Cash

by Tess Oliver

  “Let’s face it, you wouldn’t have called anyway.” I’d decided that saving money to rent a house was more important than a cell phone, so I’d canceled mine. I discovered living without one was kind of nice. My brothers couldn’t leave me messages at work ordering me to stop off for their food on the way home, or to let me know that something had spilled in the refrigerator. And my mom had to call the house phone to talk to me, which usually meant having to talk to Dad, which she hated more than anything.

  “And you all look really worried about me not coming home.”

  “I was up all night with concern,” Bodhi quipped.

  Seton sat up and slid his forearms across the table, all the while keeping a secure grip on his beer. “You weren’t up cuz of Esme. You were up all night because of Maddie.”

  Bodhi shrugged. “Not my fault your only girlfriends are your right and left hands.”

  Seton’s lazy laugh bounced off the refrigerator. “Shit, you ever try and jack off with your left hand?”

  Dad laughed.

  “Stop,” I said. “It’s bad enough I have to live with you pigs. I don’t need to know about all your personal habits.” I reached for the box of cereal on the table.

  “There’s no milk.” Seton lifted his can of beer. “You can put this on it.”

  I looked around the table at my three miserable housemates. “So none of you could make the five hundred foot trek to the corner store for more?”

  There was no answer just stupefied looks. Each one clutched a beer in his hand.

  “Wait, so you did go to the store, but you bought beer instead of milk.”

  Seton lifted his slightly drunk gaze to me. “What’s your point, Pita?” His affectionate nickname had nothing to do with the pocket bread. It was short for pain in the ass. “Besides, last I tried, I couldn’t get any kind of buzz off a glass of milk.”

  I poured myself a bowl of dry cereal and snacked on it.

  “How was your dear mother?” Dad leaned back, and the chair groaned and creaked as if its legs might snap off.

  “She is skin and bones, and she looks like shit,” I said, giving the same description as usual. My mom had left my dad years ago in search of something better. Instead, she’d found drugs and alcohol and loneliness. In her quest for a speedy exit from this less than satisfactory life, she’d left behind all her kids, including me. For years, I was sure she’d come back for me, but by my sixteenth birthday, when she’d sent me a used birthday card where she’d scratched out some stranger’s endearment to a loved one and put her own name, I knew my mom wasn’t coming back. Now I was glad. Not that life with my dad had been any better, but I’d been able to grow up with my brothers and in Tucker’s Village, a place I loved.

  “You didn’t give her any money, did you?” he asked. I didn’t answer. “Damnit, Esme, you shouldn’t feed her habits.”

  “It’s my money to do with what I like.” I ate a handful of dry cereal and decided it would be better to sneak some cheese toast from the kitchen. The chef, Alec, was always giving me tastes of this and that. I grabbed a glass of water to wash down the cereal chunks. “What are you busy men up to, and what was that deep conversation about?”

  Dad glanced at my brothers. His mouth tightened.

  “What’s up?” I asked again. My dad and brothers had strayed into what I called ‘dark waters’ in the past four years. Fishing was a front for all the other ugly shit they were up to. “That’s all right. I probably don’t want to know. I’m closing tonight, so I’ll be late.”

  I pulled my sweater tight around me and walked outside. The afternoon sun had taken backstage to a layer of storm clouds, normal for late fall, but the temperature seemed extra cold.

  I hurried along the road. “Esme,” our neighbor, Frida, called from her stoop. Her two beagles danced in excitement when they saw me. “They missed their walk this morning,” she said.

  “I know. I’ll take them on an extra long one tomorrow.” Most of my neighbors were older, and I’d come up with the brilliant business plan of dog walking. Much of the town was built on a hillside, and the small roads tended to rise and drop sharply in elevation, making dog walking a daunting task for some of them. They were all thrilled with my plan, and it earned me some nice extra cash.

  Tucker’s Village was a place where people came and put down roots and then stayed till death. I could never pinpoint why. There were numerous reasons why it had such a draw. While my life lacked any decent sliver of romance, the town had all the romantic and mysterious lure of a scenic coastal village. On a clear day, the entire town had an idyllic view of the Pacific Ocean. It was a small town, one where everyone knew everyone else, and for the most part, everyone liked everyone else too. My family, the Drake family, had lived in Tucker’s Village since my great-grandfather had built our house. The Drakes had been a respected family up until when my dad had moved into the position of family patriarch. The neighbors had no choice but to put up with him. He wasn’t going anywhere, and so they mostly avoided him. They stayed out of his way, and he stayed out of theirs. Seton was following in his footsteps of being despised by the townsfolk, but there was still hope for Bodhi. I, on the other hand, got along well with everyone. I knew that most people felt sorry for me having to live with someone as horrid as my dad, but I had nowhere else to go…for now.

  The motorcycle was parked in front of Bentley’s house. I smiled to myself thinking about the rather unusual day I’d had. I hoped, for Bentley’s sake, that Cash would stay. He needed the help desperately, and it seemed like Cash needed a place to be. And, who was I kidding, a new face in town was always welcome, particularly a handsome, new face.

  Chapter 3

  Cash

  While it was true that Bentley’s house did seem to be crumbling down around his head, the view from his back porch made it a fucking palace as far as I was concerned. After going over a list of things that needed fixing, we’d taken a couple of cold sodas from his refrigerator and plunked down onto chaise lounges that had more rips than fabric, and yet were amazingly comfortable. The screen door to the porch had huge holes, but Bentley, or Ben as he’d told me to call him, made sure to slide it shut tightly.

  He groaned as he sat on the chaise. His gnarled fingers held the soda can as he lifted his legs onto the cushion. His knuckles and fingers had been twisted by severe arthritis. It was the main reason why he’d found it so difficult to maintain his house and yard.

  I sipped the coke, not realizing just how parched I’d been until the cold liquid fizzled down my throat. Like a painted scene in an art gallery, a dark blue ocean with frothy white waves stretched out below us. A breeze floated up toward the house, leaving a salty tang on the edge of the can. “The only time I’ve ever seen a view like this was on a postcard.”

  Bentley laughed. “That’s quite a coincidence. On particularly beautiful days when the sun was sharp and the waves were cresting, my wife, Molly, used to say it was just like living in a postcard.” He turned his head without lifting it from the chaise. His eyes were a friendly shade of blue, but some of the color had been hidden by the haze of age. There was a depth in his expression that left you with no doubt that he’d lived one hell of a life in his seventy years. “Of course, the yard was covered with lush grass and there were no weeds. Molly would sit out here for hours, the brim of her big straw hat flapping in the breeze as she painstakingly pulled every weed.” He stared down at his shaky hand. “After the arthritis worsened, I couldn’t help her any longer. Nothing makes a man feel more worthless than when he can’t even open the damn pickle jar.”

  “Mick Campbell told me you were the toughest soldier he ever knew, and coming from Mick, that says a lot. Growing up, that guy just had to scowl in my direction, and I was ready to stand at attention. He said he’d always felt safer in combat knowing you had his back.” My comment earned a wide grin.

  He gazed out at the ocean, and it seemed, he was temporarily taken back to the sixties when he and Mick had fought toge
ther in Vietnam. “Mick was like a rock. I couldn’t have made it without him either. We had some good times and some terrible times together.” He grew quiet for a moment, then he turned to me. “Mick said you’ve had your share of some terrible times as well.”

  I nodded. I had no idea how much Bentley knew about me, but Campbell had probably filled him in on plenty of details before asking him to consider taking me on.

  “You did the right thing turning in the two murderers,” Bentley said. “You’ll do just fine without the club. Even Mick grew tired of it.”

  Apparently, he knew that I’d left the club because I’d turned in two members for murder. I’d gone into hiding after leaving, but Bedlam MC had people everywhere.

  “Mick told me about the club trying to kill you.” He shook his head. “And he told me that you took out two armed men with just a wrench.”

  It was a piece of my history Campbell could have left out of my verbal resume.

  “Sorry, Cash, I didn’t mean to dredge up old memories. Trust me, I know taking someone’s life sticks with you forever.”

  I took another sip of cola. “I’m hoping I’ve left that part of my life behind for good.”

  A sailboat coasted along the rippling blue surface. It looked small, like a toy boat, from our vantage point.

  “My son, Hunter, loved to sail.” His face dropped down, but he kept talking. “Two years ago, he went out on his boat. He’d just had the mainsail replaced and wanted to check it out. The water was mostly empty.” He motioned to the sea below. “Just like today. He’d been gone several hours, and I began to worry. I walked down to the dock to see if I could spot him sailing in.” His voice grew tight as if someone had just put a hand around his throat. “There was a crowd gathered along the line of anchored boats. And there was Hunter’s sailboat bobbing up and down and smacking the edge of the dock. It had drifted in without a captain. Hunter was no longer on board. He’d left behind an empty whiskey bottle. Everyone assumed he’d fallen overboard, drunk on booze. No one ever saw him again. Couldn’t even bury my own son.” He sipped his soda to clear his throat and then stared at the can in his hand. “Funny thing was, I’d never seen Hunter drink more than one beer at a time.” His chuckle drifted out toward the horizon. “And even then, he’d drink it so slow it’d go flat before he could finish it.”

  “Not knowing what happened must be really hard.”

  “Still lose sleep over it.” He took a deep breath, signaling a topic change. It was obvious this was one he didn’t like to dwell on for too long. “Mick said I would like you, Cash. And he was right. I can’t pay too much, but I can offer you a roof— well, a semi-roof— and a bed and food. You interested? You look a little road weary.”

  “Life weary is more like it.” I inhaled the scent of the ocean and stared out at the endless landscape. “This might sound funny, coming from someone with my history, but I’ve always dreamed of living near the ocean. And I think I can really help you put this place back into shape.” Everything I’d done with the club always had an overall theme of destruction. It would be nice to use my strength and skills to actually construct something for a change. Bentley seemed like a genuinely good guy. After my dad and Dreygon Sharpe, the MC president who had turned out to be just as evil as my father, I needed to learn how to trust again. It seemed that Bentley might make that possible, and he seemed to need some companionship as well.

  “There isn’t a whole lot to do in this town, but with the exception of a few folks, everyone is friendly. Besides, you definitely look like a fellow who can take care of himself in any situation.”

  “Yep. The few exceptions, they wouldn’t happen to live the next street up in a run-down blue house?”

  “Greg Drake and his boys?” He sat up. “Have you already had a run in with them?”

  “Not really. I gave Esme a ride into town after her jeep broke down.”

  He shook his head. “That kid, she’s such a survivor. You know someone is special if they can be brought up in the worst possible place and still turn out to be terrific. She’s a real sweetheart, that one.” He winked. “And I’m sure the fact that she is pretty didn’t escape your notice.”

  “She’s definitely pretty. Yeah, looks like she’s in a tough situation.”

  “The toughest. She’s working three jobs just to find a way out of that house. For a few years, she was taking classes on-line. Then her idiot father decided he didn’t want to pay for internet anymore. I offered for her to use my computer, but she didn’t want to impose.” He sat up and lowered his feet to the ground. “By the way, that’s a nice bike you have out there. I was a bit of a motorcycle enthusiast in my day. I didn’t ride much or join the adventurous MC life like my buddy, Mick, but I did the easy rider thing for awhile. Until my heart brought me back here, to the place I loved most.”

  I drained my soda and sat up. “This is definitely a cool place to live.” I thought about living in Sharpe’s compound with the MC. It was a cement fortress, and while the walls served a purpose, they’d also kept out the rest of the world. There’d been times when I would stand in the center yard of the compound, feeling as if the walls were closing in on me. I was sure they’d eventually crush me. And I thought about Angel, who’d grown up there too, and just like Esme, she’d never belonged and she’d grown up amazing despite it. “Thanks, Ben, for offering me this job. I think it’ll help me find my way, something I’ve never been able to find yet.” I smiled. “And anytime you want to go for a spin on the Harley, just let me know.”

  He laughed. “That would be something, huh? Old Bentley Moore ripping down the road with his hair on fire and a mad grin plastered on his face.”

  “Yeah, well smiling on a motorcycle only gets you a lot of bugs in your teeth.”

  He laughed again. With some difficulty he stood from the lounge, but it was obvious from the hour I’d spent with him that he wasn’t the type of guy who wanted to be helped up. It seemed even his knees and legs pained him.

  A low grunt rumbled from his throat. “Of course, living here near the ocean is the worst place I could be with this arthritis, or at least that’s what my doctor tells me. But I told him, it might be bad for my joints, but it’s great for my head. I think I’d be depressed living in some hot, dry desert with only cactus and sand for a view.” I followed him into the house. “I want to show you something in the garage I think you’ll be interested in.” His steps were slow and laborious after sitting for a stretch. “Always takes me a few minutes to get cranking again.” He reached for a door that led to the garage. Before opening it, he looked back at me. His thick gray hair reminded me of Dreygon Sharpe’s, but there was a much kinder face beneath this mop of hair. “Do you know a lot about motorcycles?” he asked. “I mean besides how to ride them.”

  “Yeah, I’ve always been interested in them. I was the go to mechanic for the club bikes. When I was a kid on the streets, there was a bar near my house where the MC liked to hang out. They’d pay me to keep an eye on the bikes and make sure birds didn’t crap on them. It was the best job I ever had.”

  He opened the door. The inside was a well appointed workshop. Aside from a layer of dust coating everything, it was in far better shape than the rest of the house. Shelves were labeled and organized with tools and hardware. A bearings press was sitting next to a shelf of tires. Motorcycle parts sat in neat rows along one wall, where diagrams of bikes had been pinned for reference. There was a canvas cover on what was obviously a bike in the center of the garage.

  “I used to restore old bikes as a hobby,” Bentley said. “Back when my hands still worked properly. Used to spend so much time in here, Molly would accuse me of loving the bikes more than her. The last project I finished was a 1965 FLH Electra Glide.” He pointed at a picture pinned to the top shelf of a workbench.

  I walked over and looked at it. The bike looked as if it had just rolled off the showroom floor. “That is awesome.”

  “You should have seen it before I restored it.
It looked as if someone had dumped it into the bottom of a swamp. But she left here a real beauty. Got a nice sum for it at auction. Come here and help me with this cover. This was to be my next project. I was so excited when I found this. My pain got in the way. Couldn’t grip things the way I needed to. I never got to start it.”

  Dust fluttered around us as we lifted the canvas. The tires were gone but most of the chassis was still intact. There was a jewel of a bike beneath the rust and dust. I looked up at him. “JH Two Cam?” I asked.

  “Yep, 1928.”

  “Damn, this is like the holy grail of bikes.”

  “Yep. So you interested?” he asked.

  “Interested in what?”

  “Pooling our knowledge and skills to bring her back to life.”

  I stared at him as if he was Santa and he’d just brought me a pony. “Are you kidding?”

  “I think we could squeeze in some time to work on her between house repairs.”

  “You do not have to ask me twice. I’m breathless just standing in the same room with the damn thing.”

  “Great. Then I guess we’ve got a lot of stuff to keep us busy.”

  Chapter 4

  Esme

  I normally limited myself to four dogs on leash per walk, but because I’d missed my usual fuzzy clients the day before I had six of them tugging me along. Each one tried to be the lead dog and each one always had to concede the position to Wally, the eight pound Chihuahua in his new green sweater. As usual, Dreamer, the giant hundred plus pound of pure love and slobber had fallen behind, and I had to pull his leash for him to keep up with the rest of us. I sometimes wondered if the walk was more of a break for his owners than for the dog. And, to top it off, Mrs. Gromer’s Schnauzers were in particularly bratty moods this morning making the whole event rather circus like. Twister, my own dog and the only one smart enough to walk without a leash, helped me by barking sharply if any of them got too out of line. He plodded along beside the pack ready to launch into action if necessary.