Detours & Dead Ends
Janine Infante Bosco
Copyright © 2020 by Janine Infante Bosco
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Published by Janine Infante Bosco
Cover Design: FuriousFotog
One
Embrace life’s detours. While they may take you on an unexpected path, you might find yourself exactly where you need to be. For as long as I can remember that’s been my mother’s mantra. It’s what she said to me when my father dipped out on us and we relocated to Texas. She also said it when she took a job as the Montgomery family housekeeper and again after the
Montgomery’s divorced. Apparently, Mrs. Montgomery won my mother in the high-profile divorce which had me and mom packing our bags and following her and her son to Connecticut. I didn’t mind the move because her son, Robert was my best friend and through the years, the two of us became thick as thieves.
That’s not saying, I didn’t think he was a spoiled brat when I first met him. I can still remember the ridiculous outfit he was wearing when he asked me to play Backgammon with him. I didn’t know what the fuck Backgammon was and at six-years-old, I wasn’t interested in learning either but that didn’t stop the little ascot-wearing boy from asking. In fact, that whole summer, Robert asked me to play a ton of games I had no idea existed. When the kid challenged me to a fencing match that was the final straw.
I told him we couldn’t be friends, and I called him weird.
Of course, the little shit ratted me out and my mom was called into Mr. Montgomery’s office. That night, after we went back home to our apartment and ate frozen pizza for dinner, my mom explained that the Montgomery’s didn’t have to allow me to accompany her to work. She went on to tell me that childcare was expensive, and she had worked out a deal with the Montgomery’s. They allowed her to take me to work on the weekends and throughout the summer in hopes, I’d play nicely with their boy. What I would later learn is that the rich folk wanted me to occupy their kid, so they didn’t have to bother with him.
The next day, Robert was waiting for me and to my surprise, he had ditched the ascot. His clothes were still weird as fuck but, I knew my mom needed her job and that kept me from teasing him. He followed me around like a lost puppy and I started to feel bad for the kid. After all, it wasn’t his fault his parents didn’t pay him any attention. Just like it wasn’t his fault, he wore crazy clothes and didn’t know how to throw a ball.
It wasn’t long before Robert traded his expensive boy shorts for khakis and a polo—hey; it wasn’t jeans and a tee but, as long as he ditched the fancy fucking tie, I had no problem taking the kid under my wing. Soon, he learned how to throw a ball and instead of playing baccarat or whatever the fuck that ridiculous game is called; he was asking me to teach him the rules of every sport.
By the end of the summer he was a New York Yankees fan, could name every quarterback ever to be inducted into the NFL hall of fame, and knew every player on the Lakers.
School started, and we went our separate ways. Robert went to some prestigious private school, and I went to public school but every weekend, while my mother cleaned their toilettes, he and I played.
Now, we are, two high school graduates and our friendship is about to be tested as my mom and I embark on another detour.
A month ago, my aunt called my mom and told her their father was sick. With my aunt being sickly herself, my mom decided to quit her job and move us to New York City, so she can care for my grandpa.
“I can’t believe you’re really leaving,” Robert says, tossing the football into the air. It’s a shame he never got a chance to play, but that didn’t stop him from attending every game of mine.
“New York isn’t that far,” I tell him, shoving the rest of my clothes into my suitcase. “I’ll be a bus ride away. When you finally break free of mommy dearest, you can come to visit me.”
“So, when I’m twenty-one? What am I going to do until then?”
“Practice your pass and hopefully invest in a pair of jeans.”
He catches the ball and glances down at his jeans.
“What do you call these?”
“Dude, they have a crease down the middle. You’re not supposed to iron jeans and would it kill you to ditch the boat shoes? A fresh pair of Nikes’ would probably help you score a few chicks too.”
“Speaking of chicks,” he starts. “Jocelyn wanted to say goodbye to you.”
At the mention of Jocelyn’s name, I slice my eyes back to Robert’s. I met the brown-eyed girl three years ago at one of the Montgomery family parties. Apparently, I was a magnet for privileged kids because me and Joss hit it off and we’ve been friends ever since. She often sneaks out of the fortress she calls home and tags along with me and Robert.
“I gave her your address,” he continues.
“Why would you do that?”
“I may need to buy a pair of sneakers, but you need to stop being embarrassed of who you are too.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“Then how come you never invite Joss over when we’re hanging out here?”
Robert is partially right. After we both were invited to her house for her sweet sixteen celebration, I knew I couldn’t have her over my apartment. There was no inground swimming pool—hell, we didn’t even have passes to the community one. We shared one television in the living room and had a couch that was probably as old as me. We didn’t keep fish eggs and crackers on hand and I wouldn’t embarrass myself by popping a Hot-Pocket in the microwave even though those things were the shit.
But that was only half the reason I didn’t want Joss hanging out at my place. The other was that I didn’t trust myself around her. In the three years since I first met her, she has evolved. I’m not just talking about her body either—although, I will say Joss is all ass and tits and me, being the horndog I am, I love staring at her. But on top of a killer body, Joss has a big heart. She’s the perfect mix of sweet and sassy and though one might call her shy, she tends to get rebellious with me.
My attraction isn’t one-sided either.
But I’m not good enough for Jocelyn Carter.
Like caviar and Hot Pockets don’t go hand in hand, neither do we.
“She doesn’t care, you know?” he continues, causing me to divert my attention back to him. “Just because she comes from money and you don’t, isn’t a reason to give her the shaft.”
“I have a better idea, Richie Rich, why don’t you invite Joss to your estate and give her your shaft.”
The instant the words leave my mouth, I regret them, and I angrily tug the zipper around my suitcase.
“That’s not a bad idea,” he says, reaching into his perfectly pressed jeans for his phone. “I think I’ll call her now.”
Slapping the phone out of his hand, I grab him by his polo-shirt and pull him off my bed.
“I’ll kill you.”
Giving me a devious smirk, he raises his hands in mock surrender and quirks an eyebrow.
“Hey, you suggested it,” he points out.
“Yeah, well, you know I don’t mean it,” I sneer, releasing him.
“You’re leaving tomorrow, Eric, it’s no
w or never.”
I’m not naïve. I know more about life than both, Robert and Joss and I know after tomorrow, I’ll never speak to Joss again. She’ll try to keep in touch and maybe I’ll entertain it for a while, especially the times I’m feeling lonely and missing Connecticut but eventually, I’ll get used to my new life. I’ll find a job, make new friends and forget all about the girl I’ll never have.
“You need to promise me something,” I tell him.
He lifts an eyebrow.
“You won’t mention her. I don’t want to know what happens to Joss after tomorrow.”
“Wow, you really got it bad.”
“Just promise me or I’ll tell your mother you lost your virginity to her masseuse.”
“Ah,” he says wistfully. “Eloise really did have magical hands.”
“I bet,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You really are fucking weird.”
“You’re going to miss my weirdness.”
I am.
Somehow this former ascot-wearing dope has become my best friend. I don’t remember life without him and it’d be a bold face lie if I said I wasn’t going to miss him as much, if not more than I’m going to miss Joss.
“I’m going to miss you too,” he admits. “You should’ve just taken my mother’s offer and stayed here. We could’ve gone to college together and you could’ve stayed in the guest house.”
Mrs. Montgomery did offer to put me up in her guest house, but I wasn’t going to let my mother go to New York by herself. Besides, college wasn’t in my future. While Robert is some sort of computer genius, I’m still wondering how I managed to graduate high school.
A knock sounds on my door and my mother appears in the doorway before I can reply.
“Eric, Jocelyn is here.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I stare at my mother and watch her move away from the door. Robert’s elbow connects with my ribs as he leans closer.
“Don’t fuck it up,” he whispers as Jocelyn steps into my bedroom.
Leaning against the door, she stares at me with her sad brown eyes and I can tell she’s been crying. Robert clears his throat and places his hand on my shoulder as I continue to stare at Joss, watching as she pulls her sleeves over her hands.
“I’m going to head out of here,” Robert says. “I’ll see you tomorrow before you take off.”
“Traitor,” I mutter as he passes me and heads for the door. Pausing in front of Joss, he says goodbye before disappearing into the hallway. Alone with Joss, it finally starts to hit me, I’m never going to see her after this. I’ll never watch her throw her hair up in a messy bun or bit her lip until she draws blood. I’ll never hear her laugh or see her scrunch her nose when I say something stupid. She’ll never punch my arm or tell me I’m being ridiculous. There will be no more hugs or stolen moments where everyone else seems to fade away. And worst of all, I’ll never know how her lips feel against mine or how sweet she truly tastes.
“Were you even going to say goodbye to me?” she whispers.
Unwilling to lie to her, I turn my head and stare at my mostly barren dresser. I was never one for clutter and aside from a bottle of cheap drugstore cologne, the only other thing I kept on top of the distressed wood was a picture frame. Neither of which I bothered to pack. Staring at the photograph, I focus on the three faces—on Joss specifically. Sandwiched between me and Robert, she smiles brightly as she lays her head on my shoulder.
Mine.
Not Roberts.
“I guess that’s my answer,” she says softly. “Every one of my girlfriends warned me about you,” she spats. “They said you weren’t worth my time, that you were a player and would break my heart.”
“They were right.”
“How would you know? You never gave us a chance.”
“C’mon, Joss,” I mutter, slicing my eyes back to her.
“I hope you have a great life, Eric. I hope, wherever you wind up, whether it’s New York or someplace else, I hope you realize you’re worth more than what you think you are.”
“Joss, wait.”
“Are you going to tell me something I want to hear?”
Shoving my hands into my pockets, my shoulders slump and I bow my head. Staring at my crisp white sneakers, I don’t reply.
“Right,” she whispers. “Well, have a nice life, Eric Nicholson.”
Too much of a coward to watch her walk away, I keep my head down until I hear the floorboards creak in the hallway. When I figure the coast is clear, I release a ragged breath and pull my hands from my pockets. Anger floods my veins and causes me to clench my fists. I’m about to punch the wall when Joss comes running into my room.
Throwing her arms around my neck, she hoists herself up my body and winds her long legs around my waist.
“Joss—” I rasp, wrapping my arms tightly around her.
“I hate you,” she murmurs against my shoulder. “I hate you, but I love you more.”
They’re the sweetest words I’ve ever heard and, also the saddest.
The housekeeper’s son and the rich girl with the pretty eyes and addiction to Chapstick.
A love that never stood a chance.
One that was just another dead-end.
Two
My grandfather died three months after we moved to New York. Instead of another detour, mom decided we were going to stick it out in the big city. Hey, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. She took a job as a waitress and me; I got a job at some auto repair shop in Brooklyn. Pipe’s All Service Garage was owned and operated by the Satan’s Knights motorcycle club. Aside from Pipe, none of the bikers knew much about fixing shit and it became clear the repair shop was a front for illegal activity.
For a long while, I kept to myself, ignoring the constant flow of Harley’s and the occasional visit from the cops. I was there to earn not to stick my nose where it didn’t belong. That’s not saying I wasn’t curious, or that I didn’t jump on one of the bikes Pipe was looking to junk. It didn’t matter that I never rode before, I’d fix that bad boy up and teach myself.
It took me six months to restore the Harley and another two months to get my license to ride. The first day I came to work on my bike, Pipe invited me to the clubhouse. Apparently, when the Knights weren’t running the streets, they kicked back and partied like nobody’s business. The booze flowed as freely as the pussy and I quickly decided being a biker was where it was at. I mean these guys knew how the fuck to get down.
Their clubhouse wasn’t anything to write home about. It was an old abandoned warehouse that they converted into the ultimate bachelor pad. There was a common room filled with worn black leather couches and a few pool tables were scattered around. There was also a fully stocked bar that wrapped around half the room. Next to the bar was a mural of the reaper they proudly sported on their leather vests and across the room they displayed their mugshots in black frames.
To the left of the common room were two double doors that lead to a room they called their chapel. A sacred place where full-fledged members congregated to discuss club business. Towards the back, there were several rooms where most of the guys crashed and fucked themselves senseless.
The clubhouse was the home of the Satan’s Knights and after a few parties; I found myself in Pipe’s office asking if I could prospect—something I probably should’ve given a little more thought to considering it was a lot like joining a fucking frat.
Here, I thought being a prospect allowed me to ride with them and party with them. I didn’t realize I’d be the dick cleaning the bathrooms. In the last six months, I’ve disposed of more fucking used commons than a fucking madam at a brothel. And no one mentioned anything about being the vice president’s babysitter.
Blackie lost his wife a few years back and I don’t know if he’s on a mission to join her in the afterlife or if the motherfucker thinks he’s invincible but, if he’s not ripping lines, he’s tying a tourniquet around his arm and filling his veins with poison.
Tonight
, he’s decided to give the needle a rest. Standing in front of the bathroom door of a seedy bar, I glance over my shoulder as he breaks up the coke on a filthy fucking counter.
“You about done?” I question, drawing my eyes back to the few stragglers making their way towards the bathroom. Ignoring me, he bends his head and pushes a finger against one nostril as the other swallows the powder on the counter.
“You want to hit this?” he asks, throwing back his head. Sniffling, he brushes his long hair away from his face.
“Nah, one of us needs to be coherent.”
“Says who?” he replies. “If you ask me, being coherent is overrated.”
Clearly.
“When you’re oblivious your painless,” he says roughly as his bloodshot eyes meet mine.
“Until you wake up in the morning and everything you tried to forget is still there,” I tell him.
Sometimes I wonder how he still holds the rank that he does. I’m still learning the ins and outs of the club but as the vice president, Blackie’s job is to keep our president, Jack Parrish, in check. I imagine that’s got to be a difficult task and one that should be taken very seriously considering Parrish is a fucking lunatic. I don’t mean like a hot-headed motherfucker either. The man is certifiable, and he’s got the prescription bottle of Lithium to prove it. Yet, this man ripping lines in a grungy bathroom is the man he’s chosen to have his back and for the most part, stoned and all, Blackie always keeps Jack in line.
Birds of a feather and all that, I suppose.
He might be a junkie but he’s loyal and I’m sure this man would stand in front of a bullet for Jack. Maybe it’s because he has a death wish or maybe he’s all out of detours. Ain’t nothing shittier than realizing you’ve reached a dead-end.
“Wrap it up, man,” I warn, eyeing the group of men staring at me.
“Move,” a big beast of a man demands. My eyes drift towards his colors and I cross my arms against my chest, taking a stand against the rival biker.
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