Forbidden Protector

by Natasha L. Black

  My phone buzzed with a message from Val that made my heart swoop. Have you heard the news?

  2

  Chance

  How badly can this go?

  I shook the question out of my head. Not the one to be asking yourself before a big job interview.

  Not that this was even that big. My job before – the dream job turned nightmare – that had been big.

  This was… I didn’t know yet. Something like making ends meet, finding something to do. Some heads to bash in. All in the name of public safety and helping out, of course.

  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  I forced my feet on as I took in the place I was walking into with a swipe of a glance. Black walls, aptly twisted metal lettering: Twisted Souls MC. Metal bar-reinforced windows, shaded glass you could see out of but not into. Nice guys, these Twisted Souls.

  I gripped a metal gnarling knob, opened up the door. A whoosh of something that smelled musky but not bad caressed my face. I couldn’t place it, but I knew it by gut.

  The floor was shaking from the pounding bass of what just might be Nine Inch Nails.

  What if everything around you

  Isn’t quite as it seems?

  Another swipe of a look around the room completed the picture. A black hunk of bar, black wooden booths with big men with eyes that had seen me as soon as I was within ten meters of this place.

  A burly shape detached itself from the gloom, came up in front of me. “You here for the security job?”

  The little light shining on this guy showcased a surprise. The guy didn’t look like some grimy lowlife. He was big, no-bullshit, but had neat hair, clean clothes.

  Was he the owner?

  “Yeah,” I said.

  He nodded, swung around. “Over here, then.”

  I trudged after him. I still hadn’t decided if him not fitting the grubby motorcycle-man stereotype was a good or bad thing. He smelled damned woodsy too.

  He sat me down in the last booth. My ass had barely hit the wood, when he fired off, “Drugs, felonies, vices?”

  Some interview this was.

  “No, no and… I don’t fucking know. Probably Toblerones.”

  His face was unreadable. “What kinda alcohol is that?”

  “The chocolate kind.”

  A several-second pause, where I waited for him to get it.

  When he didn’t, I shook my head. “It’s not alcohol – it’s chocolate. You know, the little pyramid ones?”

  No response.

  I already didn’t like how this interview was going. Usually they talked, I listened. That was how I got a handle on what they wanted. By letting them blah blah blah the answers to all their questions.

  “Ok.” A genuine smile broke the hardness of his features. It put everything - his red hair, lumberjack beard, plaid shirt under his Twisted Souls leather cut - into place.

  Mr. Boss was a decent guy. A no-bullshit leader, but a stand-up guy.

  Or so it would seem.

  “Had to ask, you understand. We get all kinds applying here. Last guy I hired had a blow problem. Things got really fucking messy really fucking fast.”

  I nodded and he drummed his fingers on a napkin, waiting.

  I shrugged. “How I see it, you do your job and keep your nose clean, we should be good.”

  Like a switch flipped, he laughed. I let myself chuckle, just once.

  He’d already changed gears. “What did you do before this, anyway?”

  “Cop.”

  One blink. “You were a cop and you want to work here?”

  I met his gaze evenly. “I’m sure your operations are entirely seemly.”

  Now he was the one snorting. “Don’t buy it.”

  I slid him a paper where I’d scrawled some phone numbers. “Call up my old chief, any of the guys I worked with.”

  He spread both brawny hands on the table. “Cops lie for one another.”

  I shrugged.

  “Tell them you’re a new agency, whatever the fuck you want to. They’ll tell you same as I will; I was a good cop, then I left.”

  His expression didn’t change. “Cops don’t just leave.”

  “Shit happens.”

  The interview was not going how I wanted.

  I spread my palms face-down on the table. “Believe me or don’t – your call. Cops have better things to do than trying to fuck over a small-time MC club whose worst offense is being a bit rowdy and selling a bit of your own beer under-the-table.”

  He still didn’t say anything, but I could see that I’d prickled his interest with the last part.

  Most people would be surprised with the amount of bullshit cops didn’t bother with. We weren’t idiots. If we wasted time on small shit, we’d never have time to do the job that really mattered.

  I stood up. “Your call.”

  “Wait,” he said.

  I sat back down.

  “Why’d you leave?” he asked.

  My fingers turned into tensed spiders on the dark wood tabletop. I knew the question was coming. It always did.

  “I have my reasons.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You can understand how that doesn’t fill my belly with warm fuzzies.”

  “I could lie, if you’d rather.”

  An ugly scowl came over his face. “Let me get this straight – you were a good cop and you just left and won’t say why. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word? I don’t know you from Adam.”

  “You’re not supposed to do anything but give me the job – if you want to. Either trust your instincts or don’t.”

  It wrenched in me, the realization – odd and new. I actually wanted this job. And I wasn’t going to get it, either.

  All because of that afternoon. What had happened. What I had lost.

  So, it was time to switch into high gear. Say a few more fucking words. Hope they did the trick.

  “Listen,” I told the guy, “It was personal – had to do with my partner. That’s all I’ll say. I’m not going to give you some sob story about my past. Or some speech on why I’m a good guy for this job either. Important thing is, that I know how to spot and stop assholes. That’s it.”

  He nodded, wide-set eyes staying immobile yet somehow giving the impression of circling me like a hawk. “Questions?”

  “Yeah, actually.” I tipped my head to the far wall, where a full-size Harley motorcycle was partially crashed through the brick. Who knows how I’d missed it before now? “How the hell?”

  He laughed and shook his head.

  “It’s a story alright,” he finally said. “Another time.”

  “Alright,” I said. “One more thing. What you do here…”

  “Isn’t all hero shit,” he confirmed sardonically.

  “But you don’t hurt women – ever,” I said.

  “No.” Eyes narrowed; his mouth gashed to retort something angry before he just shook his head again. “If a woman gets too trashed, starts trouble, yeah, you’ll have to throw her out. Just like another other patron. You ok with that?”

  I nodded.

  He stared at me like I hadn’t answered his question, until finally he out and said it. What he’d clearly been wondering since I walked in.

  “Why do you want to work here?”

  I met his cutting gaze. “Why not?”

  He sat in the silence.

  “All I want these days, is to keep my head down, get a decent wage and, if I’m lucky, bust the odd asshole skull or two,” I said.

  He tipped his head back and forth, as if teeter-tottering a decision, then decided on a big belly laugh, that ended with, “Alrighty then. You’re hired.”

  His hand was warm, calloused. “Hayes.”

  “Chance.”

  “Can you start tonight?”

  I grinned. “Hell yeah I can.”

  “Alright – as long as you don’t bust in too many skulls and aren’t some piece of shit undercover cop, w
e’ll get along just fine.”

  He still hadn’t let go of my hand, his grip becoming a vice. I held my grip firm too. I got his message – “Screw us and I’ll end you” – loud and clear, and I had one for him myself – “You won’t need to, and if you try, I’ll end you first.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  He let go of my hand, grinning. “Shift’s at seven; that’s when things start to pick up here.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Going outside was disorienting. I had to stand on the doorstep like a dope and blink a few times until I could head the way I came.

  According to my phone clock, it was 1:47 pm. Over five hours to kill before my shift.

  I wouldn’t be staying in the city center. Not after yesterday.

  Yesterday, I’d gone all over downtown Pembrooke.

  It was actually nice, basically a modern-day Pleasantville. Old-school stone buildings and unsettlingly happy people who all seemed to know each other. Street names that sounded like candles: Briar Avenue, Violet, Mahogany Whisper (who the fuck in their right mind names a street Mahogany Whisper?)

  Right now, a headache was forming in the front of my skull. My hands were tensed. Ready.

  But for what?

  On the sidewalk, all I could see was a little grey granny taking her little grey Barney dog for a hobble-walk or two bland teens sauntering around bored, hand in hand.

  I drove home fast, hurried inside, then remembered to breathe. Exhale.

  Back at the station in Pewter, the counselor they’d assigned me when they’d tried to keep me used to go on about that. The whole breathing thing. As if I hadn’t been doing it since I was fucking born.

  Later, I figured out that it actually worked. Some of it.

  When it got really bad – the headaches, the tension, broiling in me like a geyser, that was what got me through it – breathing. Counting them out, pacing them out.

  For a while there, I think breathing practices and walking were the only things that kept me going.

  I was safe. I was home, although it didn’t feel like it. Nowhere did since then.

  Here, the four empty walls and near-empty floor would make a minimalist proud. The mattress on the floor would be a bohemian’s wet dream.

  After it happened, everything was a reminder. So, I trashed it, left it. Mom was still raving about how I needed to go back, sort through it. She had a key, so I was sure she would, one of these days.

  I liked it better like this. The bare essentials – a mattress for sleeping, a fridge for eating. A bathroom. Clothes.

  You’d be surprised how easily the unnecessary allows thought to burrow in – unwanted and propagating like a virus.

  It was better like this.

  At least, as good as it could be after what happened.

  3

  Connie

  “This better be good,” I grumbled jokingly from the kitchen. “I’m missing Jumanji for this.”

  Val popped her gum. God, I knew her so well I could hear it over the phone. Double Bubble, the original pink kind. “That the one with the monkeys?”

  “Robin Williams too – ugh, I miss him! I think Kirsten Dunst is young in it too.”

  “God, we’re getting old.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  I could hear more chewing and I started absently moving around the letter magnets. “You going to tell me what your oh-so-mysterious text is about?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Val said. “It’s big but wait ‘til you hear where Walter took me for dinner!”

  “Walter took you to dinner?”

  Walter – one of the Twisted Soul’s very rugged regulars and fancy dinner didn’t go together.

  “Yep, at the Silver Spoon,” Val crowed. “Place was jam-packed with tourists, churchies, and Insta-addicted girlies. Walter rented a tux for the occasion, we waltzed in there all spiffy – I wore my gem-covered bustier, ya know the one? But you won’t believe what he did after he ordered.”

  I could almost see her bright red lips curling with glee. Meanwhile, on the fridge I’d spelled out F-I-S-H B-U-T-T with the magnetic letters. Mom wouldn’t approve, but Annie and I would have a good laugh about it later.

  “So, get this – we ordered some fancy French dish and then Walter goes to the bathroom and comes back in full Twisted Souls gear.”

  “No.” I could see that now too – his TS-studded vest, emblazoned on the back with his own pointless addition ‘FUCK THE PO’.

  “Yes! Anyway, the trio of mothers at the next table just about died. And then the fat maître d zoomed up to us, his lips trembling like he was about to have an aneurysm right there.”

  “But you weren’t kicked out?”

  “Nope.” Val’s voice was triumphant. “Walter made some loud comment about the owner being his brother and that shut everyone up.”

  “Huh.” I moved more fridge letters around. “Since when did Walter have a brother? I thought he was so shit at sharing because he was an-”

  “Only child, yeah!” Val was squawking laughter now. “That’s just it! Walter ain’t got any brother anywhere. But he said it with such a tone that no one dared to challenge him on it.”

  We both laughed until Val sighed wistfully. “Ah, Walt. How did I ever find him?”

  “Oh wait – I know,” she corrected herself. “By dating half of Pembrooke and the surrounding area.”

  “It was probably only a third.”

  “Yeah well, I did start young.” I laughed, then remembered why she’d texted me in the first place. “You gonna tell me about this ‘big’ thing or not?”

  “I don’t know,” Val said lightly. She was loving the suspense, I could tell. “It’s a bit cruel of me. Ruining the surprise for you like that.”

  “Ok.” I kept my tone easy. “Guess we can talk later then. I am missing Jumanji, after all.”

  “Ugh, ok, ok!” Val grumbled. “It’s about the new bouncer.”

  “That’s what you got me all worked up about?”

  “You got all worked up about my silly little text?”

  I frowned, sat down on the seat at the kitchen table, and fiddled with my Mom’s color-coded pen set-up. “It’s stupid I know, it’s just after Annie, and Ace…”

  “You’ve made worrying into an Olympic sport.” Val gave her tongue an understanding click. “I get it. I’d be freaking out of my Doc Martens if anything ever happened to Walter. And with bills to pay and a mouth to feed…” She stopped herself abruptly. “Sorry. You don’t need me reiterating that things are hard as shit for you right now. But you’ve got this. You’ve always been the driven one.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true! I’m happy to sit on my ass, go to my shit Montana’s job and watch The Office with Walter on the weekend. But you, you’ve got dreams and shit. And you work like a maniac. You always have.”

  “Thanks, but stop,” I said, “I really should get going anyway.”

  I’d never been great at receiving praise – saying “thanks” always seems so snobby, while arguing seemed lame too.

  “I haven’t even told you the whole point of this!” Val protested.

  “Yeah you did. My brother hired a new bouncer.” I did a whoop-de-woo motion with my hand, even though she wasn’t there to see it. “Let’s just hope he’s not a cokehead like the last one.”

  “It’s not just that.” Val’s tone was cross – she hated it when I tried to cut her off. “He actually seems competent – two King scum showed up trying to start shit and he knocked them out with a single punch each.”

  A pause.

  “And?”

  “And he’s gorgeous – totally your type.”

  “I don’t really have a type.”

  “You totally have a type – tall, muscled, dark hair, and hot as hell. This guy ticks all those boxes, though it’s obvious he’s definitely seen some shit.”

  I ignored the excited shiver that went through me. “Haven’t we all. Anyway, yeah, he sounds hot, bu
t it doesn’t make any difference to me.”

  Val snorted. “Sorry, I forgot that you were CFL.”

  “Fuck you,” I grumbled back, even though I knew Val was just teasing. ‘Celibate For Life’ – aka CFL – was what she’d called me since I’d sworn off dating a few weeks ago.

  “I really do have to go.” I glanced to the clock. Since when did time just skip ahead thirty minutes at once? “It’s Annie’s bedtime in fifteen and I haven’t even got her started on brushing her teeth. I work early tomorrow too.”

  “Alright girl, you tell that little munchkin Auntie Val said goodnight.”

  “Always.” I grinned. “Talk later.”

  The next day was a blur of getting Annie to daycare, and myself to work.

  Egged on by a missed breakfast and four full-size cups of water, I went into my mania mode. It basically consisted of me going ‘ape’, as Hayes liked to call it, and correcting everything the lazy ass from the closing shift the night before failed to do.

  Ok, so Loretta wasn’t a lazy ass. She was fun to work with. It was simply that when I got in that mode my thoughts were efficient, vicious, impersonal.

  I went around straightening chairs, polishing the wall motorcycle’s front fender, cleaning every existing surface in the club, while taking and delivering drink orders and bantering with the guys, even if it was the same old shtick.

  “Hey Miss Clean,” Maude, an MC member who looked as macabre as his name suggested, simpered, “Can I distract you for a drink?”

  “Hey Mr. Smart Ass,” I shot back, already grabbing his usual Merlot bottle, “Keep on calling me that and I might accidentally spill some Drano in your precious wine.”

  He hooted laughter and the rest of the bar howled.

  “She ain’t no pushover, this wee lass!” Gregory declared, throwing his hairy freckled arm my way.

  “Call me wee lass again and I’ll show you how little of a pushover I am,” I said sweetly.

  They laughed some more, and I did too.

  That was how the guys were. They teased and taunted, and it was all in good fun. Usually. Some of the not-so-regulars could get crass and genuinely rude, I’d heard. Though I was lucky enough to not have experienced it. Yet.