Gin's Longing

by Joy Blood

  “I quit the squad. Sorry I never told you, I just haven't felt very good, and, well…I'm just done with the whole thing,” I say, hoping it will be enough.

  “Hey, sweet cheeks. Got a minute? Hey, Denise.” Tarrance’s voice breaks into our conversation, and I tense. Turning toward him, his smile has bile rising in my throat.

  “Ah, yeah. I’ll call you later, girl. All right.” I want so much to tell her not to leave, but the words escape me as she walks away, leaving me alone in the parking lot with the one person I never want to see again.

  “Tarrance, please. I’ll stay away if you do—” I start, my words cutting off as he moves in closer, our noses only a centimeter apart. I try to close my eyes, never wanting to look into his again, but his words have them snapping open.

  “You opened your fucking mouth, didn't you? My dad got a call saying I was harassing you. What is that, Grace?”

  “I only told my mom we broke up and you didn't take it well.” I shake my head. “That’s it, I promise. Let's just move on, okay?” I plead, knowing I'm not getting anywhere with him. Right when he opens his mouth to speak again, a voice washes over me—a voice I didn't think I would hear again anytime soon.

  “This prick bothering you?” Instantly, Tarrance backs away and looks up at the larger-than-life man only a few feet away from us. In the daylight, I can see him more clearly. His hood is off now, and he has a black bandana wrapped around his head. His beard looks styled with the mustache pointed out to the sides. On anyone else, it might look ridiculous, but on him, it suits his features. He isn't wearing the vest he was wearing that night. Instead, he has on a black leather jacket unzipped so I can make out his muscled chest stretching his black t-shirt. A chain hanging from his front belt loop draping around his hip to his back pocket completes the biker look.

  “The fuck you want?” Tarrance snarls out as he tries in vain to stand toe to toe with Gin, who has a good four to five inches on him.

  “You got some sac on you, boy. I tell you to stay away from that girl right there,” Gin points at me for emphasis, “and here I find you right fucking next to her. Up in her fucking face like some bitch who wants to die.” Gin doesn't lay a hand on him, but I can see he’s clutching his hands into fists to stop himself. If Tarrance knew how close he was to being shot that night, maybe he wouldn’t be doing this right now.

  “She is just a chick,” Tarrance says, and before he can continue, Gin has a gun pulled out faster than I can blink and shoves it up under Tarrance’s chin.

  “You want to rephrase that, kid? ‘Cause I think you were about to say you were sorry for bothering her again.” The gun is pressed harder, and Tarrance’s breathing grows faster.

  “Yeah, man. Won’t do it again,” he breathes out through clenched teeth.

  “Better mean that, boy, or next time, I won’t be so nice.” Gin pushes him back with force, almost knocking him off his feet. Tarrance stomps away, and Gin tucks his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, righting his jacket over the top to hide it once again. “Can’t believe you wouldn't let me kill him,” Gin grumbles as he looks me over, goosebumps breaking out all over my heated skin.

  “What—?”

  “Told you I’d be watching.” He starts to walk away, but I don’t want to let him leave again.

  “Wait. Um...wh-who are you?” I ask when he stops his retreat.

  “I’m a friend. Like I said before.” H shrugs like it’s no big deal. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and taps one out. Placing it between his lips, he puts the pack back, then produces a lighter. He inhales, then pulls it away from his mouth, where my eyes are involuntarily drawn. “You hungry?” he questions, catching me off guard. Hungry?

  “Um...I guess.” I look around me, though for what, I'm not sure.

  “Let's go then. I'm fucking starvin’.”

  Four

  Gin

  I told myself I was only going to watch from a distance, just drive by here and there to make sure she was all right. But when I saw that fucker all over her in the parking lot, I knew it wasn't going to be that easy. He wasn’t going to give up, and she wasn't going to let me kill him. If I ever lay eyes on him touching her again, I won’t hesitate—her consent or not. I could have left after I scared the shit off, but she kept asking questions, and again, I told myself I would just answer them then leave. Keep my distance while maintaining that promise to my fallen brother about this girl, who was now sitting in my truck strapping her seatbelt over her lap. I try not to look down at her legs as she places her fidgeting hands on her knees, then to her lap, then back again, like she doesn’t know how to sit in my presence. “I make you nervous.” Not a question, just an observation—a fact. She puts a faint smile on her face and looks my way, then does something I might just never get out of my mind. She giggles. Fucking giggles.

  “What gave that away?” she asks, turning back to look out the window. “You are like ten times my size and have probably broken the law more times than I can count. Then there’s the fact that you’re a biker.” She chances one more glance my way.

  “You got me there,” I agree. I drive the truck out of the parking space and go through the first drive-thru I spot, getting us both burgers and fries. She doesn't say a word about the place or what I ordered. She just sits silently holding the bags until I pull over into a vacant parking lot and park. The rundown building looks to have seen better days, and the “for sale” sign out front is a lost cause. She hands me one of the bags, then opens her straw to get a drink before she starts digging through the bag of food. She nibbles on her fries, then opens her burger and proceeds to pick off the onions before putting the bun back on top. She pauses before taking a bite, realizing I'm looking her way.

  “What?” she asks.

  “If you didn't want something on it, why didn't you say?” I ask, taking my burger out of the bag and unwrapping it.

  “I just picked it off. It’s no big deal. I like onions, just not raw. You give me a basket of onion rings, and they are gone,” she says, taking another bite. Ketchup covers the corner of her mouth when she pulls back, and I catch myself before I reach out to wipe it away with my thumb. Instead, her tongue flicks out to lick it, and I swear my cock stirs to life at the action.

  Why the fuck am I reacting this way toward her? I’m going to chalk it up to not having been laid in…what? Hell, I don't even want to attempt to figure out how long it’s been. “You’re staring again,” she says, still not looking my way, but continuing to eat her food. I don’t respond. Instead, I pound down my burger in a few bites, then wash it down with a Coke. “Tell me about my father,” she says as she finishes her last bite.

  “Your father.” Yeah, I guess that’s why we’re here, isn't it? “What do you know about your mother?” I ask, wondering where her story even begins. I was told the bullet notes, but only to an extent. I know what kind of man he was, but not how Grace came to be.

  “Not much. My mom, Maureen, my adoptive mom, was the doctor on call when I was brought in along with my birth mom who died that night. There was no record of my father, nor did anyone come to claim me. That’s how I ended up getting adopted by my parents.”

  “They good parents?” I ask, knowing full well they are, I just want to hear it from her.

  “They are. The best. I’m very lucky I was brought to that hospital that night. No doubt.”

  “Good.”

  “Who—is my birth father...like you?”

  “Like me? A biker, you mean?” I ask, smiling at her curiosity.

  “Yeah. I mean, I’ve only ever seen a biker on that TV show.”

  “That damn TV show,” I laugh. “Yeah, he was a biker,” I say, catching the flinch at the word “was.”

  “He’s dead then?” she asks, her eyes gazing down at her lap.

  “Died three years ago. He was my best friend, and on the day he told me about you, I promised I would make sure you were taken care of if anything happened to him.”
>
  “He knew about me?” She sounds dejected.

  “Took him a long time to track you down. When he found you—”

  “I had already been adopted,” she finishes. “How did he die?” I scratch at my jaw. Suppose I knew that question was coming.

  “He was shot. We were on a rescue mission, and he got hit in the process. Fuckin’ killed me to lose that man. He was my brother in every way except blood, but that didn't matter.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Fuzz.” I chuckle, remembering why he was given the nickname.

  “Fuzz, seriously?” She smiles, but still has that sad look on her face.

  “Yeah. Fucker couldn't grow a beard to save his life. Could only grow in that peach fuzz. So, he was given the name Fuzz. Real name was Tucker Williams.” She laughs at that.

  “For a big bad biker, he sure didn't get a badass name. Yours is pretty good, but something like Snake or Viper would be scarier.” She laughs, making me join in.

  “How is Gin not badass? And I don’t like snakes. They freak me the fuck out,” I admit, making her laugh more.

  “What is your real name?” I don’t know why I do it, but I tell her my given name.

  “Gregory Mathers.” She nods, as if trying to decide whether the name fits me, then starts smiling again.

  “Scared of snakes,” she chuckles. “Badass biker for sure. How did you get your nickname?”

  “That is a story for another time, babe. I should probably get you back to your car. You shouldn't be cuttin’ school either.” I lightly scold her, but she only grins.

  “I like the name Gin. And I know I shouldn't be cutting, but I’ve been having a hard time staying focused. Tarrance has most of his classes with me and—wait, how did you know I cut school?”

  “Told your old man I would look out for you. Got eyes out. I meant what I said to the fucking prick. He comes near you again, he’s dead.” She shrinks back toward the door at my serious tone, then opens her mouth to speak. “Not a debate,” I say, instantly feeling like shit when she bows her head in defeat.

  “Have you done that before? Killed someone?” she questions.

  “I think you know the answer to that, babe,” is all I say, catching her nod before we drive off toward the school so she can get her car.

  “How come he never met me? Did he not want to?” she asks after a bout of silence while still staring out the window. I don’t answer right away, unsure of how she’ll react, but when I find her now looking at me with pleading eyes, I give in. Taking a deep breath, I tell her everything.

  “He wrestled with the idea of taking you once he finally found you, but he saw you had good parents and were taken care of. So, he let you be.” We pull up into the parking lot right next to her bright red beetle. “That car you’re drivin’? He bought that for you along with your college fund.” The sharp intake of breath makes me pause for a beat. Glancing over to her shocked face, I catch her wiping away a tear before I continue. “He had a visit with your parents some time ago right after he found you. Said he would stay away if they took care of you and he could send money for your future. They agreed.” I know hearing her parents knew her birth father has to be hard, but she doesn't show it, only smiles, says a polite, “Thank you for the burger,” and gets out of the truck.

  “Let her leave, asshole,” I mutter to myself, but I don’t listen. Instead, I get out of my truck and go to her door. She’s already inside, but rolls down the window when she spots me. “You have good parents who did what they thought was best by not telling you. Don’t go home and say something to them. I'm not sure what they would do if they knew I was keeping an eye on you.”

  “I'm sure they wouldn't have a problem considering what you did for me the other night,” she says, grimacing at the memory. “But I won’t say anything. Promise. Thank you for today. I'm glad I know a little more about him. I guess I’ll see you around?” she asks, looking up at me now.

  Say no, motherfucker. Say no.

  “Yeah. You will.” I turn back to my truck and watch her drive away before heading out. If Fuzz could reach out from the grave, he would be strangling me right now.

  * * *

  When I started checking in on her over a year ago, I decided to get myself a place to stay. I couldn't stomach going back to a dingy hotel room for one more night, so I found a small shack on the outskirts of town. And when I say shack, I mean shack. A combined kitchen, living room, and bedroom, and the only thing closed off is the shitter. There’s a cot pushed up to one side as far away from the small camper sized stove as I could get it, which is maybe ten feet at best. The place serves its purpose, though, and the perk is the large garage outside. That was the selling point. A decent sized shed I could fit my truck in along with my bike. Until now, I had only spent a day or two here at most—whenever I checked in on Grace or took off from the club to clear my head, and it only happened on a couple occasions.

  I'm lying back on my cot staring at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep, when my phone chimes with a text alert. Grabbing it up, I don’t recognize the number, but when I read the text, I know exactly who it’s from.

  Grace: I'm not in trouble or anything, I just wanted to talk.

  I should tell her she’s only to use the number for emergencies, or just plain not answer, but fuck if I do that.

  Gin: What do you want to talk about?

  About how I'm going to hell because I can’t seem to get you out of my mind.

  Grace: I can't sleep. I try staying awake or reading myself to sleep, but every time I almost get there, I see his face.

  Son of a bitch.

  Gin: You are going to have nights where you wake up screaming or crying, but they will eventually go away. Don’t ask me how long, but it will happen. Promise.

  Grace: How do you know?

  Gin: I just do. Now, try to sleep.

  Grace: I still have your sweatshirt. It makes me feel safe to hold it tight.

  Her little admission makes my cock swell. I picture her laying in her bed curled up in my sweatshirt with nothing on underneath and feel like a bastard for thinking it.

  Gin: You keep it then. Glad it helps.

  Grace: I might need to switch it out for a new one. It’s starting to lose your scent.

  Kill me right the fuck now.

  Gin: Go to sleep, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  The fuck you will. Yeah, the fuck I will. My thoughts drift to the girl somewhere across town wrapped in my sweatshirt. What is wrong with me? When have I ever been attracted to a young girl? Fucking never. She isn't even eighteen yet, not to mention I'm supposed to be here looking after her—for her dead father.

  Groaning, I roll over to my other side and begin my tossing and turning for the night. I didn't lie to her when I said the dreams go away, though I didn't tell her they tend to come back.

  Five

  Grace

  I haven't seen Gin in two weeks, nor have I had a problem with Tarrance. Things have been getting better, and after a long night of explanation as to why I didn't want to cheer anymore, my parents accepted my decision. So did Denise, with a little more reluctance. Tonight, she’s been trying to get me to go to the party to celebrate the team winning state. Through all the protests, I relented. Dressed in a pair of skinny jeans with tall boots and a long-sleeve, scoop-neck cream sweater, I make my way into the house hosting the party.

  Standing in the crowded living room of some poor parents’ home, I watch as several members of the basketball team shotgun their beers to see who can drain theirs the fastest. I haven't yet seen Tarrance, and when I hear someone say he couldn't come out because of a curfew thing, I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe tonight will be fun. I stay away from the alcohol and pot offered to me, sticking to a can of Coke. I have yet to drink or try drugs, and I don’t intend on starting now.

  “You should loosen up, girl. You’ve always been such a tight ass,” Denise says, laughing as I wave away the thick billow of smoke she expels from
her lungs. We are outside on a small bench with a couple team members passing around a joint. Apparently, since basketball season is over, it’s their prerogative to get as high and drunk as they possibly can. I never saw the appeal of getting so high you weren’t in control of yourself or so drunk you felt as if you were going to die from a hangover the next day. Puking all over your friends in the process doesn't do it for me either. So, for our high school years, I have been labeled the DD. Which has been fine. Making sure my friends all get home safe is more than enough for me.

  “If I get wasted, who is going to drive you home and make sure you don’t die in some fiery car crash?” I ask, once again passing on the joint.

  “Oh, always the morbid one. Here, take a hit, and we’ll just spend the night,” she says. I shake my head and roll my eyes.

  “She’s getting a contact high anyway. Look at her,” Roger, one of the players, says, and at his announcement, they all look my way as the joint passes to Kurt, who’s sitting next to me. When he gets the joint, I'm too distracted from being on the spot with everyone looking at me to feel him come closer. When I turn to face him, he plants his mouth over mine and pries my mouth open with his thumb on my chin. A large puff of smoke is blown directly into my mouth, and I jerk back, gasping for air as I cough.

  “What the hell, Kurt?” I shout through my coughing fit, and they all laugh at my exasperation.

  “That will get you to loosen up,” Roger says, booming with laughter.

  “You are such a jerk,” I mumble to him and get up to leave, brushing past Kurt when he tries to apologize. Just fucking great. The tingles the pot has brought on are setting in, but it isn't as intense as it could have been, I'm sure. Walking out to the front of the house, I decide to hang out in my car until Denise says she’s ready to go.