Vacant MC

by Bella Knight

  He sighed, looked away. “Your stepdad,” said Triesta. “Didn’t know about that.”

  He shrugged. “You were away at college. And your brother probably did the same thing.”

  She shrugged. “I had really good hiding places. He hit me once, demanding money, and I cleaned his clock. He never touched me again. Never really looked at me again, either. He’s in Arizona somewhere, I think. Haven’t seen him since my second year of college.”

  “Braydon is an idiot,” said Robert. “We called him Bray. Or Donkey.”

  “He is,” she said. “He’s three years older than me. He made fun of me going out for track. He ended up behind the bleachers smoking in the eighth grade, graduated to drugs and drinking by ninth grade. I’d like to meet him if he got sober.”

  They watched the stars come out, first singly, then in great strips. They walked to the Big House and sat down in the glider. Henry came out, with bottles of the spiced apple cider in hand, and passed them out. David came out too, and leaned on the railing, holding hands with Henry. Jake came out, with a cider in hand, with Vu. Robert and Triesta rose, held hands, and ran laughing up their stairs.

  Robert liked Triesta’s room. A third of a wall was covered with chicken wire mesh, stapled to the wall. Her jewelry hung in hooks, with earrings along the left side, necklaces and chokers in the middle, bangles and bracelets on the right side. Her work was stunning. Made of silver, glass, winks of gold, and not just turquoise, but red and golden tiger’s eye, fool’s gold, amethyst, chalcedony, rhodonite, topaz, sodalite, malachite, jasper, and jade. She loved swirls and spirals, and stamped out tiny suns, lizards, butterflies, rivers, desert flowers and plants, and more. He was stunned at the detail, and he spent the time for kicking off his boots and taking off his shirt, just staring at her wall, mesmerized. She sold pieces, and added more, making it fun to “read” her wall.

  He turned, and gasped. She was completely nude, perched on the bed, her legs underneath her. She had her hands in her hair, taking out the clip, making her breasts stand out. He reached for her, and her hands went to his as he stroked her face, then her breasts. Her hands went lower, and she grabbed his jeans, unbuttoned them, and pulled them down. He stepped out of them, almost tripping as she ripped down his boxers as well.

  Her eyes gleamed as she pulled him to her, demanding his touch. She put one hand on her breast, the other on her lips. She kissed his fingers, grabbed his face, and kissed his lips. She drew him on the bed, traced the muscles on his arms, his chest, his back, making him shiver. She made him gasp, moan, and whisper in her ear. She made him need her, want her. Her hair smelled like the sun, her kisses like rain. Her eyes drew him in, hot, seeking. She whispered in Zuni in his ear about his strength, and about the joy he brought to her. She brought him to the edge again and again. As he did as she demanded, she came again and again, arching her back, moaning, biting his ear as he sucked each breast, and did so as he slid his fingers inside her. Finally, he couldn’t wait any more, and he put on the condom and slid inside. She wrapped her legs around him, and bit his ear as he drove deeper, then deeper still.

  He came, and she did too, both with great, juddering gasps. They laid there, unable to breathe, for what felt like forever, before she reached under her pillow and drew out a wet wipe. She tore open the packet and wiped them both down. He rolled next to her, and they laid there, unable to catch their breaths. She had her head on his shoulder, his arms embracing her, and they fell asleep, the sweat of their bodies now cooling.

  Robert woke up to her climbing down his body. His eyes flew open as she coaxed him awake with her tongue, lips, and teeth. He came again, and she dragged him in for a shower in the wee hours of the morning. She dried them both, braided her hair, and kicked him out. He stumbled into his boxers and carried the rest of his clothes down the hall. He put on fresh boxers and fell into a deep sleep.

  Robert woke up, heart pounding, the noise of battle in his skull. Skyler was dead, eyes staring into the desert sun. Tran was dragging a screaming Vonners to another Jeep. Someone was tying something around his leg. He woke up to absolute darkness, the whiteness of a desert sun, the grit in his mouth, still there from a year earlier, and halfway around the world.

  He did all the things he was supposed to. He looked at the clock. Four am. Oh, dark thirty. He ran a hand over his face. He drank lukewarm water, hand shaking. A little hand tapped his door, and it swung open. A little yellow-haired girl went over to him and took his hand.

  “Nightmare,” said Robert. “Not real. Sorry I woke you.”

  He was stunned when a gossamer hug came around his neck. “Not real,” she said. She gave him a tiny pat on the cheek. “Got to sleep,” she ordered.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said. She nodded, then vanished, pulling the door shut behind her.

  He laid down, and tried to do as he had been ordered. He pulled out his phone and left himself a message to call Tran; he was doing well, based in Virginia now. Vonners had shot himself in the head six months after she got out. He felt like taking his brain out, scrubbing it, and putting it back in his skull. He didn’t slide into sleep until a warm woman slipped in, climbed in the bed, and held him around the stomach. He held onto the thought that she was real, there, willing. He remembered her running track, leaping over the hurdles, a look of absolute focus and ambition on her face. He realized, as he slipped under, that he loved her, now more than ever.

  Dealmaker

  Sheriff Bob —Robin at home, wondered when he’d last slept. Xenia and Robin took turns with Diana. The little refrigerator and bottle warmer in their room were wonderful for storing and reheating breast milk. Xenia was still on maternity leave, but his paternity leave had ended. He had a full day of paperwork, riding around, making sure his deputies did everything by the book. He took calls from his dispatcher and kept track of some kids in the foster system he was overseeing. He had to be sure they were treated well, did their homework, and generally kept out of trouble. Tommy Parks was doing much better, and his foster mom wanted to adopt him. Chance ended up in a group home, which sucked. He was trying to get her out of there, but it was hard. He put Herja on her, and one of the Valkyries —he didn’t know which one, but one was taking parenting classes to adopt Chance. Chance now sported the Valkyries’ side braids, which gave her super-religious group home, absolute fits.

  So, he went to the group home and sat Ms. Turtin down. “Ms. Turtin,” he said. “Chance says you’re harassing her about her braids.”

  “She would look so pretty with a normal hairstyle,” said Ms. Turtin. She was a large woman, with large hands she tended to flutter. She also liked to wear orange, which made her look like a pumpkin.

  “She looks pretty now, Ms. Turtin,” he said. “Chance is wearing this to get stronger in her heart. Do you understand the value of having a strong heart?”

  “Yes, yes, I do,” said Ms. Turtin, fluttering her hands again.

  “That girl’s working on avoiding people at school who are trying to sell her drugs. She wears the braids, it makes her a straight-edger. Someone who doesn’t do drugs, not even caffeine. You want her to avoid drugs, don’t you?”

  “It’s a school thing?” asked Ms. Turtin. “She didn’t tell me that.” She fluttered her hands again, the golden swirls of her nail art glittering in the light that was streaming in through the window.

  “I hate to tell you this, Ms. Turtin, but there are gangs at that school. Chance is trying to have a strong heart to fight against that. You can support her in that, can’t you, Ms. Turtin?”

  “Yes, yes, I can,” said Ms. Turtin.

  “Good,” said Sheriff Bob. He finished the woman’s execrable coffee, glad of the caffeine hit, but not the taste.

  Thank you, mouthed Chance, a girl in a sky-blue T-shirt and jeans, black hair braided on one side. She was free of makeup, and Sheriff Bob knew she hated blue. He had secretly spirited the girl’s black clothes out to his car in a trash bag to give to Herja. He nodded, put down the coffee cup, a
nd stood.

  “Have to get going,” he said. He called over Chance. She stood in front of him, the fire in her eyes gleaming past the lock of hair in her face. “You stay strong,” he said.

  She grinned. “Three weeks.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “Three weeks?” asked Ms. Turtin.

  “Since she’s taken the clean and sober pledge,” said Bob. It was partly true; it was the day she met Herja. If Ms. Turtin knew about the Valkyries, she may try to block the adoption to “protect” Chance. This way, Chance would just be one of many girls cycled in and out.

  Bob bumped fists with Chance and made it to his car without falling over from exhaustion. He got in, and checked in. “S-29. Heading to the speed trap,” he said. He’d take over for Deputy Carson Diaz, giving her fifty minutes for lunch.

  He swung by a gas station, filled up and used the restroom, and swung out to the trap. He was halfway there when a semi crossed two lanes of traffic and skidded out into the desert, not three cars in front of him. He pulled off to the shoulder, avoiding the Audi that slammed on the brakes, then pulled over, to get out of the way of the truck. The truck clipped a little green Ford, sending the car spinning off the road. A motorcycle rider used great skills to avoid all the vehicles and leaned to curve out of the way. The motorcycle went upright, and flowed out to the spinning car, which came to rest. All the other cars had managed to avoid the accident. Bob called it in, hopped out, opened the back, put out light cones for the shattered glass and bumper in the road, grabbed his first aid kit, and ran toward the spun car.

  The biker was a Valkyrie he didn’t recognize. She had dark skin, tawny lips, and a sure stance. She was wearing black from head to toe, from helmet to vented jacket, black jeans, and motorcycle boots. She had her helmet off and had taken an emergency kit out of her saddlebag before he could get there with his own.

  “She’s alive,” said the woman. “Check out the truck.”

  He did, and he found a man with gray skin gasping for air. He put aspirin under the man’s tongue and got him out of the truck in case he had to do chest compressions. He said into his shoulder mic, “Need two buses. Now. Have one probable heart attack.”

  He saw the Valkyrie biker rotate around the car, talking simultaneously to the people inside, and to her earphone. He concentrated on the trucker. “I’ve got you,” he said, taking the man’s pulse. “A little thready, buddy, but the hospital’s not far from here.” He heard sirens. “Not long now.”

  Two ambulances came roaring up. One headed toward the biker and backed up butt first to take the inhabitants of the first car out. The second one came barreling toward the truck. Major Orissey, his real name, did a donut and landed right next to the man.

  “Major,” complained Bob, “If this gentleman wasn’t having a heart attack before, he’s having one now.”

  Orissey had sandy brown hair, green/brown hazel eyes that looked like ripe olives, and a beard that made his thin lips disappear. “Don’t worry, sir,” said Major. “I’ll have you at the hospital in a jiffy.”

  “Gave him a baby aspirin,” said Bob, checking the man’s pockets. He took out the wallet and read the driver’s license. “Ganub Orjics. Sir, do you want me to call anyone?” Raul Poros started the IV while Major gave the man oxygen and checked the man’s vitals.

  The man slipped out his own phone, pressed 1, and handed it to Bob. He checked the label, and it said Mirsa. He said, “Is this Mirsa?” when the phone stopped ringing.

  “Yes,” said a woman with a heavy Slavic accident.

  “Do you know a Ganub Orjics?” asked Bob.

  “Yes, is my husband,” said the woman.

  “This is Sheriff Bob Hunter, Nye County Sheriff’s Department. Your husband is receiving excellent medical attention, and he is conscious. We think he had a heart attack. His truck is fine and pulled off the side of the road. We’re taking him to Desert Sunrise Medical, right now.”

  “Good he is fine. Tell him to live or I will kill him. I will be there soon.” She hung up.

  Bob put the phone back in the man’s pocket. “Your wife will meet you at the hospital, and she will kill you if you die.”

  The man grinned under his mask. He held his thumb up, and Bob gave him a thumbs-up. He took a photo with his phone of the man’s ID, and then he put the ID back into the wallet. He slid the wallet back into the man’s pants, and Major and Raul got the man into the bus. Bob closed the door and banged on it. The ambulance took off, spitting up a rooster tail of dust.

  The woman and her six-year-old daughter were fine, but very shaken up. The little girl, a girl with caramel hair in a wild pouf who was wearing a green top and shorts, was crying. “And that’s why you sit in your car seat,” said Davis Alchier, the driver paramedic of the duo, a thin beanpole of a woman who routinely won at arm-wrestling. Malachi Roasa was the other paramedic, a former football player who was still fast on his huge feet. “Your mom is super-smart for having one.”

  The woman said, “Daisy hates it, but everybody knows the car won’t start without it.” She had caramel skin, hair tamed into a side braid, and huge brown eyes. You could see the family resemblance; they had the exact same nose and eyes.

  “Exactly right,” said Bob. “Glad you folks are okay. You are okay?”

  “Fine,” said the woman. “I’m Rissa. You’ve met Daisy. You Sheriff Hunter?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Bob, and he shook her hand. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she said. “Is that man okay?” She took her daughter into her arms and rocked back and forth.

  “Heart attack,” said Bob. “He’s awake. I am so glad your reflexes were that good. As far as I can tell, he tried to avoid traffic when he pulled over. I don’t think he had any intent in harming anyone.” He sighed. “I’ll need your information. Insurance from the trucking company will probably pay for your vehicle to be repaired.”

  She said, “License is in the purse in the car.” Bob got up, shone his flashlight in the car, and came out with a purse with her license and registration. He asked Rissa to take out her license, so he could photograph it, and he also photographed her registration. He took down an incident report, and said (after Rissa refused to go to the hospital), “I suggest you go to the hospital to be checked out. You never know if there are hidden problems.”

  Rissa nodded. “I guess so.”

  The biker, who had been leaning against her bike, came over and said, “Would you rather have a hassle and waste an hour or two and be fine, or have trouble getting out of bed tomorrow, and be unable to care for Daisy?”

  Rissa nodded. “Yeah. And, thank you for stopping, Ms…”

  “Freya,” said the Valkyrie.

  “Of course… your name is Freya,” said Bob. “Are you the one working with Herja?”

  “Yes,” she said. She had cobalt-black eyes, blue-black skin, and her black hair in tiny braids on one side, long enough to run down her back on the other.

  “You’re a motorcycle mechanic,” said Bob. “Nice to meet you. I take it you know my wife?”

  “She’s been by,” said Freya. “Your daughter is gorgeous.”

  “How old?” asked Rissa.

  “Less than thirty days. Twenty-nine, I think,” said Bob. “I’m too tired to count most days.”

  Rissa laughed, a welcome sound. “New-father sleep deprivation. Reminds me. I’ll call Van, have him meet us. He’ll want to check us out himself.”

  “EMT?” asked Bob.

  “Urgent care physician’s assistant,” said Rissa.

  “Take her there,” said Bob. “Then she can get a lift home from Dad.”

  “Can we get Daisy’s backpack out?”

  “And Mr. Purple,” said Daisy, converting from sniffles to pleading looks in hope of being the center of attention.

  “Of course,” said Bob. He found the bright yellow Minions backpack and, to his surprise, a purple Minion from the movie.

  “She has hair like me,” said Daisy, and took the Minion and Mi
nions backpack. Bob refrained from informing Daisy that, as far as he knew, all the Minions were male.

  “Good,” said Freya. “Go forth and prosper,” she said, and made the Vulcan sign. Bob wondered at the non sequitur, but he then saw the Star Trek necklace around Rissa’s neck.

  Rissa did the Vulcan salute, and said, “Live long and prosper.” She carried her daughter into the ambulance, and Bob turned to Freya. “You’re the one adopting Chance,” he said.

  “And, if all goes well, Rhodes.” Rhodes was twelve, an adorable pixie of a girl, with a foul mouth and a love of military strategy. She just didn’t fit anyone’s version of the cute little girl needing a home after she opened her mouth.

  “Oh, thank the Universe,” said Bob, sagging with relief. “I was going to see her later today.”

  “She wants another volume of Jane’s,” said Freya, naming the book of military hardware.

  “I’m paying for diapers this week,” said Bob. “I got a paperback of Marcus Aurelius, and an article from the Journal of Roman Studies on the strategy and tactics of the Roman army.”

  “Give me the name of the journal again, and I’ll get it on JSTOR,” she said. “Or a subscription.”

  “Journal of Roman Studies. Cambridge, been published for over a century,” said Bob.

  “Awesome,” said Freya. “She’ll love it.”

  “I hate to mire you in more paperwork, but it will look good on your adoption paperwork,” said Bob.

  “Let’s do this,” said Freya. Bob took her statement.

  Bob was late getting to Carson Diaz for changeover. The poor man was about to pop, but he’d made quota. He zipped off before Bob actually pulled in. Bob was soon visited by Freya on her very-cool, black, Harley Low Rider, a bag of Sonic in her hand.