Big Daddy

by Alexis Abbott

  In fact, that very night my dear brother and wonderful influence Clint managed to sneak me into one of the bars he and his friends frequented here in town, it was my birthday. I felt dizzy. I felt antsy. Like the balls of my feet were itching to hit the pavement and flat-out run away from everything I knew and thought I understood. I was usually so well-behaved, but on that night I let myself go a little bit. I loosened the chains, just for a little while. My brother had even charitably offered to secure me a drink under the table despite my still being underage. And he did-- he got me a drink. But the asshole left me to pay for it, which was a problem considering I was just a kid at the time and didn’t have a penny to my name. That night, I had been assured that Clint would take care of everything. Not very convincingly assured, but still. I expected he would buy me a soda or lemonade and let me hang around the pool tables while he and his friends played solids and stripes. My goal was just to get through a night without drama or trouble. I wanted a smooth, normal eighteenth birthday… with maybe a little dash of measured excitement if possible. What I did not expect was to be stuck with a cocktail bill, standing dumbly at the bar clutching the tab with wide eyes and shaking hands.

  As I’m remembering this embarrassing moment in my teendom, it hits me that someone did step up to save me. And it wasn’t nobody, either. It was Big Daddy. Through the cloud of time and bashfulness I had all but forgotten about his princely act of paying my tab. He didn’t make a big deal out of it. He just snaked the bill from my hand and slid it across the bar counter with a wad of cash that far exceeded the price and tip. And then he disappeared again into the crowd, just as seamlessly as he had appeared. I remember feeling both confused and relieved, but not just that-- I was disappointed. I wanted to at least tell him thank you. But I could tell he didn’t want my praise. He did it because it was a good thing to do. A helpful thing. And now, as I drive home from our heated lunch discussion, I can’t help but wonder how long he’s been looking out for me that way.

  I can’t believe I let it slip my mind. Such a simple gesture, but it saved my night. Obviously, I’m not about to declare Big Daddy a saint just based on that one act. I’m not innocent enough to believe he makes a habit of rescuing damsels from unpaid bar tabs. It was probably a fluke. He’s not my guardian angel. He’s not my actual daddy. He’s just an exceedingly hot guy who just so happened to do me a favor years ago… and is also probably the reason I imprinted on and grew attached to the fantasy of loving a biker guy. I remember the way he exuded a cool confidence even back then. Those muscles and that assertive, no-nonsense way of making things right; I can’t pretend like I’m not totally drawn to that package.

  But no. I remind myself that I don’t need someone to take care of me. I am not a helpless damsel. I’m an independent young woman who can handle my own messes. It’s totally presumptuous and unfair of him to think otherwise. Am I not handling my mom’s medical issues with grace? Am I not running the household efficiently? I know who I am and what I’m doing. I’m good on my own. Even if the idea of being protected and rescued by a guy like Big Daddy turns me on beyond belief. I have to keep my head on straight. No distractions.

  Still, though, as I drive home I can’t help but wonder if maybe I do have my blinders up when it comes to my family. More specifically, my brother. After all, he’s always been a charmer. Wicked but charismatic, a deadly combination. It dawns on me that he’s not really much like the Clint I grew up with. It’s like he’s buried that version of himself deep, deep in the plains of Wyoming. Scattered his old self along the dusty highways, whittling himself down to the sharpened edge he is now. No longer just Clint… he’s Diesel now. The world knows him that way. I know Clint, but I’m not so sure I know Diesel. Or that I even want to.

  And I do feel a little pinch of guilt at that. He’s still my brother. I should care about his whereabouts and his whatbouts. I should want to know what kind of mischief he’s been getting into, at least so that I might have some small chance of righting his wrongs.

  “There I go again,” I sigh.

  The diplomat. The fixer. The one who cleans up everyone else’s messes. It’s like a compulsion or something. Why can’t I just let sleeping dogs lie? Besides, I don’t have a stake in his world anymore. I rescinded my right to that when I disappeared seven years ago. It’s sad to admit, but I kept up with Diesel even less frequently than my mom when I left. As in, not really any communication at all. That was unfair of me. But then, he didn’t exactly reach out to me either. It’s a two-way street, I have to remind myself for the millionth time.

  And yet, I find the cogs turning in my head as I pull into the driveway at home. I recall that Diesel mentioned “checking in on some buddies at the Muffler,” which I knew to be the name of a rather notorious biker bar here in town. Maybe he and his new crew of ruffians could be hanging around there. Maybe I could turn up surreptitiously and just do a little light recon. A little research, just so I’m not totally out of the loop.

  I walk into the house with my mind all buzzing. I have some duties to deal with here at home, taking care of my mom and everything. But beyond that, maybe my duties lie elsewhere. What if Diesel really has fallen into trouble and he just needs a helping hand? I know I can never live with myself if I pass up the chance to save someone I used to love so much. And even if he’s not in jeopardy, I might get to see my brother in his natural environment and learn a little about who he’s become. I have this deep-seated sense of obligation to get to know my remaining family members, to make up for the seven lost years in between. I have a lot to answer for, and perhaps this could be the next step. I make the quiet decision to go out to the Muffler later, once things are stable at home.

  I keep my plan to myself, even while my mom and I hang out downstairs and chat as I do chores. That’s one I do appreciate about my mom nowadays. She trusts me to do my own thing for the most part, as long as I keep up with running the household, of course. Maybe it’s a side effect of raising a kid like my brother, who was constantly pushing back and fighting for more control and freedom. He and my mom butted heads up until the point when her patience ran out and she gave up. I remember how defeated she looked after their shouting matches. She wanted so badly to understand and relate to him, but he would never let any of us in. Not really. I try my best to make up for Diesel’s lack. Mom and I talk about inconsequential things. The weather. The heat. Meatloaf recipes. House repairs. It’s pleasant and enjoyable enough to keep me almost distracted while I cook dinner that night, but not quite. I have been anxiously watching the seconds tick down on the clock, inching closer to the hour of my little Muffler mission. Once dinner is done, the dishes are clean, and I’ve eased my mom carefully up the stairs to her bedroom, I quietly pad off to my own bedroom to change out of my slouchy pajamas and into a more bar-appropriate outfit.

  I’m not totally sure what the dress code is like for a biker bar these days, but I decide on a form-fitting black dress I got at a thrift store back in Denver. It has a slightly-frayed lacy trim, which I make look more intentional by adding an almost equally-frayed lacy black bralette underneath. The well-worn sides are clearly visible through the low-hanging cut of the dress. I add a pair of black tights with a considerable snag in the left thigh, a pair of dark green lace-up sneakers I’ve had for years, and a black duster that falls just around my ankles. I give myself a look in the mirror and wince at the mess of my hair. I tug it down from its ponytail, quickly drag a comb through it, and brush it over my shoulders, letting it fall in shiny, softened waves. I dab on some tinted lip balm and a little dash of mascara before calling it. I don’t like to spend too much time in front of the mirror. I know what I look like. Any extra time I could spend doing something productive is wasted on agonizing over any imperfections I may have. I like to think I’ve got style, but I’m not very invested in what other people think of it.

  Except for maybe Big Daddy, which is exactly what I think as I walk into the crowded, smoky lounge of the Muffler later that nig
ht. There are lots of biker guys in here. All the boots, the leather, the windswept hair, the tattoos, the pure machismo and muscle everywhere I look is enough to make any girl a little dizzy. But every time when I get a closer look, without fail, the men come up short. It’s not their fault. In fact, I might usually think more highly of them. The truth is that Big Daddy reminded me what exactly it is I love about biker men. He’s the prime example, and none of these guys can even come close. The bar is set too high for these chumps.

  Not for lack of trying on their part, though. I can’t help but notice all the turning heads as I saunter through the hazy bar to the counter. I’m confident enough to know they’re all watching me. I’ve been getting ogled by men since long before it was appropriate for them to do so. I know what it looks like when a man’s eyes light up for a pretty girl. I know how it feels to have multiple sets of eyes scrutinizing your every measurement and move. And I know the little chuckles and whispers men make when they see something they like. But I’m not here to flirt with a boy in faded jeans and scuffed-up boots. I’m on a mission. That doesn’t mean I can’t use their interest in me for my interest in Diesel’s secret life. I sidle up to a couple of guys at the bar counter. I have to feel it out, make sure they don’t know who I am. That could blow my cover. So I don’t give my name. In fact, I offer as little real information as I can. It’s all about bargaining. How I can get the most out of my unwitting interviewee as I can without sacrificing too much of my own. I ask seemingly innocent questions, more generally about the crowd here and who’s usually around. But my biker guys give unsatisfying answers. They keep it as vague as I do, to my dismay. And once they finally realize that I’m not going to sleep with them, they sneer.

  “Disrespectful, a woman asking questions like that,” one of them quips.

  “Excuse me?” I scoff.

  “Just saying. You shouldn’t be nosin’ around in a mess that doesn’t belong to you,” says the other guy. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Now, you want to stay and play nice, little girl?” growls the first guy.

  He reaches out a grimy paw for my thigh and I slap it away. Disgusted, I stand up so quickly the bar stool topples over with a loud clatter. Everyone stops for a split second and looks over at me. Stricken with panic, the adrenaline pumps through my veins and I rush out of the bar without a glance back. Tears burn in my eyes as I dart through the small parking lot to my car. I just want to get out of here. But before I can even reach my door, I hear the heart-stopping crunch of boots hitting the gravel in heavy, rapid footsteps behind me.

  Finally, I do look back. And to my horror, I see that the guy who reached for my leg is tailing me. Closely. Even worse, we appear to be alone in the parking lot. No witnesses. I gulp hard, stumbling backward. My heart is pounding. Oh, I’ve really screwed up this time. I try to stagger away from him but the guy lunges toward me, a cold deadness in his dark eyes. I clench my eyes shut for the tackle but a moment later I’m surprised by the softness of a hand on my arm. I open my eyes and am stunned to see Big Daddy looming beside me, almost over me. Like a protective shield against the world. Against the guy who followed me.

  Big Daddy shoves something at me-- a rectangle.

  “Your card,” he says loudly. “You left it at the bar, tab open and everything, babe.”

  “Babe,” I repeat in a soft voice, confused.

  His eyes dart ever so briefly over at the guy who tailed me, who has shrunken back from us, obviously in light of Big Daddy showing up.

  “We’ve got to get your memory checked out, sweetheart,” he says.

  I catch on. He’s pretending to be my big, strong, capable boyfriend to deter my assailant.

  “Oh gosh, you’re so right. Thanks for checking on me, Daddy,” I tell him sweetly.

  I watch with relief as the drunken guy shuffles off in a huff. I look up at Big Daddy, totally unsure of whether I wanted to thank him or slap him.

  “You saved me,” I breathe. “But you followed me!”

  He sighs. “Yes. I followed you. For your own good, clearly.”

  “I don’t need your protection,” I shoot back.

  “Let’s see: you immediately ran off to a biker bar all by yourself, pissed off some violent guys, made a scene, and almost fell into real trouble in the parking lot,” Big Daddy lists off. “There’s no way you can be here when the war gets hot.”

  “The war?” I murmur. “What are you even talking about?”

  “It’s not for you to know,” he says.

  Anger flashes in my chest like white-hot heat. “How the hell do you expect me to trust you?” I demand to know.

  He looks at me hard for a moment, then shakes his head and reaches into his coat pocket. I flinch, expecting some kind of weapon. I see a flicker of something like pity cross his face, and then he hands me an envelope.

  “What’s this about?” I ask.

  “First class ticket back to Denver,” he replies. “Take it. Fly home.”

  “I am home,” I insist bitterly.

  “Not anymore. This isn’t safe territory for you, Juliette. Believe me,” he presses.

  “Believe you? How? Why?” I retort.

  I thrust the envelope back at him and swivel around to open my car door. To my surprise, he lets me get into my car and drive away. He watches balefully until he disappears from my rearview mirror. I drive home in a fuming rage, made even more annoyed by the way my body is reacting in contradiction with my mind. I’m pissed off. But my body? All my body wants is for me to do a U-turn and drive right back to Big Daddy.

  I resist the urge. I get home and rush inside to do the remaining dishes. It’s a calming activity for me, helps me clear my head. After some time, it hits me that I was in such a rush earlier I forgot to bring my purse in from the car. I dry my hands, put on my sneakers, and head back out to the car to grab it before I head upstairs for bed.

  But I barely make it halfway to my car before I feel the jolt of a large hand clap over my face and a damp cloth blotting out the world into darkness.

  Big Daddy

  How could I have slept last night, knowing the girl I’d stolen was just down the hall?

  My bare chest has goosebumps on it in the crisp morning air as I lower my body to the floor carefully in a push-up, then repeat over and over again in my usual morning workout routine.

  A little kidnapping is no excuse not to stay in shape. In fact, I think I’ll need to be in the best shape I can if I want to keep a hold of Juliette.

  When I grabbed her last night, it broke my heart to feel her body go tense and then limp in the arms I knew she somehow recognized, I just knew it. She didn’t expect me to pull something like that, or she wouldn’t have gone out last night. But I’d been tailing her all day, and the fact that she turned around and went sleuthing on her own like that tells me she’s most definitely the kind of trouble I was worried about.

  She’s going to get herself killed, asking questions around a biker bar like that. This is for her own good. She doesn’t know it yet, and she might hate me for the rest of my life for this, but if that’s what it takes to keep her safe then so be it.

  The Buzzsaws have taken too many lives. I don’t want this one getting hurt, too. She doesn’t deserve this. She deserves a happy life far, far away from all this bloodshed. I’m going to take her back to that kicking and screaming if I have to.

  We’re in the Black Hills just over the state line, deep in the woods where I have a safehouse lined up that only the four of us original members know about, if the other three even remember. This is hidden.

  My muscles are swollen and loosened up as I rise to my feet and pull a simple black t-shirt over my torso, rolling my shoulders back as I feel the dull, warm burn of the workout in every muscle. The room that passes for a living room in this one-bedroom cabin in the middle of the woods is a surprisingly useful workout spot. I wanted to give her the bed to herself.

  She might have given me no choice but to take th
is step, but at least I can try to make it comfortable for her.

  I see the sky getting lighter outside with every passing minute, and as the dawn passes into morning, I decide it’s time to check on her. I haven’t heard her stir yet, but she had a late night last night, so that’s understandable.

  Before I do, though, I decide a peace offering is in order. I’m not much of a cook, but the kitchenette here has a stove, and I brought supplies that includes breakfast, so as long as everything works, I can get us something going. After a few minutes cleaning off a dusty skillet and some utensils, I melt the butter, crack the eggs, feel my stomach rumble at the sizzle, and fire up a second skillet for the bacon.

  It isn’t elegant, but after a few minutes, I’ve got a whole-ass plate of protein piled high in a bowl with a garnish of thick cuts of bacon, cheese, and a side of hot sauce, just in case. I finished it off with a couple of hash browns on the side, or rather, the closest thing I’d managed to make to that with the potato and oil I was armed with.

  Making sure one more time that all the doors were locked, I made my way down the short hallway past the half bathroom (the bedroom en suite is nicer, frankly) to the single bedroom, and I put my ear to it. I’m good at keeping quiet when I move, despite my size, but she could be too. After I’m fairly sure she’s either still asleep or listening quietly enough that she deserves a shot at me, I unlock the door quietly and open it.

  My heart nearly skips a beat at the sight of her. She’s on her back, head tilting to the side, and the warm morning sunlight coming in through the window hits her face and casts a pale glow on her hair that shows me that what I thought was black curls are actually a dark, rich brown. She seems so peaceful in the bed that I don’t want to wake her. The longer she’s sleeping peacefully like that, the longer it’ll actually feel like I’m her protector, not the captor she’s about to think I am.