by Hazel Parker
The past few years were nothing like the reality I was living now. I could remember meeting my ex-husband. We met when I was in college at nineteen and somehow he’d managed to convince me that he was a good man. He wined and dined me, showed me a world a college girl like me had never seen before. I thought he was my prince charming. He was my prince charming, and despite my parents’ protests, I accepted when he asked me to marry him. We were married just before my twentieth birthday.
Five years. That’s how long I was married to him. Five years in a downward spiral and coming to a realization that what we had wasn’t love. I held my own enough to finish college and get my degree but after that, Kenneth made one thing very clear. My only priority in life would be him.
I secretly studied and got licensed as a nurse, and when Kenneth found out he said, “You better not forget what your first job is.”
He wasn’t kidding. My husband used to demand I cook him breakfast every morning, no matter how late my shifts ran. I could remember slaving over the stove, cooking the same thing every morning—bacon, crispy and burnt, with two eggs over easy. Now I had nothing and no one to cook for but myself, and I liked it.
I could remember the nasty moments toward the bitter end. The fighting. The screaming. The heated arguments going back and forth. Kenneth’s theatrics demanding everything I earned or helped him earn be in his name. I walked away from our marriage with nothing but my name.
“I want a divorce.” My voice shook as his eyes met mine.
I remember his laugh. He literally bent over and cackled. "You're kidding, right?”
"No, Kenneth. I’m not. It's over."
There wasn’t any sadness left in me. I was tired.
He slowly turned away as if I didn’t say something serious. “If you say so.”
“I do say so!”
He was so nonchalant, and that was the problem. He was a terrible husband. He was emotionally abusive, completely unsupportive, and I know for a fact that we hadn’t had sex in a year. And if he wasn’t sexing me, I knew he was having sex with someone else. I just never had the courage to ask who.
I gulped down a sob and tried to keep my composure as he walked away. I had so much I wanted to say. There was so much I wanted to do, but I was just a shell of the woman I used to be. I couldn’t remember who I was at nineteen. Now twenty-five, I didn’t know what would happen if I went out on my own. Kenneth bought us the house and took care of everything from the beginning. I knew that on my own, I wouldn’t be able to afford any of those things.
“Well, remember you said it,” he said at the base of the stairs. “You ain’t leaving with anything you didn’t come with.”
My heart broke into little tiny pieces; tears of regret blurred my vision. I gave him so much and he was still so cold. I wanted desperately to call out to him, beg on my knees for him to give me an answer. What had changed? He used to be so loving, so kind, but now, he was nothing but cold. What did I do to deserve that? I really didn’t need an answer as long as he was willing to change, trying to change, but I knew he wouldn’t. I wanted to start over fresh, but a person could only live in an ice box without any affection for so long. I was right. It was over; and he killed it, not me.
I thought getting divorced would kill me. It almost did, but I had so much more life to live and I was living it. It took a little while, but here I was in my own space, with my own job, my own car, and I was happy. Sitting in my comfy chair in the stillness of the morning was a blessing. I coveted the moments like these where there was nothing but me and sometimes a glass of wine.
I made myself a bowl of cereal and sat in front of the TV. It was moments like these that were precious, so I sat until I heard my alarm from the bedroom.
“Time to start another day.”
******
The hospital. It was my sanity and my asylum.
I moved my stethoscope over the child’s back. I could hear crackles in the lower parts of both lungs. According to the machine, his oxygen barely sat above ninety percent, normal was ninety-nine to ninety-eight percent. His brown skin was greyed. He was conscious, but lying listless, his chest heaved quicker than it should just to bring in enough air. It was most likely pneumonia. The wall chart showed a newly vacant emergency cubicle, there would be no waiting for this kid. I picked him up and ran past the people who had been waiting for hours or more. I took him right into the room. The doctor came in almost instantly, ordering the nasal oxygen prongs I was already hooking up. Doctor Russ listened to the child’s chest and ordered lung x-rays, blood tests, a urine analysis, and the prep work for antibiotics. After just a few breaths of oxygen the boy had already gotten a bit of his color back. I smiled and turned to his mother.
“You don’t have to worry, ma’am.” I prepared his small arm to take the blood he needed and tuned out the questions his anxious mother asked. I had the answers, but I couldn’t give them to her; nurses weren’t allowed to diagnose. There was nothing I was legally allowed to say until the paperwork came back and the doctor made the announcement.
I spent lunch debating on if I should feel guilty for not texting Evan back. I had texted him back, of course I did. I never ignored messages, but I wondered if I should feel guilty. Should I tell him I was planning to go on a date with his brother? I mean, it was more than his brother. It was his twin brother. I tried to find a way to say it, but in all honesty, it was hard to find an in. I didn’t want to interrupt our conversation with “Hey, just wanted to let you know that I’m planning to go on a date with your twin brother. I hope you don’t mind.” No. That was a terrible message to send and if I was being honest, it should have been said in person.
Just as I was typing the words, Serena sat beside with her tray of “lunch.” I set my phone face down on the table.
“You’re a nurse. I know you know that a Twinkie, a chocolate chip cookie and an apple does not make a healthy or nutritious lunch,” I teased.
“You’re a nurse. I know you know this is what I need to keep going,” she smiled, biting into her apple. “And look, mom, I’m saving my dessert for last.”
I could only shake my head. Serena was a trip. She looked like Jessica Rabbit, curves for days. She made all her scrubs look like lingerie, but she was the nicest girl ever. I was willing to bet money she was a late bloomer in life. No way could someone that gorgeous be so humble and unassuming about life.
“How’s your day going?” She asked between chews.
“It’s going. Yours?”
“Same,” she shrugged. “Anything new in your life?”
I thought about the fight, the fiery kisses, and the ping pong of emotions I felt for both brothers. “Nope. Yours?”
“Nah,” she said wiping her mouth. “I wish. There’s a new doctor in dermatology. I’m think about getting on his rounds.”
“Ugh. Dermatology. You know all the derm docs are full of themselves and obsessed with being pretty.”
“I know,” she sighed, “but this guy seems different.”
I shook my head and smiled. “For your sake, I hope so. You’re a nice girl.”
“I am a nice girl,” she said, biting into her cookie. “I’m also a smart girl, so trust I won’t just run head first into this guy.”
She was right. Serena was a smart girl. She was the first person I went to when I had any questions in the hospital. “Hey, let me ask you something.”
“Mhm?” she said, chewing quickly.
“You ever heard the word Bandito?”
“Sure have.”
“What does it mean?”
“Well, around here when you hear that word you’re usually referring to the Los Banditos, that’s the name of a motorcycle gang, or club, however you like to call it. The Bandits. They’ve been around since my great grandfather can remember.
I tried not to show how shocked I was, but I never had much of a poker face. Serena just barely swallowed before laughing out loud. “You should see your face.”
I tried to comp
ose myself.
“Not what you were expecting?” she asked.
“No way. I didn’t even know motorcycle clubs were a thing.”
“Oh they’re definitely a thing, honey. I forget that you aren’t from around here.”
As soon as my ex-husband signed the divorce papers, I‘d moved. I let him have everything in Maryland and before the ink was dry, I’d started a new life in Arizona.
“You’ve got a lot to learn, love. Los Banditos are as legit as the Skulls.”
“What are the Skulls?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to know anymore.
“Not what. Who.”
“Okay, who are the Skulls?”
“A rival motorcycle gang.”
“They’ve got rivals?” I’d practically squealed.
“Of course. How do you think they’ve gotten their bad reputation? Someone has to lose so there can be a winner.”
“Are they dangerous?” I asked, testing the limits to Serena’s curiosity.
“Depends on how you define dangerous. To some, the answer is a definite yes. To people like their friends or significant others, I’d be willing to bet they’d say no.”
She studied me for a moment as she called up her napkin. “Why do you ask?”
My phone buzzed on the table loudly. It was Ethan texting me.
Five o’clock.
I’ll be ready, I texted back.
“I got to go, girl. I’ll see you later,” I said, disposing of my trash before going back to my rounds.
My day ended with less excitement than it had begun with. I left the hospital at 4 PM, and I knew that with driving time and prep, I’d be cutting it close. I got home and in a matter of thirty minutes, I’d cleaned and redressed myself.
Want to tell me where we’re going? I texted.
Somewhere fun.
I stood in front of the mirror smoothing down invisible wrinkles until Ethan knocked on my door. I’d decided on jeans a loose blouse. Knowing Ethan, we’d be cruising on his bike again.
“Hey,” he said, smirking like he had a secret.
“Hi,” I answered, willing my butterflies to settle.
“You ready?”
“Yeah,” I said, turning to shut and lock the door. I turned back to find Ethan inches from my face.
“Let’s start this date off right,” he growled. I froze when his big hands clamped both sides of my face.
His lips were the electricity I needed to jump start my delayed response. Ethan’s lips were like honey: sweet and thick with unspoken lust. I could feel the scab on the side of his lip from the fight, and it turned me on even more. The ruggedness of his lips and his raw power over me, there was nowhere to go but with him. I opened myself up to him, taking cues from his passion, pulling his hair while the other held tightly onto his shoulder.
“Now, let’s go,” he said as pulled back and walked confidently down the stairs.
I could already tell this date was going to leave me breathless.
Ethan
I couldn’t wait to see her face. That little angel had a devil on the inside of her just waiting to come out. She’d asked for a date and I was going to give her one—the most exciting date of her life.
“You brought me a helmet this time,” she grinned.
“I borrowed it from the garage,” I shrugged. It’s not that I can’t be thoughtful, I just don’t like people to know that I could. That’s how you get people thinking you’re a nice guy, and nice guys always finish last. Just look at my brother. “Plus, it’s the law.”
Riding a motorcycle is the human equivalent to flying. It effects every one of your senses. You smell, and subsequently taste everything. The air is full of smells from grass to burgers to smoke, and every hint of cow manure you might pass. You could smell everything. You could see everything. Riding is the IMAX of real life. No windows or pillars to block your view. Everything pours into your senses with no limitations. You could feel everything: the wind, the sun, and that small two percent drop of the temperature when you pass through tree lined sections of the road. Rain feels like tiny bullets. You hear white noise. You touch greatness.
Riding makes me feel equally immortal and human. I am never more myself than when I am going for a ride. The combination of fear, exhilaration, relaxation, and pleasure leads to this moment when everything comes together. I stop thinking about the next turn. I stop focusing on the details. I become a machine and there I find Zen. It settled over my head first, lifted my shoulders, and glided through my feet and to the wheels that keep me on earth. It’s godly. It’s superhuman, and that is why I ride.
I rode almost entirely on autopilot to the track.
“Where are we?” Kaylen asked as she took in the burnt rubber of the road, the revving engines, and the crowd.
“We’re at a drag race.”
There was a track with two separate lanes. From where I was standing, I could see a girl in a skirt not even long enough to be called a skirt, holding a sign in her hand. She walked around hoisting it in the air before prancing off to the side. In the middle was a board with lights. As soon as it turned green the bikers took off, leaving trails of dirt behind them. You couldn’t see a thing from behind, but the view from the side was beautiful. Surrounding the track were bleachers for the troves of onlookers. The crowd cheered loudly as the bikers revved their engines.
Kaylen’s eyes was big as bottle caps, and I couldn’t help laughing.
“Let me guess. Never been to one of these before?”
She bite her lip and nodded no.
“Well that’s what dates are for, right? To experience new things.”
“I am not getting on one of those.”
I liked how feisty she could be. It came out in spurts, but it was there nonetheless.
“No, you’re not. I am.”
Those facial expressions of hers, really, they were my favorite thing about her. You would have thought I’d said I was going to jump off a cliff from the way the blood drained from her face.
“You can’t,” she whispered.
I leaned down, taking her helmet from her hands and set it on the bike without looking. I could smell her perfume. Her eyes roamed down to my lips and I smiled. She wanted me.
“I can and I will. I’ve been doing this for years. I have a race and you’re going to sit in the audience and cheer for me, then afterwards,” I said, leaning closer to her lips, “I’m going to make good on my promises.”
I felt her shiver and I couldn’t help feeling cocky.
“Now,” I said, rubbing my thumb over her lip. “A kiss for good luck.”
I liked owning things. I liked being in control. Kaylen had such a beautiful mouth. It would look even better swollen from kisses, I thought, sucking on her lips. She moaned in appreciation. I pulled her closer to me, holding her firmly by her pert ass. She wasn’t going anywhere unless I let her. She was shaking with need when I let her go, just the way I wanted her to be.
Her cheeks were flushed as she panted.
“You go sit over there.” I pointed. “In the highest bleachers, so you get the best view. I’m going over there to check in, and the race will be in about five minutes.”
She stood there in a daze, only moving when I smacked her on the ass.
“E-Man,” Shawn said, smacking me on the back. “I see you’ve got a new plus one.”
“Mind your business, man,” I chuckled.
“As you wish. You still only running one tonight.” He always spoke like a butler.
“Yeah, man. Got other things to take care of tonight.”
“Or someone.”
I shook my head as I parked my bike in the back. “Just check my name off for me. Okay?”
“Consider it done.”
I’d been racing for a while. The goal of drag racing is pretty basic: cross the quarter mile first and snag a lower time than your opponent. I knew I could do that, no problem. I would do that.
It didn’t take long before it was time. I rolled my bi
ke out and looked to the bleachers to make sure Kaylen was safe. She sat in the tallest bleacher, legs and hands clamped tightly together. It was cute how nervous she was for me. Her pink shirt billowed softly in the wind only the highest seats could feel. The Arizona heat beat down on me and I gave her a thumbs up before pulling the visor down.
Clutch. Throttle. Shift. Brake.
Clutch. Throttle. Shift. Brake.
That’s all that I could focus on—all that matters. It was the difference between me winning and being a loser. I didn’t lose.
Silence ebbed into my world in slow motion. The crowd, the hum of my bike, the announcer’s voice; all gone. All I saw were the four large incandescent bulbs counting down to the final green light. Red, two yellows and a green. Did you know that the perfect human reaction time is about 0.4 seconds? I did. That’s why you never watched for green. You leave at the green light, and you’ll leave too late. I always watched the bottom yellow light.
Red.
Yellow.
Yellow.
My hands shifted and I flew forward.
Green.
I’ve done this enough times to fight the natural urge to raise my feet as the bike lurches forward. I know riding the first couple of feet with your legs down keeps the bike steady. Every bike has the perfect launch RPM. It depends on the engine in the bike, but without knowing it, taking off will cause a wheelie. I didn’t do wheelies on takeoff. I knew my bike.
I couldn’t see anything but what’s in front of me. You go, feeding in the throttle and gradually releasing the clutch. The point is to make the bike stay at the launch RPM. Hold it. Hold it—steady. Until the road speed matches the engine speed. The clutch is the modulator for a powerful delivery and as I crossed the finish line, I just knew—as I’ve known every time before—that I’d won. The sounds came back like a slap to the eardrums. They’re screaming for me. I was the winner, and as I drove slowly off track, I pumped my fist in the air.
