by Hazel Parker
“So what is the whiskey?”
“Sea Sail, or, uhh, Sea Seaman, Sea something,” I said, regretting that I hadn’t paid that much attention. “Why she came to you the other day.”
“Ahh, she thought the president would be the one to make that call,” Trace said with a hint of irony, pulling out a cigarette. “We’ll vote on it at our next hall meeting, but something tells me it’s not going to require any convincing of the boys. That’s something that they’ll be fighting over. Free booze? Shit.”
I smirked again.
“She is coming over soon,” I said. “Wants privacy.”
“I figured as much,” Trace said. “As it is, the club’s not throwing any parties right now because of the excess attention. I’ve tried to sell it to the boys as a good thing; their livers can actually make it through the month without breaking in half. It’s not working very well, though. I usually get some variant of booing when I say that.”
I didn’t say or react to that as Trace took a puff of his cigarette. It was so very like club members to get upset at the lack of partying. I just didn’t give a shit—either it was there, or I went home and slept.
Life had a way of becoming very simple when you had fucked up badly at the most critical moment of your life.
“I just told the boys to throw some private parties at their houses, which may have been a mistake since that’s more residential,” he said with another puff. “But I think only the literal-minded won’t pick up on what I’m saying.”
Again, I said nothing.
“I’ll have this place cleared out for you in fifteen,” he said. “Shop’s already closed until ten tomorrow. Think Mafia and Krispy are playing cards in the back, but I’ll make sure they’re out.”
“Thanks.”
I made it a point to follow Trace to the back room so we could get rid of those two, if only because I had come so close to falling into a memory when I was alone that I didn’t want to risk it. But, unfortunately, that only worked for so long. The card game between Krispy and Mafia apparently was close enough that they agreed to call it a draw, making it easy for the two of them just to pick up and leave. Trace had no reason to be around either, saying that he was going to spend the night at Jane’s.
I nodded goodbye to them as they left, and as soon as the door closed, leaving me alone, it was like the door had completely shut out the outside world. Now, I wasn’t just alone physically. I was alone in my thoughts and my spirit.
And let me tell you, when I got alone, it could get painful.
At first, I tried to pass the time by drinking some whiskey—it seemed appropriate that I would get to taste test the product after I’d tried other things so I could give honest feedback on if I liked it or not. I didn’t get drunk or anything—despite the club’s reputation for partying, I rarely got hammered; I didn’t think I’d make a very good sergeant-in-arms if I did—but I felt it hit my stomach and settle into a nice burn.
But eventually, I ran out of whiskey to taste test. So I did what I did almost every night—I tried to win the race between napping and my memories.
For some reason, nightmares about my time in Iraq were few and far between. They definitely happened, and when I woke up, my day was basically fucked from the giant nightmare, but it happened maybe, at most, once every couple of months. Frequently enough that I knew it was a pattern, but infrequently enough that I didn’t have to make any adjustments for it.
I went to the couch and closed my eyes. I thought of everything that had happened today—waking up, heading to the club, doing about six hours of work as a mechanic in silence, calling Megan to apologize… which in itself was sort of stunning, but I had just gone with what Amber had said about building a relationship… trying to stave off the memory… the memory…
In the flicker of an eye, an IED goes off.
There’s madness everywhere. Shit is blowing up. I hear men that I have known to be the toughest boys alive screaming.
They’re dying.
And I, hung to the back, have done nothing about it.
I’m in…
I’m in…
“Fuck!” I yelled, sitting up quickly.
I caught myself breathing. I was so tired, and I was so worn out by these memories. But one of the things I had learned about myself was that if I put myself back in the same position as when a memory had started, it would likely happen all over again. If I lay back on that couch, it was going to happen again.
So I stood and walked in circles for ten minutes, telling myself that it was going to be OK. I was going to get over these someday.
But how?
A military-mandated therapist had advised me that opening up to others would help, that in doing so, I would begin to feel accepted by my peers. She had advised PTSD was as much a fear of what I had done being worthless as anything else.
But fuck that. This was my battle to fight, not anyone else’s. I didn’t need to make other people’s lives worse by complaining about the occasional flashback that wasn’t killing anyone.
It’s killing your sanity, though. Bit by bit.
You hide behind silence and stoicism at meetings and with Megan, but how long is that going to work? You just cracked despite Trace and the others being here. What’s going to happen if it happens in the hall?
I don’t think I had ever felt so grateful in my life as when a knock came at the clubhouse door. I shuddered to think of how bad it would have looked if I had missed that knock because I was knee deep in a traumatic replay.
I opened the door and, sure enough, Megan was standing there with the whiskey. Sea Sailor. Damnit. That’s what that was.
“Hi,” I said.
I tried to put some warmth behind the voice, I did. It probably, though, just sounded uncomfortable and awkward.
“Hi, BK,” she said.
She was a little less warm, but it almost seemed forced, like she didn’t want to put herself in a position where she could have opened herself up. I held the door open wider and guided her in. I had her sit at one of the taller round tables, where I gave her a stool. I pulled one up and waited for her to speak.
“So this is the whiskey in question,” she said. “Would you care to try it?”
Don’t say no. This is her part of the deal.
“Sure.”
She poured me half a shot from a glass I gave her and slid it across to me. I held it to my nose and sniffed it. It certainly passed the sniff test.
Then I downed the shot. It was a bit strong, but as soon as I swallowed, a nice soothing sensation filled my throat. I had definitely not expected that, and my lips almost curled into a smile.
“So you like it,” she observed, though she, too, had a grin.
“Yep,” I said.
Say more. Don’t just leave it at that. You want to connect and make more of a relationship, so don’t just give a one-word response.
“We could promote that.”
“Perfect,” she said. “And you think that the club will be able to get the word out?”
“Easily,” I said.
I didn’t know what else to say here, though, so I just went silent. Even when I stretched myself to speak more, I had my limits on how much I could bring myself to say before it just felt uncomfortable.
“Good,” she said. “Thanks, BK.”
I just nodded. Tell her. She may think you’re just trying to dismiss her.
“Welcome.”
The word came out rushed and bit sloppy, more of an “elcome” than a full word. But, for me, in my attempt to connect with Megan, it was a start.
“Now, help us,” I said.
That probably came across as more demanding than I had hoped. Too late to take it back now, though.
“A deal’s a deal,” she said with a gentle smile. It was good to see her at ease. “So, if I understand right, you want to improve your image in the community?”
“Two things,” I said. “Club, not gang. And stop the negative coverage.”
>
Megan leaned back, nodding, and folded her arms. She looked deep in thought as if she were considering her words carefully, but to my eyes, she didn’t look very happy with what she was considering.
“Look, I’m going to be honest,” she said. “Negative press coverage is something very difficult to stop, especially with what you guys are.”
I narrowed my eyes at her.
“Bikers, it’s what you are,” she said.
I took a deep breath and breathed slowly out of my nose. Maybe she was getting at something that would prove useful, but right now, all that she was doing was pissing me off. This was not the way I wanted to start my meeting with her.
“So as a result, because of your status, there are some things that are just going to be difficult to avoid. Some races, in some places, will never get a favorable shake. Similarly, some political beliefs will never get a chance in some places. Same thing for you guys.”
“Bullshit,” I said, much louder than I wanted to. “It was good before. What changed?”
Megan bit her lip; her eyes went wide, and a sigh escaped through her teeth.
“A lot of things. Social media, the rise of the tabloids… just a lot of things.”
I had a feeling that we were getting played right now. I had come in willing to give her some help with her whiskey friends, but when I was seeking help from the so-called expert, all I was getting was a bunch of vague statements and deflections about how things couldn’t be better.
I just stared at her in anger until she continued.
“As far as the club, not gang, thing, all you can do with that is continue to say club when engaging with the press and locals. Never use the word gang, and that will take care of it.”
And with that, Megan shrugged, as if she had nothing more to say. Really. Really. Really?
“And?”
“And what?” Megan said as if she hadn’t missed anything.
“I ask for a trade,” I said. I wasn’t afraid to say some things now. “I offered help with the whiskey in return for an hour of help from you. And this is all you tell me?”
Megan was hiding something. I fucking knew it. It was like she wasn’t willing to engage. What the fuck was this shit?
“I… what do you want me to say, BK? I’m a professional marketer, not a magician. I can’t snap my fingers and make all of Los Angeles love you.”
“Give me a break,” I said. Now the lips were looser than any amount of whiskey could have produced. “I brought you here for strategy, not for stonewalling. Why won’t you help? What are you afraid of? Tell me.”
Megan fidgeted in her seat.
“You’re… you guys are all bikers, and I’m a high-level marketer,” she said.
And then she broke.
“Damnit, BK, I’m not proud of this. I’m not proud that I’m trying to avoid interacting with you. I’m a businesswoman that believes she can help anybody with anything. OK? But frankly, like it or not, everyone thinks you’re a bunch of criminals. And if I get caught here, then everyone thinks I’m working with a bunch of criminals.”
“No,” I said.
I let the word hang for a few moments.
“We were loved here in Green Hills for years,” I said. “Loved everywhere. At least not hated. And now are? Doesn’t make any sense.”
“BK…”
She raised her hands and smacked them in her lap.
“Look, I’m a little younger than you, but apparently young enough that I’m more connected to what the consumer in their twenties and thirties likes. The days of the motorcycle club? That was, like, a twentieth-century thing. That was some hippies, sixties-loving shit or something. Sorry, I don’t mean to swear, but… well, there’s no other way to put it.”
“No, you are giving up too easily,” I said. “You need to help.”
“I don’t have to do anything, BK,” Megan said. “You guys are in a spot where you can’t do anything! You let yourselves get in a public gunfight in North Hollywood.”
“That was to save Splitter’s girlfriend!” I yelled. “Who burned that building? Who started it? The fucking Devil’s Mercenaries! Diablo’s people, that’s who!”
“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about!”
“Bullshit! People in New York know what happened in North Hollywood!”
“They know a fire broke out, but this Diablo character? The Devil’s Mercenaries? I know what happens in this town, BK. I have to; it’s my goddamn job.”
Now she was getting more animated. I didn’t think that Megan had this side to her—as pissed as I was at her, it kind of made me energized to be engaging someone like this. Fucked up, I know, but I was a fucked up individual.
“Maybe buried deep in the police report is something about how the Devil’s Mercenaries are at fault, but for the next week, you know what the story was? ‘Gang warfare breaks out, innocents survive.’ Not ‘Devil’s Mercenaries attack, Savage Saints save the day.’ Not ‘Savage Saints are antiheroes.’ Just that you and the Mercenaries, to the world, are one and the same.”
“And that’s why I fucking need you!”
“I told you, I’m a professional, not a magician!”
“I swear, got you for an hour, I—”
And then I heard a loud crash outside.
It didn’t sound like two cars colliding. It sounded like a car had slammed into a building nearby.
“Down!” I roared at Megan as I hurried behind the bar, grabbed a rifle, and slowly made my way to the door. “Don’t move until I say so!”
With that, I poked it open, turned the corner, and looked.
There were three men picking themselves up from the street, spray paint cans in their hands. There was an old piece of shit vehicle that had been driven into the barbershop across the street. The first man rose, shook the can, and started to spray the remaining glass of the barbershop.
He made the symbol of the Savage Saints.
“Hey!” I roared.
The man turned. I cocked my rifle at him.
“You better get—”
But before I could finish my warning, the other two pulled their pistols on me. I had to take cover behind the clubhouse as the bullets fired. I turned the corner and rained bullets on them, dropping one of them before the other two escaped in another vehicle.
“Fuck!”
I carried my rifle, making sure never to leave my weapon behind, and jogged across the street. The man was undoubtedly dead; I had struck him square in the neck.
But before I had killed him, he’d spray-painted the entirety of our logo on the barbershop wall. I rolled the man over and pulled off his sweater and mask.
It was my worst fear. The Mercs were pretending to be us, having vandalized and caused property damage to the barbershop across the street from us. And if they did it here, they were going to do it elsewhere.
They’re using our bad image against us to make us crumble.
Fucking hell.
I pulled out my phone and texted Trace and the rest of the crew, kicked the man in the ribs, and then headed back inside. Megan was underneath the table, shaking.
“You’re safe,” I said as I put my rifle on the bartop. I reached over and extended my hand.
But she didn’t take it.
“I said you’re safe,” I growled.
But still, she didn’t take it.
“I thought you said you’re not a gang,” she said. “I thought you said you weren’t criminals. You just fired a gun. What’s not criminal about shooting at someone?”
I sighed.
“The difference between a criminal and a vigilante,” I said. “A criminal breaks the laws that are for the good of the people. A vigilante knows when to break the law for the spirit of justice.”
But my words seemingly had no impact. Megan slowly rose, but when she did, she moved back, as if she wasn’t going to come within a five-foot radius. I crossed my arms and just stared at her, waiting for this little charade of hers to end.
Was she going to act like a helpless baby this entire time?
“I knew this was sketchy,” she said. “I knew I was taking a risk helping someone like you. But you sounded truly sorrowful on the phone. So I decided to come. I can see that was a mistake.”
Megan looked at the bottle of whiskey, still on the table, and then made a bolt to the door.
“Megan!” I said. “Wait.”
She looked over her shoulder, still moving, but she moved slower.
“In the military, you never let someone just walk out like this,” I said. “Let me check.”
She nodded. I quickly completed my examination of the outside. I could hear sirens coming, but Megan had nothing to do with that. I’d make sure she got out without any problems.
“You can go.”
Chapter 6: Megan
Why did I let myself get into that situation?
I beat myself up the entire ride home, telling myself that I was a giant idiot for getting involved in the first place. I had let myself believe that perhaps the reality of the Saints didn’t align with their perception, but unfortunately, they had proven the perception was accurate.
In this case, the Saints were a bunch of fucking criminals. And I had risked my career to help them.
Sure, maybe the Mercenaries were worse. If you wanted me to be honest, I didn’t have a goddamn clue about any of it. I suspected that the Savage Saints were… less criminally minded than the Devil’s Mercenaries, but it wasn’t something that I was in a hurry to prove. As far as I was concerned, I was never, ever, ever going to fucking work with BK again.
I’d tell Jose that I got the bottle in the hands of the Saints and leave it at that. We already had our associates spreading the word to some of the watering holes in Green Hills, anyways.
Actually, if I were being honest with myself, I would have found the whole venture to Green Hills strange. While everything that I had seen before was true—it was a place growing with young people, and they were making an effort to attract a more technologically-oriented crowd—it was true only in the relative sense. Green Hills didn’t have a population above a few thousand people; it wasn’t like some of the other counties or locations of interest, like Santa Barbara or maybe even Anaheim or Long Beach, that had a much greater appeal and customer base.