by Tracey Ward
It’s one of those mysteries. The kind that can make a small town superstitious, so when Josh and I set out on the east side of the bridge and cross the water to the west bank, we don’t speak. No one does, driving or walking. Not even the boys at the club.
When we get to the other side of the bridge, Opal at our backs, Josh asks gently, “You see much of your dad?”
I shake my head silently, my lips pulled tight against my teeth.
“I didn’t think so.”
“I see him around town,” I admit reticently. “I almost ran into him at Grocery Plus last week, but I spotted him in time to dodge him. I ended up sneaking behind a display of baked beans. The old bitch on the label was judging me, I could feel it.”
“That old bitch doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“Kinda hard to avoid someone in a town this small. Do you ever think about leaving?”
“Avoiding isn’t that hard. You and I seem to have managed pretty easily.”
He doesn’t reply, and I wonder what I expected him to say. I don’t think he’s been avoiding me on purpose. I don’t think I’ve been avoiding him. But we’ve been avoiding each other, like two magnets that were flipped one warm night three years ago and we’ve naturally repelled each other ever since.
“Where would I go if I left Opal?” I ask, filling the emptiness I’ve dug between us.
Josh shrugs. “I don’t know. Anywhere but here.”
“No. Never.” I glance around us; across the desert and over the dry, broken plain surrounding us. To the club burning persistent as death in the distance. “I hate my dad, I don’t exactly love this town, but this is where I belong.”
Josh follows my eyes. He nods to the club. “You mean that is where you belong.”
“Yeah. That’s what I mean.”
I wait for him to argue with me. To tell me that I’m better than a bitch on the back of a hog, being passed around the club like some party favor. I wait for the ignorance and hate that always comes with talking to outsiders about the life.
Only it doesn’t come.
Josh walks with me silently, his head held high, his shoulders squared, and not a whiff of condemnation on him. He never used to judge me before. I don’t know why I keep expecting him to do it now. Of all the people in the world, Josh knows better than anyone what I came from. What my childhood was like.
He knows that no matter where I am now, it has to be better than where I was.
Chapter Three
Josh
Opal was founded by uber-Christians over a hundred-and-seventy years ago. It turned into an important outpost in the Nevada desert, a place for travelers to stop and rest. Restock. Regroup after the savage trek across the country. Opal, small as it was, started booming almost immediately. But the founders had a stipulation about staying there – the town was dry, and it always would be.
That prohibition law has been challenged every few years since the seventies, but any measures to end it are always voted down. The older generation isn’t big on change. Or booze. Or fun. It’s a little like Footloose but with a shittier soundtrack.
It’s also a rough gig for a biker gang. Without beer, weed, and women, where would they be? Unemployed, probably, but The Devil’s Due are smarter than that. Instead of running to the biggest city in the area and competing with other gangs for territory and product, they bought property on the edge of town, outside the reach of the antiquated laws in Opal, and built themselves a bar. The only bar in a fifty-mile radius. They can’t sell bottles, there are no to-go orders, but with a college in town and alcoholism as the official Opal pastime, they do alright. Better than.
The exterior is black corrugated metal, the windows and door trimmed with shining stainless steel. A red neon sign hangs high over the entry, shouting, ‘1903’. Harlow explained to me once that it’s the year Harley Davidson was founded. Most people in town just refer to the place as The Three.
I scan the parking lot outside. It’s empty except for a few bikes lined up neatly in a row. At this hour the place will only have members of the club inside. No civilians.
“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask Harlow as she reaches for the handle on the heavy steel door.
“Yeah, of course. You’re cool. I can vouch for you.” She pauses, smiling at me playfully. “You are cool, aren’t you, Josh?”
I grin. “Me? I’m arctic, baby.”
Harlow laughs as she yanks the door open. I lean in to grab the outer edge, taking on the brunt of the weight to hold it for her. I’m close; too close for comfort. So close I can smell her perfume and her shampoo. Her deodorant, her detergent, and that something else. That singular something that’s animal in both of us; the scent in her and the man in me who can smell it. Call it pheromones or hormones or whatever you want, but it’s the smell of Harlow. The scent under all that other store-bought, manufactured shit trying to get in the way. It’s her skin and her breath. Her warmth and the beat of her heart. It makes the hair on my arms rise up, like I’m standing in the middle of an electrical storm.
Am I pissed at her for fucking me and leaving me three years ago? Easy answer is yes, but easy isn’t everything. It’s been a long time. I had a lot of questions for a lot of years, but I’m out of them now. I’m over them. I’m surprised and kind of relieved to find I can stand here next to her, talking and laughing, and I don’t feel completely gutted by her. Two years ago, I would have been a wreck. But tonight, I’m exactly what I promised her I would be – arctic.
Numb.
It’s warm inside, a big contrast to the September chill rolling in outside. I doubt they’d turn the heaters on this time of year, so odds are the warmth is left over from a night of business lingering in the air with the scent of cigarettes, sweat, and Schlitz’s. The only lights in the place are the neons burning from every wall, the old ones giving off a constant, faint hum. Though I can barely hear it over the laughter at the other end of the room.
I don’t care who you are or how badass you imagine yourself to be – when you walk uninvited into a biker bar in the middle of the night and spot a mass of leather, tattoos, and cold, hard steel looming in front of you, your butt will pucker. Just a little bit. Just enough for your sphincter to send a clear message – be on your best fuckin’ behavior.
“Boys! Refreshments have arrived!” Harlow calls to them triumphantly, her arms raised over her head. Her shirt rising up almost to her rib cage.
I’m not the only one who sees it. Almost every eye in the place rakes her over at least once, smiles of appreciation for either the snacks or her abs. Probably both. Either way, the men look hungry.
Then they see me, lurking in the shadows behind her.
Now they look angry.
A guy with a shaved head and arms bigger than my legs stands up, nodding at me with narrowed eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”
I stop dead in my tracks.
“Don’t worry. He’s with me,” Harlow promises calmly. She waves to me, calling me forward. “Guys, this is Josh. We grew up together. He was my neighbor back in the day.”
“What’s he doing here, Harley? Club’s closed.”
“He carried your shit for me, Hyde, but I can tell him to go if you’re going to be a dick about it. He’ll take your peanut butter with him.”
The guy’s face softens immediately, a wicked grin appearing under his heavy beard. “If he’s got my PB, he can stay all night.”
Harlow chuckles as she takes my backpack from me. She walks it to the bar, carelessly dumping its contents on the dark oak surface. The men at the table stand in unison, hurrying over to snag what they want.
One guy hangs back, slouching casually in his chair. He’s a shadow in motion; deeply tan skin, black hair, and even darker eyes. Penetrating, watchful eyes. The cut of his jaw is the stuff they write chick flicks about. The kind that gets a gorgeous girl like Harlow to ride the back of his bike, leaving everyone and everything else b
ehind.
He waves to me with two fingers. “S’up, Stratford.”
“Hey, Devo,” I reply with a jut of my chin, my hands sliding slowly into my pockets. My fingers knotting into fists. “How are you doin’?”
“I’m losing my shirt,” he jokes, holding up his hand of cards.
I chuckle sympathetically. “That’s rough, man.”
“You want us to deal you in?”
“Nah, thanks. I don’t have a shirt to spare.”
“Now that’s rough. College must clean you out, huh?”
“It’s not cheap,” I agree vaguely.
One of the guys at the bar turns toward me. He’s about my size, maybe a little bigger. He has short blond hair, blue eyes, a day’s worth of scruff on his face, and a mouth full of Funions. “You go to the college?” he asks, his voice hinting at a southern accent.
“This is my third year, yeah.”
“You don’t look like a college kid.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I laugh.
The guy grins his approval. He wipes his hand on his jeans before offering it to me. “Raw. Nice to meet you, man.”
“Josh.” I shake his hand. His grip is strong, his palm surprisingly soft for a guy with sleeves tattooed on both arms and FUCK across his knuckles. “Is Raw short for something?”
“Raleigh, North Carolina. It’s where I’m from.”
“You’re a southern boy.”
He grins crookedly. “Only when I need to be.”
I don’t know exactly what that means, but I’ve got a pretty good idea. I’m sure a lot of girls in this town do too.
Raw gestures over his shoulder to Devo. “Looks like you already know Devo.”
“We went to high school together. He was a senior when me and Harlow were sophomores.”
“Is that when he started banging her or did he wait until she was legal?”
“You break every law in the state for a girl like Harley,” Devo answers absently.
“And commit a few federal offenses while you’re at it.” Raw points to the bar where the rest of the guys are drinking and eating. “That clean cut motherfucker over there is Skeeze.”
A guy about Devo’s age with a bag of M&Ms in his hand nods to me. “S’up.”
“What’s up.”
“Don’t be fooled, brother,” Raw warns me. “He looks normal but it’s bullshit. Dude’s a pervert.”
“Fuck you, Raw!” he shouts indignantly.
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Skeeze?”
Skeeze pelts Raw in the back of the head with a red candy shell. Raw laughs, rubbing his skull.
“If you like a girl, don’t leave her alone with Skeeze,” Harlow adds. She comes out from behind the bar to stand next to Devo. “You’ll never see her again.”
“Is he gonna kill her?”
Harlow smiles. “We’ll never know.”
Devo chuckles quietly, running his hand up and down the back of her leg. His fingers are long, reaching around to the inside of her thigh, brushing against her crotch with every stroke. It bothers me more than it should. I have to tell myself to look away, and when I do, I see that no one else is bothered by it at all. Even Harlow looks unaffected.
“If you’re all done flirting with the new guy, can we get back to playing poker?” a man asks from behind the bar.
He’s tall. Freaky tall. Six-six at least. He’s built like a mountain, his eyes set small and hard in his face. Tattoos reach up his neck out of his shirt, stopping just shy of his jaw line. His head is bald, his mouth a frown framed by an impressive beard.
I’m not a small guy. I lift six days a week and I’d say I’m just as cut as pretty much everyone else in this room, but if I met this dude in a dark alley, I’d shit myself and pray for Jesus to take the fuckin’ wheel to get me out of there.
Raw waves to him, pacifying the beast. “Yeah, Kill, we can play.”
I’m definitely not asking where that nickname came from.
The guys gather around the table again. I brace myself, waiting for Harlow to kiss Devo before she heads back to the bar, but he gives her a solid grope on the ass before sending her on her way.
Turns out, that’s not much better than watching them kiss. It’s worse in a lot of ways.
I follow Harlow to the bar, taking a seat across the oak from her.
“You want a beer?” she asks me briskly, falling into bartender mode. She moves fluidly around the narrow space, grabbing glasses and bottles, seemingly at random.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Harlow pauses with a bottle in each hand. Her eyes looking at me from under her thick, darkened lashes. “You know where you are, right?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
“Then you better have a drink.”
“I told you, I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Yeah, well, they are,” she cautions me, jutting her chin toward the table behind me. She takes one of the glasses and positions it under the tap for an IPA I’ve never heard of. It fills quickly with golden liquid and bubbling foam. “Nurse it while you’re here because if you don’t drink that, they’ll suck you into tequila in about ten minutes.”
I take the glass she offers me. My fingers accidentally touch hers, sending a slow burn like whiskey down into my gut. I’m immediately buzzing from it, drunk before the alcohol touches my lips.
When it comes to booze and Harlow, I’m a fuckin’ lightweight.
“Who are the rest of the guys?” I ask, taking a sip of the beer. I’m surprised by how good it is. How smooth. She gave me the good stuff.
Harlow glances behind me, her hands already busy fixing another drink. “The one with peanut butter, that’s Hyde. As in Dr. Jekyll and. He’s cool for the most part, but he’s got a temper on him. Totally flips his shit. Goes dead eyed and everything. You don’t want to be on the receiving end when he flips the switch.”
“What about Kill? Does he have a switch I should watch out for?”
She smiles down at the blue potion she’s concocting. It looks like an AMF; a whole lot of everything. “It’s a nickname, but not for the reason you’d think. It’s short for Killian. His dad was Irish.”
“Are you sure his dad wasn’t a Titan?”
“Easy, Professor. Not all of us are studying Greek mythology this semester.”
“And you still knew what I was talking about.”
“Well, I’m smart as shit,” she replies sarcastically.
“I’ve always thought so.”
She chuckles silently, her chest rising and falling with the sharp breath. It draws me in in ways it shouldn’t, especially with Devo and his boys sitting a few feet away. Still, I can’t take my eyes off her. I never could. Not from her body that makes me thank every god there is that I’m a man. Not from her face that reminds me of the kid with dirt under her nails and sunlight in her hair. Definitely not from the girl I swore I’d protect with every breath I had until the day I died.
Harlow’s dad never hit her. That wasn’t his style. But he beat her down just the same. He tried to break her. Tried to tell her she was nothing. Her mom walked away when she was a baby and he wanted to make sure Harlow never did the same, so he spent years telling her how ugly, stupid, and insignificant she was. He shut her up in unlocked closets and told her she couldn’t leave, his hold on her reality so strong, she believed it. She’d sit for hours inside those cramped, black rooms, waiting to be released from a prison that existed only in her mind. She was a bird without a cage held in by imaginary bars, her power stripped from her inside and out.
I’ve always wanted a shot at her dad. I’d gladly go to jail for the chance to beat that fucker blind because that’s what he did to her; he blinded her. He made her believe she’s nothing when any fool can take one look at her, hold one conversation with her, and he’d know in an instant that Harlow is absolutely everything.
I take another sip of my beer, scanning the dark corners of the room. They’re empty. “Where�
�s the old guy? The leader?”
“President,” Harlow corrects mechanically. “He’s home with his wife.”
“You mean he’s home with his old lady.”
She smiles, glaring at me over the bar. “Well, don’t you just know everything?”
“That’s it. That’s all I know and I got that from watching an episode of Law and Order.”
“Quite the rounded education you’re getting, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I’m paying for.”
She hesitates, stretching a rag between her hands until it creaks in protest. “How’s that going? Really?”
“How’s what going?”
“Two pair, bitches!” Raw shouts loudly.
I look in the mirror behind Harlow to find him standing triumphantly, his arms over his head. The other men groan as they throw their cards on the table in disgust.
I watch until Raw has taken his winnings. He sits down, happily counting his chips piled high in front him like a wall.
“You know what,” Harlow insists quietly.
I can feel her watching me. Waiting for me.
I sigh, thinking about lying to her. It makes me sick, but I’ve gotten good at it. I do it a lot, with everyone. But this is Harlow. I won’t lie to her. Not to her and not to Pops because they’re the only people on this wrecking ball of a planet that don’t lie to me. About anything.
“It’s not great,” I admit, my voice low. Muted. “Things are tight.”
“How tight?”
“Like a goddamn noose on my neck.”
Her face doesn’t change. She doesn’t give me a pitying look or offer condolences. She only nods, her mouth a grim line. “Between school and the house and the home for Pops…”
“There’s nothing left. Not a dime.”
“How are you getting by?”
I lift my glass, hiding behind it. I won’t lie to her, but I won’t bleed in front of her either. “I’ve got ways. Odd jobs.”
