by A. J. Downey
There was a guy from Idaho, who wasn’t huge but was big as in he was probably no more than five foot nine or so and he had to be four hundred and fifty pounds. He always smelled of a mixture of my father’s cologne and engine grease, his big hands blackened with it in spotty patches that just never seemed to come completely clean.
He went by Baer, and one of the Eastern Oregon guys, an even bigger dude by the name of Buff, which apparently stood for Big Ugly Fat Fucker, was asking him about his first bike or something.
Baer laughed and said, “I still have it, it’s in my garage back home.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Uh-huh, sweet 1990 FLHTC full dress Harley,” Baer said.
“Nice,” Maverick commented as we took seats down and across from Baer.
“Yah, skin a nice two-tone candy apple red with gold trim, soft lower fairing and highway pegs with heel rests. I upgraded her tranny from a four-speed to a five-speed for better power on the highway. I still ride her around town, but she just isn’t reliable like she used to be for these long-haul rides anymore. I had to upgrade.”
“Sounds like a sweet ride, brother.”
“Better than any broad I’ve had lately, that’s for sure,” Buff commented. Baer grinned wide and exposed a missing eye tooth, the one next to it and further back missing too. Despite his graying beard and short ponytail, the gap-toothed grin made him somehow endearing. Baer was one of the most affable of the Idaho chapter by far and I always had a soft spot for him. Mostly because he would share his sugar-free butterscotch or strawberry hard candies with my little brother and he almost always had some on hand.
He winked at me and slid one of those strawberry candies wrapped in the shiny strawberry printed cellophanes down the table in my direction. I smiled back shyly and swept it toward me and shoved it into the pocket of my short shorts.
I listened to the men talk. Mostly about motorcycles and the mechanics, some about what parts Ironheart Salvage had to offer them for whatever repairs or varying projects they wanted to undertake regarding their bikes.
Maverick nodded, answered what he could and if he didn’t have the answer? He would send the odd text or two back home to Dump Truck to get it.
That was Maverick, though. Always ahead, always ready to make another dime. He even made a few sales right then and there, texting orders to D.T. and the guys calling in payment to the yard over their phones. Some of them would even have their parts waiting for them by the time they got home.
For me, it was boring, but I wasn’t there for the scintillating conversation. I was there to eat my dinner and to look pretty on Maverick’s arm. Both, I managed to accomplish in silence for the most part, unless I was asked something directly.
I kept my answers short and to the point and tuned out anything I felt like I wasn’t necessarily supposed to hear; pretending that I didn’t see the furtive glances or notice the quick changes in the course of conversation when it strayed too close to ‘club business.’
I was an old practiced hand at it after all, simply trading ‘family business’ for ‘club business’ when I’d stolen away on the back of Maverick’s bike.
I turned my head and watched as several of the bikers from varying chapters started grooming a portion of the lakefront into a sort of impromptu fight ring, taking rakes to the sandy pebbled shore and staking out Tiki torches at regular intervals in a big circle. They dragged crude benches and stacking pallets to provide places to sit, stand, and stand higher still to provide views of the crude arena.
It sent both a thrill and a chill down my spine in equal measure.
“You sure you know what you’re getting into?” Mav asked beside me, and I twisted on my seat and startled slightly. Fen was standing just the other side of Maverick, mammoth arms crossed over his big chest, staring over our heads at the ring taking shape just as I had been, except there was no chill in his blue eyes – just calculation and anticipation. The thrill etched into the hard planes and angles of his face, his smile nearly hidden by his blond beard, braided in places, and decorated with beads.
I couldn’t see his woven and braided Mohawk. He had a hood up over his head, the sleeves cut off the thin sweater, his biker cut over it. It was an ominous and eerie look, as though he had stepped straight out of the past into modern day. His tattoos of whorls and ancient designs stood out beneath his pale skin. He was every inch the Viking warrior and I couldn’t understand why Maverick sounded worried when I followed Fenris’ gaze to his supposed adversary.
Fenris’ gaze was locked on a wiry man, tall and slender yet absolutely shredded. His muscles stood out on his wiry frame like whipcord over bone, every motion as he stretched causing them to coil and lengthen like a work of art beneath his skin which was decorated with pale, slivery scars where it didn’t hold ink.
Not that the man was heavily tattooed, quite the opposite in fact. He had only a few. Something sleek and long on the inside of each forearm, a spot of dark blue at the corner of one eye and where his cutoff cargo shorts rode low on his hips, some kind of loop tattooed at each hip descending below his waistband.
When he turned around, high on the back of his shoulder was the unmistakable art of the Sacred Hearts logo picked out in simple black and white.
I tried to understand why Maverick was concerned. I mean, the wiry man looked like no match for Fenris in a fist fight.
“I’m sure,” Fenris said and his tone was deep, holding an almost oily quality of predation to it. It sent a shiver down my spine and Mav’s arm automatically went around my shoulders.
“Cold?” he asked me, and I nodded mutely, staring out over the sand at the man that Fenris had apparently chosen to fight.
“That guy looks like he’s gonna get creamed, is he crazy?” I asked. Maverick chuckled.
“If it were a fist fight, I wouldn’t be worried,” he said.
“It’s not?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“What kind of fight is it then?” I asked.
“Knife fight,” Fenris intoned. He spit on the ground off to one side, grunted and plodded away, in the direction of the ring.
I felt my mouth drop open in a little ‘o’ of incredulity.
“He’s serious, isn’t he?” I asked.
“Dead serious,” Maverick affirmed.
“That changes everything, doesn’t it?”
I tore my eyes away from where Fen and the wiry guy were talking, their faces both neutral and very serious and looked up at Maverick who’s deep, dark blue eyes were searching my face.
“Why do you think?” he asked.
“Fenris is big, really big, and powerful but he’s not as fast as that guy. He can’t be with all that bulk to him. Can he? A knife fight is about speed over power.”
Maverick’s lips quirked up at one corner and I could almost swear a shine of pride glimmered deep in his gaze which oddly suffused me with warmth that he would look at me like that.
“Fenris might surprise us,” he said, “but you’re spot on, Zaychik.”
I turned my head to look back at Fenris and his opponent, a barefooted club member from parts unknown behind them, grooming the ring they were about to fight in. Maverick pressed a kiss to my temple that I was barely aware of as I muttered, “Los chicos blancos son tan estúpidos.”
A booming crack of laughter just behind and to my other side of me made me jump.
“I don’t disagree with you there, Chica, but I think it’s just boys in general. White, brown, it makes no difference.” The man who spoke did so in flawless Spanish back to me and I swallowed hard. He was Mexican, like me, obsidian eyes full of laughter and mischief and could only be Dray’s father. When I looked at him, it was as though looking into Dray’s future. The only difference between the two of them was that Dray was taller.
“Dragon,” Maverick intoned with a deference I had never heard from him. The respect of the men around us a palpable thing as they looked up to Dragon from our sitting position.
“
Your boy got a death wish going up against Reaver in a knife fight?” Dragon asked. Mav smiled and shook his head.
“Reaver asked and Fen isn’t one to back down from a challenge. He may surprise us,” Maverick said.
Dragon gazed out over the sand at the two of them who locked hands around the other’s forearm in a strange handshake.
Dragon grunted and said, “I doubt it. No offense.”
“Truth be told, I think the only thing those two do match up in is they’re both fuckin’ crazy,” Mav said.
Dragon chuckled and nodding, said, “I know that’s right.”
“Sun’s gettin’ real low,” Buff said, and Dragon nodded.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” he said with a heavy sigh and he plodded forward, out toward the dock.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“Memorial,” Maverick murmured.
“Oh.”
He urged me up, and it seemed everyone was filtering down to the lakeside – and I do mean everyone – from club member to ol’ lady, prospect to prostituta del club.
I stayed by Maverick’s side and drifted along the sand with him to a place at the water’s edge.
Paper lanterns were being passed through the crowd, the sun dipping low in the sky, darkness starting to rise from the water and filter out from the surrounding trees, creeping out from doorways and seeping from beneath the lodge’s deck. Bics and Zippos alike clicked, flints hissing and spitting, flames passing among the tea light candles as Dragon gave his benediction from the dock.
It was beautiful. Even more beautiful still when Sunshine, one of the ol’ ladies from the mother chapter that I’d met and hung with earlier in the day, began to sing as paper lanterns sailed softly out on the water, pinpoints of softly glimmering light to match the holes poked by God in the sky, letting his heavenly light shine through the dark.
I kissed my thumbnail and pressed my knuckle to forehead, heart, and each shoulder in the sign of the cross, murmuring my good wishes and prayers into the night.
The somber moment flitted along the breeze filling each of us in turn with deep emotion, the heaviness of the moment gradually lifting, dissipating slowly like thick and heavy mist under the onslaught of rising temperatures.
The rising temperatures in this case were more due to the free flow of alcohol and the excitement of the impending fights, though. Maverick had me go get him another beer while he chatted with some of the other guys. When I returned, one of them looked me over in a way that made my skin crawl. I didn’t know him, had never seen him in Washington, anyway.
“So, she your ol’ lady?” he asked, licking his bottom lip suggestively while staring at me a little too hard, a little too long.
God, he was old enough to be my father! Dirty, hair stringy around the red bandana that cut a wide swath across his forehead, his face had a scar that ran in a vertical seam under one eye in a straight line to disappear under his chin.
His dirty patched vest read ‘Dumpster’ and honestly it fit for a variety of reasons.
Maverick’s smile never faltered as he tucked his arm over my shoulders and drew me into his side.
“She’s with me,” he said flatly, and Dumpster’s eyebrows went up.
“Yeah, but is she your ol’ lady?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Maverick declared and reiterated with emphasis, “She’s with me, brother.”
“Alright,” Dumpster said with a laugh, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, no disrespect.”
“None taken, no lines crossed,” Maverick said but his look wasn’t friendly or nearly as nonchalant as the motion of taking a swig from his beer.
“No lines crossed,” Dumpster echoed, eyeing me one last time. I suddenly felt an extreme need to shower as we all shifted and started heading for the ring drawn in the sand.
The back of Dumpster’s vest read ‘New Mexico’ and I was grateful that our paths would likely never meet again. Still, I tucked myself a little tighter into Maverick’s side and made sure that if for some reason I couldn’t stay close to him that I would remain close to one of the other guys who had ridden out here with us.
I felt better when Tic-Tac and Derry walked over and took up the space on the other side of me from Maverick. I felt even better when Mav muttered to them, “Keep an eye on him where Marisol is concerned,” when Dumpster’s retreating back was far enough out of earshot.
“You got it, Boss,” Derry said, his expression thoughtful – blue eyes calculating in the torchlight.
Our attention was soon taken up by the animated club brother from parts unknown in the middle of the ring of torches. He was, apparently, the master of ceremonies and de facto fight announcer for the evening.
…let the games begin, I guess.
I had hoped that by eating something, my energy levels would come up some, but that hadn’t been the case. I didn’t think I was going to be good for many fights, but I really did want to see Fenris in action. I had been curious about the actual abilities of the men who rode through my little slice of life for a very long time. Though they exuded danger and cunning, I’d never had the occasion to see it for myself just how much of it was true versus just them fronting… if they ever were fronting.
I scraped my bottom lip between my teeth as two men from parts unknown entered the ring for, as the announcer had declared, was to be a good old-fashioned street fight.
There wasn’t any telling where they were from as they’d removed their vests and stood, hands lightly wrapped for support, but otherwise bare from the waist up.
I’d seen some bare-knuckled boxing matches between some of the boys at home, but that didn’t hold a candle to the savagery that unfolded in front of me now. These guys didn’t stop. Not until one of them was unconscious in the dirt.
Cheers went up, fists rose into the dark, some of them with money clutched in them as bets were won and surrendered all around me.
My mouth was dry as Fenris stepped between two torches and into the circle of firelight. He held a big hunting knife in one of his big paws and his skin glistened with sweat as he jogged slightly in place and swung his big arms back, stretching and limbering up.
“He’s lucky, he won’t end up like me,” an older guy on the other side of Mav said.
“Oh, yeah? How’s that?” Maverick asked without looking at him. He held up a hand and flexed his fingers out, one of them refusing to extend.
“Y’see that? Cut my tendon clean in half in a knife fight like this. It ain’t worked right since.”
I bit my lips together and turned my attention back to Fen. I’d had faith that even though he might not win, that no permanent harm would befall him… up until now. Now, I was starting to doubt that very much.
The older guy with the messed-up finger laughed at the expression on my face as the crowd surged in a little tighter, bets being called, wagers set, and the two fighters, Fen and Reaver, who held a sharp looking little stiletto in one hand, squared off.
Heart in my throat, Reaver lunged, lightning quick, in Fen’s direction. Fen leaped back and an awkward dance commenced between the two, neither one of them taking their eyes off the other, both of them a study in concentration.
The crowd cheered and jeered in equal measure but both fighters were locked inside their own heads, calculating, feinting; each trying to psych the other out and score a slick or a scratch against the other.
It was breathtaking to watch, a savage dance, a terrible beauty about it. Their athleticism undeniable, I suddenly understood the appeal of all those long-ago gladiator fights in Rome for the people’s entertainment.
I held my breath, engrossed in the primal back and forth between the two men, gasping as each caught the other’s wrist to hold the blades from them. Fen grinned savagely and head butted Reaver in the nose with a sickening crunch. Reaver’s head snapped back, blood spurting from his nose and coating his teeth. His grinned a feral grin and I feared for them both. That neither would be able to contain whatever
darkness that lived inside the other. That whoever won wouldn’t be able to stop.
I found myself watching between my fingers, covering my eyes like with a horror movie yet unable to tear my eyes completely away.
The announcer shouted that it didn’t count. That the first blood must be drawn by blade. The two competitors separated, and my heart edged into my throat when they circled again.
I caught myself praying for Fen. The other man, Reaver, was so fast. Moving in a blur, Fen was wearing down and then it happened. Fen leaped back, Reaver pressed on, and with a wide arcing slash he caught Fenris with the tip of his knife in a shallow but clean cut across Fen’s stomach.
“Awww!” Fen straightened, his upper body going rigid, his head thrown back as his breath heaved. He dropped his chin to his chest and with a grin asked Reaver, “Best two out of three?”
I felt my heart plummet from my throat to my toes as the crowd went wild and Maverick laughed beside me. I let my breath out in a shuddering sigh.
I couldn’t take anymore even if I wanted to. My hands shook, and I just wanted to be anywhere but here. I smiled up at Mav, hoping it wasn’t too forced and said, “I’m really tired. Can I go to bed?”
“Sure thing, baby,” he said, eyes a bit glassy with his buzz. He kissed me and I kissed him back.
“Cipher!” he called out and Cipher looked up from where he was a few men down from us. “Walk Marisol back to our room for me, would yah?”
“Sure, I gotta tap a kidney anyhow. C’mon, chick.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at Cipher and Maverick let me go.
“You good?” Cipher asked me when we’d drifted a ways from the crowd.
“Yeah,” I said with a nod. “Just don’t think my heart could take anymore.”
“Aww!” He winked at me. “It’s nice to know you care.”
I was shocked a little to realize that I did… I really did.
When had that happened?
Chapter Thirteen
Maverick…
“She good?” I asked my secretary when he got back.
Cipher nodded, handed me a fresh beer and said, “Yeah, she’s good. I think she was actually worried about our boy out there. Got to be a little too much for her.”