knew a lot of people, and if I wanted to, I could have a man in my bed within the hour. I was sure anybody would answer my call. I considered calling some of the guys I had turned down over the years to see if any of them was willing to give it another shot. In truth, over the years I had given up on love. So many men made it clear all they wanted from me was sex, and I was okay with that – at least that was what I told myself. But I wanted more. They say the best way to get over a man is to get under another one. But what the hell do they know anyway? Sure, any guy that wanted me before would want me again, but what was the point?

  None of their names sparked an interest. None of them would make me feel the way Ethan could. They hadn’t before. I couldn’t imagine they would now. In fact, looking at their names and thinking about them only made me want Ethan more. He wasn’t something I could replace. I didn’t want anybody else. I sighed and pushed open my car door. There wasn’t much I could do about him. He had made up his mind and if I was smart, I would agree with him. Our relationship couldn’t work. At least that was what I kept telling myself.

  “Good morning, Ms. Karin,” the receptionist said as I passed by to my desk.

  “Hey, Gemma.”

  The day had only just begun, but I was already tired. My heels clicked against the tile floor, taking me to my desk with minutes to spare. My client was coming in at eight. I had a total of fifteen minutes to sip my coffee in peace before everything went to hell. I could feel all the sleep I hadn’t gotten. I tossed and turned for hours, partly angry and partly horny, thinking about Ethan. I finally stopped trying to sleep around 2 am and worked on paperwork. So at least I was productive.

  Our desks were lined in rows, giving us about a foot of space to walk around each other. My desk sat in the middle of the floor with an old computer booting up for me to enter in the information. Papers were stacked on top of each other, oozing out of manila folders like mud between fingers. Reports for my own agency... other city human service agencies... physicians' offices... and of course, the federal government; who could forget them?

  I pulled my eight a.m.’s file out of my overstuffed portfolio too hastily and scowled as the bag dropped and everything in it fell out. Lipstick, condoms, stacks of paper, and pens littered the floor.

  “Jesus,” I hissed, bending over to pick it all up.

  Could anything else go wrong?

  Ashlyn bent to help me, gathering the papers into unorganized piles.

  “I got it,” I said, pulling the papers from her hands.

  “I know. I’m still going to help your stubborn ass
.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, I guess.”

  “Jeez, somebody didn’t get laid last night.”

  I stood balancing what I could in my hands and feeding the paper back into the leather case as much as I could without bending the papers. I didn’t have time to sort them out again.

  “You want to tell me what’s got your panties in a knot?”

  I saw my client come through the door – early, of course, and sighed. “Can’t right now. Maybe later,” I said as I grabbed my cup of coffee and rushed to the lobby to meet the woman.

  “How you doing, Mrs. Abel?”

  I had been working on this case for a year. My client was woefully unprepared to be an adult, let alone handle the demands of a two-year-old child, and she was married to a man she’d fled from. I’d done what I could – provided her with a mentor, scheduled her parenting classes, which were proving to be beneficial whenever she made time to actually show up. I hadn’t heard from her for months and didn’t see any reason to convince myself I’d see different results now. Serena Abel made me want to bang my head against the wall, and I would have, but I didn’t need my headache to get any worse.

  I worked with Serena Abel for two hours and looked at my watch. I had half an hour to breathe before my next case. With my few minutes of relaxation, I ran to the girls’ restroom, inhaled more coffee, and checked my phone for messages or voicemails. I was delusional enough to let my heart lift in excitement as I listened to the messages. Part of me still held out hope that maybe he called and left a message. It was a stretch, but I was a hopeless romantic. There was a call from another social worker confirming my client from a few weeks ago relocated to Kansas, a garbled message from my stylist confirming my next hair appointment, and an automated message about buying a new telephone system. Did people still do that?

  I typed frantically, looking over the papers covering my desk, trying to catch up on paperwork and getting my file back in order. I tried to take my extra files home at the end of the day, but I couldn’t take my entire desk. My agency manager took vacation through next week and wanted me to give her all her case updates. Plus, there was some federal regulations the department wanted to talk about to comply with other regulations. There is so much red tape in trying to help people, I could drown in it.