Jack of Spades_A Bad Boy Biker Romance

by Rana Raynes

  Jay said it himself – the club has been under so much scrutiny over the last weeks, it would be advisable to try and stay out of trouble. But this wasn't staying out of trouble. This was a serious overreaction and I'm beginning to ask myself if I was maybe naive to think of Jay as a nice guy. Perhaps he's just that walking cliché people make him out to be – a violent member of an organized crime gang with no consideration for laws and rules.

  My doubts begin to melt when he comes walking over to me though, he's looking so guilty and self-conscious I don't bring myself to be angry with him. Especially not when he says: “I'm so sorry, babe, I didn't mean to lose it like that.”

  I shrug. “It's okay,” I say and I almost mean it. Perhaps I shouldn't be too concerned about it all. It's after all not as if the guy didn't deserve a bit of a lesson. You never know what men like him would do to a woman outside of a crowded bar.

  He leans over the bar to kiss me, softly, tenderly.

  “See you later?”

  “I don't know. This could still take a while. Probably I'll be happy to crawl straight into bed.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Alone,” I add. “To get some sleep. I've promised Aunt Mabel to take care of some chores tomorrow, so I have to get up at a reasonable time.”

  It's not even an excuse. It's actually true and Jay knows it. He's been terribly lax about his own job lately, getting late to work or not at all. Apparently he can take these liberties, since it's a family business, but it still leaves tasks undone.

  “Yeah, I understand,” he says. There's the slightest hint of disappointment in his tone, but he smiles, and that smile almost makes me regret my decision.

  “I'll call you tomorrow then,” he says, kissing me goodbye. A couple of minutes later he and most of his biker buddies have disappeared.

  Amber comes over once she's got the opportunity and leans against the bar next to me.

  “In case you're worried, Jay isn't always like this.” It seems like a casual remark but she must have seen that I'm still mulling over what happened.

  “Yes, I didn't think he was,” I say, unconvinced. I'm not really in the mood to discuss his behaviour or listen to anyone making excuses for him. I'm going to sleep on it and see if I'm still bothered by it tomorrow. That will be early enough. I just wish I could just stop thinking about it until then. I take another sip of my drink when something occurs to me.

  “I haven't had this craving in years but I really could use some weed for later,” I say. “You know relax a little before bed, listen to some music.”

  Amber laughs. “I know that feeling.”

  “You wouldn't know anyone who could help me out there?

  “You can always ask Danny if he's got something.”

  “Danny, huh?” Why am I not surprised that of all of Jay's friends it's him who's low-key dealing drugs?

  Amber nods. “He's still around here somewhere I think.” She looks around the room but at first glance he's nowhere to be seen.

  “Don't bother,” I say. “I'm gonna find him.”

  And indeed I do find him. He's hanging out in his usual spot at the billiard table. And he immediately proves he's just the kind of sweetheart I thought he was. First thing he does is apologize for earlier.

  “Sorry we weren't quicker on the uptake,” he says. “You shouldn't have to deal with guys like that.” Then he refuses to take any money for the small bag of weed. “On the house. It's only a few crumbles anyway.” Then he squints at me, as if he's considering. “Anything else you want?”

  “What else do you have?”

  He grins. “I think the question would be, what is it that I don't have, sweetheart.” He rummages through his bag. “If you're looking for downers, I also have barbs, benzos, or I don't know, cody if you like.”

  I walk out of this sales pitch with half a sample bag of prescription drugs. I'm not even sure if I really want to try half of this stuff but it's hard to say no. Danny makes it sound really good. It's only in retrospect that I begin to wonder again about how legitimate the club's business actually is, if one of its members is a walking drug store.

  Perhaps I was naive, believing Jay's assertions that the club wasn't a criminal association. But then it what I wanted to believe and it's not healthy to always expect the worst. And thanks to Danny I've got the recreational substances to put my worries to rest for a while.

  Later when I lie on my back on my bed, blowing small puffs of smoke into the air, I wonder how I ended up here – in love with a biker, living with a relative in a small town, perhaps further away from living my dream that at any point during my life, and yet infinitely happier. Perhaps nothing is as catastrophic as I thought before I lit up my joint. Perhaps everything will be well in the end.

  Chapter 12

  Kat

  I wake up the next morning feeling slightly groggy. It takes me a moment to realize my alarm is buzzing: an electric bird is chirping angrily to make me get up. Drowsily I reach for my phone to turn if off. I manage almost without opening my eyes. Only almost though, and when I slide my finger across the screen to silence the bird, I see that I've got a new message. My first thought is Jay.

  Jay!

  And just like that he is on the top of my mind. I can see him vividly before my inner eye, in all his breath-taking beauty: the sunshine smile, the muscular body, the way he smooths back his hair to keep it from falling into his face. A second of it is enough to invoke all the symptoms of being in love, the butterflies in my stomach, a pleasant weakness in my limbs, a certain light-headedness. I feel as if I'm on the top of a roller coaster about to go into free-fall.

  I click on the app in anticipation of a sweet good morning message or – I remember with a sinking feeling – another apology for last night, but it turns out the text isn't from Jay at all. It's from Mike, my ex, which brings me quickly back down to earth.

  Oddly enough the text sounds like pretty much every other message I got from him over the last years. As if we hadn't split up. As if I hadn't moved to the other side of the country. As if he just happened to be in the neighbourhood.

  “Hey darling,” he writes. “Had a business meeting around the corner. Up for some lunch?”

  Around the corner has to be a bit of a stretch. Even remotely in the vicinity is rather unlikely. I can't imagine him having business in any of the smallish towns around here. As far as I know there are no secret pockets of rich people who could afford lawyers in the price range of what Mike's employers charge for his services.

  But even if you expand the meaning of around the corner to the south of the state it's a little surprising that he would come here for work. Is he already that much of a big shot that his company is sending him across state lines to meet clients the local office could have taken care of as well, without the effort and expense? It seems hard to believe. It smells too much like a cheap excuse to come and see me. But maybe I just want to think of Mike as someone who will never get to have the career he aspires too, for reasons of poetic justice.

  I shouldn't be jealous, I remind myself. It's no use. What's done is done. Negative feelings don't help anybody. They won't make up for lost time nor will they heal emotional wounds. The question here is whether I want to meet him, not if I envy him for his success.

  But given how hard a time I have separating the two issues, it seems like an impossible decision. Do I want to meet him? I seriously don't know. On the one hand, why not? We were together for ages, it might be nice not to break off contact altogether. On the other, I'm still sad and angry and I don't know if I can stand the confrontation. I'm tempted to ignore the message just so I don't have to think about it. Or him.

  I roll over and flip my pillow, pressing my cheek into the cool side while I mull it over. For the last days every time I was worried I thought of Jay and it worked like a charm; the mental image of lying next to him, skin on skin, feeling safe in his arms and his warmth. It's become my happy place. But now that last night's ev
ents are getting clearer in my head, it doesn't work anymore. The fantasy gets tainted as I recall Jay's behaviour, his pure, unbridled aggression, the knot in my stomach afterwards. Am I afraid of him?

  The fact I even have to ask myself this question is terrifying. It should be a warning sign.

  And now Mike. Mike who never scared me but who made me feel so entirely and utterly miserable in the end. There are so many ways to hurt somebody, to get hurt, it's hard to decide which is the worst. All of them chip away at your self-esteem, diminish your confidence, your sense of self worth. And I've sworn to myself to never end up in that situation again.

  But in order to achieve something you have to take risks. And this might be an opportunity to prove to myself that I can be brave.

  I look at Mike's text again and wonder why I should be afraid of meeting him. Obviously the circumstances are not ideal. If you've had a break up like I had you want to meet your ex when you're on top of things again, happy or at least content, not in a major existential crisis. But maybe I'm only exaggerating how miserable I am because I'm still upset about Jay.

  Tough, admittedly, even apart from the situation with Jay my circumstances are not exactly glamorous. I have no idea how I will ever be able to afford to go to law school, instead of excessive partying I spent most of last couple of months reading romance novels and even though I adore Aunt Mabel, living with a relative isn't something to brag about. I left all of the life I built with Mike behind, my friends and acquaintances, pretty much anything but my most personal belongings, to start here from scratch, and looking at it from my previous standpoint it almost feels as if I moved in with my parents again.

  That's why I'm not sure if I'm up to meeting him – how can I look him in the eye and suffer his inevitable smugness when I've got so little safe ground to fall back on?

  I let my eyes wander from the phone screen and my gaze falls on the ashtray next to the bed, the remains of the joint, the marijuana crumbs, all of the adolescent set up of last night in its full glory. I smoked weed, listened to music. I did that a lot before I met Mike. It's been so long it seems unreal now. I wasn't a slacker but I wasn't a streamlined career girl either. I wanted to have some fun in my life. That version of me is gone and I've got no intentions of picking up my old ways but I somehow feel more connected to that past than I have in years, and perhaps it's empowering to remember where I'm coming from.

  My response to his text is deliberately unenthusiastic.

  “Sure why not,” I type. “What did you have in mind?”

  The reply comes instantaneously: “I could pick you up in two hours.”

  Two hours? I had not even thought he could mean today. Not really. I mean, radio silence for three months, then a two hours notice? The nerve of it! But I shouldn't be surprised. It's so typical of him to assume I've got nothing better to do, or even if I had, I'd gladly drop everything to meet him, the moment he asks me to.

  I realize my blood pressure is rising and I have to stop myself from getting riled up over this. It's no use anyway. I take a deep breath and focus on being an adult.

  “Okay. Two hours then,” I type.

  Two hours give me just enough time to wake up properly. Have a shower and some coffee, pick an outfit, put some make-up on. Make excuses to Mabel who I promised to help with some chores. I'm sure she'll understand.

  I pull myself together and get up, get going. I dress provisionally in sweatpants and throw my favourite cardigan over my sleep shirt. I pick up my phone, slip it into the pocket of my cardigan and go downstairs.

  When I enter the kitchen I hear the television is on in the living room. I listen while I pour myself a cup of coffee.

  “Late last night a shoot-out at a strip club near Grand Oaks left three men severely injured. One is still in critical condition. Eye witnesses on the scene claimed an involvement of the local motorcycle club, which has been implicated in a series of other violent attacks over the last weeks.”

  I nearly drop my mug. Three men severely hurt.

  I walk to the living room like a puppet drawn by a string, anxious and dazed.

  Jay, my heart is hammering. Jay. Jay. Jay.

  The camera shows crime scene tape and blood stains on the concrete. A police officer is being interviewed but I only understand half of what he says. I'm feeling dizzy. Dots are dancing in front of my eyes. I clutch at the sofa to support myself. I clutch at the words of the news broadcast for support too. No one was killed. That's something.

  But someone's still in critical condition, and what if it's Jay?

  I force myself to set down the coffee mug and fish my phone from the pocket of my cardigan with trembling fingers. I sit down while I press it to my ear, hoping for Jay to pick up. My head is spinning. For an eternity nothing happens. I turn off the sound of the television and the room goes quiet. The ringback tone is all I can hear. It echoes in my head. Eventually the call goes to voice mail.

  I try again and again there's no answer so I tap the screen to call Amber instead.

  “Do you know anything about the shooting?” I blurt out the second she picks up.

  “What's wrong?” The answer seems to dawn on her in the very same moment she's asking. “Didn't Jay tell you he's all right?”

  She sounds incredulous and displeased at the same time. Good. At least that means I'm not going crazy. I take a deep breath, change the phone from one ear to the other, before I ask: “Is he? All right I mean.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Leon called earlier. Listen, Kat, if you want to talk, you can come over if you like and I'll give you all the info I have.”

  It takes me a second to get what she means: she doesn't want to talk about it on the phone. As if we're involved in a crime. It was a shooting, I remind myself. Suddenly I'm not afraid anymore, I'm fucking angry.

  “No thanks, that's all I wanted to know,” I say somewhat coldly before I remember that it's not Amber I should be annoyed with. But then she also seems to feel somehow responsible for calming me down.

  “I really don't get why Jay wouldn't think of calling you,” she says as if it's on her to apologize. It doesn't help with my temper.

  “Nevermind. It's not as if it's your responsibility to explain why he acts like an idiot,” I say.

  I can sense her flinch at the other side of the line.

  “Kat, I-” she begins but I immediately interrupt her.

  “I've got a lunch date, gotta run. Thanks for the info, Amber. Talk to you later.”

  I can hear how she gives up, her silent sigh is almost palpable in the short pause.

  “Okay,” she says, and: “Take care.”

  I put the phone down on the coffee table and lean against the back rest, rubbing my hands over my face, fingertips against my forehead, over my temples, down to my jaw.

  Fuck.

  If there's anything I'm used to anything it's inconsiderate behaviour of a boyfriend. Sorry honey, I forgot to call. Sorry sweetheart, didn't I tell you. Darling, so sorry I couldn't make it. I know all the excuses and apologies and how they're never made in time but always after you would have needed them. They're like band-aids that are applied when a cut has already got infected. The red roses that eventually follow these disappointments never feel like a gift but always like a cheap bribe. And I've had enough of this.

  I get up, determined not to let myself dragged down by any of this. As I walk back to the kitchen to get myself a second cup of coffee I notice a scribbled note pinned to the fridge I overlooked earlier.

  “Kat, dear,” it says in Aunt Mabel's curly handwriting. “I'm out with Susan and Laura. Will be back for tea. I'm taking my phone, you can reach me in emergencies. Heard about the biker shoot-out, hope Jay is all right. Love, M.”

  So the whole 'helping with chores' plan is delayed anyway.

  I take out my phone again. Three more messages from Mike, none from Jay. Mike wants to know where we're going. There's pretty much only one restaurant in town that will live up to his standards, so the ch
oice is easy. The Caravaggio it is. We both love Italian food, so it isn't exactly a sacrifice to go there.

  I quickly text Mabel to inform her about my plans, then I put the phone on the kitchen table and leave it there while I go about the rest of my morning routine. I'm still bristling with negative energy when the doorbell rings about two hours later. All I need to do now is fashion that energy into an armour. I smile at my reflection in the mirror. I look stunning. And Mike will hate it. At least that what I'm aiming for.

  And I do hit my mark. I can see the expectation freeze on his face when I open the door. Of course he assumed I'd wear one of the dresses I used to don for his benefit but I'm no longer playing my designated part in his Mad Men re-enactment. These aren't the 1960s. I'm not Betty fucking Draper or Jackie Kennedy or whoever he wanted me to be. I'm coming as myself today or perhaps as Betty's hippie daughter: Loose short dress and ankle boots and tights, my hair pulled up in a messy bun.

  Mike himself has thankfully abstained from wearing a suit, but his preppy style – poloshirt under a knit sweater, chinos, the mandatory yachting shoes – is enough of a contrast to my bohemian get-up. We're not the perfect retro match he hoped for, that much is obvious. It's written all over his face, and I'm already feeling gleeful. He used to scold me for not choosing my wardrobe to fit his expectations and he must realize that my outfit is a deliberate offence of his taste, basically a subtle way of showing him the middle finger. I'm almost disappointed he doesn't comment on it and even pulls himself together enough to pay me some half-hearted compliments.

  At least he's happy with the place I picked out. And it's somewhat nice to share a positive experience for once. Our enthusiasm for Italian food was one of the few things that was stable over the course of our relationship and I almost feel a tiny bit nostalgic about it. Making conversation is also less complicated than I anticipated. Unsurprisingly I don't have to dish up a lot of lies about how great my life is, he's perfectly content with talking about himself, his work, our acquaintances, our – or rather his – friends and everything that happened after I moved out.