by Elias Taylor
“I just need a game plan,” Heather said.
“Of course,” her dad said. “But take your time. Teach at the studio for a while. See where that takes you.”
“I will,” Heather said.
“And remember, there’s more to life than being on stage,” her dad said.
“Really?” Heather asked, only half-joking. “Like what?”
Her father chuckled.
“Like your sister’s amazing strawberry rhubarb pie, for one,” her dad said.
With that, Heather followed her dad back into the kitchen.
Chapter Two: Doomsday
Hayden Russel grinned as he tried the ignition of the Alfa Romeo Spider and it came to life. He had been working on the gorgeous cherry red classic car almost all week. The owner adored it and bought it for a song at an auction, but the engine had been in bad shape. Most mechanics in the area had no clue how to work with an older make, but Hayden was a rare exception. He was drawn to the classic cars like a fly to honey.
Hayden turned the engine off and pushed himself back from the car. He stood at his full height and appraised the vehicle. His boss walked towards the bay.
“Man, you’ve got the gift,” Louie said.
Louie Francisco owned the shop that Hayden had worked as a mechanic at for years. Hayden didn’t always vibe with authority figures, ever since his stint in juvie, but Louie was alright. He gave Hayden his space and that was just fine with Hayden.
Hayden shrugged at Louie’s praise.
“I like the vintage models,” Hayden said.
“That’s an understatement,” Georgie said.
George Smith, Hayden’s best friend and fellow mechanic, was crouched by the wheel of a car and shamelessly eavesdropping.
“Vintage cars are the only thing he loves,” Georgie. “Besides the Heavy Hogs, of course.”
Hayden just shrugged again.
“Well, there’s money in these older makes,” Louie said. “Lots of hot shots with too much money like to collect. I’ve been thinking’ about expanding and making a classic car addition to the shop. I’ll be counting on you, Hayden.”
Hayden raised his eyebrows. It was a smart move, no doubt. People who owned classic cars were willing to spend a fortune on keeping them in tip-top shape. Louie gave Hayden and the Spider one last smile and then sauntered back to his office.
“Seriously, my brother?” Georgie muttered. “You want to work for The Man the rest of your days?”
“It’s a decent job,” Hayden said. “I can’t do much else.”
“Don’t give me that mopey bullshit,” Georgie said. “You could run your own classic car shop easy. And do motorbikes on the side, especially when you’re the number 2 for the Hogs.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not the number 2 yet,” Hayden said.
He glared at Georgie and leaned back against the wall of the garage.
Georgie was part of the Heavy Hogs, but he wasn’t born into it, not like Hayden. The Russel family ran the club, they had ever since Hayden’s grandfather, Richie Russel, had started the whole thing. Hayden’s father, Richard, was running the club at the moment, while Hayden’s older brother, Charlie, was the number 2. The plan was that Hayden would step into the number 2 spot when his dad stepped down.
That’s the way it had always been. The Heavy Hogs was about family. Or at least, it was supposed to be.
“What’s troubling’ ya, Doomsday?” Georgie asked. He used Hayden’s biker nickname, bestowed upon him when Hayden was still a teen due to what the older guys called his grim outlook on life.
It wasn’t Hayden’s fault that he had a bad few years. High school had been tough. Hayden hadn’t liked all the sitting still in classrooms and teachers telling him when to speak, when to shut up, and what to do. All he wanted to do was ride with the club, only his dad kept telling him to stay behind. So, Hayden had acted up. Got in with a bad crowd, did some drinking, a bit of vandalism. Landed himself in juvie for a few months. And then just when things started to turn around, Hayden’s life crumbled to the ground all over again.
“I don’t know,” Hayden said. “Club shit is dice.”
“Care to elaborate?” Georgie asked.
Hayden couldn’t help but smile at his friend. Georgie had a way with words, that’s why his biker name was Silver tongue.
“My dad’s look in’ into some new business,” Hayden said. “Bad business. Road Warriors’ business.”
Georgie raised his brows. The Road Warriors were a rival club, and everyone knew they played it fast and loose with drugs and weapons. The Heavy Hogs had been above all that in the past.
“He says if the Road Warriors keep taunting us, then we might as well fight back and cut into their territory,” Hayden said.
“Damn,” Georgie said.
“This ain’t us,” Hayden said. “When my grandpa started the Hogs back in the day, the club was about family takin’ care of each other. Not stirring up trouble.”
“Times change,” Georgie said.
His face was grim though. Georgie liked to ride bikes and mess around with his brothers, but he liked the thought of ending up on the wrong side of the law just as little as Hayden did.
“Fuck, I’d love to own my own classic car shop,” Hayden said. “But now’s not the time. I gotta wait until shit settles down with the club.”
Hayden returned to his work for another hour before clocking out and heading to Maverick’s Bar. It was unofficial headquarters for the Hogs. and there was a meeting that day. As the future number 2, Hayden got to sit in on the meetings, although his dad always reminded him to keep his mouth shut.
When Hayden arrived in the back room reserved for Hogs business, his father and Redeye, a veteran member of the club, were already there.
“Doomsday, how are ya?” Redeye asked. “Haven’t seen ya around lately?”
“Been busy at work,” Hayden answered.
He kept his expression cool and indifferent as his father only grunted in greeting. In here, he had to hold his cards close to his chest. With the Hogs, he had to embody the Doomsday persona. Any sign of weakness and his dad would attack.
It had always been like that. Richard “Butcher” Russel, nicknamed because of his no-nonsense attitude and imposing body, was hard on his sons. His oldest, Fast Charlie, had always managed to appease his tough dad. Charlie was laid back and knew how to calm people down.
Hayden, on the other hand, had an uncanny skill for rubbing his dad the wrong way. He wasn’t as adaptive as Charlie and he always made it known when he was displeased. Butcher hated that.
Butcher just wanted everyone to get in line and do as he said. His word was law. But that wasn’t how the Hogs were meant to be. Yes, they needed a leader, but the leader was supposed to listen to his guys.
Hayden slumped into a chair in the corner. Redeye passed him a beer.
After a few quiet minutes, Hayden’s brother and the number 2 guy, Fast Charlie, walked in. Rattlesnake and Sugar were right behind them.
They all greeted each other and settled down around the table.
The meeting started with the typical stuff, assigning jobs and running through some issues. One brother has lost his job, so how are we gonna help him and his family out? Another brother is moving, let’s get some guys over to help with the packing.
Then things took a turn when The Butcher brought up the Road Warriors.
“They’ve been crawling all over our territory,” the Butcher growled. “It’s bullshit.”
“The lines have always been vague,” Fast Charlie said in a measured voice.
“Fuck the lines,” Butcher said. “The only way to beat them is to play their own game. We gotta get some inroads to the dealing.”
The air in the room shifted. Hayden could feel it crackling with tension. Both Sugar and Redeye had long histories. They’d lived in other cities, took part in plenty of dubious activities. But then, the Hogs were supposed to be different. And Sugar had a wife and kids now; he knew he could get back
into drug dealing, but could his family handle that? Redeye was up for anything.
Rattler was a mystery. He had been part of the club for ages, and he was steady as a rock, but there were secrets he kept buried within himself. That was fine with Hayden. He had secrets of his own. But Hayden just wished he knew what Rattler thought of the Butcher’s plan.
“I’ve already talked to some guys,” Butcher said. “Yeah, some blood will have to be shed, but this is for the greater good.”
Hayden saw his brother frown, but Fast Charlie didn’t speak up. Hayden couldn’t take it anymore.
“You talk about brothers losing blood like it’s nothing,” Hayden said. “I always thought blood meant something’.”
“Doomsday’s got a point,” Sugar said.
“He doesn’t know what we’re up against,” Butcher growled. “He’s a fucking kid.”
“I know that playing the Road Warriors’ game is just gonna make them strike out harder down the road,” Hayden said. “Why not focus on the above-board business, opening up an auto shop like the Hogs did back in the day?”
“That would give us security and a solid home base,” Fast Charlie said.
“This ain’t my Father’s Day,” Butcher said. “A business like that, run by bikers, it won’t ever float now, no way, no how.”
The other guys didn’t seem so convinced by Butcher.
“The Road Warriors like to fight, they get high off it,” Hayden said. “We should evade, not give ‘em what they want. Eventually, they’ll get bored.”
“You’ve got sweet dreams, boy,” Butcher sneered. “But this is reality.”
Hayden could tell by his father’s face that he had gone too far. So he shrugged and leaned back in silence.
“I’m gonna be reaching out, finding some names, figuring out how we can get a slice of the Road Warriors’ pie,” Butcher said. “And that’s final.”
The others nodded, but Hayden didn’t miss the flurry of looks that were exchanged. This was not the end of the issue.
The guys filed out until it was just Hayden, his father, and his brother.
Butcher stood up and gave Hayden a look that, ten years ago, would have made his knees quake. But Hayden was over being scared of his old man. He knew now that Butcher’s bark was worse than his bite. He was all talk, no action.
“The next time you talk back to me in a meeting will be the last meeting you sit in on, boy,” Butcher said.
Hayden knew it would be over more quickly if he kept his mouth shut.
“You’re not in charge of this club, you hear me?” his father asked.
Hayden nodded.
“And you don’t know fuck-all about how to run it,” Butcher said.
With that, he turned on his heel and left the room.
Fast Charlie lingered with Hayden. Charlie was only three years older and the brothers were close enough. Hayden knew he was destined to be Charlie’s number 2, and he knew Charlie would be a good leader. He wished that day would hurry up and arrive, but Butcher seemed to have no plans to step down as leader.
“Hey, brother,” Charlie said. “You did the right thing.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” Hayden said.
“Don’t let dad get to you,” Charlie said. “When my time comes, I’ll need a right-hand man who speaks his mind.”
Hayden nodded. He stood up and he and his brother shared a quick high five and hug.
After exiting the bar, Hayden hopped onto his bike and took off towards his small apartment.
He was lost in his thoughts about the club when he pulled up at a familiar intersection and an onslaught of memories ripped him from his worries.
Yeah, he knew this intersection a little too well.
Heather Carlson. That had been her name. When he was sixteen, back in school after the stint in juvie, she had been the one who had reached down and pulled him out of the hole. She had also been the one to drop him back down in it. But for a while, when Hayden had been with her, his whole life had been touched with her light. As if she was an angel sent to rescue him.
Her dance studio stood at the corner. The little blue building was still there and Hayden could see the light was on. A dancer was practicing within, her lean shadow flashing by the window.
Hayden used to park his bike at this intersection and wait for Heather to be done with her classes.
He had loved that she danced. She had such passion for it and it reminded Hayden of how he felt about classic cars and bikes. She used to tell him all about famous ballets and the crazy part was Hayden had loved it. Heather had made old classical music and dance sound exciting. And she had been interested in his stories about the drama of the club and Hayden’s biking. Or at least, Hayden had thought she cared.
Maybe she had, for a while. But in the end, he was a biker from the wrong sides of the tracks and she was a ballerina with a bright future. She had dumped him senior year. He was holding her back, she’d said, and she needed to focus on getting into performing arts school.
Hayden should have seen it coming. Heather, like all the girls in the ballets she loved, was destined to be with some prince, not trash like him.
The light turned from red to green and Hayden pushed his bike into motion.
Hayden thought of Heather all the way home, long after he had left the intersection behind.
Chapter Three: The Old Habit
After dinner with her parents, Heather returned to the ballet studio. She went to the apartment, but only to change into a pair of black leggings with a sports bra and tank top.
She walked down the stairs and unlocked the studio. Lenora had given her the keys for the studio along with the keys to the apartment.
Heather flicked on the light and was hit by a wave of nostalgia. The gleaming hardwood floors, the wall to wall mirrors, and the scent of Lenora’s favourite lemon air freshener all took her back to her youth. How many hours had she spent in this studio? Hundreds? Thousands?
She was just going to stretch her leg. That was the plan. She had gone through a bunch of physical therapy in Chicago. Heather had shown up the first day and told the PT that she was willing to do whatever it took to get back to where she had been.
She would never forget the sad look in the PT’s eyes.
“Willpower will help,” he had said. “But willpower can’t heal everything.”
Even so, Heather had done every exercise he had assigned her with religious fervour, and she intended to keep it up.
After she had gone through her stretches and exercises, Heather stood up and regarded herself in the mirror. She rose up on her toes and back down. Her knee felt ok. It ached a bit, and she still didn’t like to put too much weight on it, but it was good enough for a dance. A simple one.
Heather shuffled through her mental catalogue of dance routines and picked out an old one she had done a bunch of times at various showcases. One of her mentors at Juilliard had been really into ballet-jazz fusion.
“The noble art of ballet needs to adapt,” he used to say. “If it is to survive for another several centuries.”
The routine was technical, but not arduous. Heather found the upbeat song on her phone and plugged it into the speakers.
The first few beats were good. For a brief moment, Heather looked like her old self in the mirror. Then her leg started to hurt more. Halfway through the two-minute routine, Heather was winded.
She hadn’t just lost her good leg. Heather used to be in tip-top shape. She had to be in order to do a three-hour ballet every single night. To lose her breath after 60 seconds? It was humiliating.
On a fan kick, Heather’s leg buckled and she stopped. No biggie. She would start again. She had time to get this right. She was Heather Carlson. This was what she was known for: doing a dance over and over until it was perfect.
She caught her breath and drank some water.
Then she started the song again.
This time she didn’t even make it halfway before she stumbled. She finished
the dance anyway. It was sloppy.
She did it again. Her knee throbbed, but Heather had to push through the pain. She could do this. Her body knew the routine. It had once been an old habit, ingrained in her muscles.
She lost her balance on an arabesque. Heather caught herself from falling and stood up straight.
“Come on!” she yelled at herself in the mirror.
What was it that Lenora Newsome used to say? The voice of her old dance teacher came back to her.
“Don’t scream, don’t groan, it isn’t ladylike,” Lenora said. “Don’t ever complain, just do it better.”
“Ok,” Heather muttered. “No complaining, just do it better.”
She tried the routine five more times, and each one was worse. Every time Heather thought she had mastered one part of the dance, she messed up another section.
She caught a glimpse of her tired and frustrated face in the mirror.
“I can be here all night,” Heather snapped at her reflection.
She played the song again.
On a turn, her knee twisted in a bad way. Heather cried out and fell to the floor. She managed to land in a safe way, but her anger and sadness overcame her, and she crumbled onto her back.
The song played out and then the studio was silent.
Heather lay flat and looked up at the ceiling of the studio.
She had taken lessons at this studio since she was four. At first, it was just once a week, but Heather had begged her parents for more. They thought it was just a phase, but soon it became clear it was more than a childish fancy. When Heather was seven, Lenora Newsome had met with her parents to discuss Heather’s future.
“She has it,” Lenora said. “Heather’s got what it takes in her very bones.”
By the time Heather was in high school, she was at the studio every single day, taking group lessons and private tutorials with Lenora. She had even helped teach the younger kids. She had been good at that, which was why Lenora had invited her back so readily.
Every time Heather had stepped into that studio, no matter what was going on, she had felt at peace. It had always felt so right to pull on her point shoes on the bench, to plan out costumes with the other girls. Most of all, it had felt right to just dance. When she danced, all her problems quieted down. Heather was her best self when she danced.