by Paula Cox
My anxiety only got worse when the stalking started. The first few nights, I ignored the sound of motorcycles outside of my apartment. There was nothing out of the ordinary there. Motorcycles are very popular in this town and I wasn’t living too far from the highway. But then the brick hit my window, shattering that sense of security. I still can’t shake the sound of the tires squealing on the black pavement outside my garage.
That sound repeated itself over and over and over again until it became clear that those attacks weren’t random. They belonged to the one person I thought I could trust, the one person I knew would use his cycle as a sick form of torture to get to me. Even though I know that the person I’m holding on to tightly as we round the corner towards the main center of town isn’t Riley, I can still feel his body under my grip and hear his sickly, delighted laugh over the muffled noise of the road.
“You okay back there?” Mack asks, sensing something off. I try to hold on a little less tightly to his chiseled waist. I can’t let him see me sweat over this. Already, I must look like some damsel in distress to him, and that makes me even more irritated than the whole getting chased down by some unknown biker murderer…
“I’m fine. I’m just… cold. You didn’t give me a chance to grab my coat.” I shout. Though really, the wind whipping against my bare skin, the slick feel of his leather jacket up against my body, my thighs pressed firmly to his, actually makes me feel more alive and present than I have been all night. Whatever this sensation is, I feel more in control, despite the circumstances.
“We’re almost there. Just hold on. We’re going through the old Knight territory. If they’re around, I don’t want them to spot you on the back of my bike.” He emphasizes the words “my bike” like I should know why he is a risk factor. Maybe he’s on the wrong side? Or the right side? Who knows. To me, all this club stuff is the wrong side. There’s no way to pass off motorcycle clubs as something I could think of as good.
Still, I close my eyes the rest of the drive into Portland. I can’t bear to see another road sign fly by or the glint of a motorcycle in the distance. One shaking headlight coming from the opposite direction would probably set me into a complete tailspin. I just need to get wherever this guy is taking me.
The engine quiets and the sound of the streets become louder around me. Against my legs, I feel Mack tense to come to a slow stop. One of his long, muscular legs drops to the ground and plants itself in a parking lot of a restaurant that I don’t recognize. Really, nothing looks familiar to me this side of Portland. We called this area “Affluenza Town.” It’s where all those black suit businessmen did their luncheons while their wives shopped at stores with French names.
“I’m not exactly dressed for a place like this,” I whisper up towards Mack as I eye the customers coming in. No one’s in beat-up, holey jeans like me. There’s not even a woman in pants. They all seem to stare at me with equal fascination, wondering if I know better.
“Don’t worry. We’re not dining with them. I know the chef.” Mack dismounts first and then offers his hand. It’s a strange gesture for a guy like him to make. I almost feel like Cinderella with her rat as a coachman. I try to slide off gracefully, like I know what I’m doing, but I end up squatting to keep my balance. Being just five-feet tall is a real disadvantage when trying to keep up with a living, breathing giant.
But Mack doesn’t laugh like I think he should. Instead, he grabs me by the arm, roughly, and stands me to my feet. Without letting go, he leads the way away from the line of people idling outside as they wait for a table and towards the back entrance. Three men in white coats lean up against the big brick windows smoking cigarellos. They hardly register me, but their eyes practically light up when they see Mack. They come to attention, their smokes on the ground, their faces straight forward; they even stand a bit taller when he passes them by.
The metal door to the kitchen opens a crack, and then, with a burst, flies open in an explosion of music, loud shouts, and orders being read. And the smells… I didn’t know just how hungry I was until I got the first whiff of the fresh lobster and butter sauce. I stand just in view of a man salting a fish he’s about to bake, while his partner sets out a place of mussels and frites. Thank goodness for the music keeping the growl of my stomach relatively hidden.
“You hungry, Anna?” Mack looks down at me with a crack of a smile. I shut my gaping mouth and close my eyes, reminding myself that I need to not show him any bit of emotion. I’m a tough girl who can get through this on her own.
I stick my tongue to the side of my teeth as I let out a passive, “Yeah. I could eat.”
“Great.” Mack’s hand envelopes mine, pulling me straight past the metal tables and burners, the chefs with the different paper hats, and the waiters buzzing in and out like flies to lights. Just out of the commotion, but still in the kitchen, he brings me to a table just out of view of everyone else. The Chef’s Table. I’ve heard of this before. It’s supposed to be an honor to sit at a table like this and to be so close to the action. But a guy like Mack doesn’t look like the type to be pulling strings in the culinary world.
As I go to sit, a woman about my age runs up to him, her arms spread wide for him. “Mack! You came! I haven’t seen you in ages!” I study her up and down—this frail little woman with black hair pulled into a bun on the top of her head. A few beads of sweat stick to the top of her forehead where her hat is, but she wipes them away with the corner of her white smock. Two green eyes meet another pair of green eyes as I realize the connection.
“Kimmy, meet Anna. She’s a client of mine. I’m… bodyguarding her for the time being. Anna, this is Kimmy. She’s my little sister and the owner of the restaurant.” Everything clicks into place. Of course this is the only way a guy like him could get into a place like this. We shake hands and smile demurely at the other, each focused on the man between us. He pulls out my chair and gestures for me to sit while quickly telling Kimmy, “Just a bottle of whatever for us and two specials—the good stuff you all eat back here, not that shit you put out for those snobby bastards up front.”
Kimmy smiles and darts off, leaving us alone again. Finally, I break the ice. “What’s the special and how do you know I’d like it?”
“I don’t care if you like it or not. It’s what I ordered us.”
“Woah. Someone can’t handle a bit of criticism, can he?” I cross my arms in front of my chest and lean back into the high-back wooden chair. Mack does the opposite, coming forwards towards me, leaning on the table.
“I order the special because you always want to eat what the chefs are eating. You order off the menu and it’s the same stuff they cook all day and all night long. They mess up and over season or forget the lemon. When you force someone to move out of their comfort zone, you have more… control.”
“Control? That’s a strange word for a guy like you to use. I thought you motorcycle club guys were all about chaos.”
“That’s not how I run my club. I know everything that’s going on at all times. I have my hands in every aspect of the club. That’s how your little predicament got back to me. I could have sent some of my enforcers to come deal with you and make sure no one outed you on your way home, but I prefer to trust only myself.” A busboy clearly listening in on the conversation pours water from a silver pitcher. Another waiter follows behind with a bottle of red to open for us. Mack shoos both of them away with a wave of his hand while he takes an eager bite out of a steaming bun.
“So, then how do you know you can trust me?” I ask, testing the water. “Maybe I’m making this whole tattoo thing up to trap you.”
“You’re not. I can tell. Call it a little secret weapon of mine. My dad taught me how to read a man’s tells. And when I walked through those doors, you were genuinely terrified of what my man had told you about that tattoo you’d done. If you were lying, you wouldn’t have had those shaking hands or have bitten a hole in those lips of yours.”
My hand shoots up to my mouth and
shyly feels at the deep impression my teeth have left upon my lips. Apparently, I was done playing the role of the strong lady part. He saw right through me. It almost feels like he’s violating me. “Okay. Then tell me how you know about these tattoos.”
“It’s the Knights. They’re the old enemy of my crew. Their club is much older than mine, but we were the new guard. A war of sorts started up. We heard about them targeting tattoo artists, but we didn’t believe it until we saw it in person. Nothing that’s dinner talk, mind you.”
I take a long gulp of the water before asking him, “So, then what’s the next step? You can’t spend all night with me, and I eventually have to go back to work at the shop. I’m taking over for my boss soon, so I need to be there for him to train me.”
Mack raises his hand to stop me. “That’s not going to happen, Anna. You may be scared, but you’re totally underestimating these guys and the lengths they’ll go to make sure you end up in a body bag. And when they find out that their guy was kicked out of the shop by one of my guys… there’s something bigger than you coming.”
I sit in stony silence, my head shaking timidly. I don’t want to believe him, but what other option do I have here? My whole life flashes before my eyes like in the movies. There’s my mom holding me underneath a Christmas tree, my first kiss with Greg Lawson at homecoming, meeting my ex-boyfriend, moving back home to be with my mom… There should be more chapters in that story, but even Mack doesn’t sound optimistic about my chances.
“Then what do I need to do?”
“You need to follow my orders. Tonight, you’re going to go home to your mother’s. I’ll have a couple of my guys stake out in front of your home, but don’t tell your mom what’s up. You don’t know them. They don’t know you.”
I burst out laughing. “You don’t know my mom, Mack. That isn’t going to work. She’s practically neighborhood watch. She’d call the cops so fast on your guys if she saw them waiting out on the street all night.” It wouldn’t be the first time she reported in a suspicious person. Her anxiety only got worse when she found out what had happened to me after the breakup. Even now, I imagine her sitting by the window, a baseball bat in one hand and her phone in the other, as she waits for me to come home.
“She won’t be able to do anything. I know the cops. They won’t bother them as long as I tell them not to.” Mack is right. He has to have control over everything… “Then tomorrow, I’ll pick you up myself in the morning and bring you back to my headquarters. We can start business then.”
“Business?” I ask as a waiter comes to our table with food.
Mack waits for the waiter to lift the lids of a steaming seafood pasta dish. It’s loaded with fresh shrimp, mussels, and clams. The sauce streams around the noodles while cajun seasoning floats at the top. I want nothing more but to dig into this, but I have a feeling I won’t have much of an appetite soon.
“Yeah. You think my services are going to come for free? If I’m helping you out, I want something in return.” He barely looks up at me from his plate. “I need a front for a legit business. While I got the cops on my side, the feds are something else. My detective buddies tell me that they’re going to raid my shops soon unless I’ve got something legal going on in them.”
“So what does that have to do with me? I know nothing about running your line of business.”
“That’s the point, Anna. I don’t want you to run my ‘business.’ I want you to run your tattoo shop out of the front of my warehouse. I actually already have the license for a tattoo parlor from last year when I first thought about it, but I couldn’t find a guy to risk his ass to do it. Now it seems I’ve found my girl…”
“You mean, your ass? How stupid do you think I am? Tattooing is my life, my passion! If I get in trouble with the law or arrested for working for you, I’d rather those guys come find me and murder me! Plus, what about Crazy 8’s and taking over for my boss? I’ve been waiting for this day since I started interning with him!”
“Woah. Slow down. You really don’t know how to control your emotions, do you?” He puts down his fork with a small clang and takes an agonizing long sip of his wine. “For one, we’re not going to get caught. Your business isn’t the only one moving into my warehouses. Kimmy is opening up an extension of this restaurant next door to where the parlor is. You’ll be neighbors, and I can guarantee you that you’ll be bringing in top clients—not those fleabags you probably ink up now.”
“Two,” he continues as I bore a hole into the center of his forehead, “I will pay for everything—the equipment, your advertising, signs, licenses, whatever you need. I’ll even cover your rent. You won’t owe me a dime. All the profits are yours. If everything goes great after a few months, you can hire on a staff and never come back. You don’t need Crazy 8’s when you’re in business with a guy like me.”
He says it like it’s a dream come true, but I can’t think of anything more dangerous than being associated with him and his club. Oh wait, yeah I can. I’m forgetting that while I’m at this awkward business meeting, I’m currently being hunted down by some men with a streak of killing tattoo artists! Could tonight get any worse for me? Can I just rewind my life back to this morning when I had no idea what a mark looked like or who this Mack guy was?
Finally, I take a bite of the pasta. It’s as perfect to taste as it looks. I chew slowly, trying to savor it, knowing that what I’m about to say next isn’t going to get me much more peace than this moment. After a swig of the wine for some courage, I stand and say as politely and surely as I possibly can, “My answer is no.”
Without looking back, I walk past Kimmy, who I thank quickly for the meal, and past the busboys still smoking their cheap cigarettes, and out towards the street where the cabs are waiting.
CHAPTER 4
I don’t look back after I give the cab driver my address. I just can’t stand to see another motorcycle chasing me down. I have to get to my mom’s. There, I know I’m safe. No one can find me there. No one with a half-finished tattoo can hunt me down and kill me. And Mack can’t force me into some strange business idea he thought up in two seconds.
A light is on in one of the second floor windows. I can see the round figure of my mom brushing her wispy blonde hair and laying out tomorrow’s clothes. She should be in bed by now. It’s way past midnight, far too late for someone whose usual bedtime is about nine o’clock. But I know her. She would never fall asleep unless she knew I was safe in bed. I grit my teeth as I try not to think about the verbal lashing I’m about to get for not calling and checking in. I’m also going to have to quickly explain why I spent all my tip money on the cab ride home.
“Mom!” I call as I slip in through the unlocked door. I hate that she forgets. Out here in the middle of nowhere, there isn’t very much to worry about—the errant wildlife or occasional gusty wind is way more threatening here than any would-be thieves or criminals. But the city girl in me wants to remind her just how dangerous it can be to leave it open, especially when her live-in daughter currently has an unbalanced, potentially psychotic stalker after her.
“I’m upstairs, honey! Come on and talk to me up here.” She almost sings it in her soft, sweet lilt. I’m still surprised at how defiantly positive and full of light she is. It couldn’t have been easy raising me as a single mom. My dad—one hell of a piece of work, if I do say so myself—didn’t want a damn thing to do with me when he found out she was pregnant. She had tried to do it right; she’d married her high school sweetheart—probably way too early—but the marriage wasn’t happy, and while she’d never admit to it, I’m pretty sure he roughed her up pretty good. And, winner that he was, he split about five seconds after the little plus sign appeared on her pregnancy test.
My grandparents weren’t exactly a supportive bunch, either. They never approved of her getting married in the first place, and now she was pregnant, too—and at only seventeen. They were stupidly proud, and this was apparently like a slap in their faces. Assholes.
In between the pictures are pieces of my artwork. She kept everything, every single doodle that I have ever done. There’s finger painting from when I was a baby and cartoon pictures of my best friend Roxy and I playing with our imaginary dogs. But my favorite is this one sketch she kept from a teacher who showed it to her as proof that I was “distracted” and a “terrible student.” My mom walked out of that meeting with the picture clutched in her hands, then promptly went to the art store, bought a frame, and hung it at the foot of the stairway for everyone to see. “Never take shit from anyone who tries to break you down,” I remember her saying—mainly because it was about the only time I ever heard her swear.
