by Bella Knight
She nodded.
He nodded, “I,” he said, as she touched his cheek, “we’re not…”
Ivy laughed bitterly, “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not the girl someone settles down with. I know you’re in love with the mother of that very strong little girl. But, it will take her months, if not years, to notice that you exist. Right now, her daughter is the only person that exists, and that’s as it should be.” She kissed his hand, “I can’t take away her pain, or her daughter’s pain, or the pain over losing Manny. But, I can hold you until your pain gets a little bit less.”
He turned his face, looked at her, “Why? I tried being a soldier, and they discharged me because of some guy that stole a lot of money and some guns. I had nothing to do with it, and they couldn’t prove it, but I got the boot, with an honorable discharge. I got here, and now I barely get by doing construction. I heard something next door, and I couldn’t get to Elena before her father ruined her face, and now Manny…”
“Shh,” said Ivy, pulling him to her. She rocked him back and forth. “You stupid man. The Marines were idiots to let you go. And, unless you could walk through walls, you couldn’t have gotten to Elena in time. I heard that you were the one that poured water on her, made the acid less strong. And you took the steps to get her what she needed. Manny… that’s the fault of the asshole the killed him.”
He looked into her genuine eyes and felt safe for the first time in a long time.
She rocked him and listened to his broken cries, “We’re just having a month of hell. A hell we didn’t create, but one all the same.” She rocked him more, and let him claw at her shoulder and cry into her hair.
She gave him tissues, then held him again. She stroked his head while he cried some more. He stopped, took more tissues, and wiped his face.
“Bathroom?” he asked.
She pointed to the door, “Out and to the left.” He went out, and she popped out the bed and rearranged the cushions.
He came back, sat down next to her, “Are you sure about this?” he asked.
She took him in her arms, “I am like… like a bandage, to quote Meat Loaf.” He snorted into her hair.
He kissed her then, with tears in his eyes, “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispered.
“This is one night,” said Ivy, “try to let it go for one night.”
He grabbed her by the back of her neck, kissed her. She kissed him back, touching his face, and stroking his neck, holding him close. She took her time, taking off her shirt, then his. He held her for a long time without moving. She realized he was crying into her hair. She brushed the tears away, then kissed them.
She took off her camisole and led her to the bed. He gasped as she stroked his arms, his back. She kissed his neck, his chest. He held her cheek and stroked her arm. He shuddered when he ran the back of his hand down the side of her breasts. She took his hands, put them on her breasts. He stroked her, kissed her, kissed each breast tenderly, gently.
She stood, and pulled off her jeans and panties and socks. She stood him up, and stripped off his jeans, boxers, and socks, then sat him back down. She waited until his breathing quickened, then rose up, slid on a condom, wrapped her legs around him, and slid herself onto him. They came together almost gently, quietly. She moved slowly, so slowly, barely moving. They groaned as they came in tandem, and she held him while he shuddered.
She stood, went to the bathroom, disposed of the condom, and came back with a wet towel to clean them with. Then she took him to bed, just let him hold her under the covers. The tears came again, for both of them, but they were less due to pain than cleansing. He shuddered, letting go of the pain that had been crushing him.
He held her and stroked her back. She flipped him on his back, grabbed a condom from the little container hidden in the corner of the bed, and rode him again, even more slowly than the first time. He stroked her hair, her arms, bent up to kiss her. Their tears dried, and she rolled off him. He was the one that went for the damp towel and cleaned them both up, this time.
She held him, and he slept hard, for the first time in weeks. She held him, stroking his hair. Then, she had her own cry, not for Gregory, or the maimed Elena. She cried for Manny, who showed her how to take a curve and how to cook the best tacos on a trip to the Grand Canyon. He made her laugh so hard that soda came out of her nose. She cried for the good, gentle man that talked about his wife and kids as if they were the entire universe. She laughed at his stupid jokes and how he took the time to make her feel like part of the club that summer. She had to be doing what she was doing at the brothel for her daughter then, and he never judged her, not once. She wiped her tears and held Gregory in her arms, and slept.
“It’s not like it was before, there’s nothing surer.”
3
Nighthawks
Ace’s Ride
“With the wind at the back, the open road beckons.”
Ace slowed, leaning into the turn, the rest of the Nighthawks behind him, their Harley’s in full roar. He had a 2013 Harley-Davidson Heritage. The Softail Classic, heavy on the black studded leather and chrome. He’d gotten it in Arizona, on the way back from seeing his brother, Devlin, at Desert Run; the boarding school bitch, Daniela, sent him to. He’d called the rental car company to take the car back, and rode Lydia, the bike, home. With throttle, open. Lydia was the name of his first girlfriend, full of wild, black hair and eyes that snapped and crackled with new ideas. It was like loving a thunderstorm, all black clouds and lightning. She’d moved on before he had time to get his pants back on, but he’d never forgotten her, even after death, he claimed her as his own nearly a year and a half later.
She’d died protecting her little sister from some asshole with a knife —an asshole that was six feet under now, too. So, he honored her memory the only way he knew how —by buying a bad-ass black bike and naming it after her.
Ace goosed the motor and teamed up with Numa. Her gray hair trailed behind her, trying to escape its messy half-braid and clip. She was the Amerindian, from the Paiute Nation. She owned a convenience and Native artifacts store that also sold fireworks, illegal off the res. He could hear her laughter as they took the Red Rock Scenic Route curves through the canyon.
The desert flowers were out for their short time in the sun. They flowed around the curves, taking in the stunning layers of rock in red and black and ochre. At times nearly horizontal, with sandstone that pushed up out of the earth, weathered by the rain and the wind. He saw free-rock climbers, hikers, picnickers, and photographers in clumps on the cliffs and trailheads, and by the side of the road. Once he saw a coyote.
He heard a shout and saw Numa pointing at the sky. It was a mated pair of red-tailed hawks, floating in lazy circles in the wind, an excellent sign. The Nighthawks all around him saw the hawks and whooped.
They were all tuned to the same head jack, and Bonnie played her Ride Mix. Born to Be Wild came on, and there were a lot of smiles and a few “yipees” as they came out of the turn. They waited to turn back onto the highway, and then the Nighthawks roared back towards Las Vegas, quite a few of them singing into the wind.
They caught the Summerlin Parkway and avoided a lot of traffic before they hit the slowdown at the 15, predictable at that time of day. They kept left, grabbing the 515 to the clubhouse, right on the border where Las Vegas met Green Valley, the suburb with the pristine, manicured lawns and large homes.
They pulled in, some of them parking in the enormous motorcycle lot, and two headed in the bay of the garage where they liked to tinker with their bikes. Ace took off his gloves and his helmet, and put his gloves on the helmet, and stowed them.
Nestor had the grills hot, and the fried chicken and biscuits were already on the picnic tables. They took turns hitting the head and grabbing icy drinks from the two coolers. Ace took his from the green ‘No Fly Zone’ one, which contained only sodas and water, as opposed to the red, ‘Flying High’ one over by the garage. He hit himself up with both a bottle of wa
ter, which he had down in six seconds and a Mountain Dew. He threw a perfect three-pointer with the water bottle into the plastic recycling bin and popped his Dew. He built himself a grilled chicken sandwich loaded with pickles, and lettuce, and tomatoes, and mustard, and helped himself to both potato and pasta salad.
He sat down next to Gregory, holding a seat for Numa. Ace piled a fried chicken and a biscuit and coleslaw plate for her, and put it in her place. He knew the food would be half-gone before anyone else could sit down, and that the women had a line for the bathroom. He pulled out his phone and checked that the fixtures were in for the second women’s bathroom. They were, and he sent a message to Mickey, their club member plumber, to pick them up. Then, he stood when Numa arrived. They took a moment to remember the fallen, then they sat down to eat.
“How’s Elena?” asked Numa, reaching for a biscuit with one hand and honey with the other.
“Holding in there,” said Gregory.
He was one of the construction crew under Luis Sandoval, another one of the Nighthawks. Gregory also an ex-soldier, all lean and ropy muscle, with a buzz-cut for his sandy brown hair, and eyes that missed nothing.
Gregory’s eyes teared up, “Her mom cried when the home health nurse showed up so she could go to work.”
Numa smiled.
He bit into a chicken leg, chewed, swallowed, “Lucky we got her out of the hospital at all,” he said.
Elena had been in the burns ward for nearly six months, the victim of the acid attack by Alek, the girl’s own father. A cross-country change of residence didn’t stop Alek for wanting to maim his ex-wife, Katya, and daughter. The Nighthawks were working with the local Shriners’ Club to get the girl all her surgeries, medications, and home health care. The stuff Katya’s cocktail waitress job didn’t cover. Gregory had heard the screams from the attack that night, grabbed his baseball bat, and gone over to the next apartment. It was vivid in his mind.
Alek was now in prison fighting extradition to a much-worse Russian prison. He was also down one kidney knowing his right arm would never work the same —both very bad in terms of where he was probably going.
Ace suspected that Katya would be joining the Nighthawks soon. She was already learning to ride, and would probably soon marry her baseball-bat-wielding protector.
Ace nodded, “Dude, you need a toothbrush at three in the morning…”
Gregory smiled sadly, “We’re still at peck on the cheek. Not there at three am yet, but I’m inching my way there.”
“Good,” said Numa, “one step, two steps, nice and slow and easy. Mustn’t spook the horse. Or, in this case, the girl or her mom.”
“Listen to the Paiute Nation People,” said Henry, himself a Paiute, “we know our horses.”
Everyone laughed and dug in. Numa and Henry were related somehow, but no one had ever figured it out, and no one had the nerve to ask.
“How’s Pedro?”
Pedro was the son of one of their own. Manuel Morales, who was killed by the drunk driver behind the wheel of a dually that literally ran over and chewed up both himself and the Harley.
Tina, the widow, worked graveyard. The club had started a daycare to help her, and Luis, and Omar and Yelena, all of whom worked graveyard or swing. They were up to two to four kids for swing and the same for the graveyard. Selena Alvarez, a certified teacher, and her newly-certified sister Nina, each ran a shift in the clubhouse’s brand-new daycare. Hence the ‘no-alcohol-one-hundred-feet-from-the-daycare’ rule. Those that wanted a beer could only do it outside, in or near the “Harley Place of Worship,” their garage across the property from the motorcycle-filled parking lot.
Henry answered the question, “His grades had hit bottom and are slowly inching up,” he took a swallow of water, “we’re waiting on Tina getting her certification to open the home school.”
Numa sighed audibly, “Guess you’ll have to dust off your certification, old man,” she said with a broad smile.
Ace and Gregory stared at Henry, “You holding out on us, old man?” asked Ace.
It was hard to see the weather-beaten man with the craggy face, strong jaw and nose, and impeccably braided hair, even after the ride, teaching kids.
“You never asked,” said Henry, “almost twenty years, teaching in Red Rock. Elementary and middle, mostly.”
“You never made principal?” asked Ace.
Henry snorted, “And do all that paperwork? My horses need to be fed at five in the morning. Not good to be a rancher and a principal.”
“Fu--um, damn,” said Gregory. He watched his language in case the kids could hear him through the window.
Henry laughed a great belly roar that stopped most of the conversation at their table, “I accept,” he said, although no one had offered anything, “I’ll get a curriculum going, less a white man’s one and more of a whole world thing. We’ll need eight —no, seven computers. Daniela is just a baby. No, eight, the kid is bound to grow up sometime.”
Everyone looked at Gregory. He had base contacts that might be selling used computers, “On it,” he said quietly.
Ace looked at Numa, “We’ve got to ride,” he said. They stood, clapping shoulders as they left.
They put their nearly-licked-clean plates in the bussing tray, and they both hit the restroom before they rode off. Ace worked tending bar and tended to pick up one of the dancers on his way in. One of the club members usually took in the other one for him after a ride.
Yancy and Darla were right on time, at the edge of campus just past the bus stop, leathers on, helmets in hand. Yancy slid hers over her nut-brown hair. Her eyes were a stunning blue-green hazel, seeming to shine out of her whiskey-dark face. Darla was tiny, with golden skin, tilted eyes, and a flattened nose. Her hair was caught in a low pony. She put on her helmet, red where Yancy’s was blue.
“Hey!” said Yancy, stowing her backpack in the right saddlebag, then climbing on the back of Ace’s bike smoothly.
“Hey!” said Ace, waiting until he was sure she was holding on. Then, they were off; Numa’s bike right behind with Darla on the back, clinging like a limpet.
The bar was off the strip, the Dirty Rock Bar in bright red and blue neon, on a sign wrapped around the front. It was round and had etchings of rock stars in various screaming, thrashing, and head-banging poses etched into the windows. They curved around to the back, Numa halting and Ace parking his bike in a protected space between two short pillars.
He locked up the helmets, “Later,” said Numa, as she drove away.
Ace unlocked the back door, plastered with rock band stickers. Yancy and Darla made a beeline to the locker room. They were already wearing the black halter tops under their leathers. They would change into Daisy Dukes and thigh-high black boots and cover themselves with bracelets and filmy, gauzy tops —black for Darla, silver for Yancy, ones that revealed and hid as they moved.
Ace followed them to the male locker room and stowed his jacket. He put on black jeans and a black top that was silk on top, and mesh on his flat stomach. He put his steel-toed motorcycle boots back on. Then, he started wiping down his counter and bottles. He heard a buzz and went out to take in the beer delivery.
Mary was unloading with her usual quick efficiency, muscles knotting, “Don’t know why rockers drink so much Sam Adams, but it keeps me in business,” she said.
Her hair was shaved on the right this time, her six earrings gleaming in the desert sun, the feather through her lobe jingling.
Ace shrugged, “It’s good beer,” he said.
Then, she walked up to his bike. Whiskey eyes with a tinge of violet, blue-back hair, a wide face and a small, and a pointed nose. Her hair was chopped in a sideways pixie. She had a strong jaw and delicate ears. Ace stopped breathing, then he remembered to breathe, and went over to say hello.
Lily’s Burden
Lily was typing in the results of a credit check when her cell rang. She saw it was Devlin, and she nearly didn’t answer it. She had refused his more and more stri
dent pleas for, “Just a little bit to tide him over.” But, if she didn’t get up and move around, she would feel even more like a hunched-up gnome.
She got up, moving quickly to the back door. She reached for the door just as it swung open. Mark Jhering and Jason Wright were coming in, the stench of cigarette smoke on their clothes. She cut off Mark’s “Where’s the fire, Lily?” by shutting the door behind her.
She answered, “Oh, god, Lily,” said Devlin, “you gotta come and get me. I think I broke something.”
He coughed wetly, spit, and moaned. Lily went cold. Somewhere along the line, her brother had moved from a beer, to whiskey, to legal-in-Nevada pot, but she suspected he had gone past all of that. He didn’t eat, then he disappeared for days, and he was either hyped up and spoke in double-time, or was depressed. He lived in a broken-down old trailer on the edge of town with his high school drinking and pot buddies, Max and June.
“Call Max or June,” she said, about to hang up.
“Don’t be a hard-ass, Lily,” he said, his voice sounding broken somehow, “they kicked me out.”
“Good,” she said, “maybe now you will get some help.”
“That’s why I called,” said Devlin, “I need some help.”
“Where are you?” asked Lily.
“Parking lot, Denny’s. On Top. And hurry.”
She snorted, “I’m off in a little under an hour. You’ll have to wait, bro,” she said and hung up. She turned off her phone entirely, assuming he would call back every five minutes until she left.
She used the bathroom, stretched widely, and zipped back to her desk. She typed even more quickly, the words speeding by, going through the files until they were in a neat stack in her outbox. She delivered the financial reports and completed files to Mark and Jason. Each one snorted at her, like prancing horses.
