Dizzy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Prequel

by Cate C. Wells

  A tiny bud of homesickness unfurls in my chest. I hope their mamas are takin’ good care of them. Carol’s probably stepped up. She’s already got two jobs, but she’s got the most sense of any of us.

  It wasn’t exactly my job to look after the kids. Sure as shit, no one paid me to do it. It was just that if I didn’t, no one did. And I tended to be home since the only steady work I ever managed to find was second shift at the Gas-and-Go.

  I didn’t want to leave the little guys, but there were too many for me to look after properly, and since I could always be relied upon to step up, nothing was stopping their mamas from having more.

  I still feel guilty, though. But staying would have felt worse.

  Dizzy, Parker, Carson, and I ride the next fifteen minutes in silence, the boys sullen, Dizzy seemingly lost in his thoughts when he isn’t checking me out from the corner of his eye.

  House mouse. I guess that sounds as good as maid or babysitter. It rhymes, so there’s that.

  I’ll give it a day or two. Maybe a week. If the two last names in the backseat simmer down, it could be a nice vacation. I’m not averse to dirty work. I did clean the restrooms at the Gas-and-Go for four years.

  Of course, there’s the whole “free pussy” thing. Doesn’t feel free. Feels like I’m selling it.

  I don’t want to trade sex for a roof over my head, but at the end of the day, work is work, isn’t it?

  Could be worse. They could’ve sent me home with Jed or the angry one.

  Dizzy’s resting his hand on the stick. I resettle in my seat, letting my knee fall and graze the knuckle of his pinky. His eyes flick down, and his jaw tightens.

  He keeps his hand perfectly still. I leave my knee where it is. Little shivers dance whenever we hit a bump and my skin brushes his. The sensation competes with the pain of the thorn scratches until I’m not sure if I hurt or not.

  The sun is setting when we turn down a country road, the kind with no line down the middle, and we pull into a long gravel driveway. There’s a split-level with white siding and an empty flower bed along the front. There’s an attached garage, and next to the house, there’s another garage with two bay doors.

  There’s some kind of sports car with a black cover parked in front of the extra garage.

  The grass is trimmed, but there’s not a single lawn ornament, only a deflated soccer ball in the middle of the yard.

  Dizzy engages the parking brake, and the boys tumble out, racing to the door, hollering again.

  I stay put. For some reason, excitement fizzes in my belly.

  Dizzy clears his throat and says nothing. We both stare at the house through the windshield, glancing awkwardly at each other. I don’t know why he’s so nervous. He’s the big man who could crush me like a bug. He wasn’t uncertain when he was wailing on my ass earlier.

  Eventually, he hops out, walks around, boots crunching on the gravel, and he opens my door.

  Huh. Did he think I was waiting for him to do it? I wasn’t. Sheesh. My cheeks heat. I unbuckle, take his hand, and ease down. My ass is really smarting now. It twinges each time I take a step. Feels like sunburn. The scratches on my legs don’t feel too great either. Each cut on its own isn’t a huge deal, but together, they make my legs feel sore and raw.

  We start for the house, and Dizzy keeps holding my hand.

  I let him.

  He leads me to the front door. The boys have left it wide open. Heating the neighborhood, Mama would say. Dizzy props it further open for me. His face is very stern. Guarded.

  I step inside.

  There’s a pile of muddy shoes and boots in the foyer, carpeted stairs leading up and down. I bend over to untie my boots. Behind me, Dizzy’s doing the same. I place mine neatly side-by-side, toes touching the wall. He leaves his where they fall.

  “Kitchen’s upstairs,” he says.

  There’s a crash and muffled shouts from the lower level. Dizzy doesn’t seem concerned.

  I venture up.

  This is not what I was expecting.

  This is what would happen if someone gave my sister Dee a credit card with no limit and set her loose at a home décor discount store.

  At the top of the stairs, there are white canvas panels that read Live, Laugh, Love. The theme is continued throughout the living room, expanded upon in stencils above the sofa. Live Every Moment. Laugh Every Day. Love Beyond Words. It’s stitched on an accent pillow and painted on metal hanging shelves holding fancy candles in jars. That can’t be safe, burning candles so close to the wall.

  “To your right.” Dizzy urges me forward, hand on my lower back.

  I feel wrong. Like I’m in someone else’s house.

  I mean, I know I’m in someone else’s house, but I don’t feel like I have permission. This is a woman’s house. Shit. Is Dizzy married?

  He’s not wearing a ring. But—shit.

  I stop in my steps. “Are you married?”

  The question seems to surprise him. “Not anymore.”

  “You divorced or separated?”

  “Divorced.”

  “When?”

  “’Bout four years ago.”

  I have a lot of questions.

  “You got to keep the house?”

  He turns his back to me and rummages in a kitchen drawer.

  “She moved in with another guy.”

  “Ouch.”

  He shrugs. “Made her happy.”

  He says that matter-of-fact as if it’s a complete explanation.

  “Come here.” He gestures me to the counter next to the sink. There’s a crap ton of dirty dishes. All utensils, cups, and bowls. No plates, pots, or pans. There’s one of those ring holders next to the faucet that looks like a butt plug. No ring.

  Dizzy’s got a box of bandages and a bottle of peroxide set out.

  “Come on.”

  I pad over, hesitant. This is so weird. He’s a huge, wild-haired dude in a flannel and grease stained, ripped jeans, and we’re in the stereotypical suburban housewife’s kitchen. The theme in here is “wine.” Love the Wine You’re With. Sip Happens. It’s Okay To Wine.

  Dizzy grabs me by the waist and hoists me up to the counter. I squeak.

  “Simmer down. I’m gonna clean up your legs.”

  The counter is cool against the back of my thighs. I cross my arms.

  At this height, Dizzy and I are almost eye-level. It’s easier to make out his features under all that bushy black beard. He has soft lips. A strong jaw. He’s handsome under all that hair.

  He dips a cotton ball in peroxide and gently swipes at my scratches. It’s cold and fizzy. My lower belly clenches and my nipples stiffen. Crap. I roll my shoulders back so my arms are folded over my tits.

  He washed his hands before he started, but he’s clearly a working man. His nails are blunt and the beds are torn up. In contrast, my skin is pale and smooth, despite the scratches.

  Even though he’s been outside and then in that basement gym, he smells like garage. It’s a good smell.

  “After this, you can take a shower. I’ll order pizza.” His voice is husky.

  My gaze slips down. His pants are tented. He has a hard-on. I wriggle. Is he gonna want sex now? I guess I’m paying for room and board up front.

  It might be okay. He’s clean enough. And I liked what we did when we met. And how he felt on top of me in the woods. If I have to, I probably can.

  He finishes and pats me on the knee. I’ve got six bandages stuck at random angles from my knees to mid-calf on both legs. Two red hot rods, three purple convertibles, and one tow truck with a goofy grin. He shoves the first aid supplies in a cabinet over my head, not the same drawer they came from.

  I kick my heels against the drawers.

  He stands in front of me, his body tight, tense.

  I chew on my lower lip.

  His eyes zone on my mouth. He lays his big hands on the top of my thighs. I stop kicking the cabinets.

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  What would it
be like if he kissed me? I bet that beard is scratchy.

  He tucks a loose stand of hair behind my ear.

  It’s so quiet, you can hear the clock tick. It’s Wine O’Clock.

  “Are you okay, baby?”

  I’m not sure what he’s asking, but he makes it sound like a serious question. He waits for me to answer, intent and still. Listening. Like he really wants to know. I can’t remember the last time anyone really wanted to know how I was doing. I don’t answer right away, nursing the moment out of pure selfishness.

  “Fay-Lee?” There’s a hint of alarm in his voice.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  I lean forward. He eases closer. His breath puffs warm across my lips. He’s gonna kiss me.

  Do I want him to?

  Two Tasmanian devils come tearing through the doorway, skidding in their socks, knocking into the table. One throws open the refrigerator while the other one cries and grabs his elbow and howls, faking as well as any dude I’ve ever seen fouled in soccer.

  “What’s for dinner?” Parker’s the one in the fridge.

  Carson’s the faker. “He pushed me!”

  I hop down from the counter and sidle toward the exit.

  “Stop.” Dizzy doesn’t even raise his voice, and they both go silent. “Remember where you are.”

  Parker backs away from the fridge. Carson drops the crocodile tears.

  “I’m ordering pizza.” Dizzy slides his phone from his pocket.

  “Pepperoni?” Carson’s eyes light up. Dizzy raises an eyebrow. Carson’s shoulders slump, and he sighs.

  “I hate mushrooms,” he says.

  “You can pick ‘em off.” Dizzy raises his eyes to me. I pretend like I wasn’t sneaking away. “You eat mushrooms?”

  “Sure.” My stomach growls. Carson snickers.

  “Parker, you put these dishes in the dishwasher.” Dizzy jerks his chin down the hall. “Bathroom’s at the end. Towels are in the closet,” he says to me.

  As I turn to leave, Parker whines, “Why should I do it? Isn’t that what we got her for?”

  That little shit. I stop in my tracks, mouth open.

  “Pardon?” Dizzy beats me to it, voice is completely even, but so ominous, goose bumps break out on my forearms. This kid is gonna get it.

  “She’s our house mouse, ain’t she? That’s what Ernestine said. She cleans. Cooks. And wrecks the home.”

  I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to bust out laughing. I’ve only been around a week, but I already know all about Grinder’s wandering eye and Ernestine’s exceptionally high tolerance for male bullshit. If he cheats, and you only blame the other woman, you’re missing most of the problem.

  Dizzy takes a second himself, trying to get the twitch in his cheek under control. Finally, he says in a voice so stern it sparks jitters in my belly, “She ain’t your anything. She’s our guest. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” he bites out, begrudgingly.

  Dizzy adds, “You can take out the trash when you’re done with the dishes. And then go fold the laundry that’s in the dryer.”

  Parker opens his mouth, and Dizzy holds up his hand. “Remember. Where. You. Are.”

  Parker clenches his fists. “Yes, sir.”

  Dizzy nods. “I’m going to the garage. Call me when the pizza gets here.” And he bails out the sliding doors to the back deck, dialing in the order, and disappears.

  Instantly, Parker and Carson’s heads swivel to me. Their eyes narrow, and they stalk forward in lockstep, two velociraptors from that movie about the dinosaur park.

  They bare their teeth. Both are missing several, so they look like disheveled, pissed off Jack-o-lanterns. I’m taller than they are, but not by much. They’ve got their dad’s height.

  I snatch a fancy candleholder shaped like a wine bottle from the table.

  “I can take you both. Know that.” It’s a lie. I outweigh them, but they outnumber me. And my last meal was the dregs of a SoCo bottle.

  “We don’t want you here.”

  “Noted. I will not take you on singing adventures through the Austrian Alps.”

  “What does that even mean?” Parker asks. He’s the mastermind. The porky little one keeps eyeing him for cues.

  “It’s a movie. There’s a nun. And a marionette show with goats.” I stop talking.

  They both stare at me. They’ve got mud on their faces, in their hair. They’re not wearing shoes, but the muck on the hem of their pants is flaking off on the linoleum.

  “You’re not gonna wreck this home.” Carson aims a chubby finger at me.

  “I have no intention of doing that.”

  His face is scrunched up as if he’s about to cry. Oh, hell. He’s really upset.

  “Just so we’re on the same page—what do you think home-wrecker means?” I ask.

  Carson looks to his older brother.

  Parker frowns. “You know. Don’t be hassling Dad all the time.”

  “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all,” Carson adds.

  “Stay out of the downstairs. Unless you’re cleaning. You don’t mess with our stuff, we won’t mess with yours.” Parker’s warming up.

  “Don’t be yelling all the time. And crying. And nitpicking.” Carson ticks items off on his fingers. “Be cool. Have fun. Don’t be stressed out. Don’t take things so seriously.”

  “I can handle that.” The boys exchange a look, like Should we believe this chick? I’m a little insulted. Kids generally like me. “You know, I have some conditions, too. Since we’re laying it all on the table.”

  I wait. Parker gives me a wary nod.

  “I’m not old enough to be your mama. I’m gonna earn my keep, but I’m not cleaning up after you. You make a mess, that’s on you.”

  Parker rolls his eyes. He thinks that is total bullshit.

  “If you mess with me, it’s war.”

  “What’s that mean?” Parker asks.

  “You don’t want to find out.”

  Carson’s not even paying attention. “Do you play Point of Collision?” he interjects.

  “Is that a video game?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “You want to?” Carson offers. Parker shoots him a dirty look.

  “After I take a shower, okay.”

  “You can play winner,” Parker says, grudgingly.

  “Cool.”

  The boys exchange glances. Apparently, they’re satisfied with our talk. Carson zooms off downstairs, and Parker vaults up on a counter to get a snack cake from a cabinet.

  He leaves the door cracked as he races off after his brother. I can’t help but peek inside. The knot that’s always in my stomach uncoils a little when I see full shelves. Pasta, sauce, canned goods. Lots of open boxes of cereal. There are a few cans of tuna with the pop-tops. I grab them, and two packets of deer jerky.

  When I go to take a shower, I hide them in a corner of the linen closet under a stack of towels. The tension in my neck eases. I peel the bandages off carefully. Feels like a waste to trash them, but I’ve stopped bleeding, and they’ll just fall off if they get wet.

  I twist the knob as hot as I can take it, and I hop in, spending a whole thirty minutes in the shower, lathering and rinsing until the water begins to turn cool. There’s a shit ton of boats and sharks and a sea plane in the tub, but I shove them to the end and enjoy.

  “Intergalactic Watermelon” is really an under-rated scent. Plus, it’s body wash, shampoo, and conditioner in one.

  It’s warm, quiet, and no one’s banging on the door demanding to be let in so they can take a shit.

  I’m all alone, and pizza is on the way.

  It’s heaven.

  After the shower, I throw my hair up into a ponytail and go looking for some clothes. The master suite is at the end of the hall. I might be able to squeeze into Parker’s T-shirts, but Dizzy’s clothes are a better bet. Besides, I’m curious.

  This dude has layers.

  Here i
n his house, he’s like every dad who trudges into the Gas-and-Go for bait or a six-pack. Gruff, take-no-shit. Oblivious. World-weary.

  It’s hard to believe he’s the same guy who demanded to see my pussy. Shivers race down my spine. He was so intense. So into it. Not like Rylan was into it—as if he was grabbin’ the last doughnut in the box before someone else could get it. With Dizzy, it was more like he couldn’t believe his eyes so he refused to blink.

  And then later in the woods, and when he cleaned up my leg, he was almost tender. Gentle. I press my hand to my belly to soothe the flutters.

  But I can’t forget how he was in the basement. Not the spanking. That was—I’m gonna need to think that through later, in the dark, when I’m settled down. But when Jed got in my face, and Dizzy laid him on his ass?

  Underneath it all, Dizzy is a dangerous man. He runs with dangerous people, and he knows how to use his fists.

  Yeah, in that moment, he was defending me. And that felt a weird kind of good. The flutters in my belly turn to swoops. But I’m not stupid. I don’t know my daddy, but I’ve had a long education in men. If they’re the type to use their fists, they can use ‘em on you.

  It’s the basic logic that my sisters can never figure out. If he’ll cheat with you, he’ll cheat on you. If he doesn’t see his kids by his ex, he’ll ghost yours, too. If he spends all his money on himself, he ain’t gonna have any left for child support.

  That’s such reliable logic it’s almost math.

  I need to tread carefully. Enjoy the shower and central heat, but keep focused. I need cash. Food. Clothes. And I need to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. No one’s gonna save me but myself.

  With that in mind, I slip into the master suite. I’ve peeked into the two other rooms on this level. Both obviously belong to the boys. Or a herd of feral raccoons going by the amount of crap on the floors.

  This room is—bipolar.

  The theme is “beach.” That’s what it says in block letters over the king-sized bed. This Way To the Beach. And there’s an arrow pointing what I assume is due east.

  There’s a teal accent wall, teal curtains, and a teal bench with teal cushions at the end of the bed. There are huge glass vases filled with shells on both nightstands.

  Then it gets weird. There’s an armoire—white wood with flip-flop decals on the side—and a wide, low dresser with a mirror. On top of the dresser are a drop cloth and a dismantled mechanism of some kind. Maybe an engine. It’s old and rusty. There’s a bottle of vinegar, baking soda, steel wool, and a bunch of rags.