“Got it, Boss,” Reno replied. “I’ll head up there today and nose around.”
“This deal couldn’t come at a better time,” Cash said. “I’m needing some money to finish the remodel on my house.”
Ally gave Cash a look of disbelief. She shook her head slowly. “How can you spend so much money? You get the same amount as the rest of us, and you’re always broke. It amazes me.”
“What I do with my money isn’t any of your business,” Cash snapped. He looked Ally up and down. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about you.”
“You’ll never be a worry of mine,” Ally responded with a dismissive laugh. “I was just curious. You defy all logic.”
Ally was correct. Cash defied logic, especially when it came to finances. Despite the millions he’d been paid, he was always broke. Feeling defeated for the moment, Cash waved the back of his hand in Ally’s direction and turned away.
The members of the club were all different when it came to the income they received from our jobs. Reno gambled it away. Baker, on the other hand, gave most of his to the less fortunate. Goose and Ally were both frugal with their earnings, retaining most of it for their later years in life.
I’d invested most of the money earned throughout my criminal career. My modest way of living required no financial support beyond the wages I earned at my legitimate job.
Unlike most of the men, the lure of financial reward wasn’t what drove me to be a criminal. Each job had its own challenges. Determining the specific obstacles, conquering them, and then emerging the victor was my incentive. The more complex the job, the higher my desire to succeed. Succeeding was my reward. Receiving payment for my knowledge and participation was a bonus.
Easy jobs no longer interested me. They weren’t worth the risk associated with attempting to pull them off. Luckily, there hadn’t been a simple job in over a decade. If one presented itself, I feared I’d refuse to participate in the operation. If that day came, the backlash from the club would be endless.
Anxiously, I waited for the meeting to adjourn. Short of Cash and his unpredictable behavior, the club operated like a well-oiled machine. Rehearsing every detail once a week wasn’t necessary.
Baker’s voice faded and then diminished to nearly nothing.
“Tito!” Baker barked.
I looked up.
“You alright, Brother?” he asked.
“I’m good.”
He nodded toward the arm of the chair where I was seated. “Something’s bothering you.”
Naturally, I glanced in that direction. Flakes of varnish littered the floor beneath my hand. The chair’s ornate wooden arm had been picked of its finish, leaving a strip of discolored wood as proof.
I brushed the palm of my hand across the surface as if I had expectation of erasing the damage.
“You’ve been a little off lately,” he said. “You sure everything’s okay?”
I wiped my hands against the thighs of my jeans and met his gaze with a reassuring look. “Just upset about the hat, I suppose.”
“There’s not more to it than that?” he asked.
“Nope.”
He stroked his beard. “You sure?”
“I’m good,” I said. “Really.”
“We can’t do this without you, Brother,” he said. “Hell, we can’t do anything without you. I need you on your game. I know that hat was part of your daily routine, but it was a hat. Five years ago, you were getting along fine without it.”
“Ten.”
His face washed with confusion. “Ten what?”
“Ten years. That’s how long I had it.”
“Okay, ten.” He stood from his seat. “Even if it was twenty. It’s an article of clothing. Pull it together, Brother.”
I wished it was that easy.
5
Reggie
A degree in theatre. When I was eighteen, it seemed like the thing to do. Following college, I learned that half the women living in Southern California had a degree in theatre and that nearly all of them were employed outside of their area of expertise.
I had a difficult decision in front of me. Stripping, working at Starbucks, or managing a shopping mall clothing store were my post-college employment options.
Although grinding my twat on a bacteria-laden brass pole while Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me blared in the background was enticing, the clothing store was the winner in the end. Afterall, it was close to the mini Asian buffet in the food court and my coworkers were mostly gay men.
I tidied an out-of-place tee shirt and looked at Raymond. “How was it?”
“Last night?” He rolled his eyes. “Disastrous.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s too needy. Needy people make me want to help them. I hate being caught in that trap.”
“What trap?”
He forced a dramatic sigh. “I can’t say no to needy people, especially if they’re pretty. You know the way a tiger senses the weakest animal in the jungle?”
“Yeah.”
“Needy people can sense my inability to resist from a mile away. They flock to me like seagulls to a sandwich. Then, it’s ‘Raymond, give me this. Raymond, help me with that. Raymond, I need a manicure. Raymond, my car needs a new Schlond Poofa.’”
“What’s a Schlond Poofa?”
He looked at me like he’d caught me masturbating in the dressing room. “You don’t watch Life in the Dreamhouse?”
My shoulders slumped in false regret. “No, I don’t.”
“A schlond poofa is the part that breaks on Barbie’s car. It started in the second episode of season one.” He shook his head. “Never mind.”
“Oh. Yeah, I don’t partake in Barbie.”
“You can watch them on Netflix. They’re hilarious.”
I tried to force a smile but managed to produce what I suspected came across as a shitty little grin. “I’m sure they are.”
Sensing my lack of interest, he straightened the shirt I’d adjusted moments before. “My point is this: I can’t do needy.”
“Well, that sucks,” I said, glancing at the shirt. “I’m sure he’s out there somewhere. You’ll just have to keep looking.”
“What about the guy who asked you out?”
“He doesn’t seem like the needy type,” I replied. “I should be fine.”
“I was asking how that’s coming along. Trying to be polite.” He looked me up and down. “You should try it.”
“I have. It tends to attract the needy,” I said with a laugh.
He cocked his hip. “Touché.”
“I haven’t heard from him since that day,” I admitted. “I guess we’re still on.”
“It’s Thursday. You should send him a text. Just ask what you should wear.”
“I might do that.”
He arched one of his perfectly sculped eyebrows. “Might?”
“I don’t want to scare him off.”
“Guys love women who are assertive.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.” He dragged his eyes up and down my frame. “You’re assertive. Act like it.”
I gave him a look.
“Where’s your phone?” he asked.
I gestured toward the register. “Over there, where it belongs.”
“Let’s send him a message.”
I chuckled. “The two of us?”
“This could be fun.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m guessing he’s a closet freak.”
Raymond claimed to be able to understand someone’s deepest secrets after spending nothing more than a few moments in their presence. It did him little good in sorting through the throngs of men who were attracted to him, though.
If ex-boyfriends were white rice, Raymond could feed a starving third world country with the men who lay in his wake.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, my tone sounding more hopeful than I expected.
“Because. Anyone that demanding about a hat is going to be controlling. Controlling
men are freaks. He’s a freak, Believe me.”
Side by side, we maneuvered through the various displays of the season’s beachy offerings. Once at the register, I retrieved my phone. As I scrolled through my text messages, Raymond snatched the device from my hand.
“What did you name him?” Upon finding the text he gave me a confused look. “Titt-oh frowny-face?”
“Tee-toe,” I said.
“That doesn’t make it any better.” His face contorted. “What an awful name.”
Raymond was an open book. He did little to hide his opinions, which was often to his detriment. He spoke before he gave much thought to the potential repercussions of doing so.
“I think he said his name was Taddeo,” I said. “He goes by Tito.”
His eyes widened. “Taddeo? Oh. I like that. I bet he’s Italian.”
“I dunno.” I reached for my phone, only to have him quickly retract his hands in denial. I glared. “Don’t send him anything.”
Holding the phone against his chest, he tapped the index finger of his free hand against his lip. “Let’s think about this.”
“Let’s think about it together.”
“Tito,” he said. “Just wondering what I should wear. Panties are undoubtedly out of the question. Is a dress or jeans more appropriate? I could rock either, just say the word.”
I sighed. “No.”
He scowled. “Tito. I haven’t heard from you. I assume you’ve lost my number. This is Reggie, the cute girl from the mall. Shall I dress up or dress down for Saturday night?”
“No. That sounds desperate. And a little pretentious.”
While scrolling through my text messages, he paced the floor. “Tito. Your brown eyes have been on my mind since the moment you walked out of here. Now that I’ve mentioned yours, what would you describe as my best feature? Hair? I knew it. How shall I wear it on Saturday? Up? Down?”
“No,” I said. “How about something like this: Just wanted to let you know I haven’t found out anything about the hat yet, but I’m still hopeful. I’ll keep you apprised.”
“No,” he snapped. “For one, nobody should ever say the word apprised in a text message. And, that doesn’t mention your date. Isn’t that why we’re having this conversation?”.
“The date goes without saying. For me to mention it makes me look like I don’t have an ounce of self-esteem.”
“Well, if you’re not going to mention it, you should at least have fun with whatever it is you say. You know, use something with a double meaning. Add a winky face at the end.”
“Winky faces are dumb. The wink is implied by the content.”
“People wink,” he argued. “Especially in texts.”
“I don’t wink.”
“You should. People can’t see emotion in a text, so a winky face softens the blow of what might be perceived as pretentious, overbearing, or out of line. The winky face emoji is flirtatious and apologetic at the same time.”
I shrugged. “I don’t wink. In person, or in texts.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“That’s awful,” he said. “I wink all the time. Sometimes without saying a word. I think it’s mysterious.”
I laughed. “What’s mysterious about a wink?”
“The reasoning behind it, I guess.”
While he stared back at me waiting for a response, my phone beeped. He screeched like a startled eleven-year-old girl and tossed it on the counter.
I exhaled a breath of exasperation and reached for my phone. A text from Tito brought a smile to my face.
I opened it.
Reggie. Just wanted to see if you were up for a motorcycle ride on Saturday? We can ride it to dinner if it’s alright with you.
Without thought, I responded. Depends. Is it a Harley, or a sport bike?
I have both, he replied. What’s your preference?
Harley, I responded.
His response was immediate. Out of curiosity, may I ask why?
The gods were watching over me. It was my chance to express myself without seeming needy.
Because, I replied, I was once told that sport bike riders were unpredictable maniacs and that Harley riders were only after one thing. Sex. Although the former might be fun, on Saturday, I’d prefer the latter.
Harley it is ;) he replied.
I stared at the winky face, wishing he wouldn’t have sent it. If Raymond’s interpretation of the emoji was correct, it’s existence could mean one of two things.
Tito was either flirting with me or apologizing for wanting to fuck me.
Both options made me feel slightly uneasy.
6
Tito
The sound of an approaching motorcycle caused me to snap out of the semi-conscious state I’d slipped into. Troubled by my past and worried about the future, I walked to the window facing the street and peered through the blinds.
Riding his newly-reassembled hardtail chopper, Goose cleared the hill at the end of the block. His hands were positioned well above his shoulders, gripping the era correct “ape hanger” handlebars he’d fitted the forty-year-old motorcycle with.
His motorcycle came to a rest in the driveway. After allowing the machine to idle for a moment, he shut the engine off. He stepped over the seat and gave the motorcycle a long look as he hung his helmet on the handlebars. A satisfactory smile was plastered on his face.
I opened the front door. “Feel good to have it out?”
“Feels great,” he replied, glancing at the machine over his shoulder. “Nothing beats the rumble of a finely-tuned Shovelhead.”
“Sounds great.”
“The cam gave it a decent amount of bottom end,” he said, stepping onto the porch. “The stroke on that crank gives it a ton of top end. That thing flies when you whack the throttle.”
I stepped to the side. “Come in.”
He glanced around the modest living room. “Just wanted to see how you were doing. I—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he insisted, looking at me as he spoke. “I guess whether or not you choose to talk about it is up to you.”
“I’m doing just—”
“Your life’s sweater has a loose thread,” he argued. “My fear is that if someone pulls on it, you’ll come unraveled.”
Lying to Goose was like lying to my mother. It wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t easy, either. He was far too savvy to be bullshitted into believing something that wasn’t totally true.
“Do you remember the summer of 2009?” I asked.
His gaze dropped to the floor for a moment. He looked up, grinning. “How could I forget it? Ghost had that old ’63 Chevy truck with the 409 in it. Damned thing was so fast, it’d spin the tires at a hundred miles an hour. Baker cut off his beard, Cash was fucking that Brazilian chick, and you shaved your head after you lost that bet with the bartender about who could do more pushups. We went to that bike rally in Oceanside, and you brought that chick from the mall. We did that job in Escondido—” Mid-sentence, he paused. His face went stark white. “Oh shit. I’m sorry, Brother. It’s not the hat, is it?”
I wanted to respond but couldn’t seem to get the words to clear my throat. I shook my head.
“She gave it to you, didn’t she?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Keeping something that reminds you of a loss isn’t always a good thing,” he said. “Like the parents who have a child die in an accident. They might keep the bedroom exactly the way the kid left it for years. It stands as a reminder of the loss. The healing begins once they find the strength to put the things away and turn the room into a study.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Maybe it’s best that the hat’s gone. Hell, I didn’t put two and two together. Now that I have, I realize you’ve been clinging onto that summer for ten years. It’s not healthy.”
“Have I been a mental case for the past ten years?” I asked.
“I wouldn�
��t say that. No.”
“If I hadn’t lost the hat, would you say I needed therapy?”
He smirked. “No more than the rest of us.”
“I’m not unhealthy,” I said. “Mentally, or otherwise.”
“You haven’t dated anyone since that summer.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s unhealthy.”
“I asked the store manager out,” I argued. “That’s a huge step. Think about it.”
“What store manager?”
“From the Buckle. I went in looking for another hat. One just like it. She’s trying to find me one.”
His eyes narrowed. “The store where that chick worked?”
“Shelley,” I said. “Her name was Shelley.”
“Where Shelley worked?”
“Uh huh.”
He glanced around the living room while formulating his thoughts. After a moment let out a long breath. “I could argue that asking her out, considering where she works, is unhealthy. I’d have to think about that one a while.”
“I think it’s a step in the right direction,” I said. “Might be for the wrong reasons, but it can’t hurt matters, that’s for sure.”
“When are you going out?” he asked.
“Saturday.”
“Day after tomorrow?”
I realized I had yet to speak to Reggie since meeting her. I nodded. “Guess it’s Thursday, huh?”
“For about ten more hours,” he said.
“I should probably say something to her,” I admitted. “I haven’t spoken to her since I asked her out.”
“When did you ask her out?”
“Right after I lost the hat. On Sunday.”
He laughed. “Might not hurt to touch base with her.”
I retrieved my phone from the end table. After a moment of staring at the screen, I looked at Goose. “Not sure what to say.”
He extended his hand. “Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“I’ll type her a text.”
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