by Naomi West
I fail.
I fail so hard that I end up outside in the pitch dark at three a.m., riding my bike in low gear so it doesn’t make much noise.
I stop outside Simone’s apartment building, staring up at it and imagining how she must look right now, curled up in bed, cute and waiting for me. I wonder how she’d react if I went up there now. I reckon she’d kiss me again, and this time I wouldn’t stop myself. I’d fuck her, hard. Both of us would let all our anxiety and pain and loneliness out in a series of panting moments. Her hands in my beard, her hands on my cock, my fingers deep inside of her, and she’s wet for me, always wet for me . . .
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. I think instead about the bizarre way she left, muttering to herself. She called herself an idiot. Maybe she finally agreed with me. Maybe she thought she was an idiot for coming to the clubhouse, or wanting me, or ever giving me a second of her time.
I’m not sure if that’s the truth, but it’s the only way I’m able to ride down the street, leaving her behind.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Simone
“Certainly, Mrs. Ericson, Dubai is lovely in the summer, of course.”
We sit in a fancy restaurant with fancy waiters and everybody is dressed in a fancy way, smiling with pearls glittering around their necks and silk gloves. If somebody sneezed in here, the civilized patrons would glare at the offender until the sneeze jumped back up their nose. Mom and Dad nod seriously at Markus Underwood’s words. Markus Underwood, the man I’ve been on four dates with, and the man I’ve hated being on four dates with. He talks with a snooty Old Money voice that never bothered me much before I grew to love Rocco’s harsh growl.
“Most places are better in the summer,” Markus says, holding his champagne in a dainty way. “Except ski resorts, of course.”
Mom and Dad titter and smile. Mom shoots me a look. I open my mouth and say, “Ha, ha, ha. That’s true. Ski resorts really are better in the winter. What an astute observation.”
Dad and Markus take it at face value, but I can tell by the look on Mom’s face she knows I’m being sarcastic. I tune out for a few minutes as the three of them talk about interest rates. Markus is a banker in a top firm and should be everything I want. He has money and good parents and a trajectory in life which isn’t clouded in violence. He is good-looking enough in a business type of way. He is kind and not pushy at all. We’ve been seeing each other for three weeks—a date a week—and he hasn’t pressed me for so much as a kiss. Which is good, because I have no interest in kissing him. I think about the sickness, the test . . .
Rocco’s baby is inside of me, and it changes everything. I can’t think about anybody else now that I know I hold his life in my belly. A boy or a girl, I wonder. Rocco’s dark eyes or my bright eyes, or something halfway between? I wonder if he or she will like riding bikes, or will be more focused on academia. I think about what he or she’ll look like as a grownup, which is absurd since the baby’s not even born yet. I touch my belly, wishing I could talk to him or her, just say hello, explain that their father isn’t this man. He’s someone else. He would never drone on about interest rates for the better part of ten minutes.
“Simone?” Dad says. “I think Markus asked you a question.”
“Oh.” I turn to him. “Yes?”
He shifts, and then lets out a snorting laugh. “I was just wondering what you think about renting. Personally, I consider it an abominable practice which should be avoided at all costs. How can one rent somebody else’s home when surely one prefers to live in one’s own home?”
I stare at him for a long time. I hate him, I decide. Not because he’s evil, or especially mean, but because he’s everything I was once comfortable settling for. He’s the type of man to eat vanilla ice cream on Sunday afternoons while reading the financial section of a newspaper, smiling and making some comment about the fluctuation of a stock, and I’ll be there—if this future ever comes to pass—saying, “What’s so funny, dear?” And he’ll raise an eyebrow and educate me about a certain technological company and its prospects, and when we go to bed, if we ever go to bed, he’ll lie on top of me like a board and blanch if I try to change position. Even if none of that is true, the simple fact remains that he’s not Rocco.
“Simone?” he laughs again. “Are you with us?”
“What was the question?” I ask.
He repeats the question verbatim.
“I think that’s the most one’s ever used in a single sentence, and I think it’s a very self-centered thing to say. Of course you prefer buying to renting. You can afford to prefer buying over renting. But some people don’t have that choice. Some people have to do whatever it takes just to get by. Some people don’t have a rich grandfather.”
The table pauses. Markus’s mouth hangs open.
Then Mom exclaims, “Oh, look, the champagne’s here!”
I push away from the table. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
I sit on the toilet lid with my hands on my knees, staring at the back of the door. I need Rocco, I reflect. I need him badly, but he’s still not answering my calls. Once, he sent me a text, a short, terse note which read, When this is over, we’ll talk. I know he’s trying to protect me. I know he’s trying to make sure I’m safe. But if this is safe I don’t want it. I have been changed ever since that night in the booth. I have been changed ever since giving myself to a man who knows how to take what he wants. There’s no going back now. I’m Rocco’s lady.
Just to make it real, I whisper it aloud, “I’m Rocco’s lady.”
Then Mom’s heels are clipping up and down outside the stalls. “Simone?” Her voice has that whip-like quality it gets when she’s angry but too civilized to express it. “Are you in there?”
I think about withdrawing my feet like in the movies when the antagonist is looking for the hero, but I’m too tired for that. Mom will find me. She always finds what she wants. I step out of the stall. “Yes?”
“Yes, she says! Yes!” Mom titters angrily. I think Mom is the only person I’ve met who can titter angrily. “What in the name of all that is civilized has gotten into you today? This was meant to be a nice meal, and you sit there humiliating your date.”
“Humiliating?” I snap, turning away. Even the bathroom is fancy-looking with folded white towels and clean marble surfaces, not a single inch of graffiti. That shouldn’t bother me, but it does. “How have I humiliated him? I just gave my opinion.”
“Look at me while we’re conversing, young lady!”
Sighing, I turn around.
“You humiliated him by directly opposing his opinion. It was unnecessary and, quite frankly, it was a foolish opinion to begin with.”
“Directly opposing his . . . Mother, as much as you’d love it to be, the last time I checked it isn’t the nineteen fifties.”
“You ungrateful little wretch!” Mom hisses, raising a silk-gloved hand.
I take a step forward, coming within range. “Go on,” I spit. “Do it. Show just how civilized you are.”
She really seems to contemplate it for a moment, and then lowers her hand. “We are going out there and we are enjoying the rest of our meal, and you will treat Markus with the respect he deserves.”
“Yeah, okay. Sure, whatever you say.” I shove past her, not caring when she melodramatically collapses against the wall.
“Is everything okay?” Dad asks when we return to the table.
“It’s fine,” Mom says. “It’s absolutely fine.”
Dad knows what that tone of voice means: don’t ask any questions.
Our starters are whisked away by the waiters and our mains brought out. Mom and Dad and Markus are all having lobster. I take a giant bite out of my hamburger, ignoring when Mom shoots me a disgusted look. The restaurant has tried to fancy up my hamburger by spreading some garnish over it, but it still tastes just like a burger. I wish Rocco was here. The two of us would munch down on burgers together and make fun of all the up-their
-own-asses people sitting around us. He wouldn’t glare at me or roll his eyes. He wouldn’t judge me. I wonder if before I met Rocco I sat in restaurants like this with my hands daintily folded, playing the uptight rich girl. I know I must have; I know back then it wasn’t an act.
“Simone!” Mom snaps. “Would you please stop drifting into the clouds? It is rude not to contribute to the conversation.” She pouts at Markus. Part of me thinks Mom is jealous in a twisted way. Here I am wasting a chance with an eligible young man . . .
“I was just saying,” Dad says, and then laughs awkwardly. “We’ve donated a handsome sum to the police and they still haven’t apprehended these bikers. These gangs, I suppose we should call them. They’re running completely rampant. Have you seen the news? The violence is terrifying. I’m not ashamed to say that.”
“And to think our Cecilia was going to marry one of them,” Mom scoffs. “Our sweet girl with one of those violent animals! Oh, it doesn’t bear thinking about.” Mom shoots me a look full of meaning. She hates me for not telling her where Cecilia is and hates me sitting here with a grimace on my face and hates me for turning from the lovely daughter to whatever I am now. I think about revealing that I’m pregnant here, imagine her blood vessel bursting out of her forehead.
Outside the window my bodyguards sit on their bikes, just in view beyond the gates, watching. Maybe I should point them out.
“Cecilia followed her heart,” I say. “That’s all. She didn’t do it to hurt anybody.”
“Followed her heart . . .” Mom studies me as if I’m a specimen. “Really, Simone, what force has possessed you? You were in agreement with us about Cecilia, and now this, this, this . . . words escape me.”
“Come on, dear,” Dad says, patting her on the hand. “Let’s enjoy our meals.”
“This lobster is cooked beautifully,” Markus puts in.
I endure the rest of the meal, thinking about Rocco and how they don’t know a thing about him. They think he’s just some violent biker. If he walked in here now, Mom and Dad and Markus would ask a waiter what sort of place this is when ruffians from the street can just wander in. But I know him. And I’ll never believe he’s evil, or wrong. Half the life inside of me is his. His baby grows bigger inside of me every day. Soon I won’t even be able to hide our connection.
After the meal Markus drives me home in his ostentatious Mercedes. He stops outside my apartment building. My bodyguards stop at the end of the street, taking off their helmets and watching. If they made me anxious and scared before, now I’d feel anxious without them. It’s like an extension of Rocco is always there.
“So, that was quite a meal,” Markus says.
“Quite a meal,” I agree.
He makes as if to kiss me. I lean back so far my head hits the window. “What is it?” he asks. “Have I done something to offend you?”
“I don’t want to kiss you,” I say. “That’s all.”
“Wow, Simone.” He leans back, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Just—wow. That’s how you talk to a man who’s taken you out on four dates. That’s how you talk to a man who’s been nothing but a gentleman. Do you know what your problem is? You don’t know how to appreciate when men are nice to you. I bet you fucked so many assholes in college you don’t know how to appreciate a nice guy when you see one. Don’t you dare talk over me!” He erupts when I try to interject. “Do you think I’m done? You’ll know when I’m done because you’ll be apologizing. It’s always the same with women like you. You just throw yourselves around the place, taking any pricks that come along, but never stop to take the nice guy seriously.”
For a moment I just stare at him, struggling to believe he’s real. To go from a respectful if boring guy to this in a split second . . . “I’m leaving now,” I say. “And just so you know, if you really were a nice guy you wouldn’t have just snapped like that. Doesn’t that seem like a contradiction to you?”
I open the door and step onto the sidewalk. He leans across the seat and props the door open with his fist. “I’ve bought you flowers,” he says. “I’ve paid for your meals. And you won’t even kiss me. What does that say about you?”
“That having a man insist on paying for my meals and showing up with flowers I didn’t ask for doesn’t entitle him to do whatever he wants with my body. That’s what it says about me. Do you know what?” I place my hands on the roof of the car and stare down at him. “Men like you just pretend to be nice so you can trick women into fucking you. It’s pathetic. And then there are mean guys, violent guys, apparently cruel guys, who’re nicer than you’ll ever be.”
I slam the door in his face and walk toward my apartment.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rocco
“Is it time for war?” Beast says.
I stand up from my desk, two pistols in holsters under my armpits, a gun on my ankle, and a shotgun laid against the wall to my left. “Have you found him?” I ask.
“A mansion outside town. A safehouse. Looks like there’s a few of them staying there, Boss. But not many. Five or six, from what our reports can tell us. If we go now, we’ll catch them with their pants down.”
“And Gerald’s there. The fuckin’ leader is there?”
“He’s there,” Beast says.
“Then let’s get to it.” I pick up the shotgun and head for the door, Beast at my shoulder.
This needs to end now, I reflect as I climb onto my bike. It needs to end not just so I can avenge Shotgun’s death, but so that I can be with Simone too. I need her. I can’t be with her because of these asshole Demons, but once they’re dead that will change. We can be together. I’m not sure what that’ll look like, but I know I want to find out. Avoiding her calls just in case I get tempted to go back to her is getting damn hard, especially since I’ve been told she’s seeing some fancy-pants type.
We ride out to the mansion, twenty-five of us in a convoy ready for blood. The mansion is in the middle of a dusty patch of desert surrounded by a tall metal gate. We slow down as we approach, bringing our bikes to a quiet purr, and leave them about a quarter-mile away from the gates. Jerry and Beast and Jakub and Poker Face and all the others gather around me.
“We go in quick,” I tell them. “Beast and his boys have cut a hole in the gate on the south side, so that’s where we hit them. Be brutal, lads, be as brutal as they’ve been with us. Remember the dead.”
The men respond in a chorus, “Boss.”
“Remember, we need to kill their fuckin’ leader. Without this Gerald Hightower bastard orchestrating them, they’re fucked.”
“Boss.”
“Let’s get to it.”
I lead the men toward the south side of the gate, hefting my shotgun and making myself numb to the violence I’m about to be a part of. I remember the first time I went on a raid like this, when I was so scared I could barely think, so scared I didn’t understand what the hell I was doing with a gun in my hand. I kept wondering if I would wake up at the orphanage and all of this would turn out to be the dream of a lost and scared fourteen-year-old kid. But once you’ve fired one bullet, firing the second gets easier, and by the thousandth, you don’t remember how hard it once was to pull the trigger. But there’s added pressure on this job. I have Simone to think about.
Goddamn, but I need to be with her again.
Beast and his men have sawed a gap in the gate near some bushes, just big enough for us to squeeze through. I crawl through first on my elbows and knees, army-style, and Beast follows close behind. Pushing branches out of my face, I creep into the backyard of the mansion, shotgun raised in front of me, ready to fire. The yard is empty. I make it all the way to the back door before seeing anybody. And when I see him, my blood turns to ice. It’s the man himself, Gerald Hightower. I’ve seen him in blurry photographs but never in person.
After hounding us for months and making our lives hell, I expect somebody more mean-looking. But if it wasn’t for his reputation, he’d look like any other normal guy. H
e’s average height with a plain face except for a mole on the left side of his chin, wearing a bathrobe and slippers. He’s bald on top with a gray strip around the side of his head. I’m guessing he’s fifty, maybe a little older. We meet eyes for a second, and then he drops his mug of hot chocolate and dives for the hallway. I fire my shotgun, shattering the glass of the back door, and then the mansion turns into a warzone.
“They’re here!” Gerald roars. “Men! Men!”
Demons start firing from second-floor windows. Gerald scrambles into the hallway. I kick through the back door, running across the kitchen. When I reach the hallway a Demon springs out on me, a short man with a twisted broken nose wielding a pistol. I pump the shotgun into his chest, sending him flying into the wall where he slumps, his chest smoking and bleeding. I run through the house, checking the corners, searching for Gerald. I’m at the end of the hallway near an old-looking library when I hear somebody muttering and metal cranking.
