by Deja Voss
“I’ve got a woman and a baby at home who I haven’t seen in two days, and I’m going back out again tomorrow morning to work on the moonshine stills. If the cash is short, put it on my fucking tab.”
“Priorities,” Moses laughs and shrugs, his beady eyes still transfixed on the piles of money on the desk in front of him.
I don’t want to end up like the old man, but the way my life is looking, it’s a reasonable possibility. No priorities or loyalty to anyone but the club that raised me, the club that made me into the man I am today. No woman to settle down with, but plenty at my disposal to keep my bed warm if I’m so inclined. No kids. No future. Just another Mountain Misfit living and dying by the patch. It’s not what I want, but it’s what men like me get.
“Pick you up at seven?” Gavin asks as he heads out the door.
“I’m right behind you,” I say.
The clubhouse bar is pretty quiet tonight. There’s a couple guys shooting pool, and a heavy fog of smoke hangs in the air. Morgan, the bleached blonde dirty birdie who’s been hanging around the club looking for an old man for as long as I can remember is standing behind the bar taking selfies with her cellphone, popping her chest out like no one notices the fact that she has big fake tits and she needs to remind the world on a regular basis.
“Where’s Esther?” I ask, setting my empty bottle down on the bar.
“Aw, who cares, Brooks? Why don’t you stay and hang out with me tonight?”
I’m not gonna lie; I’ve been hard up enough more than a few times to make that mistake with Morgan. But it was back when we were younger. When we were in our twenties, she was cute. Now, though, she’s just sad. I’m sure you could say the same about me.
“I have mail for her,” I say. “Is she coming in tonight?”
“She’s off.”
Music to my fucking ears. I worked hard today, and I’m beat after driving all over the place collecting debts for the club. Most people we deal with know the drill by now, but there’s always a handful of assholes who want to try and bargain with us or think they’re above our order. Neither Gavin and I really mind getting our hands dirty, but listening to men cry like little girls while we do what we have to do to get them on the same page as us gives me second hand embarrassment. I hate that feeling.
I earned this night. It’s time for me to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes. It’s time for me to scratch one of my itches. If anyone knew this was my thing, I’d probably end up shot, but no one is ever going to find out. I’m pretty certain I do a fairly decent job of keeping my tracks covered, at least.
“I’m getting out of here,” I say.
“Brooks,” she pouts. “Come on. It’s slow tonight. How about I give you a tour of the liquor closet?”
“Trust me, I’ve seen that closet before,” I say, heading for the door. “There’s nothing in there I want any part of.”
Nope. Right now the only thing I want a part of is taking the long way home. The walk from the clubhouse to my house that passes right by Esther’s trailer. The mail is just a front, just in case. I’ve never had to use it before. There’s really no way I can justify the things I do in my mind, no matter how hard I try. I could say I’m looking after her, checking in on her to make sure she’s alright. Just like old times.
I can’t help that the girl doesn’t believe in window blinds and likes to get into some pretty kinky shit on her days off from work. Any man would be stupid not to stop and watch the things she does to that perfect body of hers.
I head off into the darkness, leaving my bike parked in the clubhouse garage. I’m going out in the woods for the next few days, so it only makes sense. It’s just another one of my many fronts. It kind of makes me feel worse about the things I’m about to do, because we’re both playing this game, but I’m the only one that knows about it and I make all the rules. I’ve never given her a chance to hide, never covered my eyes and counted backwards. She’s never had the chance to strategize because she’s completely unaware of what’s going on in her own back yard.
It’s not just the sex thing, either. I like to watch her cry. I like to watch her pray. I like to watch her do her dishes. I like to watch her talk to her cat and watch TV and fold her laundry. The things she does when she’s alone, the things only I get to see, make me feel like I have a part of her that no one else has. It’s not like she hasn’t always carried a huge part of me, no matter how far gone we actually are.
When I hit the driveway, I notice all the lights are on in her trailer. I see the movement in her bedroom. It must be that time. I feel the stirring in my pants. It’s definitely that time. I creep across her yard, and tuck myself inside the rhododendron tree, waiting for her next move.
3
Esther:
Sometimes a woman just needs to feel pretty.
The way this purple crushed velvet teddy hugs my curves, it definitely makes me feel pretty. I curl my red hair into loose spirals that hang down my shoulders. I know it doesn’t matter. It’s not like people are going to be looking at my face anyway, but for me, I treat this like I’m getting ready for a hot date with the man of my dreams. I even spritz on a little Chanel No. 5.
I know what I’m about to do is fucked up. I know I’m not right. But it’s my only option. It’s the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore. It’s the only time I have the luxury of feeling pretty.
In my line of work, I always do the fucking. The guys in the club say my job is “to do the things that require feminine mystique.” My father was the one who coined that concept. I was the one who perfected it, though. It’s just a nice way of saying I’m a whore.
I fuck bad men so they give us what we want. Power. Guns. Money. My pussy keeps us out of a lot of trouble. I’m always in control, always have to maintain the upper hand with these convicts, criminals, murderers, and worse. Sometimes I don’t even have to fuck with their bodies. Sometimes I just have to play their mind games, which is almost worse. I don’t like when these assholes get in my head. It’s already a crowded enough place, full of all my demons, all my regrets, all the decisions that brought me here… all the desires and urges I have to live a normal life, with a normal husband, and put this shit behind me. Sometimes I feel like it might just explode.
I’ll never be entitled to that life. My sole goal in my life is to protect my family, my club, my legacy. It’s not about me or my loneliness.
So I make the best of what I have. And sometimes that means using a chatroom full of strangers to make me feel good about myself. It makes me feel more normal in this strange life. In my line of work, I always do the fucking. But here in my bedroom, dressed in beautiful lingerie, it’s not like that. Call it a compulsion, call it a perversion; sometimes I just don’t like to have to be in control of the situation.
I light some candles in my bedroom. I grab my bag of tricks from the drawer in my nightstand. I sprawl out on my big fluffy rose-printed comforter and open up my laptop. My hands tremble a little bit as I log into the totally anonymous chat site.
Every day is a new man or two. Sure, I have regulars that frequent my rooms, but they’re all the same to me, strangers or otherwise. They’re just tools I use to get what I want.
“You look stunning tonight, Elena,” someone types. “Are you going to be a good girl for us?”
Elena, my alter ego, is always a good girl in the worst possible ways.
I play with the strap on my teddy, making sure my face isn’t anywhere near that camera, and I feel myself getting more and more aroused by the minute, my core craving exactly what I came here for.
I’m jolted from my fantasy life by a loud crash on my front porch, my metal garbage cans clattering around. I can see the motion sensor light click on outside my window. I slam my laptop shut and grab my bathrobe.
Living out here in the woods, it could be anything. It could be a bear, a stray cat, a stalker, or one of the Misfits dropping by. You’d think I’d hear their bike in the driveway if it was one of them.
I doubt if they caught me in the act, they’d even raise an eyebrow. They’d probably just think I was refining my craft and go about their day. It’s definitely not like that with me and the guys. None of them would ever look at me as anything more than Esther. I might not be able to be a patched-in member of the club because of my gender, but I’m just like any other brother. I just play a very special role. A role that makes me definitely undatable.
I grab my pistol from the dresser, just in case, and creep to the front doorway. I flip on the lights in my foyer and peek out the window in the storm door, but I’m not seeing anything. I slide on my sandals and slowly crack open the door, pointing my gun out into the night. As I scan the porch, the garbage cans are in fact knocked over, and a raccoon stares right back at me, fearlessly, as it chews on an apple core.
It’s a cute little thing with big wide eyes.
I would let him stay, but my cat, Mr. Gingerbread, would probably be all sorts of jealous.
“Shoo,” I yell to the dumpster diver. “Get out of here, dude.”
The critter scurries off into the night, clutching the apple core in his paws, and I start picking up the stray trash from my porch. I’m cussing at myself for not remembering to wrap the bungee cords around the lid like I normally do. Messing around with garbage wasn’t really something I wanted to get into tonight.
I’m so distracted by my efforts that the shadow creeping across my lawn almost doesn’t register to me until I hear the footsteps in the grass, coming closer and closer.
“Hello?” I shout out, picking up my pistol and holding it out in front of my chest, my heart beating faster. I can’t see much beyond my porch, just shadows in the night.
“Esther,” his voice booms through the night. “Relax, it’s me.”
“What the hell are you doing here, Brooks?” I ask, my lip quivering. I’m never mad to see this man. Time has only been good to him, his body strong and solid, his squared jawline barely concealed by his big blond beard. He’s rugged. He’s rough around all the right edges. He’s a mountain god and everyone knows it, including him. But to me, he’ll always just be Brooks. My friend. The guy I grew up with. I’m still allowed to think he’s hot, though.
I keep my pistol trained on him for added dramatics. He smiles as he steps up on my porch, hands in the air.
“Do you even remember how to shoot that fucking thing?” he laughs, creeping closer and closer to me until my gun is pressed firmly into his hard, tight, abs.
“I dunno,” I smile, looking up at him. He has to tower over me by at least a foot. “I already cleaned up one mess on my porch tonight, though, and I’m not in the mood to do it again.” I lower my pistol. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I got your mail today while I was downtown,” he says, fishing a couple of envelopes out of the pocket of his cut. “Gavin and I are going out in the woods for a couple days to work on the stills, so I wanted to make sure you got it before I left.”
I leaf through the mail. Credit card offers and something about renewing the warranty on my car, which in fact doesn’t exist. I try to stifle a laugh. Surely this can’t be important enough for a personal visit. “Thanks,” I say. “Where’s your bike dude?”
“Left it at the garage since we’re going out of town. We’re taking the truck.”
Everything about his story adds up, and yet it’s way too simple. He has his own garage at his house. I doubt he’d honestly go out of his way like this to have an excuse to stop by my place. He’s always been a straight shooter. It’s kind of perplexing.
“Are you coming inside for a drink?” I ask him. I don’t know why. I know it’s a horrible idea, especially because of what I’m wearing underneath this robe. Still, I enjoy his company. Something about being near him takes me back to a simpler time in my life, even though every time he leaves, everything feels that much more complicated.
“You sure?” he asks. “It looks like you’re getting ready for bed.” I hold the front door open and he follows behind me, taking off his shoes in the foyer. He’s so polite for a big burly guy. Always has been. His dad raised him as right as he could up here on this mountain until the day he passed.
“I’m gonna go put some clothes on,” I tell him. “Help yourself to whatever.”
“You don’t have to,” he says, and I feel like I’m hearing things, making things up in my mind. Like it’s some sort of invitation. “It’s your house. You don’t have to change just because I’m here taking up your space.”
Never mind. Just the ever polite Brooks as usual. He takes up space wherever he goes with his size, stature, and charisma alone, but he never uses it to make people feel uncomfortable. Yet, somehow, I’m incredibly uncomfortable right now knowing that I’m standing here in sexy lingerie while he scans my fridge. Hell, I could probably throw this robe on the floor right now and he wouldn’t notice.
Because we’re friends.
Because maybe even my memories of what we had were just fabrications of my teenage mind. Because when I came back from my backwards ass boot camp, everything was different, and he was gone.
4
Brooks:
What the fuck am I doing here?
I could’ve easily just run off before she got outside. I have a footpath beaten down between the woods that connects our houses that I know like the back of my hand, even in the pitch darkness of the night. It’s like I almost wanted her to catch me. It’s almost like I wanted her to know I was here.
Almost.
Not enough to tell her how much I want her. Not enough to risk our friendship, our club, and everything I know about our life together up until this point. I’ve been fighting to keep my dick under control, praying she wouldn’t notice the rock-hard monster trying to blow a hole through my zipper, thanks to that pretty purple teddy of hers. Knowing that fluffy pink bathrobe was the only thing between me and her smooth freckled skin made concealing my weapon damn near impossible.
And now here I am, rifling through her fridge, trying to play it cool as usual. I’m stealing glances as her as she walks down the hallway, imagining the curve of her ass in that purple lingerie. God, if I could just get her alone, anywhere but here. If only we were two different people in a totally different world. There wouldn’t be a day that would go by that I wouldn’t fuck her until she couldn’t walk, give her everything that she deserves, and definitely get her out of this shitty falling apart trailer that makes no sense to me, considering the amount of work she does for the club.
“You find anything interesting in there? The hard stuff is in the freezer,” she says, sneaking back into the kitchen in a green tank top and a pair of plaid shorts. I swear she does this shit to me on purpose. Not just the fact that she obviously isn’t wearing a bra, but she knows how much I love green. Always have.
I’m losing my mind. I have to be imagining things.
“What are you drinking, doll?” I ask her.
“Anything,” she says. “You know I’m not picky.”
I pull out two cans of beer and hand her one. She cracks open the top and starts chugging. It’s Mountain Misfit life at its finest. None of us ever gets what we want, so we just get drunk instead. We don’t get what we want, but we get what we deserve. Hangovers and heartaches.
“So you and Gavin are going out and getting the stills ready tomorrow?” she asks, sitting up on the countertop, dangling her long legs off the edge, her toenails perfectly manicured, and somehow making me want her even more watching the way she circles her toes in the air.
“Yeah. You wanna come?”
“You know I’d love to,” she says sadly. “It’s been way too long since I’ve been camping with you guys. I gotta work, though.”
I don’t ever like to pry, mostly because hearing about her ‘work’ kills me a little bit inside. It makes me rage. It makes me so angry that her brothers and her father let her do this; hell, they encourage her to do this. It makes me pissed that I never stepped up and did the right thing.
&
nbsp; “Brooks,” she says, snapping me out of my head and back to her kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
“You got Red and Tank just in case?” Our enforcers. If Gavin and I can’t be around to protect her, I need to make sure someone else is.
“I’m working at the bar, Brooks. Business as usual.” Her voice is dripping with condescension. I know this is a hot button issue. I know this is the fastest way to start a fight, and usually I avoid that at all costs with her. She’s rolling her eyes so hard at me, I think they’re going to break loose and pop out of her skull.
“When are you going to quit?” I ask her.
“I don’t know,” she says, hopping down from the counter. She opens up the freezer and pulls out a jar of moonshine. The way she has to stand on her tiptoes to grab it makes the back of her shorts tug up just enough to show me damn near everything she has. I should look away, but it’s like I’m transfixed or something. “When do bartenders usually retire? Thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?”
“You know what I mean,” I say. “When are you going to quit doing this other shit?”
She stands in front of me, brushing her hand down my face, her touch almost motherly, consoling.
“You guys put your life at risk all the time to protect this club. You would do anything to defend the patch, the way of life we live. I’ll quit when the job is done. I’ll quit when I know you guys are safe. As long as you are waging wars, I need to do whatever I need to do to be the one that makes peace.”
She offers me a drag from the jar, but I don’t want it. Right now I don’t want anything but the ability to tell her that I’m going to do whatever I can to save her from us. From the club. The look on her face is like someone slapped her, like she’s holding back tears, like she’s feeling actual pain.
I hug her tight to my body, not knowing what to say, because Lord knows I have no idea what else to do. I just have this overwhelming urge to be as close to her as possible. She looks up at me with a suddenly serene smile on her face.
