by Zahra Girard
“Holy shit,” I murmur to myself.
It’s the greatest steak I’ve ever tasted. It’s got some smoke and char from the grill, and dark grill lines that crisscross it in a perfect crosshatch pattern.
And it’s so tender I could cut it with a spoon.
It tastes like beefy heaven.
“I mean, just, holy God damn,” I say, taking another bite.
I can question my whole living situation and life choices later.
After the steak.
* * * * *
The next morning, I feel like I have a clearer head and more of a grip on my circumstances. My life’s been upended, people want to kill me, and where I am at is just temporary. I just have to be tough, hang in there, and then I can get back to my own life. I get an email back from Gaby telling me that she’ll see what they can do to get me an approved absence from work and, in the meantime, I just need to keep up on the work that I’m able to do remotely.
Not too bad.
I have a life waiting for me back in Redwood City. I have a job. And I have texts from Hannah and several of the women in my support group who heard about the murder I witnessed reminding me that they’re available for me if I ever need someone to talk to.
I’m not alone, and I’m going to get through this.
And that’s the purpose I keep in my mind when I wake up. It drives me to shower and get dressed as if I were heading out to a normal day of work and then, after searching around online for a bit, I find the name of a coffee shop in town that sounds like it’ll be perfect to work at.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m parking my van in front of Java Jazz and carrying my laptop inside. It’s a cute little space, all the furniture looks like it’s hand-carved from wood — and not in an amateur way, either — and, even though the furniture is solid wood, it’s still ridiculously comfy. The whole shop is decorated with little small-town knickknacks like old suntan lotion advertisements, little pictures of Americana, and, for some reason, a bunch of old record players. There’s even an old hand-cranked record player that looks like it’s from the early 1900’s. In one corner of the room, a small fireplace happily blazes away, chasing off the last vestiges of the night’s cold.
The coffee shop isn’t busy, but there is a small cadre of people who look like they’re regulars. They’ve got newspapers, crossword puzzles, and books and they’re all quietly working away at them while Frank Sinatra quietly plays from the shop’s stereo.
“Welcome to Java Jazz,” says a middle-aged woman with graying brown hair and an infectious smile standing behind the counter. She’s wearing a blue blouse, black pants, and a green apron with a smiling sun embroidered on it in gold. “I’m Cindy. What can I get for you this morning, dear?”
I blink. I’m not used to people in a coffee shop being so friendly.
“Are you all right?” She says. “You look a little peaked. Here, have some water and take a biscuit, too. It’s on the house. Just sit down and come find me when you’re ready to order.”
I shake my head. “No, Cindy, I’m fine, you don’t need to…”
But she doesn’t give a damn for my protests. She gives me a biscuit and helps me find a seat.
I drink some of the water and eat the biscuit.
It’s good. Real good. I wolf it down and debate asking her for another. But I settle for just ordering a breve latte and starting on my work.
I go check my work email and find Cheryl’s already gone through all the first drafts I’ve sent her and provided me some great feedback about where we can take the upcoming marketing campaign. Her email is professional, polite, and appreciative. It feels really, really good to be valued.
I start in on making the revisions she’s asked for and I completely lose myself in the graphic design work and the cozy atmosphere and music at Java Jazz.
Before I know it, my coffee cup’s empty, two hours have passed, and there’s a fresh biscuit sitting next to me. I look up and glance around and catch Cindy’s eye.
She smiles at me.
“It looked like you liked the first one, so I thought you might want another. It’s fresh, just out of the oven five minutes ago.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “They’re the best biscuits I’ve ever had.”
“My own recipe. Been making them for years. You should try them with a little bit of honey,” she says, pointing over to a small condiments stand she has set up in the corner. There is a whole range of different jams and marmalades — strawberry, raspberry, blackberry, peach — and she even has three different kinds of apple butter. I find the honey, add a dollop to the biscuit and take a bite.
I nearly die from happiness right on the spot.
“Cindy, holy crap, these are amazing. You could sell these in stores.”
“I sell them right here and sometimes Sal from over at Diamante’s comes around and picks up a batch or two when he feels like making them a part of his breakfast special.”
“Right, but you could probably sell your recipe to a big bakery chain and make a ton of money. Or put them in grocery stores yourself.”
“I’m happy with what I have, dear. But I’m glad you like my biscuits.”
I can tell I’ve said enough and turn back to my work. Between the biscuits and the actual, constructive feedback from Cheryl, I’m having a good morning and I get in another hour’s worth of solid work while lost in the comfortable little bubble inside the coffee shop.
Around hour number three, my ears start to pick up the threads of a conversation going on behind me. I’m hardly paying attention, but the words linger at the edges of my awareness even though I’m trying hard to ignore them.
“Mark, I haven’t seen you around here in a while. How are your parents doing?”
“Sorry, Cindy, I’ve been busy. I came back because I missed your biscuits. I think I can only go a few days without these things, any longer and I start to get the shakes,” says a voice that sounds like Riot’s.
I turn around. It is Riot.
Hmm… so that’s his real name.
Despite the sensible part of me telling me to keep focused on my work, I end up turning around in my seat and watching Riot and Cindy chat away. Riot’s wearing his cut and a pair of jeans that somehow make his butt look even more tight and athletic than usual while he’s leaning forward against the counter.
“Then maybe you should take two biscuits if you’ve been missing them that much.”
“I won’t say no.”
“Help yourself, honey,” Cindy says. Then, she pauses, and when she talks again, she sounds a lot more hesitant. “I know you probably have a lot of work to do with the club, but, if you’re not too busy, could you find some time to do me a favor?”
“You feed me, Cindy. I’ve always got time for you. What’s up?”
“Tommy’s been acting out a lot lately. He’s skipped class at least half a dozen times in the last two weeks and now he’s serving a weeks detention for fighting. He’s not doing his homework, either. I got a call from his math teacher, he hasn’t turned in an assignment for nearly a month. It’s bad, Mark.”
“I’m hardly the kind of guy to give school advice.”
“But you are the kind of guy he looks up to, and you know all about listening to your family and straightening your act out. You know, I still remember when Sheriff Bowles took you in for stealing all those cars.”
Riot pauses and takes a careful bite out of his biscuit. “I’m supposed to be heading over to Fredo’s Boxing Gym in a bit to get in a workout. Why don’t you send Tommy by and he and I will have a chat?”
Boxing. So that’s how he’s so ripped. And how he beat the crap out of the guy who tried to kill me in my own apartment.
Before I can stop them, thoughts about Riot — stripped shirtless, sweaty, muscles rippling as he moves like a dominating predator through the boxing ring — take me over and heat grows between my legs.
I shift so I can get a better look at his perfectly-toned butt.
“I’ll do it. I�
��ll call him right now.”
“And tell him if he doesn’t show up, I’ll come looking for him, and then we’ll be doing more than just talking,” Riot says, only half joking.
“Thank you, Mark. He’ll be there. You know he looks up to you Rebel Riders.”
“Don’t mention it, Cindy. Just keep sending those biscuits along and you can ask me for all the favors you want.”
He and Cindy hug and he starts to turn around and, too late, I try to focus back on my work, but Riot catches me staring right at him. And his eyes flicker with amusement as it’s obvious I was checking him out.
My cheeks flush and I hastily pretend like I’m engrossed in my work.
Carrying his black coffee in one hand and a biscuit in the other, he sits down right across from me.
“Morning, Red,” he says. “You enjoying the decor they have here in Java Jazz?”
I glare at him. I hate that he caught me looking.
“I’m working. In case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I sure noticed something. Looks like you were noticing something, too.”
“Yes. I was just appreciating that Cindy has a nice coffee shop here, and it’s great for getting work done,” I say. “What do you want?”
“I need you to come with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m going to the boxing gym and I want you to come along. We need to have a talk, too. Just as soon as I have a talk with Tommy.”
“What do we have to talk about?”
He gives me a steady look, and I can tell he’s serious.
“Some of the boys and I had a busy night last night. Learned a few things. And I think there’s something you’re not telling me. And I plan to find out what that is,” he says, putting his hand on my arm and tightening his grip. “Now come on, you’re leaving with me.”
Chapter Fourteen
Riot
Tommy’s waiting for us outside Fredo’s Boxing Gym when Red and I arrive. He’s got a gym bag in one hand and he’s wearing what’s probably his gym clothes from school — a basic t-shirt and some workout shorts. Tommy’s a sophomore at Crescent Falls High School, and I’ve known this mop-haired kid since he was in elementary school, when his mom moved to Crescent Falls and opened Java Jazz. Cindy’s a single mom and, back then, when the shop was brand new and struggling to get off the ground, she used to have Tommy come in every day after school and on weekends because she couldn’t afford a babysitter. I drank a lot of coffee and ate a lot of biscuits back then because I wanted Cindy to make it.
That, and they’re damn fine biscuits.
I practically watched Tommy grow up into the kid he is today. He’s like a younger brother to me. For a while, he and I both used to box here. He joined the day after he heard me talking about working out at Fredo’s.
But lately, the kid hasn’t been showing up.
“I hear you’ve been getting into a bit of trouble,” I call out as soon as I hop off my bike. I keep my voice serious, the same stern tone my dad would use whenever I’d gotten my dumb ass into trouble. This isn’t a social call and I want Tommy to know it.
“It’s nothing, really.”
“Nothing? I talked to your mother, Tommy. Don’t lie to me.”
Tommy flinches. “Yes, Riot. Sorry, Riot.”
“Put your gloves on and go inside, find us a bag. I’ll be along in a second, once I get changed,” I say, and watch as Tommy darts inside. Then I turn to Red. “Come on in. This won’t take too long, and then you and I can talk.”
“Okay,” she says, warily.
I lead her inside and point out a sort of spectator area on the outer edges of the boxing gym. The gym itself isn’t too big — there’s a full-sized ring in the middle of the room and several rows of punching bags, along with an area for weights and another area with some stationary bikes and other cardio machines — but it’s the best gym in town. The owner, Fredo, is an old, tough-as-hell immigrant from Mexico City. He originally came up as a migrant farm worker, but found out he had a better talent for boxing than berry-picking and, after many years of matches up and down the West Coast, he opened this gym.
Right now, Fredo’s up against the ropes of the ring, yelling obscenities and advice at the two men duking it out inside.
I duck into the locker room real quick and get changed into my boxing trunks and put on my boxing gloves. Normally, I’d wear a light tank top for my workout — and I’ve got a clean one sitting in my locker — but I choose to go shirtless. I grin as I think about Red checking me out back in Java Jazz and decide I’m going to give her a show.
Maybe that’ll loosen her lips.
Back out in the gym, Tommy’s warming up on a bag and I do a few quick stretches while I warm up myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Red doing a very poor job of ignoring me.
Stretched and ready, I step on up to where Tommy’s already working the bag with a few weak punches.
I grab the bag and hold it for him.
“Come on, you can do better than that,” I say. “You’re looking like a kid that’s never boxed before. We both know that’s not true. Show me what you got.”
Tommy grits his teeth and throws a wild haymaker that nearly misses the bag. He follows it up with an off-balance jab-cross combination that’s just pitiful.
I take a step back from the bag and put my hands on my hips.
“What happened? You forget everything I taught you?” I say. “First things first, show me how you stand. Then show me how you hold your hands.”
“I don’t want to do this. And I don’t want your lectures.”
“Forgotten that much, huh? You embarrassed?” I say. “See that woman over there?”
Tommy looks over at Red, blushes a little, and then nods. “Yeah, what about her?”
“You want her to see how shit your boxing is? You want a beautiful woman like that to see you fight like a pussy? To know you’re not even man enough to win a fight with a fucking punching bag?”
“I didn’t say that…”
“Well, you’re sure as shit acting like it. That was fucking pitiful, Tommy. Put your fucking hands up and show me what you’ve got.”
He makes another pitiful attempt to hit the bag with a combination. The bag hardly even moves. I almost feel embarrassed for the kid, but he’s hardly even trying here.
“That’s it?” I growl. “Hit the bag, Tommy. Hit it like this.”
I take over and unload on the bag with a combination that makes it shudder and causes the chain that’s holding it up to squeal with strain. It looks like it’s about ready to tear loose and crash to the floor I hit it so damn hard.
“When’s the last time you came in here for a lesson, Tommy?” I say.
He shrugs. “A little while. Maybe a couple weeks.”
“I can smell the bullshit from here. Do you want me to go ask Fredo? Be honest with me.”
“Fine. A couple months.”
“Months? What’s gotten into you lately? Your mom’s telling me about all these problems you’re having at school, you’re skipping classes, you’re fighting, you aren’t even doing your fucking homework, and now you’re even skipping your lessons here? Talk to me, kid.”
Tommy furrows his brow. “It’s just all dumb bullshit. I don’t need school — you didn’t, and you’re with the Rebel Riders. Why should I waste my time with school when I can just join an MC?”
“Watch your language, kid. Your mother didn’t raise you to speak that way,” I say.
“You say it. You’ve cussed at me like a hundred fucking times in the last minute.”
“I’m a fucking grown-ass adult. When you get to my age, you can say whatever the hell you want, but, while you’re under your mom’s roof, you better fucking follow her rules.”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t you drop that ‘whatever’ bullshit on me, Tommy,” I warn him. “But, since you brought it up, let’s talk about it. Do you know why I call people like Thrash or Creole or Duke my brot
hers? It’s because the most important thing in this MC life is your family. And, even when they’re being dicks, you treat your family members with respect. Sure, you can belt them when they’re being assholes, but you never forget that they’re your brothers, too. They’re going to have your back when you need them the most, just like you gotta have theirs.”
“So?”
“So, do you think any MC worth a damn would want someone who is so disrespectful to their own family? Especially a mother like Cindy, who has been probably the most self-sacrificing, selfless mother on the face of the planet? They’d take one look at you and they’d send you running, and that’s if they didn’t straight up put a bullet in you. They wouldn’t want someone who can’t be respectful to their own blood, because what does that say about the kind of loyalty you’re going to bring to the club?”
“But then what about you? You stole a bunch of fucking cars. Everyone knows how pissed of your family got about that.”
“Language, kid.”
“Sorry, Riot.”
“I was dumb and my parents gave me hell for that. You ever been on a Marine’s bad side? The whoopin' my dad put on me damn near knocked me out. And I deserved it, too. I cost myself a chance at the Marine Corps and it’s something I regret. Not saying I’m not glad to be a Rebel Rider — I’m proud as hell — but there’s not a part of me that doesn’t wonder ‘what if I hadn’t been such a punk-ass piece of shit’. I could’ve joined the Rebel Riders after a few tours in the Marines and I could’ve carried on the family legacy.”
“I don’t have any family legacy. My parents are divorced and my mom says my dad’s some deadbeat driving trucks or something.”
I shake my head and put a gloved hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “You sure as shit have a family legacy. Your mom’s one of the kindest and hardest-working people in town. You know the kind of respect you get for being the person that people can always count on? You know how many of the guys in the club who would do anything for your mom, just to say ‘thank you’ for all the biscuits and kindness she’s given out over the years? She’s loved, Tommy. And she’s respected.”