by Jc Emery
“Straight through to Nevada, boys,” he says. I glance around the crowd. They’re all watching Jim intently. Some of the men look pissed off, like they’ve heard this before. Others, though smoking or chewing, have their eyes on him. Everyone is looking at Jim—with one exception.
Ryan’s eyes are on me.
I flinch under the intensity of his gaze. His hands are on his hips, head tilted slightly to the side, feet shoulder-width apart, his face carefully blank. But his eyes bore into mine. I search his face for a sign of—well, anything. But nothing comes to me. I can’t figure out what he’s doing. Then I realize that he’s sizing me up. This whole thing is for me. Aunt Ruby promised Aunt Gloria that she’d keep me safe, and this is her keeping me safe. I can feel my eyes grow wide as I consider the twenty or so men before me. Leather-clad, dirty, and tired...
They’ve been riding for days, I think. California is an awfully long way from New York. They didn’t fly, which would take but a few hours. No. They rode on their bikes and some even in the van. For days, I’d venture to guess. I suddenly feel compelled to express my appreciation. No matter how awful this is for me, that’s the thing—this is for me. Ryan doesn’t need to be here, saving my big mouth. Jim doesn’t need to be here. Maybe Ruby does by way of some familial obligation, but the rest of them don’t. But they’re here.
Before I can think better of it, I mouth, “Thank you,” to Ryan. He blinks, but keeps the mask on his face. No polite “you’re welcome” and no acknowledgement, blinking aside, that I’ve extended this olive branch. Why I want to extend it to him of all people, I’m not entirely sure. I just know that I’m going to try to make this work. And he just keeps watching me.
Hearing shuffling behind me, I turn as Ruby’s elbow lands softly on my shoulder, letting me feel her weight. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?”
I feel the heat on my cheeks, and I break eye contact with Ryan. I can feel his eyes for only a moment more before he turns his attention elsewhere. The ground beneath my feet is nothing but dirt interspersed with bits of mud here and there. I try to imagine drowning in the small pool of mud.
“I know you were watching him, Alexandra,” she says. I spin and look her, going for my best innocent look. It’s the one even my father falls for. She rights herself, hands on her hips.
“Who?” I say. She chuckles lightly and shakes her head, then her face grows serious.
“These men are off limits to you. You’re a pretty, young woman—don’t think they haven’t noticed. And I love those men. They’re family. But you’re far too young. You got that?” I nod, unable to do anything else. The crowd breaks up, and only two of the men don’t move. Ryan’s eyes are once again on me, but behind him, Ian’s eyes are on Ryan and he looks none too pleased.
The men climb back onto their bikes with the exception of the ones who are riding in the van with us. They stand around kicking the dirt beneath their feet. As Ruby takes off toward the van, I dutifully follow her. Climbing into the van, my nose is assaulted with the smell of gas. I try to cover my cough with the sleeve of my hoodie, but it’s no use. Even Ruby puts her hand over her mouth as she climbs into her seat. The Devil of Death climbs into his seat opposite me and gags on the odor that’s permeating our surroundings. In the front seats, the men roll their windows down, and crank up the A/C. The forceful winds that slap at my face as we take off back toward the highway is too much and I turn toward the back of the van, where I see the culprit of the smell. Peeking out beneath a cover of old, torn carpet is a collection of gas cans. It appears the entire back of the van is full.
Very quietly I ask, “What’s with the gas cans?”
The man in front of me smiles predatorily and says, “How far do you think a Harley can go without gas?” Ruby chuckles lightly, but shoots him a warning glance despite her amusement. All I can offer in response is a faint, “Oh.” My question just goes to show exactly how much knowledge I have of motorcycles.
Chapter 7
We fear violence less than our own feelings.
Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict.
- Jim Morrison
ONCE WE START back on the road, the man in the front passenger seat and the one across from me fall asleep immediately. My eyelids are heavy, but every time I close them, a string of images assault my mind. From Tony bleeding out to him in the hospital, then to Gloria and me at the house, and eventually Ryan. I don’t know why Ryan makes his way into my subconscious, but he does. The way his eyes bore into mine like he was trying to figure me out. There were questions there that I don’t understand and I doubt I’ll ever have answered.
As the hours pass and Pennsylvania bleeds into Ohio, Indiana, and then Illinois, I allow myself to zone out. The stark countryside is beautiful in a neglected, desolate sort of way. Spring is in full effect, and summer waits just around the corner. The heartland is gorgeous with its corn fields and rows of vegetables and even the occasional dairy farm spotting the landscape. But after a few hundred miles, even the pastoral charm of the Midwest wears off and I’m left with the choice between attempting to sleep despite the haunting images that barrage my mind, and the landscape. Neither is appealing, and eventually the mind-numbing dullness of the situation takes over, engulfing actual thought in favor of autopilot.
We stop three times for gas, mainly to fill up the bikes and to give the riders a rest. The Devil of Death and the other two men in the van switch seats at the first stop and don’t switch back until the last. I study their patches and their demeanor all the while studiously avoiding Ruby’s occasional forays into consciousness. Though she is quite kind, she is mostly quiet. I find her attention on me more often than I’m comfortable with. I feel the urge to promise her that I’m real and I’m not going to suddenly turn into a ghost, but that would be rude, so I just pretend I don’t see her staring at me. It’s not easy.
Along the highway I see the signs for Chicago and hear grouchy muttering from the front seat about having to “get the fuck as far away from Chicago as possible.” The driver answers a cell phone, says a few words, and pulls it away from his ear, sliding it back into his jeans pocket. As we pass the signs for Chicago, some of the bikes pull off the highway.
“Rig’s crew is going to make sure Chicago stays in the Midwest,” The Devil of Death says. I stare at him quizzically, and he lets out an annoyed sigh then, after a pause, he clarifies in an annoyingly condescending tone. “Your daddy’s a mob boss, right? Yeah, so he’s got buddies in Chicago. You’re the mob’s property, and we’ve got you. Now, how happy do you think they are about that?”
Despite knowing nothing about these people and what they’re capable of, I feel an annoyed tick in my jaw. I bite back my sarcasm as much as possible and say, “Thank you for the clarification.”
“What’s a matter? Did I annoy you, Princess?” he asks in a mocking tone. I fold my arms over my chest and turn away from him, focusing intently on Ruby’s sleeping form.
“Thank you,” I say again, because I was raised to be, if anything, polite. “For coming to get me.”
“It was a club vote and I lost. You ain’t my kid, and this ain’t my baggage.”
“Still,” I say, a bit quieter. Thanking someone who is so hell bent on pissing me off is challenging at best. Having had enough small talk for the time being, I settle into my seat and lean my head against the blackened window, hoping sleep will claim me.
When I wake, the sun has already set, and night time is upon us. The high-pitched squeal of the van’s brakes as we stop rouse even my new friend across from me. As his eyes flutter open, I smile at him as happily as I can muster. His eyes land on me immediately and a grimace appears. If he can’t bring himself to be kind, or even tolerant of me, perhaps I can kill him with kindness. Literally.
To my left side, Ruby stretches out, having slept most of the way since we left Brooklyn. “Where are we?” she asks, looking at the men in front.
“Some hick town in Io
wa,” the passenger says. The driver puts the van in park and cuts the engine. It isn’t until the guys who have kept time with us turn off their engines that I realize how loud they really are. In their wake is a glorious silence that immediately makes me feel infinitely more at ease.
We climb out of the van and step onto the cracked pavement of the Williamsburg Motel, whose florescent neon sign flashes, sporadically cutting out. For the first time since we locked eyes at that gas station, I see Ryan in the crowd. He’s standing, hands on his hips, surveying the men around him. Ruby takes my arm and gently leads me past him and into the motel lobby, following Jim, who manages to score an impressively low group rate. Upon inspection, there’s ten riders with us, half the number that there were to begin with. As we emerge from the office, Jim tosses out four room keys, then he hands one to Ryan. He hands one of the remaining two keys to Ruby, and finally, one to me.
“Duke, Diesel, and Bear are going to keep watch for the night since they got to sleep in the van. You’ll be safe, but I figured you’d want a little privacy.” I nod, grateful for the consideration.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, and it is perhaps the most genuine thing I’ve ever said.
I rest up, trying to make this situation a little more bearable with a hot bath and lots of sleep. Not knowing when I’ll have a chance to shower again, I load up my bag with the extra soaps and a few washcloths. Though the men never bother me, I hear when they change shifts. Jim told me one would be at the door to my room and the other would be around back beneath the high bathroom window. Not only are the window and the door the only points of entrance in my dusty, rundown room, they’re also the only points of escape. Not that I had been thinking of an escape. I’m not stupid enough to believe that I’d fare better on my own in the wilds of the Midwest than I will with Ruby and Co. Still, I’ve spent a lifetime under Carlo Mancuso’s thumb, and I know better than to assume that the only thing the leather-clad, gun-wielding men are attempting to stop is a break-in.
By morning, I already feel a hundred times better, having rested and cleared my head. I’m still feeling the lingering effects of the anti-anxiety medication Gloria slipped into my milk, but at least now I feel like I have my wits about me again. Today, our trip feels very much like yesterday’s did—long with a series of short stops along the way for beer and snacks, but more often than not we break for bathrooms and to fill up the tank. Today, I’m more aware of my surroundings. I’ve noticed the motorcycles stop more frequently than the van, but before they do there’s always a call in to one of the guys. The conversations are never lengthy, saying only what absolutely needs to be said, and when the bikes pull off the highway to refuel, the van keeps going, but at a slower pace. The bikes always keep up and the remaining riders adjust their formation to fill in the gaps left by the departing riders. Seeing all of this, the way the riders work together, keeping the van surrounded, is fascinating. In all of my years of watching and listening to my father’s business, I’ve never seen such fluid teamwork from such a large group.
When the van stops for gas, all of the riders stop, whether they fill up or not. Ryan stays close to Jim’s side, and Ian stays close to Ryan’s. The three men cast me the occasional sideways glance. For Jim and Ian, it’s almost like they’ve just remembered I’m riding in the van. But for Ryan, the way his gaze tracks me, it’s like he’s making sure I’m still there. Like he’s never forgotten me. I don’t allow myself to forget Ruby’s warning from yesterday, so I don’t engage. I do, however, watch. Despite being among such a large group, I feel so very alone. And Ruby isn’t much of a talker, though she’s trying here and there. There’s so much I want to say to her and so very little I can bring myself to.
The day winds down in another rundown motel, this time in Wyoming. I hear stilted talks of Nevada and something about territory. The general idea is, I think, that we’re getting closer to home, which is, as far as I know, somewhere in California. Aside from that, I know nothing—because I’ve asked nothing.
On the third day of our journey, we’re nearing the end, which is unfortunate. Though I’m worn down and out of clean clothes, I’m settling into life on the road. I find myself in that space between expectations of normalcy and chaos. I’m learning the ticks of the men around me. Duke, the Devil of Death, is at his best in the late evenings. Anything too early and he’s an asshole. I don’t know if I’ll see him much once we get ‘home,’ but I’m working on figuring out his sweet spot with whiskey. Too much or too little and I find my foot itching to kick him.
Since yesterday, I’ve learned the names of the other two men who have accompanied Ruby and me in the van. Neither man is chatty enough on his own, so I had to ask Duke for their names. The man who does most of the driving tends to keep himself scarce, and has a shaved head. He goes by the name Diesel. His long-sleeping companion goes by the name Bear. After watching him sleep for days on end, I can see that the name was aptly applied.
As for Ruby, I’m doing the best I can to open up to her, but it’s not easy when she is so hot and cold all of the time. Any time I’ve tried to ask her about my mother, it’s been a disaster. Her entire body goes rigid, and she just shuts down. The guys even notice it and tense up. One of Duke’s few redeeming qualities is that he’s protective over her. I can’t stave off the petty jealousy that flares when he gives me a look, warning me to back off when I’ve stumbled upon a sensitive topic. I don’t even like Duke, but the loneliness is getting to me, and I’ve found myself wanting to talk to him. I’m out of my element, essentially alone, and a guest among a gathering of family. So I vow not to bring my mother up again, not until I can form some kind of relationship with Ruby. I want to get to know her, especially if she’s going to help me get on my feet, but that’s going to be quite difficult if I continue to upset her.
Quietly, I clear my throat, catching Ruby’s attention, and I say, “Thank you.” Since I’ve spent the past day or so mulling over how to get on her good side, it’s suddenly occurred to me that I don’t think I’ve thanked her until now. I don’t understand much of what’s going on here and why she would go through all of this trouble for me, but I do understand that she did. And regardless of whatever rift they had, despite my mother’s death, Ruby’s helping me. I don’t know where I would be without her right now.
“Not a problem,” she says with a tired, but friendly smile. I shake my head.
“But it is,” I protest. “It’s kind of a big deal to drag these guys across the country for me.”
She nods. “Yeah, that kinda is a pain in the ass.” The men chuckle—the first sound I’ve heard from them in hours. It’s not even noon yet, but we’ve been on the road since early this morning, long before the sun ever rose. And just like that, the men are talking, and Ruby is laughing. She’s telling them I’m such a pain that I’ll fit right in. For the first time in days, I feel like maybe one day I could belong to something or somebody again.
Just as I join the conversation, a loud boom sounds outside, and the van crashes off to the side of the road. The driver swerves, cursing along the way. The passenger gets on his cell as the sound of angry shouts and motorcycle blast into my ears. I look out the window to see the bikes, checking that everyone is okay. Ruby does the same. The bikes swerve out of the way as we come to a screeching halt, but not before plowing into the edge of a corn field. I’m tossed forward, landing with a bang, my knees hitting the floorboard. Instinctively, I cover my head and fight back the tears that are coming. My lungs strain for enough oxygen, but it feels impossible. There just isn’t enough air. Sucking up enough air as I can, my lungs struggle to find a steady rhythm. It’s no use.
Chapter 8
Is freedom anything else than the right to live as we wish? Nothing else.
- Epictetus
VOICES CLAW AT the corner of my consciousness, fighting for attention. I hear “It’s okay” again and again until I begin to believe it’s all in my head. But as I slowly pull myself together, steady my breathing, and
shut down the tears, I realize the voice isn’t mine. It’s Ruby. She’s hunched over me, her torso pressed into my back, and arms draped over mine. She rests her head on the back of mine and continues to soothe me. Little by little, I force down the acid rising in my throat and shake off the feeling of impending doom.
“It’s just the tire,” she says. “It blew.”
As she pulls away slowly, I feel the insufferable need to be held once again. My father isn’t one for coddling and, though he didn’t fight my mother’s way of caring for us, it was obvious that it displeased him. I learned early on that she was two different people—one when he was around, and one when he wasn’t. She was so good at hiding things from him that I sometimes wonder if I really knew her at all or if she was another way when I wasn’t around, too.
But I can’t think of that now, or the desperation chewing at my stomach to have Ruby’s comfort again. I raise my head and firmly plant my hands on the floor of the van. My humiliation over my reaction to a flat tire only worsens when I realize the side door of the van is open and Ryan and Jim are standing shoulder to shoulder, watching me. Ruby rubs my back and says, “Ignore them.”
“Go on, it’s not like none of you’ve ever seen a girl cry before,” Ruby says. Ryan’s eyes leave me, focusing on Ruby. A smirk finds its way to his lips. Jim guffaws loudly.
“With you around? Come on, Ma, when’s the last time you cried?” With Ryan’s words, the men focus on him and Ruby, leaving me to my embarrassment. It takes her a moment as her face pales. It’s a sore subject, it seems. Her eyes dart to mine and then back to Ryan. His smile drops some, and she clears her throat.
