by Bella Knight
“I’ll work on it,” said Juan, “what food you serving?”
“Bar food—poppers, nachos, sliders, loaded fries, chicken strips. Wings.”
“Damn, girl, you making me hungry,” Juan laughed.
“Hey,” said Jorge, “why don’t you have the patch?”
Henry smiled, “I was just gonna take care of that.”
He walked back to the office, and came back out with a gorgeous jean jacket of soft gray leather, with silver zippers and studs along the bottom. The Nighthawks emblem rode across the back.
“Don’t know if it will fit you…”
Ivy took off her battered, ancient leather jacket, and put it on the back of a chair. The new one fit her perfectly.
“Henry, I ...,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Hey, is that our tat?” asked Juan. Ivy slid the leather off her shoulder to show it off, “nice,” he said.
“How much is it?” asked Ivy, fingering the jacket.
“Fifty-dollar enrollment fee. Let me get the paperwork.”
“That was Renee’s,” said Jorge, “caught her dealing drugs, and she was outta here. Threw the jacket on the floor and stomped out.”
“Can’t have drugs here,” said Juan, “some of us got little kids in the daycare back there.”
The door banged open, and Ivy turned, “What the fuck? Ace?”
Ace smiled, “I’m back!”
“Mother fucker!” said Ivy, “you quit calling after the first year!”
He smiled and winked at her.
She ran to him and, hugged him, “Asshole!”
“Sorry,” he said, “bad memories and I worked two jobs and went to school.”
“You know this joker?” asked Henry, coming out with the paperwork.
“He slept on my couch. Was in a foster home where they didn’t count noses, and they were never home.”
“My dad kicked me out,” he said, “went to live with my uncle in Reno.”
She punched him in the arm, “Asshole. Go without talking to me that long again, and I’ll take my boot knife and put it where the sun doesn't shine.”
“If you’re done beating up on my rider, you can fill out your paperwork, Ivy,” Henry said, dryly.
Ace helped her fill out the tiny form. She paid her fifty, got Juan’s and Jorge’s numbers, and took off with Ace to Sonic. They ordered chicken fingers, jalapeno poppers, and cherry -lime drinks and filled each other in.
“Me first,” said Ace, “mine is boring. Went to Reno after I graduated. Got my associate’s in automotive technology. Got jobs in construction at dawn before class and worked as a grease monkey in a bike shop after class. Went to bartending school and did that at night and bikes during the day when construction slowed. Right, then petered out in the winter. Studied until two or three am. Got my degree, did the same thing once I got my degree, only without school in the way. Came here about six months ago, been doing it here, more jobs in construction. Apprenticed as an electrical engineer, still, do the bike stuff at night. Doing both is driving me batshit crazy.”
“Your uncle couldn’t spring for college?”
“Said he made it on his own, I should too. Could see his point. He did set me up in an apartment and helped me with books.”
“You should work for me,” Ivy said, stealing one of his poppers, “I’m going to open a rock bar and call it ‘Dirty Vegas.’”
“Fuck me!” said Ace, “been looking for something to invest in. My parents tried to break my trust, but my uncle made it airtight. Came into it a little back, paid off all my debts. Looking for some help getting it up and running?”
“Partners,” said Ivy, brushing her hands off on her jeans, and extending it to him.
“Partners?” he said, and shook her hand, “fifty-fifty?”
“More like sixty-forty. Got to keep my daughter in her super-expensive school.”
“Daughter?” He went very still.
“After you left, I got all broken up about it, partied heartily. Got really out of control. Got knocked up by some band guy.”
“Which one?”
“Cover band, asshole. Not you, him. Didn’t want to hear I’d gotten pregnant, said it wasn’t his. Could have taken him to court, but, why? Ass like him? Anyway, my foster mom came home, got drunk, and tried to take it out on my hide. I kneed her in the gut, told her she tried to touch me again, she was losing a hand. Took my stuff and got out of there. Never looked back.”
“Fuck, Ivy.”
She looked out into the distance, “Died in her own bed, set it on fire when she was drunk. Took that nightmare house with it.”
“Hey,” said Ace, “we had some good times in that house.”
She laughed, “That we did. We had the whole house to ourselves when she went away on that job to Boulder City.”
“Good times,” said Ace, “wanted to thank you. Couch surfing got old after Dad threw me out.”
“Your dad should be in prison,” said Ivy, “not that hoity-toity house. Tried to see your brother, but they wouldn’t let me past the gate. How is he?”
“He’s at this summer camp-type boarding school in Arizona. I went down, paid to upgrade their barn. They let me see him whenever I can ride down there. Don’t want to interrupt him too much, you know. And your kid? Bet you rock as a mom.”
“Not so much,” said Ivy, “Damia seemed fine, then she wouldn’t smile, didn’t do baby talk, didn’t listen to anything I said. Worked as a bartender underage, lived with another girl, Staci, another foster system runaway. We both noticed Damia’s problems, but the damn doctors didn’t listen to a word I said, said it was a ‘phase’ and she’d ‘grow out of it.’ I married a guy after Staci moved out. Dentist. Nice guy. Pretty house. Got Damia to doctors who weren’t asses, said she had autism. Kind of locked in her own head, you know? Sensations like light or sound or her own damn baby blanket were too much for her.”
“Fuck,” said Ace, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine… now.”
He looked out at the mountains and back down at his now-empty plate, “Wish the fuck I’d bothered keeping in touch.”
“Ace,” said Ivy, “don’t sweat it. Found the dentist in bed with two girls. Someone had turned him on to blow, and he became someone different. He felt sorry for what happened, paid for a special school for Damia. She’s doing great there, loves a pony named Candy. Has a friend. Says ‘hungry’ in sign language. Can point out a number. All the stuff I did, all the occupational therapists and everything, didn’t hold a candle to this place. So…” she said, taking a deep breath, “I started working at the Palomino Roadhouse. I’m a hooker, Ace.”
“You did it for your daughter,” he said, looking her in the eye, “that’s being strong, Ivy. Like you’ve always been.”
She wiped away her tears with her palms, “Got my associate’s in business, been putting money away like gangbusters, whatever the school doesn’t want. Just made a trust, in fact,” she said, her voice losing the edge of tears, “she’ll be taken care of for the rest of her life, and the money is protected forever. Gotta keep paying into it, though, for a long time.”
“Hence the bar. Moneymaker.”
“Yeah,” said Ivy, “if you do it right. I’m thinking blue and purple neon, dark walls with a wash of silver. A stage, rock ’n’ roll bands, real instruments hanging on the walls people can play. A couple of girls dancing on plinths, good beer, good liquor. Nothing more exotic than Johnny Walker Black.”
“You always did like the whiskey,” he said.
“Not anymore,” she said, “now I drink ginger ale or cherry drinks if I gotta drink with the patrons. Went cold turkey when I found out I was pregnant, and all my money’s gone into Damia’s education.”
“Okay,” he said, breathing out. He picked up the trays and, emptied them, “Where’s this bar you wanna renovate?”
“Just off the strip,” she said, “you’re going to love it.”
They headed
back toward their bikes, “You seeing anyone?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, “club guy. Arsenal.”
“Fuck me,” said Ace, “PTSD. Been doing better. Henry let him back in the club. Been working on his bike with him, getting to know him. He’s rock solid when he’s on his meds.”
“Yeah,” said Ivy, putting on her helmet, “follow me.”
“Nice friend…”
4
Confrontation
“No fucken way am I letting that happen!”
Ace loved the bar, said it had, “possibilities.”
She brought him to see Gina Jackson, the realtor, “Give me some time,” she said, “that place is dead even on Friday nights.”
“Here’s my number,” said Ace, writing it down on a sticky note he found on Gina’s desk, “we’ve got guys ready to renovate. Give me a bank account number, and the owners will have their down payment as soon as we sign the paperwork.”
“You partners?” asked Gina.
“You bet!” said Ace with a grin.
Gina reached into her desk, brought out cards, and handed one each to Ace and Ivy, “This here’s Charmaine DeFleur. She’s sharp. She’ll get you your partnership agreement, your business license, walk you through your food and liquor licenses. Help hire you some great cooks, too. She’s a lawyer, and she owns two restaurants.”
“We’ll meet with her today,” said Ivy. They called, got an appointment, and went right over.
One mind-numbing and expensive appointment later, they were on the road to get Ivy back to the Palomino. They blasted Poison, and Def Leppard, and Tom Petty, and Steppenwolf.
They stopped for gas. The wind was picking up. They heard the roar long before they saw them, —eleven riders. Ivy’s heart nearly stopped when she saw a face tattooed as a skull under a bucket helmet. Ivy poked around in her saddlebags. Under her old black jacket, she’d stuffed in her saddlebags was a gun, a Glock 22. She palmed it, and slipped it into the jacket, and secured the saddlebag. She willed the gas to fill the tank faster. She palmed a throwing knife, knelt, and slipped it in her boot.
Ace came out with two cans of Coke. He held them in one hand. The other went into his pocket. The riders came roaring in. Their pumps stopped. Ivy put each one back up.
“You in our spots,” said Claw, getting off his bike.
“Moving the bikes now,” said Ace easily, stowing the Coke cans in his other pocket. Ivy started moving hers out of the way.
An angry bantam rooster of a woman came at Ivy, —red hair, red face. She had coiled, black snake tattoos crawling up her neck over the edge of her studded leather jacket.
“Hey! Bitch! You got something belongs to me!”
Ivy stopped moving the bike, stepped away from it, hands in her pockets, “You must be Renee. Last I heard, you threw this on the ground and stomped off like a child.”
“That true?” said Skeleton, coming up behind her, “you disrespect your colors?”
“Henry kicked me out!”
Ace finished moving his bike and went over to move Ivy’s.
“She was selling meth. You wanna snort it with a straw, fine! But she was possessing and selling it six feet from a daycare we got in the club.” He effortlessly moved the bike out of the way, then came to stand behind and to the right of Ivy.
Claw came over, “You give my woman back her jacket?”
Skeleton held out his arm, “Banshee here sold meth near kids. And she disrespected her colors.”
Claw’s hand came out of nowhere, backhanding Banshee to the ground, “Dumbass bitch,” he said.
Ivy had a knife out of her boot with one hand and the Glock pointed at Claw’s head, “You hit a woman in front of me again, I’ll poke you full of holes.”
Skeleton waved his hand backwards. The knives that had appeared behind him went back into their sheaths, “Gonna do you a solid, girl, and pretend this never happened.”
“Good idea,” said Ivy.
He looked down at Banshee, who was beginning to stand, wiping the blood from her lips, “Lesson over. Get back to your bike.”
Ivy put the gun away, but not the knife. Ace handed her a Coke, and she put it in her pocket.
Claw took a menacing step forward, but Skeleton tossed his head towards Claw’s bike, “Your pump’s ready,” he said.
“You gonna let this bitch…”
Skeleton smiled, the smile never reaching his cold eyes, “She’s a good lay. It’d be like destroying a masterpiece, if you mess with that.”
Claw snorted and turned away. Ivy put the knife back in her boot.
Skeleton took a step toward her and looked down at her, “You fierce, girl, but suicidal. You would do well to be with us.”
“Thanks for the offer, Skeleton,” said Ivy, “but I’ve got a family here.”
“This your brother?” asked Skeleton.
“Yeah, in more ways than one. Ace, meet Skeleton.”
Ace nodded. Skeleton nodded back, “Why didn’t you draw when your sister did? Didn’t want to back her play?”
Ace smiled widely, “Ivy has always been able to handle herself. Nearly put her foster mother in the hospital when the bitch came at her.”
Skeleton smiled again, “This one’s a keeper,” he said, “open roads…”
“Open roads,” said Ace. Skeleton turned, and they got on their bikes and rode away.
Ivy and Ace headed out and turned off the highway to use the back way to get to the Palomino. When they couldn’t see, or hear the highway, Ace pulled over, and so did Ivy. They both got off their bikes, took off their helmets, and popped their Cokes. Ivy took two attempts to pop hers, and her hands were shaking.
“Fuckin’ A, Ivy,” said Ace, he drank deeply.
“Yeah,” said Ivy.
“The Blacksnakes came to the Palomino, didn’t they?”
She nodded, “Not our usual fare. Usually we get x-ray techs and miners and cowboys, and, if we get a club, we get riders who are on vacation, just passing through. My idiot boss Di let them in. They spent money like water. Claw there nearly took the head off one of the girls, Thanda. She was trying to get money to send her kids to college, one girl and one boy, both going to schools out of state. Ended up at another ranch. Makes more money there, I hear.”
They sipped their Cokes, “Arsenal hit a girl, I hear. Henry said he made amends.”
“Yeah,” said Ivy, “apologized and bought her a bag. She loves that bag.”
“Cool.”
She smiled, “Warmed up to him after that. He treats her, and all the girls there, like glass. He’s super polite, protective.”
“Kind of like a lion with the thorn removed from his paw,” said Ace.
“Yeah,” said Ivy, “I’ll tell him you said that. He’ll like that.”
They finished their Cokes and crushed the cans. Ace put them in a plastic bag he used for trash and put the bag in his saddlebags. They mounted up, and he took her back to the Palomino in gusty wind, with sand obscuring their vision.
“Want to come in?” Ivy said, at the gate.
“No,” he said, “this is your world.”
Sistas Doing It for Themselves
Lissa wanted her room to look like Ivy’s. Hers was smaller, but it had possibilities. Ivy took her to Vegas and the surrounding areas to see some used furniture stores for the columns to hide the wardrobes; then she helped her pick out a wardrobe for her clothes and an ugly (but very strong) shelving unit. She took her to a home supply store for rings, hooks, an electric stapler, grommets, a hammer, a stepladder, tarps, gloves, a mask, and spray paint in gold and silver. Then a soft carpet in maroon. She took Lissa to her favorite fabric stores, and they got some gorgeous silver fabric; some gold, and some metallic maroon with thin gold stripes for the walls, and fabric glue. Lissa gasped at the bills, but Ivy made her hand over the money. They carried it out to the truck Lissa had rented for the day. They filled up the cab, one bag at a time.
“You are supermodel gorgeous,” said
Ivy, “your room should respect that. Make yourself into a queen, get paid like one.”
“Di says you get paid the most. It’s not that you have the most dates. I’ve noticed that.”
“No,” Ivy said, “but I know what I’m worth. And I’m adaptable. I can be the rock ‘n’ roll girl. Clients like that. Marybelle plays the giggling southern girl, all charm. She charms them right into the Prada and Donna Karan she likes so much. She’s got a storage place she puts it all in, —climate controlled, every shoe in its box, everything hung up just so.”
“What’s she going to do with all that stuff?”
Ivy smiled, “I figured it out. She wants to open her own high-end used clothing store.”
“Get out!” said Lissa, “really?”
“Don’t let that southern charm and idiotic patter fool you. Girl’s as sharp as they come.”
They got in the truck, “Lunchtime,” said Ivy, “Greek? Italian? Ethiopian? Sushi?”
“Sushi!” said Lissa.
They had a Watermelon Boat, a half watermelon covered with sushi, “What about Jazz?” asked Lissa.
“Sick mom in Thailand, sending her brother and sister through school. Her mom is getting better, though. Jazz bought her a special sewing machine and she’s taking courses at someplace there on how to make expensive dresses for designers at home. She’s also growing fruit trees in pots and selling the fruit.”
“Cool,” said Lissa, who speared a salmon roll, “and you?”
“Looking into buying a bar. Not a done deal, at all, so Di doesn’t know yet.”
She ate a California roll, savoring the crabmeat and cucumber combo.
“Teach me everything you know before you go,” said Lissa.
“Wait,” said Ivy, “what’s your story?”
“Very simple,” said Lissa, “singing, modeling, dance. Paid a lot of money for a lot of lessons. Never quite good enough to be picked up by anyone. Turned some tricks, found out I could make more money a lot faster that way. Ditched Big Mike, he was my pimp, by moving all the way out here with you all.”