James “Jimbo” Bell was his grandfather. The man didn’t often visit, only two or three times a year. His life was entirely consumed by the biker club he’d founded after getting out of the army, taking up with the men he called brother in the Incoherent Motorcycle Club. Their main base of operations wasn’t far away, over in Hammond, but they also had clubhouses and businesses all along the interstate, running from Houston all the way to Florida. The man loved his daughter in his own way, and George’s belief in that was the only reason Papaw was still standing in this room after what he’d just done.
Ignoring his question, George instead asked one of his own. “What’d Mama do, Papaw?”
Cold as steel, gray eyes raked him up and down. “She fucked up, son. Ollie contracted to provide entertainment at a private party, didn’t check to see what party that was. Dealin’ with someone she knew, but didn’t realize they were just sub-contractin’ pussy out. Vicar’s Wrath.” Sucking in a breath, Papaw continued, “Me and their president, we got a beef goin’ back years. Decades.” He glanced at Coral. “We’ve figured out how to coexist in these parts because they stay on their side of the lake, and I stay on mine. Your momma crossed the causeway. Bad enough.” He shook his head in disgust. “But, after they got there, she found out who the party was for, and she stayed. Birthday party for Leswayne. He picked his pussy out of the line. Wanna give me two guesses who he picked?” George shook his head.
“Yeah, bet not. Your momma ain’t the sharpest stick, son. Jesus, Coral, what do you think he’s gonna do when he finds out whose legs he slid his dick between? When he finds out what you’ve been hiding? Ain’t the first time you been dumb like this, and you can’t hide your head in the fucking sand, you stupid bitch.” He hated hearing Papaw talk about his mom this way, how he’d spoken to and about her for as long as George could remember. It wasn’t that she was a whore or at least that wasn’t most of it. It was that she was a woman and therefore second class to start with. Then she’d lowered the bar by her profession.
Forget that Papaw turned her out of his house when she was fourteen. Forget that he’d set her down this path with his own decisions, making her believe she had no other choices but to eke out a living on her back, walking the only path fate seemed to have for her, twisted though it was. Her whole life had been a precarious day-to-day existence, never knowing what would be coming down the road next, her survival and means of support subject to the whim of men. The same way her mother had lived, governed by the rages Jimbo brought home from overseas.
George had heard the stories, seen evidence of brutality on his grandfather’s knuckles more than once. Stories were told of how Mama’s Ma suffered in silence for years before finally dying in childbirth, taking Jimbo’s son with her into that grave. Any chance at life choked out of the boy by the cord snaking around his throat in the womb, her life pouring crimson from between her legs. Coralie was four when that happened. George wondered if Jimbo thought she should be thankful he’d kept her on for a decade. Kept her alive at all.
For years, George had helped Mister Nondall take care of unwanted litters of kittens and puppies, picking the squirming bodies up by their back feet, slinging them against the side of a steel barrel before tossing them into a half-filled water bucket, stunned and drowning without a fuss. Unwanted, unneeded, less cruel to kill them than to leave them alive to starve a slow death. Maybe Papaw felt he’d given Coralie a running start at life by not ending hers and burying her alongside her mother and brother.
“Fucked Leswayne real good. Exhausted the man, let him play his rough games. Hell, I got told that she gave it so good, she fucked him to sleep.” The grizzled old man snorted derisively, lifting his top lip in a sneer. “Fucked him so good, he wanted a second taste. Tracked down the house. Talked to Ollie. Ollie called me, thank fuck, and didn’t tell him the bloodlines of the bitch he had in his bunk. Didn’t give him any cause to look this way because even Ollie knows if he found out what was waiting here, with the kind of mistakes Coral’s made in the past, he’d fucking kill your momma, boy.” Coralie made a noise, and he swung her way, planting an angry fist against the wall beside her head. She froze in fear, nostrils quivering with tiny sips of air. “You let him get that close, Coral. So close, he fuckin’ talked to Ollie.” Shaking his head, without looking around, he said, “Georgie, your momma fucked up.”
“George,” he corrected Papaw, watching as the man turned to him and blinked. George decided he’d heard enough. It was time to make a stand, make sure Papaw learned he couldn’t come in and do this again. Make sure he knew that Mama wasn’t going to be his punching bag, not ever.
“Mama, come here.” Holding out his hand, he gestured with a curl of his fingers, calling her to him. Before her father could react, Coral retreated from the wall and to George, taking his hand and shifting behind him, letting him stand solidly in front of her. “Papaw. Love you, old man. But you don’t get to talk to my momma like this anymore. The time for this is done.” Papaw didn’t respond, just narrowed his eyes, staring at George’s face.
“It wasn’t you in Leswayne’s bed, making choices. You had so little to do with her raisin’, there’s hardly even any of your blood running through the veins of this woman. She’s lived here more than half her life, so I figure unless you’re kin to Ollie, you got no cause to take a stand like you’ve done today.” George shook his head, feeling the trembling hands of his mother resting on his back. “You bein’ the man you are, won’t ask you to apologize to this woman behind me. But me bein’ the man I am, you’ll respect her from here out.”
Papaw nodded once, then bent over and smoothly pulled a knife from his boot. He didn’t hide the action, didn’t posture or gesture with the knife, just popped the button on the handle, letting the soft snick of the blade locking into place do his talking.
George stood without moving for a moment, then lifted his chin. “You want it like that, old man?” Disbelieving, he shook his head sharply, once, asking again, “You sure you want it to go down like this, old man?” When Papaw still didn’t respond, George reached behind him, thumb flipping the leather strap from over the butt of the pistol wedged into the holster there. Another five-finger discount piece, he’d picked this one up in a pawn shop in Slidell, using Ralph for distraction, having him ask a million questions about a modified assault rifle the shop owner had while George long-armed his way into the display case.
Bringing the gun out and around, he allowed it to rest alongside his thigh, making no other movement. A second later he jerked, shocked when Papaw burst out laughing. Unlocking the knife, the old man folded the blade away and then stooped to put it back into place in his boot. He straightened and looked at his grandson. “George,” he said, humor flooding his voice, still shaking with laughter. “Never thought to see the day when Jimbo Bell would bring a knife to a gunfight.”
Papaw’s eyes swung to look at Coralie, still holding her position behind George. “It’s time. Told you it was comin’ last time I was here. Told you I’d take him. Boy’s comin’ with me, Coral. Too old to be livin’ in a cathouse anyway, shoulda done took him years ago. Showed his mettle today, needs to hone that hard he’s found inside him. You haven’t done a bad job with him, but George’s comin’ with me.”
“What are you talking about?” George was confused because not only wasn’t his grandfather pissed at having a gun pulled on him, now he was talking crazy.
“You’re coming back with me to the clubhouse. Got a woman can help see to you, but mostly you need a man around you. Need to get yourself equipped to live in the world, boy, and your momma ain’t gonna give you that. Hell, the sissy boys she favors won’t show you squat when it comes down to it. You been bestin’ them for years, makin’ your own way while carrying her on your back. Doin’ your own brand of back work, boy.” His grandfather shook his head, holding out one hand as he questioned, “Are you tryin’ to tell me you want to stay here?”
No, George thought, fighting against memories thr
eatening to surface. I hate it here. He did. Hated everything to do with the whorehouse. He couldn’t wait to get out, and he and Ralph had been putting together a plan, saving and scrimping to bankroll their escape. Ideas they’d been tossing around to get them both out of the parish. Papaw throwing this up in his face wasn’t a plan, and the voice George listened to inside himself was screaming caution. This whole thing seemed to be jumping from the frying pan into the fire.
“No, ain’t sayin’ that. But, Papaw, I got school,” George moved, and his mother’s fingers clutched at his shirt, holding him in place, hiding behind him. All my life. “And Mama needs me. Needs me to keep the johns in line. Ollie uses me for muscle sometimes, making sure the heavy-handed ones go light on her girls.”
Papaw scoffed, not looking at George but staring instead at the door where a large form had appeared, blocking out a portion of the light. Slowly, seeming to choose his words with care, Papaw said, “Ain’t all she uses you for, boy.” At that, George sucked in a breath because it was true.
Content for years to just have him watching from the shadows, listening to the murmured instructions and explanations, once George hit fifteen, Grover wanted more active participation in his sessions with Mari. Insisting George direct Mari at times, always quietly requesting he “take care of business, son” while the man stood nearby and watched George jacking into a tissue. Now that George was sixteen, that participation had become participation in every sense of the word.
First had been Grover sitting on the edge of the bed, watching over George’s shoulder as he jerked off on Mari’s face. Chin lifted, mouth held wide open in a silent scream, she had patiently waited for him to come. It had taken a while with the close audience, feeling the man’s hands brush his hips occasionally to shift him to one side or the other, each time startling him. Every interruption broke George’s concentration so that he had to build it again, thoughts of the junior cheer squad captain riding him in the backseat of her car working in his favor. Her pussy tight and hot as she bounced over him with as much enthusiasm as she’d used during the football game the night before. Big, round titties he could bury his face between, and he had. So it was thoughts of Sabrina’s little sister Samantha that got his spunk flowing on Mari’s face.
Last weekend had seen him straddling Mari’s legs from behind, pushing slowly into her ass while Grover filled her pussy, their cocks bumping and rubbing against each other inside her as they worked through to a stuttering rhythm of in out, out in. Grover’s eyes had drilled into him when George’s sac had slapped against the root of his dick as George buried himself inside Mari. George had used lube on the rubber sheathing his cock, lubed her stink hole up good, too, fingers working her wide before trying to slide inside. Still he had winced, listening to her grunting and groaning, the sounds pouring from her throat more a pained whining than excited moaning at the uncomfortable stretching needed to accommodate two cocks, one with far more girth than the other. When Grover called out as he came, George feared he’d heard his own name through the man’s grunts.
So Papaw saying this to Ollie meant he might have been keeping track better than George imagined. Even unseen, he'd been watching over him like any grandfather would. George’s mother leaned close, palms pressing on his shoulders as she said, “I’d never do anything to hurt George. He’s my life.”
“Fuckin’ shit, Coral. He ain’t been your life since you pushed out Freddy. You brought Freddy into the world and shoved George to the side, suckin’ cock and takin’ cock so your baby boy won’t see the bad in life. Leavin’ George to take care of you. Like he’s been doin’, takin’ on your ‘extras’ in the form of that fucking faggot Grover, making it so you didn’t have to hit your knees any time you didn’t want, because Ollie’d put up with a fuckuva lot before she’d lose George. He’s in demand, didn’t you know? She’s got talk of an auction for his ass comin’ up. Him bein’ the age of consent in Louisiana. Fucking good thing she doesn't know it’s fourteen, right? She’da done been all over that, she knew the legals.” Voice lowering dangerously, Papaw hissed, “Don’t worry your pretty head, though, Ollie’s promised the winner that the boy’ll be compliant. Seems she’s got a drink for everything.”
George swung in place, twisting away from her hands as he stared into the face of his mother. He took his time, gaze sweeping her features up and down, his chest tightening as he finally came to believe what he read there. She knew what Ollie was doing. Knew and would support those plans because it would mean less back work for her. His voice was choked, sounding small as he whispered, “Are you shitting me?”
Voice raspy from decades of cigarette smoke, Ollie called from the hallway, “Let’s all calm down now. Ain’t nothing happening you don’t want, boy.”
Ignoring Ollie, his eyes drilled into his mother, locking her in place, keeping her voiceless with the pain and anger he knew flooded his face. Flat and toneless, his voice sounded foreign to himself. “You knew.” She flinched at this tone, cutting and bloody with disillusionment. “You knew.” Hissed and harsh, he bent forwards at the waist. “You knew.”
A dark chuckle came from behind him as, using two canes to move her bulk through the doorway from the hall and into the bedroom, Ollie started to crowd close to George. He smelled her, that unmistakable scent that filled his nightmares. In his gut, acid churned and bile rose in the back of his throat. She needed to not be close to him, needed to not touch him. Not now, not ever. Without conscious thought, his arm moved. She abandoned her advance, standing stock-still when he lifted the pistol. From Papaw, he heard a low, warning, “Boy, consider yourself.”
With great care, because his hands were shaking as with a palsy, George jacked the slide on the gun, forcing a round into the barrel. The gun seemed heavy, somehow weighted down with his crippling fear. He’d used it more than once, killing varmints that threatened to hole up under the house. Used it shooting empty cans from the top of fence posts with Ralph, the two boys trading jokes as they pretended to be quick-draw gunslingers. He knew how the pistol worked, knew how it felt, and still the gun felt foreign in his hand. Intent meant everything. From behind him, sounding slightly closer, his Papaw said, “Boy.”
Twisting to glance over his shoulder, George shook his head, saying, “Sorry, old man.” He found that the cautioning words of the bastard who had been choking the life out of his own daughter not ten minutes ago just didn’t matter. “Sorry, you don’t carry much weight with me right now.” Might be easiest to end this for everyone, he thought, because I for sure ain’t letting Ollie make bank off me. Off my ass like I’m one of her girls. I’ll die first. Lifting the gun, he pointed it at his own head first, then his mother’s head, then Ollie’s, knowing exactly where she was without looking.
Holding the gun still, he waited for a moment to see if he could bring himself to pull the trigger, then shook his head. Speaking to his mother, he commented dispassionately, “I kill her, she’s your means of support. Can’t do that, take away the only thing you think yourself capable of doing. That falsehood his fault, the man standing behind me. You’re capable of so much, Mama, but you’ve stuck with what feels safe. Stuck me right here alongside you, not giving a shit what that means for me.”
He shrugged, pointing the gun at his mother again. “I kill you, I’m killing Freddy’s chances. Because I see where he is your life, Mama. And I pray you’ll do right by him. I can leave you alone, knowing his daddy will step in if needed. Hell, at least you know who fathered him, right?” Ripping up from his chest, laughter left bloody ribbons in its wake, razored from the sides of his throat.
Tapping the end of the barrel against the side of his head, he waited, and after a moment saw a look of relief trail across her face. What I thought. At least I know her druthers, now. “I kill me, I’m doin’ everyone in this room a favor.” She made a noise, and he shook his head again. “I kill me, you got no excuse. I kill me, she’s got no ticket to ride. I kill me, he ain’t got no reason to return here. I kill me, I
got no more shit to eat, no matter what. Because, Mama,”—he shook his head, feeling the barrel knock against his temple—“I’ve been eating shit for years, trying to make it worthwhile for you to keep me. You kept me all this time, kept me close, kept me fed and clothed. Working as best you thought you could, you kept me. But I’ve been eating shit since I can remember.”
Coming to a decision, he dropped the gun to his side and slid his finger from the guard, resting it along the barrel. He was leaving here today, one way or another. “Done eatin’ shit, Papaw. You thinkin’ to feed me a steady diet of it, you should just kill me now.”
The answer came immediately; it was reassuring that his grandfather didn’t have to give it a second thought. “Promise you a shit-free table, boy. My hand to God. You’re done eatin’ shit if I can shovel it away from you fast enough. You bring your own shit with you, then that’s shit you’ll have to figure out how to chew.” A hand fell on his shoulder, gripping and shaking him side-to-side like he was wont to do with Ralph. “Got belongings to gather?” George shook his head, watching tears pooling in the lower lids of his mother’s eyes, feeling nothing. No pain. No anger. No resentment. She was how she was, end of story. There was nothing from here he wanted to take with him, damn few memories, even. Life upended, his value a lie, nothing in his past worth the effort. “Let’s get in the wind, then, son.”
Within minutes, they were headed out of town, barreling along the interstate, seated astraddle the bike, in what Papaw offered with a lifted lip was, “Nuts to butt. You’re gonna have to sit on the queen seat. Fuckin’ shit. Hold onto the rack behind you, boy.”
An hour after that, George was installed in a room over the bar of the clubhouse. Only a thin door with a weak lock stood between him and a dozen men he’d never met. Each of them staring as he walked through the main room, trailing behind Papaw uncertainly. Big, imposing, bearded giants who gawked at him as if he were a foreigner.
Neither This Nor That Box Set 1 Page 3
