by Zahra Girard
Gunney’s voice booms throughout the room. Church has begun and our drill sergeant president is out in full force.
Every single one of us goes quiet, we put down our beers, set out cigarettes in ashtrays, we sit up straight, and we turn to face our president.
He’s standing at the front of the table, back military-straight, arms clasped behind his back, the veins bulging in his muscular forearms.
“First order of business, we need to set things right with our town,” he says. “Because right now, some of the people in Stony Shores are looking at us like they can see coat hanger scars on our foreheads and wishing that our parents had the money to afford a better fucking doctor.”
Bear and Preacher both stifle a laugh, and I’m not so lucky, an audible chuckle escapes my lips.
Gunney’s eyes narrow and zero in on me.
Ozzy, frowning, raises his hand.
“I don’t quite get the metaphor,” he says. “Are you talking about contraception?”
“For fuck’s sake, Ozzy. Learn a different language, will you? Because you’re a serious fucking disappointment to this one,” Gunney says, his face utterly serious. Until he breaks out into a grin. “But we love you anyways, brother.”
Ozzy nods but still looks confused.
Gunney continues on. “After all that shit with the Iron Devils, they hate us. But I do not like hearing about my old lady catching side-eye at the fucking grocery store or hearing whispered bullshit at a coffee shop. I enjoy that experience about as much as I enjoy a woman using her teeth when she sucks my cock.”
Gunney goes on, his tirade going to the kind of heights only drill sergeants can get to. It’s kind of admirable. Even though he’s been out of the service for decades, he’s still got it. I can still picture him screaming at a squad of dipshit recruits and, somehow, shaping them into soldiers.
As it goes on, I zone out. The sound of his voice takes me back to earlier days and my time in the service. I can’t help losing focus — it’s a Friday night and I’m four whiskeys deep.
Before I know it, I’m nodding off, though I try to fight it.
When I shut my eyes, I can see every last drop of blood. The image is burned behind my eyelids, a jagged, gnarled, ugly scar that I will never forget.
When I breathe in, I can smell the sweat, feel the dry, irritating dust claw it’s way up my nostrils, carrying with it the coppery scent of blood and the putrid stench of men shitting themselves as the life flees their body.
When I listen, at the edge of my hearing I can hear the rat-tat-tat that doesn’t quit, the shattering stones as bullets tear through the air around me. A second later, there’ll be a pitiful scream, ripped through with fear and agony as a man feels his life leave him through a series of 7.62 millimeter-wide holes in his gut. A human weapon, a best friend, a brother, reduced to a limp, bloody bag of bones because some coward got a lucky shot.
When I drift away, my heart races, my muscles knot, and every bit of me preps for combat the second I fall back to that place.
It’s the same every time.
A trip to an inescapable memory of sand and shit and fear and blood. It’s always there, and, even when I’m not trapped in it, I know it’s waiting in the wings to take me as soon as I slip up.
Drinking helps. Fucking helps, too. They both let me forget — I can lose myself in the glass, or lose myself in pussy.
Though there hasn’t been much fucking lately. Not for almost two years. Not since her. She fucked me right up. She’s a sweet trauma in my memory.
“You alright, brother?”
Bear’s hand grips my shoulder. He keeps his voice quiet. He knows where I’m at and what memory I’m stuck in. I’m sure he’s been somewhere just like it once or twice.
I step back from that memory and shake my head, bringing sense and vigilance back.
I look over at him and grin. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
He nods.
I can tell by the look he gives me that he knows that I’m lying.
But he’ll never say anything. He won’t call me on my bullshit. That’s just not what you do. In this world, you grit your teeth, you keep your head down, and you handle your own fucking business.
“Tonight’s a big night, brothers,” Gunney says. “Because tonight is a night we start planning to do something for this town. We’re throwing a party, for charity, and Jynx, you’re the lucky man for the job.”
That makes me pay attention.
Almost makes me feel sober.
I stand up. There’s a stirring in inside me — my gut trying to violently claw it’s way up my throat — that I’d only felt before in the service, the blood-racing rush just before jumping out of a helicopter and down into combat with my brothers in the Airborne Rangers.
“What the hell has you thinking that I know how to plan a fucking charity party?” I blurt out. “Do I have ‘Martha Stewart’ tattooed on my fucking forehead?”
“I don’t. At all. But learning new skills is important to personal development. Think of this as a chance to grow as a person.”
My mouth’s practically hanging open at his Tony Robbins inspirational bullshit.
“Are you serious?”
I can’t do this. I’m not made for this shit. I fix bikes, I ride, I shoot people, I drink, I fuck.
I don’t put together parties for fucking charity.
“Serious as a fucking heart attack. If you start to doubt yourself, brother, just remember that the club bailed you out after you lost thirty grand in that whole Reno gambling fuckup. Actions have consequences, and you’re experiencing yours. Consider this the final part of your penance.”
I look over at Rog. He’s got a sly grin on his face — that fucker knew this was coming. I don’t like my chances of getting out of this mess, but I’ve got to try.
“Come on, Rog. Didn’t I do enough to work this debt off?” I protest. “I mean, shit, I wore a goddamned maid outfit and serenaded you with George fucking Michael songs. I sang you ‘Careless Whisper’. You can’t take that back, man. We might as well be fucking married.”
Rog shrugs.
“And you really sang your heart out, Jynx. It was beautiful. Profound, even. And it’s something no one here will forget. No matter how much we try,” he says. “I still wonder whether you shaved your legs just for that outfit, or whether it’s a regular thing with you. But, speaking as the treasurer, your debt isn’t clear. You clawed your way up to purgatory from hell, but, this thing here, that will finally wipe the slate clean and put you good with us. Now sit the fuck down.”
I do it.
I know I won’t win this one. I glare at him, fists clenched under the table. They know I hate crowds, they know that I don’t do well with people outside the outlaw lifestyle.
And they don’t care.
“Are we really doing this?” I say.
Gunney nods. “We are. It needs to go down Friday after next. And if you feel stuck for figuring out entertainment, Rog can always get you that maid outfit again. You do have a lovely voice, Jynx.”
“It’s true,” Ozzy says from his spot next to me. He pats me on the shoulder. “You sing well, mate. You’ve got a nice baritone.”
“And you look good in that outfit. I can tell you never skip leg day,” Bear says, grinning. “You’re a pretty man, brother.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I say.
“Nah, it’s true, brother. Sex appeal is nothing to be ashamed of. If I was into other men, I’d totally be into you,” Ozzy says. “I think it’d be a good relationship, too. We’d have plenty to talk about, but there’s enough different between us that it would keep it interesting. There’d be plenty of spice, that’s for sure.”
“You sound like you’ve put a lot of thought into dating me,” I say.
“I think about a lot of things, brother,” he says. “Sometimes you get out on that road and your mind just wanders.”
“It wanders into dating Jynx?” Preacher says.
“Among other
things, yeah,” Ozzy answers.
“What other things?” I say, not sure I want to know the answer.
“Profound stuff, usually,” he says.
“You think dating me is profound?”
“You’re an attractive man. Sometimes I get on that road, and, if you’re riding in front of me, my mind gets to thinking about what if I was a different person, or a woman, and who I’d like to date.”
“So, it’s like Fuck-Marry-Kill?” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Except I don’t want to kill any of you guys.”
“So you just think about fucking and marrying us?” Bear says.
“Alright, stop flirting with Jynx,” Gunney says. “Despite how distractingly pretty he is, I need your focus on me right now. Because I need to confess that I haven’t been the most forthright with you, brothers.”
Gunney pauses, looking over each of us in the room. There’s not a man here who isn’t looking at him with their full attention. Myself included. The only people who even blink away from Gunney are Bear and Ozzy, who take a moment to share a heavy glance. There’s a note in Gunney’s voice that I haven’t heard before: hesitation. Trepidation. Worry.
He looks over at Rog, who gives a quick nod, before continuing. “This isn’t the easiest thing for me to say, but I’m not going to dick you around here with some penitent monologue. About a year ago, when the shit was going down with the Iron Devils, I made the call for us to get back into weapons so we could raise the cash to keep our club alive in that war. Well, when the Devils were put down, that wasn’t the end of our weapons business.”
The room erupts into chaos.
Bear and Ozzy both stand up so fast their chairs fly back and clatter to the floor. I get to my feet just in time to get in Bear’s way as he tries to push his way towards Gunney. It’s not an easy thing to block a beast like him. Bear’s face is a mask of rage — red, veins bulging, his eyes fiery in anger — and it takes everything I have to keep hold of the bigger man and stop him from making a serious mistake.
“Sit the fuck down, everyone,” Gunney bellows, again and again, banging his fist on the table until order is restored.
There’s so much authority in his voice that it doesn’t take long for all the ex-soldiers among us to sit back down.
I take my seat, but I’m still on alert. I’m ready to fight someone, anyone, over the charity job the club’s given me. But I’ve got to stay ready to play peacemaker and keep Bear and Ozzy from killing someone.
“Why the fuck didn’t you bring this up to the club?” Bear says. “We’re supposed to hold a vote on this shit.”
“Gunney and I discussed it, brother,” Rog says. “In the end, we wanted you all to have plausible deniability in case things went south.”
Grease, our club VP, looks about ready to murder someone. His eyes are focused straight down on the table in front of him, and his fists are clenched so tight I can see the whites of his knuckles and count every vein in his forearms.
“You have a lot of explaining to do, you son of a bitch. I can’t believe this is the first I’m hearing about this, and I’ve been your VP how long?” he says.
“A long time, brother,” Gunney says. “And I kept you out of it because, if I went down, I wanted you to be clean and able to lead the club.”
The room falls into stillness.
The searing anger on Grease’s face dies down to smoldering embers that lurk in his eyes. I stay on edge, observing, welcoming the distraction from the fact that just minutes ago, I was assigned a job worse than latrine duty.
“Get to the point, Gunney,” Bear says.
“When we got back into weapons, it was for survival. We had to do it. But as you all know, this business isn’t fucking one-off deal. No one is going to do a single gun buy from us. This isn’t some fucking Outback Steakhouse, where you pop in one time every few years to get your fucking blooming onion fix. This is a sustained enterprise, built on trust. So to get anyone to buy from us, we had to make commitments.”
“They’re good, though, those onions,” Ozzy says. “Crispy, but soft inside. They make a good sauce to go with them, too.”
“Jesus Christ, Ozzy,” Bear says as he shakes his head.
“What? Yeah, I’m upset about the weapons thing. I just thought it was a relatable expression. I’m sure we’ve all had those onions — they’re really good,” he says.
“They are good,” Preacher adds. “And they’re a good price, too. It’s an excellent value.”
“Enough with the onions, alright? You like them, I like them, they’re fucking delicious, but that’s not the point,” Bear says. “So why bring this up now, Gunney? You’ve got a conscience and you want our forgiveness? Cause if that’s the case, you’re going to have to get on your fucking knees.”
“Get the fuck back in line, Bear. Until now, I’d been able to handle this using a couple old buddies of mine from the Corps. A shipment here and there, some decent cash comes in, and Rog has taken care of putting it all aside for the club to use when we get out of this mess. But all that’s changed,” he says.
“Why?” Grease says.
“Because now we’re in a war.”
Chapter Three
Jarrett
Nobody moves. Nobody says a damn thing.
I’m beside myself. Part of me wants to laugh because this night just seems to be getting worse and worse in ways that are almost impressive. An hour ago, I was working on a nice bottle of whiskey and getting ready to take a ride into town to see if there’s anyone stupid enough to try their luck. And now look where I’m at: designated party planner for a club that’s tearing itself apart.
Rog clears his throat. “It’s more like war by association. One of our customers, a Triads gang in the Bay Area, are having a fight for turf with some MC out of Reno. The Bloody Jackals are trying to push west into the Triads’ Sacramento territory.”
My jaw tightens, my fingers dig into my legs, and I keep my focus forward. I’ve got to keep it together.
Grease clears his throat like he’s trying to cough up a bowling ball. “So are we riding down to goddamn Sacramento to shoot it out with the fucking Jackals? Those sons of bitches have a stranglehold on half of Nevada and they’ve got chapter houses from Vegas to fucking Portland. Jesus Christ, Gunney. What the fuck are you doing?”
Gunney shakes his head. “No. Hell no. This isn’t combat duty. The Triads put in a large order. They’ve got the demand, and we’ve got the supply. This is just business. This order is more than just my couple of buddies can handle — it’s four truckloads worth. We’ll be handling transport and security for the shipment.”
I’m seething from my assignment to party bitch. That’s not the kind of man I am — I should be front and center on this weapons assignment.
Fuck being calm. I’m in the mood to stir shit up; I can’t keep my mouth shut while Gunney goes on with his bullshit.
“Shouldn’t you put this to a fucking vote?” I say. “If you’re going to make us go public in supplying weapons to the Triads — which, let’s face it, with an order that size fucking everyone is going to know about it — that’s going to put us on the Jackals radar. Personally, I’d like a say in choosing how I die.”
Gunney about stabs me with his glare.
“Fine,” he snaps. “I’ll lay it out: we can do the job, bring the Triads the weapons they need, and make a truckload of cash, or, we can not do the job and piss off one of the largest criminal organizations in Northern California.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a choice, mate,” Ozzy says.
“There’s a reason for that, Ozzy,” Rog says.
“Is it because we don’t have much of a choice?” he says.
“Bingo, genius,” Bear says.
“So, Jynx, we’ll hold the vote just for you: all in favor of doing this job, so we can get paid instead of getting killed?”
Every single one of us raises our hand. Me included. I know our club needs this, just as
much as we don’t need to be in direct conflict with one of the largest gangs in California. I love action, but I don’t like seeing my brothers gunned down like dogs, which would be the result if we went at it with the Triads.
“It’s decided. We do this deal so we don’t get fucked,” Gunney slams the table. “Bear, Grease, you two stick around. You’ll be running point on this. I want to make sure you’re briefed. Everyone else: church is over.”
Everyone — aside from Bear and Grease — starts to file out to the clubhouse. I stick around.
“I want in on this,” I say, my fingers drumming a beat on the table. “It’s been over a year since we’ve had some good action around here. You know I should be in on this, Gunney.”
“No.”
“No? What the fuck do you mean ‘no’? Bear and I both were special forces. We’re the best the club’s got. Is this because I went Army instead of Marines? Is this some jarhead bullshit?”
“There’s two reasons, Jynx. First, you want this operation to get violent. That can’t happen when we’re trying to covertly transport illegal weapons across one international border and through three states,” Gunney says. His voice is perfectly level, but I can feel the rage simmering beneath the words. “Second reason: you have a party to plan.”
There’s that party again.
“You know I can’t do that.”
He puts his finger hard against my chest.
“Then get a fucking Pinterest account. My fucking wife can show you. I don’t give a shit how you get it done — just get it done.”
Bear slips his hand on my shoulder and pulls me back towards the door. “Come on, let’s go. We’ll have a drink and cool off, alright?”
I step out into the clubhouse.
The air’s full of smoke, the barstools are full of patched members and prospects and women with plump asses looking to get pounded, and The Clash is blaring from the jukebox. Everything around me should put me in a good mood: my brothers, booze, and pussy. But all I can think about is how I’ve been relegated from combat duty to being a fucking errand boy.
