Dizzy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Prequel

by Cate C. Wells

  “It’s top secret,” he says, smoothing my hair. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

  He grabs the remote and sets it beside me, and then he tromps upstairs. I sigh, snuffle under the covers, and sink into a deep, dreamless sleep. Safe. Satiated. Warm.

  I wake up to a flood of light and an angry woman poking me with a plastic sword.

  “Where are my kids?”

  I bolt straight up, flailing, my legs tangled in the comforter. My top has worked its way up past my boobs. I yank it down as I kick at the blanket.

  The woman steps back, scowling so nasty I can’t make out anything except for hot pink lipstick, an angled bob, and expensive highlights.

  This has gotta be Sharon.

  “Where’s Dwayne?” she snaps.

  “Dwayne?” Oh, she means Dizzy.

  She sneers, raking her gaze over me. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Who are you?”

  I finally get loose from the blanket and swing my legs over the side of the couch. My ass is sore. My brain’s slow. I scrub the crust from my eyes.

  Sharon stands in the middle of the unholy toy mess, judging and finding everything sorely wanting. She scans the room, and everything she sees turns her face sourer. A half-eaten bag of chips on the floor. Coffee rings on the end table. Me.

  “Don’t tell me you’re the maid,” she sniffs.

  She pushes a dirty, balled-up sock away from her with the toe of a shiny beige high heel. She’s dressed like a lady who works in a bank. Ruffle-waisted tan pantsuit with a thin braided belt. Chunky hot-pink beaded necklace and matching bracelets. Big sunglasses with rhinestones on the sides propped on top of her head.

  We don’t have women like this in Dalton, but I’ve seen them on TV. Stressed-out women who get paid to yell at each other.

  “Not the maid, no.”

  Her eyes catch on the scratches on my bare legs. Yeah, I’m not sure what Dizzy did with my pants.

  Her lip turns up, disgusted. “Seriously? Are you even eighteen?”

  “Sure am, ma’am. Are you Parker and Carson’s grandma?”

  I make sure to smile as big as I possibly can.

  She sucks her teeth, and her eyes go cold and calculating. “Oh. You’re one of those club whores, aren’t you? Honey, you are too young to be fucking men twice your age for a place to stay.”

  Dizzy’s not twice my age. Not quite.

  “I appreciate your sincere concern for my well-being, but I assure you, I’m fine.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m sure you are. This is a new low for Dwayne. He lets you around my kids?”

  “Haven’t bitten ‘em yet. I’m house-trained.”

  “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

  I shrug a shoulder. I wish there were bottoms nearby I could pull on. If I have to fight this bitch, I’d like to be wearing pants when I do it.

  Luckily, she’s decided I’m not worth the time. She whips out her phone and dials.

  “Where are you?” she demands, turning her back to me.

  There’s a deep rumble from the other end of the line. Dizzy.

  “I’m at the house. Something came up. I’m back in town for a few days. I figured you’d have picked up the kids by now, or I’d have gone to the school.”

  She rests her high heel on top of a soccer ball and rolls it back and forth.

  “Yeah. I met her. We’ll have a conversation about it when you get here. How far out are you?”

  More low rumbling. She says, “Okay.”

  And then she turns back to me, and I swear, it’s exactly like the scene in that dinosaur movie when the raptor finds the kids hiding under the table. Like she can already taste the meat.

  Her blue eyes glint, and there’s no natural light in this basement.

  “Let’s try this again.” She flashes her white teeth. “I’m Sharon. Parker and Carson’s mother.”

  She says it like Thomas Edison, inventor of the lightbulb or George Washington, father of our country. Sharon, mother of Parker and Carson.

  But if she’s offering an olive branch, I shouldn’t be critical.

  “I’m Fay-Lee.”

  She blinks. Then she raises her eyebrows. And waits.

  “Parsons.” Folder of laundry. Eater of pizza.

  “Fay-Lee Parsons,” she repeats. “And are you living here?”

  “Yeah. For now.”

  “For now,” she echoes, pursing her lips. “And are you and Dwayne in . . . some kind of relationship?”

  Good question. Not gonna touch it.

  I try a diversion. “Parker and Carson are great kids.” I smile and try really hard to sound sincere. They are great. It’s just what I really want to say to this woman is “Fuck off.”

  “Yes. They are.” She’s not diverted. From the look on her face, she’s doing complicated math in her head. Maybe how much force it’d take to launch me into space.

  She doesn’t care for me one bit, but based only on the snide way she says “Dwayne,” I don’t think it’s ‘cause she’s carrying a torch for her ex.

  “Listen. We got off on the wrong foot.” She pauses. I nod. “It’s just—You’re so young, honey. I was your age once. I know the allure of the ‘bad boy.’ But there’s no future in it.” She puts on the fakest sympathetic face. “Do you need some money? To get home?”

  I didn’t ever think my pride would stop me from taking cash. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  “Oh, but honey, you’re not. I’m sure this is not what your mother wants for you. You deserve better.”

  I bet her mother didn’t want her messing around with Dizzy. And going by the pantsuit and the fancy phone, I think I understand what she means by “better.”

  I get the angle she’s trying to play. It’s like when Shiloh fell for Maddox on In the Arms of Love. Miranda thought she’d saved Shiloh from the mob when she adopted her, and it killed her to watch her daughter fall for the Capo of the Fortunetti Syndicate. Miranda guilted Shiloh to come home, playing the “you deserve better” card.

  The only problem is that this is real life. My mother doesn’t want things for me. She wants things from me. And as for what I deserve?

  Life isn’t about what you “deserve.” It’s about what you can get and manage to hold on to.

  Right now, I’ve got Dizzy. And I’m not letting go for this bitch.

  “Honey, with all due respect, I don’t need your advice.”

  She sighs. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I guess we all have to learn the hard way.”

  She heads for the stairs, and then she pauses, her foot on the first step. Yeah, she has a flare for the dramatic. She turns, her face smug, as if a thought has occurred to her.

  “Oh. Fair warning, sweetie. You don’t want to get too comfortable. You’re not the first half-naked skank I’ve found in this house. You’d think y’all would take a hint from the décor, but maybe that’s why he picks ‘em so young. You don’t question it.”

  I try so hard not to rise to the bait, but I’m only human. “Question what?”

  She rounds her heavily-lined eyes. “Why we’ve been divorced for years, and Dwayne’s kept the house exactly like I decorated it. Are my clothes still in the closet?” She trills a mean laugh. “I bet they are. I would even bet he’s still holding on to my wedding ring. Check my jewelry box. I’m sure it’s in there.”

  She shakes her head. “You might think you’re special, but you’re not. You’re being used, and you’re gonna end up cast off and traded in for a newer model while Dwayne waits for me to come back. You should go home. Go back to school. Make something of yourself. This is a dead end. Honey.”

  And she exits, swishing her frilly, pantsuited ass as she goes. I hear the screen door slam and the crunch of Dizzy’s truck pulling up.

  Ugh.

  My stomach aches.

  Muffled voices filter in from the driveway.

  I dash upstairs to the master bedroom, tug open the top dresser drawer, and dig through the jewelry
. I’d thought it was all plastic and beads. I force my shaking hands to steady and go through it piece by piece. There. At the bottom, tangled in a beaded necklace. A thin gold band, sized for a woman.

  A car door slams. I don’t have time to unknot the necklace. I dash to the closet and shove it into my backpack stash just as the front door slams.

  “Fay-Lee?”

  Shit. I can’t deal with this right now. I peel off my crop top and panties as I shout, “I’m taking a shower!”

  I scoot to the bathroom, turn the knob and hop right in, shivering as the water blasts freezing cold from the showerhead. It heats quickly enough, but my teeth are already chattering. I cuddle my arms to my breasts, my brain whirling.

  Sharon’s a bitch.

  Maybe she’s jealous. There’s a kind of woman who doesn’t want a man anymore, but also doesn’t want anyone else to have him, either. Or maybe she doesn’t want to compete with anyone for his cash. Or she could just look at me and think I’m trash. It happened all the time back in Dalton.

  Everybody thought the Parsons house was pretty much a brothel, and that made me a whore, regardless of the fact everyone knew I worked at the Gas-and-Go and was broke as shit.

  Maybe Sharon doesn’t want me around her kids, although she didn’t seem worried about them.

  It doesn’t really matter. Sharon sucks—that’s a given—but is she right?

  Is Dizzy waiting for her to come back?

  For Christ’s sake, Fay-Lee. I slap the side of my head. He’s kept the house like a shrine to her, and her wedding ring is still in the drawer.

  I’m not this stupid. If this were Dee or Keira, I’d be rollin’ my eyes so hard, they’d pop from my head.

  I’m a house mouse. Free pussy.

  He’s even talked about when I figure out what I want to do with myself and head off to live my life. Yeah, he talks sweet about how I’m his woman, and he wants me to stay as long as I want. I swallowed it hook, line, and sinker, too, didn’t I? I let him do whatever he wanted to me. I bent over for it.

  I’m so stupid. And I should know better.

  Brian Foster called Dee his fiancée for months, but he never left his wife for her. That guy Darren had a whole story about a house he was gonna buy for Keira in North Carolina and a job his cousin was gonna get her. Keira didn’t get the job or the house, but she got another baby.

  This is exactly what it looks like.

  I’m trading sex for room and board. I’m a whore.

  I angle my head so the hot water burns my scalp and sets my ass on fire.

  I’m not saying it’s something I swore I’d never do. I guess I just figured that I’d realize what I was doing when I did it.

  I rub my chest. It aches. And I want to puke.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “Fay-Lee?”

  I ignore him. The shower’s on. Let him think that I can’t hear him.

  What do I do?

  I hock the ring. Go back to Plan A. New York City.

  I’ll need a ride into town. I could walk. It’s not that far, but I’m not sure of the way. No cell phone means no directions.

  My eyes are prickling, and I feel bone weary. I don’t want to go to New York City. I want to crawl into bed and have a long cry. I want things to be different. I want to go back to this morning when Sharon hadn’t gleefully popped my stupid, shiny bubble.

  Bang. Bang. “Fay-Lee?”

  The door’s unlocked. I double-checked that on my way in. If he wants in, nothing’s stopping him.

  “Fay-Lee.” This time, it’s an order. I shudder, turning the water off. I grab a towel, wrapping it tight. I don’t want to talk to him naked.

  Dizzy busts through the door. Guess he thought I’d locked it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking a shower.” I wipe off the mirror with my hand, avoiding eye contact. Come on, dude. Take a hint.

  “What did she say?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I grab another towel and squeeze my hair dry. I’m freezing. My skin’s covered in goose bumps.

  He growls in exasperation and reaches for me, grabs a handful of towel and compels me forward with his huge hand on my back.

  I jerk and whirl, rip the towel free of his grasp and clutch it to my chest, turning until my back is to the sink.

  “No.” I point my finger at him. “Banana.”

  He freezes. We’re no more than a foot apart. He dominates the small room, wild hair, clunky black boots, grease-stained coveralls.

  His chest is rising and falling as he eyes me warily. He slowly raises his hands, palms up. “Okay. You’re the boss.”

  I’m trembling. I fold my arms to try to stop the shaking.

  He searches the bathroom until he sees the toilet. He lowers the lid and slowly sits. It’s ridiculous. One broad shoulder brushes the wall, the other is halfway in the tub. Even seated, we’re almost eye-to-eye.

  He carefully rests his hands on his thighs. “You’re upset.”

  He’s using the same tone of voice as he does when Carson unleashes a wild, breathless jumbled-up story and Dizzy’s trying to figure out what happened.

  I nod, curt, struggling to hold it together. Be adult about it.

  “Sharon said something that upset you.”

  “Are you still in love with her?” It spills out.

  “No.”

  “Why do you still have all her stuff around then?”

  He exhales. “I ain’t got a good reason. I just always had something better to do than redecorate.”

  I grit my teeth. I want to ask about the ring, but if I mention it, he’ll know I have it. That’s my ticket out of here.

  “Baby, you have to tell me what’s goin’ on in that head of yours.”

  “How many house mouses have you had before me?”

  “None.”

  “But there’ve been lots of other women. Younger women.”

  “I’ve hooked up with women since I got divorced. Some were younger.” He says it like he’s waiting for me to get to the point.

  He’s gonna be waiting a long time.

  I don’t have a point. At least not one that makes sense. I’ve only got questions I don’t dare ask.

  Am I special? Am I different? Do you love me?

  Am I a sad and stupid fool, falling for a man’s bullshit despite a lifetime of firsthand education?

  I got my pride. I will never, ever ask.

  Dizzy scrubs his face. Then he raises his head and pierces me with his dark brown eyes. “What do you need, baby? You got to tell me. I can’t give it to you if I don’t know what it is.”

  What do I need?

  That’s a ridiculous question. How do I answer? Unconditional love. Safety. To be the most important person in the world to someone.

  A billion dollars, three wishes, and a unicorn that shits rainbows.

  A home.

  Him.

  I hug my arms hard against my chest.

  It’s a terrifying thing, to know I’m this weak. That at heart, I’m a sucker, like every other woman in my family.

  “Do you want to redo the kitchen or something?” Dizzy’s forehead is wrinkled, and his grip tightens on his thighs. He’s getting frustrated.

  “I don’t want to redo the kitchen.”

  He huffs and tilts his head back, staring woefully at the ceiling. “Do you want me to redo the kitchen?”

  “The kitchen is fine.”

  “Goddamn it,” he mutters. Then he thinks of something. He digs in his pocket and takes out his phone.

  “Here.” He holds it out. “Here.” He shakes it.

  I take it. “Who am I supposed to call?”

  “Check it. Check my messages. There’s nothin’ between Sharon and me but the kids.”

  I recognize this move. Brian pulled it with Dee all the time. It turned out he had his wife in his contacts as Mom.

  Still. I’m not gonna miss the opportunity.

  “What’s your password?”


  “I don’t have one.”

  “You don’t have a password?” I swipe. No, he does not. He doesn’t even have a picture of his kids as wallpaper. It’s the blue factory default background.

  I pull up the text messages. George. Heavy. Parker. Carson. Cue.

  Sharon.

  I tap.

  Coming back earlier than I thought. Will text when I’m an hour out to let you know if I can get them from school.

  Ok.

  Remember I’m gonna need you to register P and C for the winter session and both boys are gonna need new cleats. Three hundred should do it. Cash would be better. Send it in the app.

  Ok.

  School called and Carson has a fever. I need you to pick him up. I’m showing a house. Can you take him to the ped if he needs to go? I’ve got a closing later.

  Ok.

  It goes on and on. Ok. Ok. Ok.

  That woman’s workin’ him like he’s on payroll.

  I glance up. He’s watching me, dark eyes hooded. He’s leaning forward on his forearms.

  Out of curiosity, I open his pictures. I scroll down, going back months, then years. He has hundreds of pictures of engine parts and motorcycles interspersed with Parker and Carson, generally on their dirt bikes or posing by a vehicle. No women.

  Except three pictures. Taken when we went riding. Me.

  I’m squatting by a stream, gazing into the distance. The sun’s shining on my face. My eyes are closed.

  I hold the screen up to him.

  “Why’d you take these?”

  He squints and then lifts a shoulder. “You’re beautiful.”

  My lower lip quivers. He keeps his gaze trained on me, serious, deliberately calm. He’s listening.

  “I don’t wanna be a whore.” I blink back the tears. I’m not gonna cry, wet, cold, and naked in a bathroom.

  His face falls. “Baby. You’re not a whore. Is that what she said?”

  “If I’m gonna be a whore, I want to at least decide to be one.”

  “Shit.” He plunges his fingers in his hair. For a second, it looks like he’s gonna come for me, but he must think better of it. “You are not a whore.” He holds out a hand. “Come here.”

  He leaves it there, extended, calloused palm up, waiting. “Come on, baby.”

  I don’t know what to do.

  “Come here.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you belong here. And you know it.”