by Marata Eros
Even my abused mother.
Everything is the blond before me with her soft body and curves in all the right places as she molds against me.
She tips her head back. “I'm going to go powder my nose, and I'll be right back. Then we get, ’kay?” She winks.
“Get?” I say in slow, lust-filled response.
A look comes over her face. I don't like it—the “Are you stupid?” look.
I fake it and make a mock-gun with my finger, pulling the trigger. “Gotcha—get. I get it.”
I don't, but she laughs before sauntering away with a sway to her hips that keeps my eyes glued to her behind.
Adjusting my cock, I stroll to the entrance, letting the cool air caress me, evening out my nerves. I take in the primitive parking lot. Asphalt that was once smooth and perfect is now pitted with random patches of erupted gravel. I see the bikers’ rides and admire their beauty. Motorcycles don't talk. They probably just make a dude feel good.
I rotate my neck, popping out the kinks. Always on edge. Hate it. Keeps me sharp, I guess. Needed to be that way since I was a kid. Old habits die hard.
Five minutes goes by, and I straighten. Seems weird the blonde isn't here. She seemed eager.
I tamp down the small hairs at my nape and scan the bar again.
The bikers are there, looking just as alert as me. They take long pulls on brews as their eyes glitter over the crowd.
Todd limps over, a five-dollar bill crunched in his hand.
“Fucker,” he whines, hand at his bread basket.
“Don't be hitting me. Ever,” I say absently, but I'm already moving through the door, skating around to the side entrance that lets people out of the bar.
Close to the bathroom, I remember.
I stop short as I round the corner. I blink.
The fucking blonde is on her knees, mouth on some guy's dick.
What?
My eyes flick to the other two men. Something's not right. One, I wanted her. I chose her, and she was mine for tonight.
Two, she doesn’t want what's being done to her.
One of the men has her arms jacked behind her back and is shoving her down to the root of the other guy's cock. Trailing wetness travels her face.
Tears mean fear.
Pain.
Anger seals over me like a wet, hot kiss. I stride forward, my fist already clenched. Sweet adrenaline sweeps though my veins, lighting my senses on fire, chasing away the remnants of beer fog and the bad memories that take up precious space in my mind.
I'm ready.
They're not.
The third guy is observing or supervising, chuckling and egging on the other two.
Tears continue steaming down the blonde's face as she gags on his prick.
I take the laughing fucker down in a kick-and-punch combo that always works. My knuckles strike his throat, and he crumples, gasping for air. He grabs at the knee I just dislocated with a well-placed kick of my boot.
The guy getting his tool sucked widens his eyes. He opens his mouth to shout, but I grab the one who’s holding the girl, his palm at the back of her head.
The same head I gently cradled while we danced as foreplay.
I hit the side of his temple with a closed fist, as hard as I can.
The blow demolishes the side of his skull, leaving an indentation as he topples like a tree.
Without the pressure on the back of her head, the blonde falls backward on her butt and looks up at me with a surprised O forming on her mouth as I neatly step over her.
Gripping the rapist's shoulders, I knee him in the crotch and toss him backward in a two-second move as smooth as breathing.
Never feel dumb when I'm handing out the punishment.
With a gurgled shout of pain, he grabs his cock and balls, rolling over to puke on the asphalt.
Pivoting, I hold out my hand to the blonde, but her mouth is opening and closing.
Then the bikers show up, looking as dangerous as I thought they would be.
Deep down, I know I can't take all three.
But Brett Rife doesn't back down.
I grab the blonde's hand, hauling her up and behind me.
The biker who looked so bad ass in the bar surveys the downed attackers and looks up at me and says, “This your work?”
I nod, as tense as a snake.
His pale-gray eyes move to the girl.
“Don't touch her,” I say and mean it. No one hurts ladies when I'm around.
“No,” he answers in a short word. “Don't hurt chicks.”
I relax—only slightly.
His smile is sudden and broad. “Been sizing you up.”
What?
Now I'm just confused, but don’t want to show it. I look more closely at them. They look a few years older than me but definitely twenties, maybe close to thirty.
“I think I'm going to be sick,” the blonde says from behind me.
“Have at it,” the guy with platinum shorn hair says.
“She's had a shock,” the guy with dark hair adds, some humor in his voice. “She could do this willingly at the club, ya know.”
“What club?” I ask, hearing the sounds of my once-future bedmate heaving. Looks like there won't be any fun tonight. Plus, my fists hurt like hell.
The guy with the smoky eyes says, “We're always looking for good men to join the ranks. You want to have the tightest family you ever knew?”
More than he knows. I don't say anything, though. I don't trust nothinʼ that sounds good.
“I'm going home,” the blonde says, wiping her mouth.
She's not looking that sexy anymore. There's vomit on her shirt, and her clothes are ruined. Plus, her eyes are angry and sad.
Not hot.
“Thanks for saving me, but I'm…” She shuffles her high heels around, casts a glance at the moaning trio on the ground, and looks up. “Not in the mood anymore.”
The bikers laugh, and she gives them dirty looks before stomping off.
The guy with light-blond hair whistles low. “Headed that one off at the pass, brother. She's one of those psycho bitch types.” He taps knuckles with the one with dark eyes.
“You did a fine job of dispatching this merry band of fuckers,” the guy with the pale-gray eyes says, kicking the toe of the pantless guy, who'd been shoving his cock down the girl's throat moments before.
I say nothing.
“Can you talk?” he asks, peering into my eyes.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck, he speaks!” The guy with black eyes says. “I don't know…” he continues, giving me a critical look. “Might be work. Seems a little slow.”
Code for stupid. “I'm not stupid.” I bare my teeth.
“Holy fucking christ, he's a hothead, to boot.” Black eyes roll.
“I like that in a man.”
“You would, Noose.” The blond guy chuffs.
One of the men on the ground groans. It's the one I pounded in the temple. Guess I should be relieved I didn’t kill him.
I grunt with dissatisfaction, casually walking over to his position. I bend my leg at the knee, lifting my cowboy boot high, and bring the heel down on his crotch instead. The move's so natural, I don't give it any thought.
He bellows.
I grin, thinking about how he was hurting the girl.
“I really, really like him,” Noose says. He walks over to me, and I back away warily.
Noose raises his hands. “Gotcha.” He looks at the blond guy. “This is Wring”—his head swings to Black Eyes—“and this is Lariat.” He pops a cigarette out of a pack and lights it, instantaneously shooting smoke rings in the air.
One of the Arnies was good at that. He would do it before he put his cigarettes out on whatever patch of my flesh was nearest.
I fight glaring at Noose. He's definitely not an Arnie.
He doesn't understand the expression and narrows his eyes. “We're with Road Kill MC, looking for prospects.”
“What are thos
e?”
“They're dudes that have to take shit, shovel shit, and be shit until they patch in and become our brother. You game?”
I think it through. I could be a part of something.
I'm not part of nothinʼ right now.
Todd chooses that opportunity to walk out and come into the middle of the three lying on the ground and the three offering me something… I don't even know what.
“Come on, Brett! Let's go get plowed.” Todd staggers over, tosses an arm around my shoulders, and tries to passively dig around for my wallet. “I need another five-spot,” he slurs.
“Or you could stay put with your friend here,” Lariat says, sarcasm dripping from the word friend, “and have a meaningful drunk fest.”
Wring's blond eyebrows rise.
Unhooking Todd's arm, I grab my wallet out of his hand and stuff it back in my jeans pocket.
Without my support, Todd stumbles backward, tripping over the top of the lead rapist, and falls on the guy's dick.
The fucker gives a hoarse shout at the newest insult.
Sometimes shit just works out.
I leave with his muffled screams in my ears.
Todd can deal with it.
I follow three guys I don't know, with a proposition I don't understand. I'm either brave or stupid.
Hammerstein says I'm not dumb.
If only I believed him.
Chapter 4
Hammerstein
Present day
“I'm sorry, Brett. I asked you—begged you—to keep a low profile.” I hike the satin pantleg of my lounge pants in an effort to make crossing my legs easier then puff on my pipe, not especially enjoying the cool breeze that's stubborn enough to remain in June.
My eyes caress the undulating waves lapping at my concrete bulkhead on Lake Tapps. The lake is full this time of year, due to the post-Memorial Day status, but unseasonably cool weather reigns supreme, and not a water toy can be heard anywhere on the lake. In autumn and winter, the lake is a graveyard of torn stumps that rise from the remnant puddles like worn-out sentinels.
The Pacific Northwest sun has decided that early June will be cold. And what rays do break through the usual cloud cover are weak and uncommitted.
Brett is wearing a leather vest full of colorful patches.
I peer at the latest one and realize he's now “patched in” to the gang—a motorcycle gang.
His luminescent green eyes are clear, resolute. Brett Rife has done a lot of growing up since his trial on the eve of his eighteenth birthday. He's a man now, though he looked like one the day I met him.
Except for the eyes. His eyes betrayed him.
In my line of work as lawyer, and later as a judge, I saw a thousand wounded children's eyes before his, and Brett’s were no different.
More severe and more tortured—but no different. When his worthless prostitute mother came to me, I almost didn't take his case.
But her eyes held love, and my weak heart held hope.
Bad combination.
Brett Rife needed a champion. What he really needed was a father, but I couldn’t be one. Never having children is easily the biggest regret of my life.
Now I'm sixty-five and spent. Career behind me. Arthritis clawing at my joints like a rabid animal.
However, if I can save one child—this child—then my life will have been worth something. Something greater than me.
I sigh.
Brett's got himself into a scrape. A large one.
“You put two men in the hospital, Brett,” I restate the facts.
“They were hurting a la—girl,” he corrects self-consciously. Many of Brett's behaviors stem from his chronic childhood abuse. He's afraid to speak because he fears looking “dumb.” He was told he was stupid by the first man who occupied his home when he was very young and all the others who followed.
Brett Rife is not dumb. He's been brainwashed and tortured. He's come a long way, and our monthly, sometimes bi-monthly, visits have helped.
My wife, Eleanor, likes to make him home-cooked meals whenever she knows Brett's coming for a visit.
She warmed up to him slowly, until she got a good look into those eyes.
They melted her. Like they did me.
Like hot wax, we loved Brett Rife. The kid we never had. We love him now.
“Judge?” Brett asks, breaking into my thought stream. I manage a slight smile in response.
“You were saying that I”—his Adam's apple plows up and down—“hurt those guys.”
“I'm certain they deserved it,” I offer. Brett's sense of justice points due north.
He nods.
“That was eighteen months ago.” Brett's hands spread, and he shrugs.
“They're making trouble, talking about how you took them by surprise. That the girl was willing.”
His brows drop over intense green eyes, his most arresting feature. “They made her, Judge—forced her—holding her.”
Brett crosses his arms, glaring at the gray waves that whip against the concrete bulkhead. As he stares angrily at the water, the waves beat the concrete as though sharing in his rage of those memories.
“Son?” I lightly tap his knee, and Brett reluctantly turns to look at me. “I believe you. But the girl can't be located to bear witness, and now you're part of this motorcycle gang.”
“They're not a gang. We're like a brotherhood. We defend each other, watch out for each other.”
So much is left unsaid.
Killing.
Crime.
An assortment of nefarious deeds, while done with others, are still prosecutable.
I scrub my face, noticing the day-old stubble. I'm such a lazy old coot now. Shaving every other day.
I chuckle, and Brett frowns.
“Forgive me, just thinking of how I've let my hygiene habits slide.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and the whisper of pain reminds me that the temptation to become a snowbird beckons. Not sure how much longer I'll accept cool Junes when I can have hot ones somewhere south.
However, I'm not through with Brett Rife. When he's on a solid path, maybe Eleanor and I can escape the damp chilly winters of the Pacific Northwest—or June—as it happens.
“I'm retired from practicing, but I can help with this mess.”
“Club's got a lawyer, Judge.” Brett leans back in the patio chair, crossing his arms.
I nod. Of that I am certain. “Yes, but does he know your history?”
Brett nods, but his eyes are troubled. “Too much, I think.”
“Hmm.”
An idea seeps into my brain, and I turn it over slowly in my mind.
Brett watches me. One of the many things I like about the boy—I mean man—is that he doesn't rush people. Brett lets them be.
Finally, I say, “In this instance, your past is your greatest strength.”
A few seconds drill between us.
“I killed Arnold Sulk. How is that okay?”
A look of perfect understanding passes between us. After a full minute of studying my house slipper, I finally say, “You still don't read?”
“You know I don't. Don't need it. Don't want it. The guys in the club don't need smart men. They just need good ones.”
I nod, still looking at the quilted pattern on my deep-scarlet house shoes.
I lift my gaze to meet Brett's.
“Sometimes, if it appears as though someone is trying to better themselves, and they go to court”—I wave a hand around—“say, in the future, like the next half-year…”
Brett goes to sullen silence, and I let the pause become a moment before continuing.
“Then those efforts toward betterment could work in your favor.”
“You're saying I have to go to Sylvan Learning center or some crap like that and be academic?” He slaps his thigh, planting his elbows on his legs, clearly frustrated by the thought. “Judge, hear me: I cannot read. And I don't speak too good, neither.”
“
You've improved immensely, and you're highly capable.” I lean back, resting against the uncomfortable wicker patio seat that Eleanor likes the looks of, even though my old ass protests using it. “There's a special program—”
“No.”
In a low, commanding voice, I say his name. “Brett.”
He looks at me. His dark hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail low on his skull. It leaves his face naked. Stark. He's a hard young man, but his eyes are still wounded.
What can heal that? “Just give it a try.”
“Don't want to be in a class full of people calling me dumb. Thinking it.”
I shoo that thought away with another wave of my palm. “It’s one-on-one instruction.”
He stills, however. Brett is listening.
“It's a special needs teacher a young woman by the name of—”
“Nope.” He stands up suddenly. “Not being in a class for retards. That's the same as dumb.”
I stand too, gripping his shoulders, though his six feet five to my stooped five feet ten means I have to hike my chin to meet those eyes.
Angry eyes.
“Krista Glass does not teach retarded people. Not that it would be a bad thing if she were to. She specializes in teaching people who have learning disabilities, no more. Regular-intelligence folks or more than regular intelligence.” My eyebrow rises significantly.
I capture his gaze, and he reluctantly meets mine.
“You are not dumb.”
Brett grits his teeth.
“You have never been, nor will you ever be dumb, Brett Rife.”
He dips his head so I can't see his expression, especially the windows to his devastated soul. His answer is a whisper. “Okay.”
I make some calls, then we sit down to Eleanor's delicious supper of roast, mashed potatoes, and peas.
Brett has extra gravy.
No one would ever know that I claimed a victory for him—or he one for himself.
*
Trainer
“You're going to learn-how-to-read school,” Storm snorts, barely containing his laughter.
I whirl, and he flinches. “Listen, fucktard, the Judge says I can't have a re-do, or I'll go to prison for sure this time.”
Wring strolls past, sees the look on my face, and blasts the heel of his hand over Storm's head.
