by Marata Eros
I admire the view as I hop into my jeans. Commando. I'll figure out underwear when she's outta here and I can grab a shower. For now, I just want to get my ass covered and have my post-coital drag.
I rummage through shit on the top of my battered chest of drawers and spy the hard box of cigs underneath a pair of clean underwear.
Snapping open the lid, I give the pack a wrist flick, and three cigarettes slide out. I open my lips and nip one out.
After flipping the lid closed, I toss the pack back on the dresser. I grab the lighter out of my jeans pocket and light up. Cupping my hand around the flame, I take the first drag then shoot a smoke ring toward the peeling paint of the graying ceiling.
Relief washes over me. I got off, time for a kick back, then I go back to work. I'm already hashing shit out for the day in my head when Crystal starts talking.
I’d forgotten she was there.
Her lips purse. Some girls think pouting is cute. I know it's the cue for a potential mega-rant in my near future.
Not having that noise.
She runs her hand through her bleached-blond hair, puffing it out on the side that was mashed against the tabletop.
My lips quirk. Her effort to be sexy is sort of fun, like free entertainment.
“Hey, baby, let me stay for a while,” she says in a voice that tries too hard for bedroom smooth, finger trailing over her tit and tweaking the nipple.
Nice. I clamp the cig between my lips and shake my head. “Nope. Out.” My thumb slings toward the bedroom door.
The big pout ensues, full bottom-lip treatment. “But”—she sits up, tits jiggling, and starts to walk fast after me—“I thought we could—”
“Nope,” I repeat, flicking ash toward the ashtray as I stride toward the bathroom. Most of the inch-long ash lands in the glass bottom that reads Road Kill MC. How's that shit for propaganda? The Prez believes in the club like the Holy Grail.
I do too. It's all there is for us one percenters.
It's the road. The bike. And the women. Not always in that order. I don't need anything more than that. I never have.
I turn around fast, and Crystal bounces into my chest. My hand rests against the doorjamb leading into the bathroom. “Listen, you're cute.” I give her chin a little chuck. “But I'm not looking for anything long-term.” I lift my shoulder, blowing another lazy oval toward the ceiling.
Crystal looks ready to cry. God damn.
I stuff my cig in the ashtray, mashing it in half. Spirals of smoke curl upward. Grabbing my wallet off the nightstand beside the door, I jerk out two twenties and a ten.
I shove them at Crystal.
“Go buy yourself something hot. Something that shows tits and ass.” Chicks like to shop. What do they call it? Oh yeah—retail therapy.
She grabs the money, looks down at it for a second, then throws it in my face. “I'm not a whore!”
I wince. The green bills floats to the worn carpet. Act like a whore, look like a whore…
“You're a sweet butt. And you were sweet.” Not so much now. “But it's time for you to take off.”
Her face reddens. “You're a jerk, Noose.”
I've been called worse.
I step into the bathroom. I don't look at the sweet butt picking up the crumpled cash.
I kick the door closed behind me then give a hard turn to the faucet.
When the entire bathroom is steaming, I get inside the shower.
She'll be gone when I get out.
They always are.
*
I should have done my sets before I showered.
But no way was I going to have Crystal around while I work my shit out.
Tonight I'll do pushups, twisted sisters, and burpies until the cows come home.
There's always the punching bag. Nobody's ever using it when I come in. My fists will tire me out.
Fucking insomnia. The witching hour is officially mine. I own it.
I owned it over in Afghanistan too. Can't sleep when you know someone might kill you.
Or you might have to be the one doing the killing.
I move through the club with a lot of stealth, considering my size. It's part of why I was never a jumper in the military. Big guys get fucked up fast.
Six feet, four and two hundred twenty pounds of male has all kinds of potential for getting broken to bits. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall” has new meaning in a parachute.
That's why hands-on assassinations are so much more appealing.
Knots.
When I'm stressed out, my mind does them. My hands are restless to feel ropes under my fingertips—the abrasive kind or the slick new style that knots faster than my mind can think it.
I pass the kitchen, a hangman's knot wrapping my thoughts. The loop's perfectly symmetrical, winding and wrapping until there's a little loop, then I pull through—
“Noose!”
A rough hand claps my back, and I frown. ’Bout had that knot. My favorite. Hence the namesake, I guess.
My team would know why, even though the club guys don't. They're probably under the impression it's a tough name or that it’s cool.
It's not. Noose has meaning. But to those of us who fought side by side, we don't talk about obvious shit.
Our time just was.
I give a broad smile. Lots of us brothers have similar names.
Take Snare, the guy who’s just put his hand on me. He gets out of those—traps, close calls, the works. The dude's got nine lives.
Nothing like a cat, though.
He lifts his fist, and I bump my knuckles with his. “Hey, man.”
“Saw Crystal go outta here in a huff.” His eyes, a blue so pale that they're the color of frozen water, hold humor. Snare's about three inches shorter than I am, but he’s built like a brick shithouse.
I shrug at his words.
“How was she?” His eyes are hooded. He’s probably thinking about the platter of pussy we have strutting around all the time. He hasn't sampled the Crystal hors d'oeuvre yet.
I lift my shoulder. “Same as the rest.”
His eyebrows jerk in surprise. Snare's got some Native American in him. His hair's jet black. White folk never get hair that dark without help. The mix of light-blue eyes and black hair is striking—or so the ladies seem to think.
My hair is shit dishwater. Can't make up its mind between brown and blond. That doesn't matter; I keep the sides short and the top long. When it gets in my way, the whole load gets tied down.
Since I'm on the back of the bike half my waking hours, hair's tied down a fuckton.
I even have a little invisible hair tie for the beard. I keep that long and square. It's darker than the hair on my head, with a touch of ginger. Had a sweet butt ask me last month if I was Scottish.
Fuck if I know.
I guess I'm American, for what that's worth.
I'm a mad bastard, I told her. Then I went to town on her twat. That shut up the questions in a hurry. Just a lot of moaning and shit after.
That's how I like it—don't ask me for history.
“Come on, Noose, she's always pining for you. I haven't had a crack at her.”
I chuckle. “Nice choice of words, bro.”
He flings his muscular arms wide. “Not just another pretty face.” Snare winks.
His face is not pretty. Snare got some blade time and a close call that almost took out his eyeball. The twisted scar tissue bisects one eyebrow, narrowly misses his eye, and travels in a hooked line that ends at the cleft of his chin.
Some girls are shy about Snare.
I think scars add character, though. It makes him look bad ass, which, in turn, freaks out the chicks. Love/hate thing. Not bad for the sack.
I exhale. “Crystal doesn't pine. She whines.”
“Now who's the poet and they don't know it?” Snare asks, glacial eyes widening.
I flip him the bird. “Ass.”
He nods. “Yup. But put in a good word for me anyways.�
�
I give a lopsided grin. “I don't think Crystal's gonna think any of my words are good after our interlude.”
Snare whistles, walking outside with me.
Brilliant sunlight belts me in the face, and I flick my sunglasses open. They’re high-end and polarized. I don't like glare when I ride.
I slide them on my face, loving the anticipation of the wide-open ribbon of black asphalt.
“Interlude?” he asks in disbelief.
I throw up a hand and waffle it around. “Pelvic grind, hip bump, pipe lay…”
Snare grunts. “You ever done anyone twice, Noose?”
I narrow my gaze at him behind my dark glasses. “Nah.”
“Figured.”
Our attention turns to our rides. The windshields glint in the sun like sleepy, winking eyes.
“Let's ride,” I say.
Snare doesn't need another invitation.
2
Rose
It's my break.
I'm allowed to look at my text messages. I have to.
Charlie will send me pictures. He always does. The sweetheart.
I move through the breakroom, my hip hitting the countertop of the little kitchenette.
I grimace but hardly notice. A ping sounds, and an image fills my cell screen.
It's a Lego tower. A perfect, brilliant work of art.
For a five-year-old.
I smile like I just saw an original Picasso. Love swells my chest, and pride tightens it.
He's done so well.
“Hey, Rose,” one of the other tellers greets me as she walks by.
“Hey, Naomi,” I reply absently, brushing away a stray hair that's come loose from my topknot. My eyes are all for the new little creation my boy made during his first week of kindergarten.
My heart flutters. I cried ten gallons of tears last week when I had to send him off. My sadness had been evil.
I guess all mothers feel that way. I don't know for sure. I'm not really a mom.
I'm an aunt.
But his real mom's dead. So I'll have to do.
I bite my lip, rolling the plump flesh inside my mouth and gnawing at it. My finger runs over the colorful blocks with a loving touch, my screen magnifies, and I see his left hand clutched over the top. A tower almost as tall as he is threatens to topple, but not before the teacher got the pic.
I text back rapidly. “Beautiful.”
There's no return text.
I glance at the time on my cell. Naptime.
My heartbeat regains its slow rhythm. I try to overcome the panic at not immediately hearing back from him. I'm sort of a gloom-and-doom type.
I haven't seen Charlie's father in a year. The fucking loser.
Time feels pregnant with potential, swollen with his promise of getting his son back.
Over my dead body.
“Rose.”
I know that voice and sigh. I lift my chin, meeting his gaze.
My boss stands there, his eyes steady on the clock over my left shoulder.
One minute past break.
Ned's about ten years older than I am. That puts him around thirty-four. He's married. Not that the little fact of his status as taken stops him from making passes at me whenever he can.
Ned found out fast that I don't date.
Ever.
I sure as hell don't date married men who are my boss.
Some of the girls don't care that he’s married. They rise in the ranks faster for blowing him in his office. I've been a teller at this bank since high school graduation. My first boss died of a heart attack last year. Orville was a good man.
Now Ned's here.
He smirks, obviously enjoying the discovery of my minor transgression.
I slide off the stool, realizing I missed having a snack. Not great for the old hypoglycemia. Stupid, Rose. Oh well, maybe I can pop an M&M or two at my station.
He leans down next to my face as I pass him, his hot breath singeing my temple. “Don't let it happen again.”
Sacrificing my body’s natural aversion to a man, I try not to jerk away. I feel an expression of disgust seat itself on my face as I regard him.
His beady brown eyes slim on me with a hate that I don't deserve. Just because I say no doesn't mean I suck.
But to Ned, my lack of interest means exactly that.
I turn away quickly, trying to pretend those interchanges don't bug me or make me nervous.
That’s crap, of course. Anxious sweat stings my palms and breaks out underneath my armpits. I hate feeling stressed where I work. My fingers curl around the cell.
I have Charlie.
I have a job. I have a hell of a lot to be thankful for. Crying over my perv boss like a scared little bitch won't solve it.
I just won't be late anymore. Even a minute. A second. I don't want to give the jerk anything to have over me.
I scoot my stool with the rolling wheels underneath the counter and lift my sign that says Next Window.
I'm ready to take money now.
*
I hate my boobs.
Other women think I've got it made or something. I fill out clothes nice, sure. But I have to wear two sports bras so the girls don't drive me crazy with bouncing. Besides, it kind of hurts if I don't.
Like now.
I jog around nine-minute miles most days. On the weekends, I go a little nuts and do around six-mile runs, then I'm a true jogger, slowing down too just under tens. During the week, between my job and Charlie, I can only manage around three times a week. I take Sundays off. That's Charlie's day.
My day.
I swear I live at Scenic Park. Rumor has it we had a mayor back in the 1970s who was out of control for parks and threw one in everywhere there was land.
Kent needs it. The city's a little armpit bedroom community to Seattle now. Infrastructure was not well thought out, and the traffic is a rat's nest of too many cars in clogged arteries. The roads of Kent have cholesterol, and there's not a damn thing we can do to stop the impending heart attack.
The valley bisects the east and west hills of the city. Kent's got long fingers of ownership that travel all the way to Federal Way to the west, cutting a path through that town and still claiming a narrow swath that belongs to the City of Kent.
I don't care about the impractical parks that could have been made into more roads or wider ones. I just like to jog the paths of Scenic Park and have a free, safe place to hang with my nephew.
The ritual of running erases my mind's problems and takes me on a journey of the soul without introspection. I cannot think for that hour I'm pounding paths that wind through trees.
I don't think about my creeper boss. I don't think about Charlie's real dad, my sister’s murderer.
I just run.
Charlie loves the park. If the wind's strong, we fly kites that get caught in the Douglas fir trees, tails like rainbow arcs toss their color in the deep blue of summer that comes late in the Pacific Northwest.
A wave of light-headedness washes over me, making my stride stutter.
Dammit.
My little waist pouch taps my hip softly as I run. I hate stopping the rhythm I set when I run. My sports watch says I was doing high eights. That's pretty fast for my slow ass. A tight smile stretches my lips. Just one more quarter mile, and my car will be in sight.
I can make it.
I take the last bit of my run hard, seeing what I've got left.
When my little Smartcar comes into sight I slow to a walk, cruising right past the shiny white toaster.
I'm begging to puke if I just stop and hop in. Nope. First, it's the ten-minute cool-down walk, then it's stretching.
First things first. I spring a Jolly Rancher candy free of my little pouch, tear off the wrapper, and stuff it inside my mouth, striding back and forth.
I probably look like a crazy pacer. I suck hard through my nose and breathe out my mouth, controlling my air. Sweet and sour apple flavor explodes inside my mouth as I suck on t
he candy, willing it to settle me and ground my fuzzy brain.
Being tied to protein and ready sugars gets old, but it could be worse. Oh well.
My tongue rolls the candy around in my mouth, my heartbeats slow, and my shakiness subsides.
I plant my hands at my hips, elbows out, and walk with my head down.
Back and forth, back and forth. I don't see, hear, or think.
I crunch my candy and cool down. That's probably why I didn't notice him at first.
Drake moves into my path.
I stop as if I just walked into an invisible wall. It sure feels like I did.
The wings of my elbows fold, and that heartbeat I had under control riots inside a chest that suddenly doesn't feel like taking in air.
“Hello, Rose.”
He's just as I remember him from last year. Huge. Greasy. Sinister.
Dangerous.
I don't reply, pivoting quickly. I move to my car.
He's so fast, his hand is on the handle before I touch it.
I make a little noise of distress.
God, please.
Please.
His smile is cruel as he grits out, “We're gonna talk, bitch.”
My heart flies up my throat. I try to reply but can't.
His hand grips my bicep, fingers biting the tender flesh just above the elbow.
“There's witnesses, Drake.” I'm so proud of the evenness of my voice.
He nods. “I know that. We're gonna talk. Here. Now.”
I swallow, craning my neck to get a good look at him. He's over six feet to my five feet, seven. His biker gang tats are all over him. The only tat-free space on his big body is his face. He reeks like body odor and ashtrays. Underneath that is pure evil.
I shudder.
His smile widens. He's so pleased by the effect he has on me, and I'm helpless to not react. Drake is the most repugnant man I've ever met in the flesh.
He drops my arm as though it burns him. I know that's not the case. He's told me I look as good as my sister. When he said that, tears burst from my eyeballs. Not a few. A flood.
He laughed.
The leather of his motorcycle jacket creaks when he shifts his weight. “Hearing's coming up.”
I know that. I've lived knowing that.
My feet take me a few steps out of his reach. “I know.”