Neither This Nor That Box Set 1

by MariaLisa deMora

  When Lewis was five, Mrs. Grover had died from an unspecified ailment. It killed her slowly, eating at her from the inside, and by the end, he had sensed everyone’s relief she was finally gone. It wasn’t long after when Grover, the man who owned the estate, had turned his eyes towards Shirley. Two years later she and Grover were married, filing paperwork at the local courthouse with no fanfare.

  To the outside world they probably appeared happy, a perfectly blended family, little Ralphie babied by Grover’s two older children. The only thing that changed for Shirley was she shared a bed with the man, her duties unchanging regardless of any papers. In reality, for Ralphie, the estate quickly became hell on earth, Grover’s children resentful of Shirley’s place in their father’s bed, their deep resentment taken out on Ralphie. Grover and Shirley turned a blind eye on any scrapes or bruises he collected, and Shirley continued to blame Ralphie for most things. After all, he was the reason her own family shunned her.

  For five years, things rocked along, until Shirley was caught in the crossfire between police and robbers, falling dead on the floor beside where Ralph knelt.

  Not long afterwards was when the nighttime visits began. Grover seeking his pleasure wherever he desired, and no one left in the house to tell him no.

  Po’Boy pulled in an unsteady breath. Ain’t that kid no more. That was a promise to himself. He ain’t the reason I like what I like, either. Something it had taken him longer to figure out, and a fear which could still trip him up at times.

  The curtains at the window stirred in the nighttime breeze, curling ripples of cooler air passing through and into his bedroom. With hesitant movements, he prodded and explored the edges of the bruising on his jaw and around his eye, mapping a discomfort that had far less sting than what he’d experienced on the playground today.

  His every thought circled those moments. The taunting yells, faces all around, mouths open wide in anticipation of seeing someone get hurt. The sudden, brutal pain in his face. Two hits, then a third, and then everything tilted sideways as the earth moved away from underneath his feet, dumping him flat of his back. Ralph, he thought, stepping carefully along the line in his head. A grown-up name, given to him by a boy he thought would be an enemy, but who just might be a friend instead.

  Ralph knew George, knew of him anyway. Knew where he lived, mostly, and that he was somehow tied up in the mysteries laying behind the red door of the house at the end of Nondall Lane. Parents talk, and kids listen, then discuss whatever adult tidbits they’ve overheard. Gossip was the currency for popularity in school, and Ralph had tried to pay his dues, never catching along more than the edges of the in-crowd.

  Gossip said George’s mother was a whore. Gossip also said he’d whup the ass of anyone daring to say that to his face.

  Ralph tested the bruises on his face again, pressure from his fingertips finding them just as uncomfortable as before. The boy could whup ass, that was for sure. These weren’t the first bruises Ralph had sported, not by a long shot. Just the first ones given to him by someone not kin or near-kin.

  A creaking floorboard in the hallway exposed the approach of the monster in the house, his stepfather, Grover. The man’s full name was Archibald Jefferson Grover, but Ralph—he held onto that tiny change in his head, shifting from Ralphie to Ralph with a liquid twist—had never heard anyone outside the family call the man anything except Grover, or Mr. Grover. Another creak, and Ralph waited to see if he would pass by tonight, see if the man moved on to the next door in the hallway. That one belonged to his daughter’s room, Genevieve. It made Ralph sick to hope for reprieve when he knew his relief would mean suffering for another, but Ralph did like he always did. He prayed.

  Please, baby Jesus, don’t let him open the door. Please, sweet baby Jesus.

  The doorknob rattled and hinges made a coarse grinding sound, so loud it echoed up the hallway. Ralph knew the noise would make it to Genevieve and Jeff, her brother, giving them assurance they could breathe freely tonight, owning the relief he’d longed for.

  Denied.

  Again.

  Grover’s breathing sounded in his room, and Ralph closed his eyes tightly, hoping against hope the man would go away if he believed Ralph asleep. Hoping, even as he knew slumber wasn’t a real deterrent. He’d been woken more than once by hands and fingers digging and prodding at him. Memories curdled his stomach, and he swallowed hard, fighting the bitterness threatening to flood his throat.

  A bare sole twisted against the flooring, giving a faint squeak, telling him Grover must be fresh from his bath. A clue to the night’s activities, because if he’d intended to get messy Grover would have visited before bathing.

  Nearer his bed, a muffled thud as something was kicked, shifting and moving, propelled out of Grover’s way. No impediment in this house registered when Grover wanted something. He wanted it, he took it, complaining and ranting about how the outside world didn’t fall into line as he demanded. He had to negotiate for his desires out there, work for what he wanted. Here, anything at all was available at a word. Without labor involved, it was cheapened, made worthless by its very accessibility. People as playthings; pawns in games played within these walls that trapped so much more than sounds.

  “Boy.” When Grover spoke in the night, he never used anything else. Always “boy” or “son,” never names, as if uttering a designation so personal was abhorrent in the act. Impersonal in word, very personal in deed. “Belly down. Knees to the floor.”

  Ralphie squeezed his eyes tighter, tiny starbursts of light flaring in the darkness behind his lids. Even in his mind he abandoned the name granted him today by George, wanting no part of their fledging friendship here. No taint, he thought, flinching from the idea George could ever learn what happened in the dark.

  From the time of his mother’s marriage to Grover, Ralphie had been subject to his whims. At first it had been gentle touches, Grover’s excitement hidden in a façade of teaching pleasure to a child too young to understand. After Ralphie’s mother’s death things had altered and as months passed, Grover changed the way he played with Ralphie. The last time Grover so commanded him, Ralphie had something carefully inserted into his anus, burning caused by the probing finally fading away to a dull throbbing that lingered, and stayed with him for days.

  “Boy, best be moving your ass, now.” In the few seconds since he’d told Ralph what he expected, Grover’s patience had slipped, and his words were clipped, brusque. Without pause Ralph complied, slithering to the side of the bed as he flipped to his belly, letting his legs drape over the edge of the mattress. “Good, boy.” A hand slipped up the back of his leg, hard fingers moving to his crotch, flicking at his ballsac. “Good.”

  The waistband of his pajama bottoms was gripped and tugged, pulled inexorably downwards. Air from the open window gusted cool across his exposed skin, the curtains flapping in the sudden wind. Crickets chirping their version of a love song swelled for a moment then faded back, overwhelmed by his ears registering the sound of clothing hitting the floor behind him.

  Po’Boy shook free from the memories as he leaned hard, angling the bike around the turn which would take him up onto the interstate. Not something I’ll be sharing with Ty or Crissy, either. Some secrets needed to remain buried and as long as Grover stayed away, Lewis could hold his silence close. Least Abigail’s gonna be all right. Twisting the throttle, he gunned the bike up the ramp and into traffic, recklessly weaving through and between traffic in his way, aiming his wheels straight towards Slidell.

  ***

  Crissy

  When she heard a bike driving into the parking lot, Crissy was standing in her kitchen, cold glass of sweet tea held in hand, e-reader in the other. Since so many bikers lived in the complex, it was a common sound, drawing her to the windows at all hours to eye the bikes, and try to get a glimpse of who was coming or going. Hoping to see one of two bikes she’d come to know very well.

  This time the sounds of the bike’s exhaust grew louder, and she
knew it had pulled into the cul-de-sac her and Ty’s condos shared with two other residences. One belonged to Pony, a man she’d only met a couple of times, but he seemed nice. He was in the same gang as Lewis. She knew because she’d seen the back of his vest more than once.

  Neither Lewis nor Ty had made a big deal about what their affiliations were. Ty was in a different gang, and her in-depth searches online had shown her both were old organizations, established in the wake of so many disenfranchised soldiers returning to the country after the Vietnam War. Each gang was as feared or respected as the other, depending on which reporter wrote the news article. There were other gangs—clubs, she reminded herself, having noted that was what the members preferred to be called—in the area, many of them seeming so much worse than either the Incoherent or Caddo Hobos.

  The easy friendship between Pony and Ty—Crissy sipped her tea, e-reader ignored for the moment, mentally converting the name to Wrench—was echoed in the interactions she’d seen between other members of the clubs, including between Wrench and Po’Boy. Lewis hadn’t given her that name, but it was one she’d heard Wrench call him more than once when he’d slip up. Usually it was right after they got home, and Po’Boy would occasionally call him Wrench, too. Like it was a persona or something they could leave at the door.

  Crissy knew better.

  Having shared a bed with each man, and then together with them both, she knew even in sleep they carried a tension she hadn’t been aware could even exist. In Ty’s condo—Crissy laughed at how she reverted to his normal name in her thoughts of the inside of his home—nearly every drawer held a weapon of some sort, and there were knives balanced in many of the windows, tucked alongside the sills in case of…what? The zombie apocalypse?

  Lewis’ apartment in New Orleans wasn’t as well stocked with guns, but the ones she’d caught sight of were placed in easily accessed locations, and loaded. He’d only asked her once if she’d shot guns before, and when she told him about going hunting with her daddy as she grew up just outside of Baton Rouge, he laughed and told her to make certain the safety was back on before she put it up.

  The sound of the bike grew closer still and Crissy set her glass on the countertop, putting the e-reader to sleep as she lay it down. Making her way to the front door, she opened it in time to see Pony headed up the sidewalk towards Wrench’s condo. When he saw Crissy, he veered her direction, tramping across the grass, boots leaving flattened patches in his wake. “Where’s Wrench?” The question was barked, angry, and she didn’t know what to do with it for a moment. “Bitch, where’s Wrench?”

  “I…uh, don’t know?” Fingers holding tight to the doorframe, she still took a stumbling step backwards when he pulled to a stop directly in front of her, about three feet closer than Crissy found comfortable. “Sorry?”

  “Jesus,” he clipped, eyes raking down and then back up her frame before he arrowed a look over her shoulder into the living area. “You sure he ain’t with you?”

  “Uh…no?” She shook her head. “I mean, yes, I’m sure he’s not here.” She gestured behind her, taking another small step backwards. “I’m sure.” Biting her lip, she tried to instill certainty into her last response, knowing she’d missed the mark when he rolled his eyes.

  “Huh.” Pony’s grunt was accompanied by another blatant perusal of her body. “You’re fuckin’ tight, baby.” His hand rose, and she stumbled in her haste to put more distance between them, a pained look appearing on his face at her movement. “Honey, no. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Just sayin’, you’re a walkin’, talkin’ heart attack.”

  Crissy felt her brows draw together, confused. “A heart attack?”

  Pony chuckled. “Nothing, honey.” He smiled, the expression warm and inviting, as if she were a trusted friend, leaving her even more confused. “Let Wrench know I’m after him, yeah? I texted, but he might be ridin’. Figure he’ll check you before he checks his phone.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She hesitated, then asked, “How about Po’Boy?” The club name for Lewis felt odd in her mouth, foreign, a part of him she hadn’t been granted access to, stolen by her claim to a stranger.

  Pony’s features sharpened, a look of alertness there which hadn’t been present a moment before. “What about Po’Boy?”

  “Well, he…uh. Sometimes he comes…” Her voice trailed off as his expression changed, transforming into a sexually aware look, filled with predatory hunger.

  “Sometimes Po’Boy comes? Oh, honey. You’re gettin’ the best of it, ain’t you.” Pony took a step backwards, deliberately putting distance between them when before he had been crowding her. “Bitches all over Louisiana gonna be gunnin’ for your head, them boys let it be known they’re taken by a pretty thing like you.”

  “Well, I kinda already made a statement with Wrench.” She didn’t know where the admission came from, heard it falling from her lips at the same time he did. “Some girl named Sam was over, and she was just so rude to him. So I pretended—it was still pretend then,” she rushed to explain, “—that he and I were together.”

  At Sam’s name, his features alerted again, this a frightening change as he shook his head. “Not a good enemy to make—” He paused, then grinned broadly before finishing absurdly. “—Butternut. I got you, honey.” Pulling his phone out, he messed with it for a minute before looking up at her expectantly. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” The sound of several bikes in the distance pulled her attention towards the entrance from the road and she saw a half dozen unfamiliar bikes driving in, angling towards the other side of the complex. “What?”

  “Your number, honey. So I can get you in my phone. I’ll text you so you’ve got my number.” He shook his head, his smile easy and affectionate. “Number, honey. What is it?”

  “Uh…”

  Pony glanced over his shoulder, then swore, “Fuck. Don’t got time.” Before she knew what was happening, he’d turned her around and she felt fingers at the back pocket of her jeans, then the absence of her phone which had been tucked inside there. Crissy whirled to face him in time to see Pony grinning down at the screen. Her background was one of the first pictures Lewis had sent her, weeks ago. Him and Ty smiling at the camera. “Jesus,” Pony muttered, opening the phone app and pulling up a new contact form. A moment later his phone chimed, and he sighed. “You need me,” handing her phone back with a confident, pleased smile, he instructed, “you call me. Any time, butternut.”

  After saying that strange word again, he was striding across the grass, headed towards the adjacent cul-de-sac, one hand lifted in a wave he didn’t look to see if she returned.

  ***

  Wrench

  The thinly padded seat on the stool had become uncomfortable over the past two hours, and Wrench shifted irritably. Truman stalked to stand in front of him again, third time in the past fifteen minutes and stared pointedly down at the nearly empty beer glass on the bar. Licking his lips, Wrench nodded, earning a sneer for his reorder.

  The fuck did you expect? You think Po’Boy’s just sitting around and waiting for you to want to be around him? Wrench winced and pulled out his phone, hoping for an electronic distraction from the thoughts inside his head. He unlocked it and saw he’d received four text messages. Looking through them, he saw the first was one from Ace, asking for a callback. Phone to his ear, he waited through two rings then the call connected. He greeted his president with a grunted, “Yeah, boss? You rang, man?”

  Focused on Ace, he absently watched Truman sauntering back towards him, noting the glass was full to the top, hardly any head on the beer at all. The oddity drew his attention, and he saw the moment the man decided to follow through with what he’d clearly been planning, dropping the glass too low for the bar top and clipping the bottom against the surface, tipping it towards where Wrench sat. With a curse, he jumped backwards, letting the stool topple to the floor behind him, narrowly avoiding taking a lapful of beer. A mess as it was, splashing on his boots, but if he hadn’t been attentive, he
would have had a long, wet, sticky ride back across the bridge.

  “Sec,” he said into the phone and shoved it in his pocket as he moved towards the dripping bar and a wide-eyed Truman. “Fucker, you wanna think twice before you pull that kinda shit again.” Wrench reached across and gripped the man by the front of his shirt, pulling him half across the bar, sliding him back and forth slightly, mopping the beer up. “Stupid motherfucker.”

  Wrench released his hold, and Truman stumbled backwards, bracing himself against the back bar, face twisting with hate as he opened his mouth. “You think you’re all kinds of special, don’t you?” Brushing one palm down the front of his shirt, Truman grimaced. “You think being an asshole makes you someone he’s going to want to keep around?”

  “The fuck are you talking about, idiot?” Wrench bent slightly, hooking the stool with the fingers of one hand and setting it back upright. His belly felt scooped hollow, like he was just reaching the peak before the first big downslide on a roller coaster.

  “Lewis.” Truman had his full attention again with one word. “Do you—” He gestured towards Wrench, mouth pulled into an ugly slash across his face. “—think he is going to want someone like you around long term? He doesn’t keep anyone long term. He only keeps them until they get attached.”

  “Is that a threat of some kind? You think you’re gonna jack me around?” Wrench had known in his gut Truman had his eyes set on Po’Boy, or Lewis as he knew him. Feeling superior because Truman didn’t know the half of the man Wrench had begun to think of as his, he scoffed and said, “You think you’re something he’d ever want in his bed?”

  “I’ve been in his bed, baby.” Truman seemed to be finding his confidence in sparring with Wrench, and he advanced towards the bar again, leaning his palms against the flat surface. “He told me I was the best he’d ever had. For about six weeks. Then—” He pointed towards a muscular man standing nearby, who, like several patrons, had abandoned their seats when Truman spilled the drink. “—he took Greg to his bed, and no doubt told him the same thing.”