Honor and Redemption

by A. C. Bextor

  I remember the exact moment I fell in love with him. It was the night he walked into my father’s warehouse alone and unafraid.

  I’d been holed up and hiding around a corner next to the room my father and his men were meeting in. I was doing as I knew I shouldn’t, listening to them talk business, discussing ways of bringing in more money. Dad used to preach about getting their ‘asses’ on the streets and pushing more ‘product’.

  When I peered around in search of the voice that sounded so confident and brave, Gypsy noticed me. For one second, I had his full attention. I knew right then this was something I never wanted to lose.

  I didn’t know much about him. Mostly, I just knew he was older than me. Much older.

  With his beautiful hazel eyes, shining warm and tender, and his short, light brown hair, longer on top and front than on the sides and back, I was swept away by his boyish good looks. I studied his tattooed arms and silver rings, appreciating how they made him his own person.

  Gypsy wasn’t like the other men I’d grown to know, those I lived with every day. He was clean—mind, heart, and soul. I knew this by the way he acted.

  When he spotted me eavesdropping around the corner, he kept his expression blank. His jaw, covered by a few days of scruff, ticked like my dad’s always did when he was mad. At first glance, I couldn’t help myself. I gave him what I’m sure was a ridiculous grin, followed by sticking my tongue out at him. He kept to talking business, but slyly managed to acknowledge I was there.

  Dad hadn’t noticed the attention his gruff customer—wearing a black vest and clean white tee—was giving me. But I did, and I loved it in a way I knew I always would.

  Gypsy’s smile wasn’t cruel like my dad’s, and it wasn’t vicious in nature like so many of my father’s dirty men.

  When Gypsy smiled, I felt the clouds of my circumstances parting, shining a beautiful light over my dim and lonely existence. Gypsy’s light was unlike any I’d ever seen before. It was so bright, so safe, and so devastatingly perfect.

  I knew something had changed in that moment, but I had no idea just how important it was, or how monumental that fleeting second would alter the course of my life. I was determined to make Gypsy’s smile mine.

  Forever.

  Then, like so many other times before, I’d been caught listening in. I wasn’t fearful of my punishment, or tormented with thoughts of being locked in my room alone for days on end, as had happened so many times before.

  Not even close.

  Instead, I was afraid I’d never see Gypsy again. Then I worried that I wouldn’t because of the horrible things Dad was telling his best friend and partner, Trev. Once Gypsy was told to leave, he was escorted out by some of Dad’s men. Dad and Trev stayed behind, discussing their business arrangement with the Saint’s, agreeing that they were done, and that the home crew needed to be briefed as such.

  My dad’s ‘crew’, as he called them, never really hurt me. They were sort of like my family. Some of them were sometimes nice to me. I never thought much of it when I’d walk into a room I knew better than to enter, and one would grab my arm, position me on their lap and hold me too tight and for too long.

  My dad always caught them.

  His face would get red, and his eyes would get squinty as he’d pull me out of their reach. He would yell loudly, cursing them out and redirecting their focus back on work.

  I was a prize, I was told. I was to be kept safe, whole, and untouched. Because a girl my age, and still so pure, was worth a lot more than one who was damaged. At least, that’s how my father explained it to me.

  This special treatment used to prompt me to question why he was keeping me there in the first place. Prizes were meant to be held high, appreciated, and cherished.

  I was also curious as to why I always felt so alone. Why I had no mother, siblings, or friends. I ached for things I imagined other kids had. I never even had a person I’d consider a friend.

  It wasn’t until I came to live at Saint’s Justice that I truly felt the sun on my face every time I opened my eyes. A sense of freedom unlike ever before—this one glowing ever-present.

  Growing up, I didn’t know my real mom, and never asked where she went or why. I assumed, just as Dad had explained countless times—usually when he was mad at something I’d done—that she took one look at her newborn girl, who was supposed to be born a boy, and cursed God above before taking off to who knows where.

  Here at Saint’s, I have a real mom. A better one than mine probably could’ve ever been. One who makes my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, forcing me to eat my greens and not overindulge on the cookies I love for dessert. A beautiful woman who peppers my face with kisses for no reason. All I have to do is laugh and she pulls me into her short, round body, squeezing me so tightly I nearly lose my breath. I’ve never minded that she’s not my ‘real’ mom, because honestly, if I had to choose one for me, it’d be her.

  And then there’s Pop. I love Pop.

  In all ways, he’s a real dad—my dad.

  He lets me settle under his arm on the couch while he’s watching his television shows, movies, or just drinking a beer with the other guys who hang around here.

  He watches me constantly to ensure I don’t get hurt.

  He talks to me quietly when he wants me to listen.

  When I make him angry, he doesn’t shake me until I hurt, or lock me in my room alone without food or drink. Rather, Pop tells me he loves me and sends me on my way until the vein in his forehead stops bulging. Which, I’ll say, happens a lot, and typically when I’m bored. After enough time has passed, he comes in search of where I’ve gone, gives me a firm, one-arm hug, kisses the top of my head, and smiles into my hair as he reminds me that I’m the biggest pain in his ass.

  And, of course, here, I have Gypsy.

  My Gypsy.

  “Why can’t I have your ring?” I ask again, staring longingly at the dresser and the silver jewelry, wanting so badly to try it on for size.

  “’Cause I said you can’t, that’s why,” Gypsy exasperates. “Now, get the fuck out of my room.”

  Gypsy is always sending me away. Whether it’s on some errand he tries to tell me that’s important, or to dismiss me to go find Mom or Pop. Sometimes, he insists I ‘go find somethin’ else to do’.

  “You’re in a bad mood,” I note, watching him walk aimlessly around his room. He grabs some clothes from his dresser drawer and tosses them into a bag as I add, “You’ve been crabby for two days.”

  “Oh, so you have been payin’ attention, huh?” he clips harshly, dropping his hands to his sides and narrowing his eyes at me. “’Cause yeah, Cricket, I’m in a mood. I got shit to do.”

  And, just as he’s always sending me away, Gypsy’s always got ‘shit to do’. Work. Ride. Drink. These I don’t mind so much when he’s doing them alone. But when he has a girl with him, I do mind, and do what I can to get her gone. Childish? Maybe. But as I’ve claimed, Gypsy is mine. So, so long, sad-faced Sally. Or Shelly. Or Sara. Whatever the name of the face he was kissing last may be.

  Goodbye and good riddance.

  Trying again, Gypsy gestures to the door of his room. “Out.”

  “How bad do you want me gone?” I bait, hands to hips, looking around his space and plotting for a way to stay. Anything that keeps me close to him.

  Gypsy tilts his head back and closes his eyes. His broad, tattooed-covered chest moves up and down with each anxious breath. The cords of his neck strain before he drops his head to glare down at me.

  “Jesus Christ, girl. You can wear any man’s patience thin,” he growls. “Go find Pop, see what he’s workin’ on. Go find Mom, see if she needs help doin’ what the fuck ever.”

  See? Always sending me away.

  I paint on the saddest face I can muster in hopes to sway his annoyance.

  But alas, my plan is foiled. I know this when he sighs, tilts his head to the side, and insists softly, “Babe, this isn’t me being an asshole. I really do have shi
t to do. You gotta go so I can do what needs done.”

  My heart beats against my chest, and a collage of butterflies churn inside my stomach.

  I love when Gypsy calls me ‘babe’, because that’s the name the members use for those girls they’re always kissing. The other men in this club never call me ‘babe’. They call me Cricket, the name Gypsy and Pop christened me with the first day they brought me here. Why they chose that name, I have no idea. I never asked for fear they’d never call me by it again.

  Giving in, if only to satisfy my determination, Gypsy reaches over and grabs his favorite silver ring from where he tossed it and thrusts it toward my face, forcing me to lean back. “You can look, but you can’t keep it.”

  My heart finishes its rapid dance and slows.

  Our fingers touch as I accept the crusted metal. The piece isn’t pretty by any means. It’s old and warped. But still beautiful because it’s his.

  “Who gave this to you?” I question, inspecting its tarnished silver.

  “Pop had it made for me a long time ago,” he replies, his tone losing its edge. “He told me it was good luck and that he had one like it when he was a kid.”

  Well, now I feel bad for wanting to take it away. Gypsy needs all the luck he can get. He’s leaving. His friends, his family, the club.

  And me.

  A few weeks ago, he came back from a ride he’d been out on alone. I’d heard from one of the girls that he was coming back that afternoon.

  Being as I wanted to be the first to see him when he got home, I was sitting on the couch in the main room. My long, untamed hair was curled. I’d put on the makeup Mom lets me use. I was wearing the prettiest one-piece dress I had. The bright yellow one with the thin straps that fit snugly over my shoulders.

  But Gypsy’s arrival was nothing I’d expected. He entered through the main door, announcing he had some news that not everyone would welcome to hear.

  Pop immediately sent me on my way. Not that I went far. Holding my breath, I watched and listened from my hiding corner as Gypsy insisted Mom and Pop take a seat on the couch, fetching Pop a cold one as he did. Once they were all settled, Gypsy explained that he’d signed off to join the Army.

  Mom cried, holding her face in her tiny hands and muttering a chaotic mix of Spanish and English. Gypsy attempted to calm her worry, but she was too far gone. Completely inconsolable.

  Pop stood from his spot, looking to the ceiling and cursing to holy heavens. His anger was expressed so violently my insides shook as I’d never seen him roar as loudly as he did. And Pop handles a crew of crazy bikers, which means he roars a lot.

  I understood why he was so mad. This was Gypsy, his son, the shining light of his whole world. Even though I didn’t understand what joining the Army meant, I listened to them argue, taking in a quick lesson in what it could very well mean.

  When Gypsy went on to explain that he’d be leaving in a few weeks and wouldn’t be back for a long time, I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t listen to anymore. I took off around the corner and ran as fast as I could. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Straight into his room.

  The key I’d stolen from him months ago let me through his locked door. I threw myself on his bed, grabbed his pillow, clutched it in my arms, and cried.

  I have no idea where he’s going, but wherever it is, it’s far enough to take him away from me.

  Sliding his prized ring onto my finger, I cringe, hating that the fit is too big. The heavy weight of the silver moves back and forth, up and down, over my middle finger.

  “Still have shit to do, Cricket,” Gypsy reminds, so impatient once again. “Can’t do any of it with you in here.”

  Taking two steps toward him, I extend my arm and he takes the ring from my grasp.

  Without saying more, he looks down at his boots. I do the same, thinking I’ll never have reason to shine them once he’s gone. My throat is rough and scratchy. The tears in my eyes are heavy on my bottom lids, threatening to fall.

  Gypsy clears his throat and tersely orders, “Cricket, look at me.”

  When I refuse, he grabs my chin, forcing me to do what he says. The warmth from his fingers burns like a hole to the chest.

  I’m going to miss him so much.

  I close my eyes to block him out. To push him away. To do the same as he’s always done to me.

  Ashamed, embarrassed, and afraid, the tears fall one after another until they rest on his fingertips.

  “Come on. Look at me,” he prods, his tone gentle.

  Doing as he says, more tears form. Gypsy’s expression is resolute, but in the depths of his gaze, there’s a hint of despair. Maybe regret.

  He doesn’t want to leave.

  “I don’t want you to go,” I admit, before realizing how my broken voice resembles the break in my chest.

  “I won’t be gone forever, Cricket.”

  Swallowing a hiccup, I grab his wrist at my chin. “Why are you leaving?”

  “Reasons you can’t understand,” he rightly returns. Because, of course, I don’t understand.

  Before Saint’s, I lived years wishing that someone loved me. Sure, I was never really hurt living with my dad, but until I came here, I had no clue what I’d been missing. I don’t understand why Gypsy would ever want to leave. This club is his home.

  “No,” I tell him. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll come back,” he promises. “And you’ll be waitin’ right here when I do.”

  I’m always waiting for you, I think, but I can’t muster the courage to say.

  Gypsy senses the remains of my hesitation. “You’ll be the first person I come lookin’ for when I walk back through those doors, Cricket. I promise.”

  Nodding, I pull my chin from his reach and turn around. The pain in my chest throbs with each pace I take toward his door.

  One step…

  A life without Gypsy in it everyday will be lonely.

  Two steps…

  Time will pass as slowly as it does when Pop sends him out on a ride with the boys.

  Three steps…

  “Cricket,” he calls urgently.

  With my fingers wrapped around the doorknob, I stop.

  “Turn around,” he insists.

  Doing as he says, I notice he’s holding the ring between his fingers. I barely have time to catch the silver as it’s tossed into the air. “Meant what I said, you can’t keep that. But you can watch out for it. I’ll get it from you when I come back.”

  “Thank you.”

  Opening his arms for a hug, Gypsy smiles. “Now, you gonna bring it in, or are you gonna make me come get it?”

  My mouth shuts tight, my hand closing around the ring. This is Gypsy. Hard to the core, angry at the world, but always making time for me whether I’ve infuriated him or not.

  Running toward him, I open my arms. He laughs quietly and wraps me tightly in his hold.

  “You be good,” he tells my hair. I nod, nervous my voice will crack. “Stay out of trouble, and don’t give Mom and Pop any shit.” I nod again, this time smiling.

  When Gypsy sets me free, I turn and walk away, wiping the sadness from my cheeks. I walk through the door and straight to my room. Climbing into my bed, I hug my pillow and let my tears fall freely.

  When I open my hand, I’m relieved I have something of his with me. Then I begin to count the days until he’s home again.

  Four years earlier…

  “Please,” Cricket begs. Her hand is between us, aiming for the zipper of my jeans. With her voice quivering with anticipation, and her body trembling with nervousness, she gets out, “I want it to be you.”

  The little girl I used to know is gone. The bratty teen who followed me around at every turn has disappeared. The charming terror, who all her life had me constantly questioning my own sanity, is no longer within my reach.

  This Cricket, the woman straddling my waist and begging for my attention, is mine to take. With her eighteenth birthday only days out, she’s made her way f
rom being a lost child to this world, to… this.

  No matter her age or maturity, Cricket’s never had to fight for my notice. Even if, in all these years, I let her believe she did. The day I first laid eyes on her she began burrowing herself so far under my skin, I knew it’d take my death to get her out.

  And here she is, in my room at the club, in my fucking bed, nearly naked. This time, she’s not asking to be close, to hang around and talk endlessly while I work. She’s not asking to clean my stuff or keep any of it for herself.

  No.

  Cricket’s a woman now, and she’s asking the un-fucking-imaginable. She’s pushing for me to be the first man she ever lets inside of her. She’s demanding that I seal her fate, marking her a woman once and for all. If I agree, this would make her a woman, absolutely. But as far as I’m concerned, it’d make her my woman, and that can’t happen.

  I can’t fucking do this. I want this, I do, but I can’t take what’ll never be mine to keep.

  “Cricket, get up. Put your clothes on, grab your shit, and get the fuck outta here.”

  My drunk fueled mind can’t register how we ended up in here in the first place.

  If you’d have asked my sobriety two hours ago how it came to be that I stumbled into my room and found the one woman I’ve come to care about more than my own mother under my sheets, wearing only her bra and panties, giving herself to me in a way no other woman could, I’d have told you you’ve lost your goddamn mind.

  Tonight’s Saint’s Justice party had gotten out of hand quickly, celebrating the retirement of our president, who also happens to be my dad. Mom and Pop are heading out to Texas in the morning, and Cricket, being the stubborn little shit she is, flatly refused to go with them, arguing that her place is here now that Elevent is with the club full-time. She swears she’ll be kept safe and loved in Mom and Pop’s absence.

  As shocked and irritated as I was to hear that they agreed to let her make this decision, I was also somewhat relieved. Her staying back would mean that during my times home, I’d get to see her. To check in. To be sure she was being good, living the life she was meant to live.