Devil on Your Back

by Max Henry

  “Start at the top,” Ramona instructs, taking a sip. “What had you floating on cloud nine last week?”

  My heart clenches at the thought of him, of that brief interaction in the parking lot, which in effect kick-started it all. “I felt something, Mona. I looked at a man, and I felt something.”

  Tears slip free, and Ramona hums as she reaches for a tissue.

  “I feel wrong for it though. I feel . . . sickened.”

  “You feel like you’re cheating on Mike?” She waves the tissue at me, and I take it.

  “Yeah, that I’m sullying his memory.” I wipe the tears away. “I know it’s silly, but I can’t help it.”

  “It’s not silly.” She smiles. “It’s completely understandable. You two were, well, perfect for each other.”

  My tears hasten.

  “Shit, Sonya. I didn’t mean to make you cry more. I’m just trying to say that you shouldn’t feel like you’re disrespecting Mike. You’ve spent five years on your own, and if he can see that from up there”—she points to the ceiling—“then I’m sure he’s stoked you did that for him. But you have to move on some time. You’re still young.”

  “Forty-four is not young.”

  “It’s not sixty, either.”

  I chuckle. No, it’s not. I’m a wee way from the blue-rinse brigade yet. “I guess.”

  “I won’t sugar-coat it—”

  “You never do.”

  “But, as I was saying, it’ll be hard. You’re going to have moments where you feel conflicted between this other guy and your memory of Mike.” She curls her mouth to the side in thought. “Is the other guy Vince?”

  I nod.

  “You sure know how to pick ’em.” Ramona turns and places her forearms on the table, either side of her coffee.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask and blow my nose. “Everyone makes out he’s trouble, but I don’t see it.”

  “He’s not trouble . . . he’s . . . difficult. The night we picked him up, when King brought him back here, he was trying to kill himself in a bar fight.”

  “Really?” I struggle to see how such a strong, fiercely independent guy could ever be so weak. “I knew they brought him in drunk after a brawl, but I never picked it was that bad.”

  “He wouldn’t own up to it that night—stubborn to the last—he spilled later. Apparently it wasn’t his first suicide attempt, either.”

  “Callum mentioned something along those lines once when he told me why they called him Lynch.”

  “Yeah . . . anyway. He’s just closed off. He’s been an enigma around here for the women since he joined—you know that. He’s like the forbidden fruit,” she says with a wicked grin.

  “Why do you think that is?” I’m undecided if I should be happy he’s been so hard to get until now, or deterred since the entire female population of the club have failed.

  “Fear. He’s scared to connect. I’ve seen it plenty—when a guy loses someone special they close off.”

  Isn’t that exactly how I am? “Yeah, me too.”

  “So, on to part two,” she says, turning to face me once more. “Why are you so down and out this week?”

  “Because I messed up, and now I think I’m being given the cold shoulder.”

  “Ooooh,” she taunts. “That means you got close. How close we talkin’, huh?”

  I smile at her enthusiasm. “Pretty close, for the fact we weren’t even in the same room.”

  “Huh?” Her face twists as she pulls back. “I don’t follow.”

  “Phone sex,” I whisper so Mack doesn’t hear. “Tell me you young-uns still do it.”

  “God, I wish. I’m lucky if I even get the real thing with Sawyer.”

  “When we’re finished talking about me, you’re explaining what’s going on there.” I’ve seen the arguments, the push and shove and how upset Mack gets. This girl has issues of her own that she doesn’t need to bottle.

  Ramona stares off at the far wall for a beat. “Was it terrible?”

  “No, it was great. That’s the problem.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I felt so damn guilty, I hung up on him.”

  She makes a hiss between her teeth and shakes her head. “I bet he was ropeable at that.”

  “Don’t know; haven’t talked since.”

  Mack taps her on the elbow, wanting help getting a crayon out of the pack.

  Ramona continues as she wrestles the orange stick. “Is he ignoring your calls? I could get King to tell him to pull his head in.”

  I wave her off. “He’s busy with club stuff. I don’t want to bother him.”

  “You haven’t called him, have you?” She passes Mack the crayon, and turns back to me.

  “Not entirely.”

  “Oh my God, woman,” Ramona whines. “Call him.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes,” she cries out in disbelief. “What if he’s wondering the same? He probably thinks you’re ignoring him.”

  I snort. “I doubt it.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “If you said yourself you’re feeling guilt, maybe he sensed that? He might just be giving you space.” She sighs, and turns her mug in her hands. “I don’t think you need to be guilty anymore. It’s been five years, Sonya. You’re allowed to move on.”

  “I know I am, but it’s hard to feel like I should.” How can I explain to her what it’s like, having my heart and head constantly at war? “Anyway,” I say with a sigh, “we’re done with me.”

  “Are we?” Ramona takes a gulp of her coffee. “I want to know if you’ve been paying attention to what we just talked about, so I’m setting you homework. One guess what it is.”

  “To call Vince?”

  “Good girl. Report due tomorrow.”

  “Fine.” I smile. “Now, it’s your turn.”

  “Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Do I have to talk about him?”

  “I wasn’t going to ask about Sawyer.”

  Her eyes widen, and a flush shades her cheeks. “You weren’t?”

  “Mona, nobody is stupid around here. We know you’ve got something going on with Bruiser.”

  She glances to Mack, who’s engrossed in his coloring. The rise of her cheeks glows pure red. “Maybe, yeah, I don’t know.” Her face pains, and she takes hold of my hand. “I shouldn’t, Sonya. I’m Sawyer’s old lady. I don’t know what to do.”

  Seems she might know what a conflicting heart and mind is like after all. “You should leave Sawyer,” I advise.

  “But he’s Mack’s father,” she whispers. “I’ve spent so damn long trying to get that asshole to have a part in his boy’s life that leaving makes it all seem like such a waste of time.”

  “Is it, though?”

  “I’m not sure.” She retracts her grasp and cradles her coffee. “I’m so confused about it. If I leave Sawyer, then they’ll probably kick me out.”

  “Not if Bruiser claims you.”

  She scoffs at the idea. “And then what? Be responsible for starting a war within the club? I don’t think so.”

  “You know, King is looking for a reason to get rid of Sawyer.”

  “Did he say that?” She looks to me hopefully.

  “Not directly to me, but I hear things.” I smirk. Being the ‘invisible’ cleaner has its perks from time to time.

  “You deviant.” She slaps me on the arm. “What else do you hear?”

  “That Sawyer’s taken off on a personal crusade,” I say in hushed tones, “and Vince is tracking him to make sure he doesn’t get the club into trouble in the process.”

  “Really? Sawyer told me he had to go to a business meeting.”

  I shake my head. “A meeting he’s not invited to, but he’s making it his business, all right.”

  “Fucker,” she scowls. “He’s always taking things into his own hands. Why the hell can’t he let the daddy issues go and just settle down?”

  “You can take an animal out of the wild, but you can’t take the wild from the animal.” />
  “True that.”

  I down the last of my coffee and pick up the wadded tissue. “Talk to Bruiser about it. Tell him what you told me. The guy’s got more nous than you give him credit for. The situation involves him, so let him be a part of it.” I stand and head for the kitchen.

  She’s still nursing her mug at the table when I return, watching Mack color. The poor woman looks positively torn in two. She’s loyal, and that’s her biggest fault. Her loyalty to Sawyer is quite frankly misplaced, but the stubborn woman won’t see it that way.

  I place my hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be okay. I better go sort out that laundry you were never doing.”

  She smiles, and then shouts after me as I walk out of the room, “Call Vince!”

  PIANO MUSIC pipes from the church while I sit on the back steps, out of view, but close enough to keep an eye on the place. The ceremony—if you can call it that—has been going for a half hour. I caught a glimpse of Alice as he walked in, pretty young thing in tow.

  Seeing him in the flesh—not as some inch-squared image on my phone—sent chills through me. My boy, the kid I used to read to every night, the little monkey that stole my heart . . . he’s a man, as big as me. I’ll never get over that. I’ll never regret missing the transition from teenager to man, from being my constant regret to his own person.

  Lost in my thoughts, I scuff a stone around on the ground with the toe of my boot. Memories of happy times with Alice play through my mind like a slide show, but all the while, I’m careful to limit myself to the memories that don’t involve Julia much. Even after all this time, I can’t do it; I can’t think about her for any length of time without wanting to tear my heart out and offer it to the devil as a trade for her life.

  She was never supposed to die.

  She shouldn’t have died.

  I’ve lost count of the times I’ve read shit that explains how ‘we all have our time’, and ‘God needed another angel’. Fuck God. She was my angel, not his. I don’t think I’ll ever accept that it was her time.

  And now . . . now my head is trying to grapple with the added confusion of how I feel about Sonya. I kissed her twice, I wanted her more, and I fuckin’ heard her get off over the phone—because of me.

  Or was it because of me? Did she actually do it because she likes me for me, or am I simply a means to an end? Rumor has it she’s been out of the game since her old man carked it, so maybe I was only a tool to give her a much-needed release. After all, she already had that fuckin’ vibrator out when I phoned—she was going to do it either way.

  Used again.

  It’s all I’m good for of late, filling a need for others. Normally I can turn a blind eye to it, but with her, with Sonya, it grates.

  And why?

  Why does it bother me that she used me? I’ve had sex plenty of times since Julia passed, and each of them was a meaningless interaction—two adults using the other for relief. Isn’t that exactly what I did with her, too? So, why is it bothering me that she doesn’t feel anything for me?

  I know the answer; I’m just too scared to admit it—because I feel something for her.

  How can I, though? After the few interactions we had? This shit is fucked. When I get home from this trip, I guess I’ll know for real what her intentions were. Question is, will I still be so caught up with her, or can I just forget all about it and move on like I always do?

  I don’t need to chase a woman for a relationship. I don’t need a commitment.

  Do I?

  A rumbling engine snaps me from my spiral of anger. I look up in time to catch the glint of sunshine off a chrome wheel as it passes behind the gap in the foliage. I’m on my feet and hauling ass to the front of the church before my next breath.

  They wouldn’t.

  Sure enough, a black SUV cruises to a stop at the entrance to the parking lot, effectively blocking anybody from leaving. Low, next to the front fender, is a grey emblem—Carlos’s. All his trucks look the same, and as I run my eye over the vehicle, it strikes me—what if Sawyer’s in there? It’s an unlikely scenario, but stranger things have happened. The theory is backed by the fact Sawyer hasn’t showed yet, and in all honesty, I would have expected him here before Carlos’s men. I size up my options while I wait on the occupants to step out, running my odds through my head.

  Adrenalin, help me out here.

  The engine idles with a low purr, and nothing happens. It’s just me, and a huge fuckin’ SUV having a stare down, considering the tints on the thing are as black as the paintwork. I’ve got no idea if there are one or five assholes in there. All I can hope is that they don’t think I’m alone.

  Fuck.

  I shift from where I stand at the bottom of the steps and position myself beside the open door, angling so it appears as though I’m talking to someone behind the closed door. I move my mouth like a ventriloquists dummy, faking conversation with another ‘sentry’. My heart hammers, and I hope that my guess that they can’t see inside from where they’re parked is correct.

  The engine continues to idle—no movement, no windows going down, nobody getting out.

  I face the SUV again, arms folded over my chest, and stare it down. After what feels like an eternity, the damn thing slowly crawls backward out of the driveway and takes off down the road.

  Holy motherfuckin’ shit.

  If whoever was inside had stepped out, I would have been fuckin’ toast for sure. I’ve got no idea if any of the boys inside at the funeral are packin’, but even so, they’re contained in a church like caged animals. How sporting would that have been?

  I pull my phone out and hammer a quick text to King.

  Company at funeral.

  I click the button on the side to silence it so I don’t attract the attention of the people inside the church, and feel the vibration of a response.

  Sawyer?

  No. One of Carlos’s trucks.

  Stay out of it.

  Predictable, really. I’m sure he doesn’t want to start something between Carlos’s bunch and ours. Although, it may yet happen . . . I message King again.

  They already saw me.

  Fucks sake.

  I stay positioned at the door until I hear the closing statement, just in case the vehicle returns. As the people in the pews start to stand, I dash down the steps two at a time and hotfoot it back to my bike.

  Ten minutes later, Ty emerges from around the dumpster and hands me a folded program for the funeral.

  “It has the address we’ll be at on it. Meet us there.”

  “Are you sure about this?” I ask, lifting the program. “Have you told Alice I’ll be there?”

  Ty shakes his head. “No, but leave that issue to me. It’s my house so I’ve invited you.”

  I look at the address he’s scrawled down and frown; it’s not the one I followed him to during the week.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  I nod. “Just trying to remember where this is, but I’ve got it now—excuse me.” I pull my vibrating phone out and see an unknown number calling. “Go ahead,” I answer.

  “I got your number from King; I hope you don’t mind.”

  Sonya.

  “I can’t talk now.” I hit end, feeling like the biggest asshole in the world, but really, it’s not a good time.

  “You okay with meeting up there?” Ty asks.

  I nod. “Perfectly okay.”

  “I get the feeling you know a lot more than just there’s a job on us. My guess is we need the time to talk.”

  “It’s not just what I know; it’s who I know that can help.”

  “Why now?” he questions. “Why wait until now to come here and find him?”

  I shrug. Aside from the obvious, why did I wait so long? “Everything has a time, and I guess this is how it was meant to be for me.”

  “He’s going to be an asshole about it, but ignore that.”

  “He has every right to.”

  “Doesn’t mean he should.” Ty gives
me a curt nod, and turns heel for his car.

  I stare at the address on the program and take a deep breath. After eighteen years, I’m about to see my son—really see him.

  I’ve never been more nervous in my life.

  I SHOULD be gutted that he hung up on me so abruptly, but I’m not. I’m angry. His curt attitude makes me think that he’s intending to play a little game of tit-for-tat. I could be crying into the bedding and screaming about how unfair he is to do that, but I’m not. I’m mad that he’d be so childish.

  I toss my phone on the nightstand and stalk out of my room to find Ramona, ready to give her a piece of my mind for coercing me into such a stupid idea. King meets me halfway down the stairs.

  “Have you seen your buddy in crime?” I ask.

  “Which one?” he answers with a playful smirk.

  “Ramona,” I deadpan. “She owes me an apology for bad advice.”

  He laughs, and shakes his head. “Last I saw, she was heading home with Mack. Said the kid needed to sleep in the car on the way.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders slump, my vigor drained at the news. “Never mind then. Abby’s back, right?”

  “Yeah, she’ll be on bar tonight. You can kick back, have a bubble bath, drink a case of wine or whatever it is you normally do.” He grins. Ever the joker.

  “Might switch it up and have a case of whiskey,” I retort, sauntering down the stairs.

  “As long as it ain’t mine,” he calls out, heading up.

  I’m grinning when I walk into the common room, only to lose my short-lived joy when I catch sight of Bruiser’s forlorn expression as he sits at the bar. He reaches over to the serving side to top up his short glass with more amber amnesia.

  “Hey, big guy,” I greet, pulling out the stool beside him. “How many is that, now?”

  He shrugs. “Not enough.”

  “It doesn’t make you forget—just blocks things for a while. You know that,” I chastise. “How many times you going to do this to yourself?”

  “As many times as it takes for Ramona to leave that asshole.”

  If only the two of them would stop denying what they feel for each other. “She’s trying,” I assure him.