by Amy Isan
Surge continues. “I’ll need one of you to go out recruiting today. Our numbers have been thinning and we need more meat. We’re okay right now, but the Skeletons are growing fast. That’s a problem.”
Rifle raises his hand lamely, but doesn’t wait for Surge to call on him. “What’d you want us to do? Go to the local middle school and start handing out flyers? Who cares about the Skeletons anyway? Bunch of pussies.
Surge narrows his eyes. He’s old, with a gray beard and thick mustache, but at that moment, he looks like he could tear a house in half. He doesn’t do so much as open his mouth, and Rifle retracts his hand and apologizes under his breath. I smirk, amazed that the president of the gang could have such authority over these brats.
They are brats aren’t they? I glance around the room at my freshly-christened brothers and try to decide if they’re even worthy of my time. I didn’t join up into Ruin because I thought I’d have to babysit people. It was just convenient since Surge approached me first. I might as well be in the Skeletons. Save for Surge. If it wasn’t for him and Tank, I would’ve already left. Surge clearly has always had a soft spot for me. I glance at Driver and wonder about him. How old was I when I joined my first crew?
As he drones on about the plan to move some drugs between state lines, my mind wanders. I don't try very hard to stay focused, since I’d done runs like this a million times, and in a lot tougher situations My mind wanders, and I can’t shake the image of the blue-eyed woman in the car. Her forehead knitted with a desperate kind of anger, and her lips pursed as if she were ready to scold me. Wasn’t she cared of me? Of my motorcycle at least? My tattoos? I absentmindedly rub one of them, an old black skull that has flaming coals for eyes. One of my first.
Flaming coals, kind of like her eyes... Maybe her lips could wrap around mine, and she'd grind her thigh against me. I push the thought away before I embarrass myself and draw my attention back to Surge’s plan. It’s basic, simple even. We meet up with our leads out in the desert and exchange our money for the drugs. Our saddlebags will carry the shipment, and we probably won’t even get hassled by the police. I still haven’t seen where Surge keeps the stash, but I’m sure it’s safe somewhere. This crew is too small to draw any unwanted attention, unlike my last crew.
Too bad for them. I can’t imagine the hell they’re going through in prison. I barely avoided it myself, but I’m not proud of how. I fold my arms when I notice Rifle staring daggers at me, and I resist the urge to flip him off. If Surge saw dissent between his small clan, he’d probably flip the entire pool table over and kill one of us.
Best not to anger the President, even if his ideas are a bit quaint and old.
Rifle stands up and moves over to me, and I meet his gaze. My arms are firmly folded across my chest, and my feet are kicked up on the table. He pushes my legs off and stares down at me. “What are you gonna do, newbie?”
I shake my head and eye Surge, who is already going red in the face. He shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything. So much for that theory. I raise my feet and plant them back on the edge of the pool table, and Rifle pushes them off again.
“What's your deal, Rifle?”
“You think you’re one of us, but I know you ain’t,” Rifle says. He clenches a fist and his voice grows hard. I’ve seen this before. Not my first rodeo. Or clubhouse punch out, I suppose. He tries to swing at me, but I dodge under his arm and grab him by the waist. I stand as I dig my fingers into him, and throw him onto his back on the table, knocking over beer and crushing half-eaten burgers. He scrambles to get a hold of me, but I’m already on top of him. I reel back and punch him in the jaw, knocking his head sideways. He snarls but loosens his grip on my shirt.
Surge steps in, finally, “Bomb, stop.”
I release my grip on Rifle and step back, brushing a hanging fry off my shirt. Rifle looks at me like a hurt dog, but what can I do? If I hadn’t done anything, then I’d look like a push over to everyone, including Surge. “Help him up,” Surge commands.
I extend my hand to Rifle, but he bats it away. “I don’t need help from no outsider. I don’t even know why you’re still here.”
Tank groans loudly. “Rifle, I swear we do this every time. You get your ass kicked and then whine about it forever. You’re the reason why we don’t have any recruits. Didn’t you hear Surge?”
I nod a little to Tank, who grins. Surge interjects again and pushes between me and Rifle. He turns to Rifle. “He’s right. I just went over how we need new members, and you start shit with our rookie? He’s been riding longer than you’ve been sucking titties. Get the fuck out of here, Rifle.”
Rifle stares at him, and his gaze moves over Surge’s shoulder and to me. “You can’t kick me out.”
“I’ll think about it, but leave your vest anyway. I’ll give it back to you if I decide to not kick your ass out.”
“This is your fault.” He points at me. “You’re doing this.”
I hold up my hands in surrender, but say nothing. Surge picks Rifle up and shoves him toward the door. “Git!”
With one last angry glance at all of us, Rifle opens the door to the bar and vanishes. I don’t say share this with anyone else, but I hope for good.
“What are you going to do with him?” Tank asks, with some reluctance. I didn’t want to interject after the beat down I just gave the guy. Surge glances at Tank and snorts. No reply. I’m not surprised. He looks to me and grins.
“I’m glad someone finally knocked some sense into him,” he says. Surge extends his gnarled hand and takes me in for a hug, squeezing the air out of me. I bear it and glance over his shoulder to Tank and the others, who look relieved to have the tension knocked down a peg or two. “Welcome to the gang, Bomb.”
“Don’t roll out a welcome mat or anything,” I say. I nod gruffly and move back over to the billiard table. I’m starving, after all. Massaging my hand to work the soreness out of it, I pick up a free burger and take a bite.
. . .
We conclude the meeting soon after and I climb back on my bike to go home. I let the cool breeze of the spring sunset cascade under my arms, and the drone of the engine carry my mind off to distant thoughts while the bike takes me home.
That's the funny thing. I love the wild nature of the beast. You drive a car, but ride a motorcycle. I remember Surge telling me that one day over some beers, back when we rode together in California. Surge pointed at me and then to the bike and mentioned how all the people in their mini vans and sport wagons were driving, which made it sound like they were in control. They refused to acknowledge the real danger in their lives, the fact that a texting teenager could plow through an intersection and knock them out of their ignorant bliss at any moment.
Not bikers though. We acknowledge the nature of the beast, the chaos of the road. We don’t drive anything, we ride. We’re carried along by the strange machine, and only give it suggestions. The danger is more intense and thrilling than driving a car. It isn't just a texting teenager we have to watch out for, but an old businessman sliding out of his lane because he doesn’t check his mirrors. The grim and hot leather on a sunny day, with sweat getting in your eyes. That kind of freedom is what makes a man ache for his wild side. His beast within.
That’s what he told me. I remember laughing it off and telling him to buy me another beer for rambling to me for so long. Shortly after, he left the gang and moved to Arizona. It was only after the rest of the gang got locked up and I fled to the Copper State that I realized how right he was.
I pull alongside my ratty apartment down by the east side of the city and park my bike. The location isn’t the best, but it gets the job done. After securing the bike, I move into the studio and unlock the door. The deadbolt is broken, but looks solid from the outside. I shove the swollen door out of its frame and toss my leathers on the couch. A long hot day deserves a nice cold beer, I convince myself.
Propping open the fridge in search for a meal, a package of hotdogs beckons me. That should do
for now. After sizzling up the grub and twisting a cap off, I settle down in the couch and dig in. No dining room table for me, nothing that fancy. Thinking about it now, I don’t think I ever had one in my entire life. It was always something the other kids at school had, friend’s families when I’d come over to stay the night. Nothing my family had.
The television drones on about the violence in the city and schools, and I flip the channel, disinterested. The hotdogs are filling enough, but I still feel hungry. Not food, but something more satisfying. A deep ache and yearning claws at my insides.
I think of the woman with blue eyes in the car. The image is faint, but parts of it are surprisingly crystal. Her pained but angry expression seared on the back of my eyelids. I sigh and think of meeting her again. Those plump lips, and faint cheek lines. She probably has a body made for sin.
A familiar sensation curdles my insides. I need relief. I jerk at my jeans and pull them down a bit, and try to imagine the woman in the car.
CHAPTER 3 — CASSIE
My three alarms all blare at the same time. I’m sure it drives Sara crazy, but she’s never said anything about it. I switch them all off, including the old-timey one that has two bells at the top. When I was in college, nothing worked for getting me up for class, until someone pointed out that I should just set more alarms.
I dress and walk into the kitchen, where Sara is finishing up cooking some eggs. I peek into the fridge and eye the contents, it’s almost all Sara’s. When I look back to her, she seems to already know what I’m thinking.
“Sure, go ahead.” She piles her fried eggs on a plate and moves to sit at the counter.
“I’m swear I'll get you more eggs someday.”
She laughs and turns back to the stove. I pull out the carton of eggs and steal the pan she was using. The look she gives me as I flick the burner back on reminds me that I'll be cleaning the stove this time. But for the price of a couple eggs, I’ll clean anything. As she starts to eat, I purse my lips and think for a moment. I crack an egg and let it drop into the pan, waiting a few more seconds before breaching the subject.
“So who was on the phone last night?”
I hear her stop chewing, but I don’t turn around. I don’t want to engage her too much, it’s easier to seem kind of aloof about it. I don’t even know why I care who she’s talking to, but maybe it’s a bit of a jealousy thing. Why is she the one always drowning in men? Why not me? I guess they're not real men, but a little attention doesn't hurt. God, am I seriously wishing for an average dude? After all my whining yesterday? Maybe I just need to get laid.
She sets her fork down with a tiny clink. “I don’t want to tell you. You’ll get mad.”
“What!” I finally turn and face her, still holding the spatula in my hand. I notice it looks kind of threatening. “Why would I get mad?”
“You always tell me I do this... but it was Mark.”
“Didn’t you just break up with him?” I mutter. I turn back to the eggs and realize one is broken. “Because he was being too clingy?”
She sighs a little. “Well... now he’s not.”
I laugh and realize she’s right. I do always get on her case about this. “Oh yeah?”
“He’s doing stuff now! He said he joined a karate class.”
“Ooh, karate,” I say. I slash the spatula through the air like a sword, complete with swishing sounds. “Right? Now you’re talking to him again, and...”
“He says he’ll change for me. He’ll do anything I want if I take him back” Sara says. She’s starting to grow defensive, but it only encourages me more. She sounds a bit cheery though.
“That’s wild, he’ll do anything? What have you made him do?”
“Nothing much yet... I dared him to get a tattoo.”
I drop the spatula and nearly dunk it into the only non-violated egg left. “A tattoo!”
“Yeah! He says he’ll get one of me, right on his shoulder.”
It sounds like a horrible idea to me, but I keep it to myself. I’m already surprised she told me this much. I finish cooking my pitiful eggs and dish them onto a plate. I join her at the counter, and we eat together, joking a bit and letting some tension melt off our shoulders. I kind of needed the laugh after the strange past couple of days.
Thinking about Mark going to look at tattoos makes me kinda queasy, but why? That biker dude had tattoos... I guess it's because Mark is an IT support guru, not a brash-looking biker. A biker with mean eyes that could swallow you up.
She finishes her breakfast and tosses her plate into the sink. I watch her move across the kitchen and back into her room, before she dances off into the bathroom.
The shower streams on, and I realize rent is due. While she's tucked away in the bathroom, I sneak into my bedroom and lift the mattress a couple of inches, revealing a nicely laid out stash of cash. I groan as I shuttle it out of the hiding space and onto the floor. Ever since I was little, I liked the idea of keeping money under my bed. Now it's become almost a necessity. After being unable to handle a debit card and several credit cards, I found the only method that worked was keeping it right under me. I felt foolish having it hidden there, like I was some kind of drug lord.
I stack a couple of twenties together and throw the mattress back down. I set the cash down on the countertop gingerly, and groan a little.
Looking at the clock, I notice I’m way early today. Might as well go in and make up for being late. Pay Becky back for letting me go home early yesterday, too.
I grab my keys and dart out the door. As I climb into my car, I realize the answer to the tattoo question. It’s okay for Mr. Biker to have tattoos because he didn’t get them for a woman. He got them because he’s an outlaw.
. . .
Driving through the intersections to get to the highway usually takes a couple of minutes at best, then only a short twenty minute drive to get to my work the next town over. Today, I figure that’s how long it’ll take, but sometimes things get in the way.
The traffic is pretty chaotic, but nothing I’m not used to. I can hear my car clattering under the hood, but I don’t know anything about cars so I ignore it. Nothing I can do about it until a mechanic looks at it anyway. I tell myself that every time I am forced to open the hood. It all looks like greek to me, in engine. Whatever that would be.
A flash of light in one of my mirrors catches my attention. It’s a motorcyclist and he speeds up in front of my car. I recognize the jacket patches from the other day, but I can’t quite see the rider’s face. My heart races when I see him, and my hands stick to the steering wheel. Great, I’m already making myself silly about some guy I’ve only seen once. I never even thought I had a thing for motorcycle riders. Sara would be awfully proud if she knew, I chuckle to myself.
I desperately want to race up and get a good look, but the minivan in front of me refuses to go the speed limit. I groan loudly and lay on my horn, hoping it’ll do anything to make the driver go faster. I see a middle finger go up in between the seats of the car. Great. Come on. I look at the motorcyclist again. Let me just look at him, just a peek.
The biker glances over his shoulder away from me, and I fume. I slam my hands on the steering wheel. The radio switches from a commercial to the DJ talking about something in the news, but I have my eyes fixed on the rider.
He twists his wrist and jets off in front of the pack of cars, including me, and into the upcoming intersection. The light is turning yellow, but I gun my car forward and swerve around the van. I can’t explain it, but I have to see if it's the same biker as the other day. I just know I'll be so pissed if I miss the opportunity. Just the chance to see those eyes again, to take a look at his tattoos. To feel that freedom and live it through him. That rush of my heart.
The motorcyclist weaves past the intersection just as the light turns red, and I’m too late. I’m jerk my head forward just as I’m passing under the traffic lights and another motorcyclist is cutting across the intersection, and I slam into him. The me
tal of his bike makes a horrific screech and the rider skids across the asphalt. I slam on my brakes and my mouth drops open. What the fuck just happened? My hands are shaking, and I can’t breathe.
Quickly glancing over my shoulder for any vehicles in the way, I jerk my car to the shoulder, flipping my hazards on and jumping out of my driver's seat. The motorcyclist was thrown from his bike a good thirty feet, and he isn’t moving. Jesus Christ this can’t be happening, fuck, fuck.
I flip open my phone and dial 9-1-1. Where the fuck did he come from? Was I that fucking blinded and tunnel visioned on the first motorcycle? I stare over the expansive road at the unconscious man, and pray he isn’t dead. I don’t dare step a foot closer to him. The first motorcyclist screeches on his brakes and throws his bike around the median, before howling back to the scene of the accident.
Just as dispatch picks up, another roar of engines come from behind me. The deafening sound makes it impossible to hear the voice on the other end of the line. I lower the phone for a second and search for the sound, and six motorcyclists wearing the same leather vests stream down from behind me, their bikes scorching the pavement with black lines as they slide to a stop. They scatter and maneuver their bikes with an agility I can barely comprehend, and wave the stunned drivers away from the wreckage. Hell, the police couldn’t have responded faster if they were psychic.
The woman on the phone shouts at me, “Hello? Are you there?” I shake away how dumbstruck I am and raise the phone to my ear.
“There’s been a car accident.” My voice is shaky and weak. I feel like throwing up.
“State the address, please,” she says.
I glance for street signs. “Barrister and Seventh.”
She tells me she’s notified emergency services and she hangs up. I stare at the motorcyclists as a couple of them climb off their rides and start to swarm the injured rider. One of them looks as big as a bear, with black curly hair jutting out from his back and neck. I shudder at the thought of him spotting me. I want nothing more than to curl into a ball and die. They kneel down next to the victim but don’t touch him.
