Diamond Girl

by ANDREA SMITH

  I turned from him, searching the parking lot we had just traipsed through and both sides of the street.

  “Where’s your bike?”

  I looked up into his amused eyes.

  “It’s almost December, Diamond and it is freaking cold out. I have my pick-up.”

  I followed to where he was pointing and saw a black Ford Ranger pick-up truck parked by the curb. It wasn’t brand new, but it certainly wasn’t a clunker either.

  We walked over to the truck and he pushed his remote unlocking the doors. I headed toward the passenger side, expecting him to open my door for me. He was circling around the bed of his truck to get into the driver’s side.

  (Duh! I’m with a flippin’ biker - he has no clue about social norms. What the hell am I thinking?)

  Once we are inside the cab of his pick-up, he instructed me to fasten my seat belt.

  (Really Slate?)

  “So, where do you want to go for coffee?” he asked, glancing over at me.

  “Really Slate?”

  He gave me a puzzled look; I almost wanted to laugh but thought better of it.

  “I’d rather have a drink.”

  “I didn’t know that you drank, Diamond. I’ve only ever seen you have club soda.”

  “That’s because I’m working. I’m off work and I would like a drink; somewhere not seedy, please.”

  “You’ve got it babe,” he replied.

  He pulled his pick-up truck into a small, neighborhood type bar about a mile and a half from the club called ‘The Crystal Pistol.’ It wasn’t as seedy as most of the clubs around it only because it didn’t draw a young, rowdy crowd; mostly a group past fifty that were very un-rowdy at this point in their lives.

  Slate and I slid into a booth in the corner. Our server took our drink orders; I ordered a double tequila shooter to which I noticed Slate’s raised brow; he ordered bourbon on the rocks.

  “So,” I said, “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Diamond,” he started, and then quickly got a look of irritation on his face. “It would help if I knew your real name. Do you mind?”

  “Yes, I do. I will give you my first name only. It’s Sunny,” I lied. I mean really? Did I truly believe his given name was Slate?

  “Thank you,” he responded, piquing my curiosity at his manners. “That helps. Sunny, I know I don’t know you very well; hell, you don’t know me either. You have no reason to trust or to even believe me but you remind me of someone; a person that I used to know and care about. Anyway, all I’m trying to say is that I don’t think it’s safe for you to continue dancing at ‘Jewels.’ As a matter of fact, I think you need to quit.”

  Our server brought our drinks and I downed mine, ordering another. God, it tasted so good.

  “Slate, forgive me if I’ve got this stereotypical thing going here, but for the love of Jesus, I can’t believe a member of the Outlaws has taken it open himself to worry about a pole dancer at a somewhat seedy gentleman’s club.”

  “First of all - I’m not a patched member of OMC yet; I am what they call a ‘prospect’. I was patched into a club in Virginia where I lived before coming to Indy called the ‘Mongols.’ The Outlaws recruited both ‘Taz’ and me. We have been here about six months; we’re checking it out; deciding if the OMC is what we want.”

  “Excuse me for being ignorant on all of the biker lingo and politics, but exactly what the fuck is the difference between being a ‘Mongol’ and an ‘Outlaw.’

  I saw the smile cross his face; it was pure sexy. He took my hands in his large ones, his thumbs caressing my fingertips gently.

  “Hmm, great question. Let me see if I can put this into ‘lady’ terms; I guess it is kind of like shoes. I’ve noticed you have a thing with shoes, so let’s say that OMC is Prada; Mongol is Stride Rite.”

  I totally got it. He knew that; I could tell by his sexy smile.

  I had a couple of more drinks and was feeling totally buzzed when it finally dawned on me for him to finish the conversation relative to my working at Jewels.

  “Slate,” I halfway slurred, “You’ve explained all of this shit about the Mongrels and now the Outlaws -”

  “Mongol’s,” he corrected me with slight agitation.

  (Holy shit. I’d insulted his bike club!)

  “Whatever,” I said, waving my hand dismissively. “But what you haven’t explained is why you think it is dangerous for me to work there. I don’t get involved with those bikers. So what is it?”

  “I just don’t think you belong there, Sunny. I would prefer if you found another job; something that doesn’t involve that type of clientele.”

  “You mean clientele such as yourself?” I asked, my index finger waving at him.

  “Yes exactly. I’m no good for you and the rest of those assholes sure as hell are not good enough for you. Take this as a friendly warning to someone I don’t want to see hurt. Humor me, please?”

  I took the final swig of my latest drink, and then looked him straight in the eye, sort of; I was starting to weave a bit. “What’s in it for me, Slate?”

  He could tell I was shit-faced; his demeanor changed abruptly to one of ‘no-nonsense.’ His hand reached across the table, gripping my upper arm tightly.

  “I’m serious, Sunny. You need to go back to whatever trailer park you came from; trust me, you are out of your league here.”

  His voice was calm, yet highly authoritative. I kind of liked that. For whatever reason, I started giggling. He thought I was trailer trash. How ludicrous was that? A biker was looking down his nose at me. I couldn’t stop even when I looked over and saw his very serious, very somber expression.

  “You’re fucked up; we are out of here. I am taking you home.”

  He left two twenty dollar bills on the table and pulled me out of my seat across from him in the booth. He helped me with my jacket and led me out to the parking lot where his pick-up truck was parked. Just before we got to his truck I felt the ground spinning.

  (Holy shit! I was going to heave!)

  The next thing I knew, I was leaning over in the parking lot and tossing my cookies all over the pavement.

  (Dear Lord; how pathetic is this?)

  I vaguely remember Slate helping me to his truck; I vaguely remember me accusing him of slipping me some Triple X; I vaguely remember him chuckling and saying, “I don’t think so, babe.”

  He took me to a motel and got a room. This was it. I was now going to know what it felt like to be raped by a ‘probationary’ member of the OMC (Outlaws Motorcycle Club) as opposed to being raped by my husband. Hell, my money said Slate would be gentler.

  The last thing that I remember was Slate peeling my clothes off until I was down to my thong underwear and push-up bra. He pulled the bedspread back and got me under the covers, checking first to see if I thought I was going to heave again. I gave him the all clear signal. I promptly passed out seeing him sitting on one of the chairs next to the bed, channel surfing with the remote.

  (God he was gorgeous!)

  CHAPTER 13

  I awoke the following morning with a headache and cotton mouth in a strange room. It took me a couple of minutes to think back and fast forward to where I was. I sat up in bed abruptly, looking around the room. I was alone. The door to the bathroom was open so I presumed that Slate was not in there. I didn’t see his jacket strewn anywhere, just my clothes.

  My cheeks felt flushed when I recalled him undressing me before I passed out beneath the sheets of this hotel room bed. The clock radio on the bedside table said it was 8:43 a.m.

  I got up and out of the bed, wondering why in the hell he had simply left me here to fend for myself. I wasn’t even sure where the hell I was as far as where this motel was located. I saw a piece of paper and some cash on top of my jacket that was on one of the chairs. It was a note from Slate.

  Sunny,

  Call yourself a cab when you get up. I needed to leave. Here’s some cash for the cab. Remember what I said; call Janine and let h
er know you won’t be back. It is not safe for you to be there. Please listen to what I am saying to you, Diamond Girl. I care.

  -Slate

  What the hell? Nice guy. I went to the bathroom sink, splashing cold water on my face and rinsing my mouth out thoroughly. What in God’s name had I been thinking getting trashed like that with a biker that I hardly knew?

  I hurriedly dressed and gathered my stuff. I wasn’t sure why Slate had left cash for me; I had all my tips in my purse unless he had ripped me off and had enough of a conscience to leave cab fare. I checked my purse, the wad of bills was still rubber banded together at the bottom. I was thankful that I kept my billfold with all of my identification in it, along with my cell phone locked in the glove box of my car.

  I called a cab to take me to the Park and Drive lot. I was home before ten. I had a million things to do before Jack got in the next day. I wanted to make sure laundry was done to his expectations; the refrigerator and cupboards were well stocked and all of the ironing was caught up for his majesty.

  My first order of business after I had showered and dressed was to get one of the other girls to take my shifts for me next week. I found the list with their cell phone numbers on it in my billfold and started calling. Emerald agreed to take my Tuesday and Thursday shift; Opal another new hire jumped at the chance to take my Friday shift. I let Janine know of the switches. She was fine with it; asking no questions.

  By the time Jack rolled in the following afternoon, all remnants of my secret life were safely tucked away and the house was in perfect order, just the way he liked it. I had made a roast chicken for dinner. Our conversation was the typical above surface discussions about Lindsey, the house, his work and my answering his numerous questions about this or that.

  He went up to his office after dinner as I cleaned up the kitchen and remained there until nearly eleven o’clock. I had fallen asleep on the sofa in the family room; Jack woke me and instructed me to come to bed. I felt my stomach turn at the thought of him touching me. I had no desire for him after my attempt to seduce him the last time he was home had resulted in violent sex and a black eye.

  I lingered in the bathroom getting ready for bed; taking an extra-long shower and giving myself a facial. I breathed a sigh of relief upon entering our room and finding Jack sleeping soundly. I crawled quietly into our bed; the bed that had become mostly mine for the past couple of months. I found that I liked having the whole bed to myself. I turned on my side, away from Jack; I thought about those piercing blue eyes that continued to haunt me. I thought about how I wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with him.

  The week ahead seemed to drag on for an eternity. I was anxious for Jack to be back out on the road so that I could resume the life (and identity) that had come to be mine. I realized it was a sick existence to some extent; for now it was my therapy until I could feel comfortable in making the break I knew I needed to make. I was going to discuss it with Brenda this week. We were having lunch on Friday. Jack had checked my job performance on the handling of our finances since he had delegated it to me. He actually complimented me on my accuracy.

  “You did really well on handling the books,” he said, coming into the laundry room where I was ironing his fifth shirt.

  “Jack I saw an electronic cash deposit made through an ATM in Virginia come through. I wasn’t sure how you wanted me to post that on the Excel file since typically the deposits are payroll or transfer. Was this a onetime thing?”

  “Oh that,” he replied, turning to head back out to the family room. “One of the company cars was involved in a collision. I meant to deposit the check from the other driver’s insurance company into the business account for that branch office while I was down there. I cashed it by mistake. It had been made out to me. I’m glad you reminded me; I need to issue a check from our personal account to Banion Pharmaceutical - Eastern District Office. I’ll do that now.”

  By Friday afternoon my nerves were frayed as I headed out to meet Brenda for lunch. It wasn’t as if Jack had done or said anything; it was simply the fact that I missed the life I had carved out for myself in his absence. I was back to being lackluster Samantha. I was bored; I missed dancing; I missed Slate.

  Brenda noticed right away as the waitress left with our order.

  “Okay,” she said, “What’s Jack done now?”

  “He hasn’t done anything. He’s just home.”

  “And that’s not a good thing, why?”

  “Because I realized something, Brenda; I don’t want to be married to Jack anymore. I probably never really did.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked at me in disbelief.

  “I don’t know why you are acting all shocked, Bren. You’ve never been a fan of his; I believe you refer to him as a ‘mannequin’ most of the time.”

  “Yeah, I get that - but what brought you to this realization? I mean you always seemed satisfied with the mannequin.”

  “I have gotten a taste of being on my own; making my own money; not having to answer to him - to anyone. I like it.”

  “Would you like to clue me in on what the hell you’re talking about, Sam? I know we don’t see each other as often as we used to but we talk at least once a week. You’ve never mentioned a thing about making your own money. Did you get a job?”

  There it was. I needed to confide in my best friend. She would either think that I had gone off the deep end and was in dire need of medication and psychotherapy; or she would be happy that I had finally started to live. Either way, she would be honest with me no holds barred. I told her everything.

  Once I had divulged everything to her, I sat back and waited for her reaction. It took her a couple of minutes to digest everything. I saw her mind coming to terms with what I had told her about the club, Slate, and even Jack’s abuse.

  She finally broke the silence.

  “Sam - when I encouraged you to get a hobby or take classes, or get a job, it was more along the lines of making pottery, taking a cooking class or working part-time at ‘Bed, Bath and Beyond.’ I had no clue you were going to create some ‘wild child’ alter-ego and live on the edge.”

  “So you don’t approve?”

  “I don’t think it is my place to approve or disapprove. You’re my best friend; I don’t judge you like that. I can be concerned though. I guess that’s what I am - concerned.”

  “Concerned that I’ve lost my mind?”

  “Now I didn’t say that; don’t put words into my mouth. I’m concerned about where you are working and the clientele that you seem to be drawn to, at least one of them. What do you know about Slate?”

  “Not much,” I admitted, “All I know is that he totally fascinates me, despite the age difference.”

  “How old is he?”

  “I’m not sure. I would guess mid-twenties maybe.”

  “That is really the least of your worries, Sam. He’s a biker in a gang; a notorious one at that.”

  “They aren’t called gangs, Bren. They are a club.”

  “Whatever,” she said, waving her hand impatiently. “The point is that you are literally flirting with danger. It’s unsafe. Are you telling me the truth about this being the first time ever that Jack physically abused you?”

  “Of course; why would I lie?”

  “Okay then; now that you’ve told me all of this, do I get to have an opinion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Am I allowed to verbalize it?”

  I nodded.

  “I think you need to take Slate’s advice and quit that job for your own safety. I fully support whatever you decide; and I sincerely hope you leave that bastard you married and find a life somewhere in-between.”

  “In between what?”

  “In between that ‘Stepford Wife’ existence you’ve lived for the past nineteen years; and the ‘Easy Rider’ life you’ve been living for the past couple of months.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand,” I said, rolling my eyes at her.

  “I do understand,
Samantha. I understand that your marriage is a farce and that you realize that now, as well. This isn’t the answer though. Hey, I am all for you being with a younger guy if that’s what you want; but get rid of Jack first. Don’t enter a new relationship with the old baggage still attached. I also think you need to find a different type of guy. Do you really see yourself with a member of the Outlaws? I think that is something that spawned from the fact that you never got to be a teenager; you never got through that phase where bad-boys were all that attracted you.”

  “Like you did? You’ve been with George, forever.”

  “We met in college, Sam, and not until my junior year. My freshman and sophomore years I was all about dating the ‘bad boys’. You were happily ensconced in your imaginary Stepford life of bliss; we didn’t talk much but I was dating some real losers.”

  “Really? Why am I just now hearing about it?”

  “Wasn’t one of my proudest moments those couple of years,” she replied. I could tell she was thinking back on them now.

  “How bad were they?”

  “Well let’s see; they were all ‘townies’ of course. Most of them were high school drop outs. The first one I dated was Ritchie. We were together for probably six months. He had self-tattooed his body in places that shouldn’t ever sport tattoos. He had the names of every person he had ever fucked tattooed on his body.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yep,” she said, shaking her head. “I used to find new ones all of the time. The day I found the name ‘Marvin’ tattooed on his left thigh was the day I knew it was over.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “After that came Butch. He worked at a gas station near campus. I loved his sultry, pouty, chip-on-the-shoulder look. He was great in the sack, too. We did it every way and everywhere. Once we did it in the cemetery during a full moon. That was totally erotic. I used to tell my roommate in the dorm all of the lurid details. She thought I was making it all up. One night I got back early from a night class; I found Butch doing my roommate in our dorm room.”

  “My God Brenda; I had no clue.”