Thrash

by Jc Emery

  Back in those days, I idolized the men who came by on Harleys. They were always around, and they were funny and nice. Every once in a while they’d babysit me and Jeremy, and sometimes we would hang out with their families. I remember Barbara, Chief’s wife, the most. She was always there. That was long before I realized what those cuts really mean and what happens when things go sideways and not everybody comes out whole.

  My mother, Sheryl, had just hooked up with the man who became my dad a few years prior and had Jeremy. We left Oakland for this place. Our first few months in town were spent in the trailer park right off of Highway 20, but then Dad bought the house because the little lady insisted if they were going to be a proper family, they needed a proper home, and a trailer park couldn’t possibly be a proper home—that stupid bitch wouldn’t know a proper home if it hit her on her ass.

  The once trendy bright blue laminate countertop is so worn and faded in spots that its color is almost unrecognizable. She used to spend hours cooking in it while Jeremy would rock out with a wooden spoon on an upside down pot on the floor. He was such a noisy kid. It never seemed to matter how messy the house got or how loud we were, Dad would come home—often with a few of his brothers in tow—and he’d sit down on the kitchen floor—usually drunk off his ass—and show Jeremy how to really play the bottom of a pot. It used to drive mom nuts. My mother loved this kitchen once; then again, she loved us once, too.

  “It’s probably why she left,” I mutter and kick off the door frame. Memories are annoying as fuck. As much as you want to hold onto the good ones, the trade-off is that you have to hold onto the bad ones as well. On the far wall is a small desk that’s overcrowded with an aging desktop computer and countless bills that have been tossed on the keyboard to be looked at later. I sit down at the desk and boot the computer up while casually looking through the bills. The water and garbage bills are past due, so those will be the first to be paid. The mortgage is—surprisingly—less than a month behind, so that can wait. My car insurance is up for renewal again next month, so here’s hoping I can make enough in tips to cover at least half of that bill. I’d probably make more sucking dick for a living than I do at Universal Grounds, but I have to maintain some self-respect. It’s one of the few things I have left.

  Once the computer boots up, I open the web browser from hell. Unfortunately, something’s wrong with the computer, so I can’t download another browser to use. I locate the search bar on screen and type in MANCUSO. Doubtful that anything is going to come up, I sort the bills according to what’s most important. The bill for the newspaper that the little wilderness scout talked me into a few months back goes on the bottom. The Gazette can just cut off the service. It’s not like we read the fucking thing anyway.

  Looking up from the stack of bills, I scan the screen. Instead of finding the results I expect—which is nothing—I find myself faced with links to news reports, all of them very recent. I click on the first search result, which is from a newspaper in Brooklyn, New York City. The article is fairly extensive and way longer than I’m comfortable reading, but I catch the highlights. Carlo Mancuso, alleged Italian mob boss to the Mancuso Crime Family, was arrested back in May for the creation, sale, and distribution of meth around the five boroughs. It takes me a few paragraphs before I realize why I should give a shit about this guy.

  “Mancuso’s son, Michael (19) was hospitalized for a gunshot wound. Mancuso’s daughter, Alexandra (19) is said to be recovering from the events with family out west,” I say, reading the article aloud. On a hunch, I do a web search for Alexandra Mancuso. A few links pop up: Our Lady of the Immaculate College Preparatory School; a Facebook page; three different blogs that appear to be fan pages for criminal organizations; and several news articles that relate to her father’s arrest. I click on one of the blog links, and sure enough, the page is filled with information about suspected mobsters, and the Mancuso family takes center stage. With Carlo’s arrest being so recent, it seems he’s become something of a sensation. Three posts down, I find a few pictures of Mancuso’s daughter, Alexandra. She looks to be of average height for a woman, her outfit doesn’t do much to show off her figure, and her long, dark brown hair is very well maintained. What catches my eye is the caption: ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS TO THE MANCUSO CRIME FAMILY, OUT FOR LUNCH WITH HER AUNT GLORIA.

  Princess.

  My mood suddenly dissolves completely as I’m left with zero doubt that this Alexandra is Duke’s Princess. And she’s beautiful in a classy way that no Lost Girl ever will be. Her makeup is subtle, her clothes are clearly expensive, and the way she carries herself in the photos shows she was brought up with manners. No wonder Duke’s got a thing for her—or spends time with her—whatever it is, she matters in some way. Looks like the bastard biker’s taking a shot above his station. Well, if he can try to raise his standards, so can I. Taking a peek of the clock, I see that it’s nearly seven. I’m supposed to meet Darren at eight. I would rather hide out than see him, but the drama that would ensue from me standing him up isn’t worth it. I close out the browser, turn off the computer, retreat to my bedroom while doing my best to ignore the hushed whispers coming from behind Jeremy’s closed door. I have to get out of this house.

  Chapter 5

  I’m a disaster. Even after my shower, I can still feel Duke all over me. Part of me feels dirty as hell about that, and the other part of me doesn’t really feel anything. My dyed blonde hair is teased less than I usually go for when I’m going out. I also tried to keep the eye makeup to a minimum, but it looked all wrong. I suppose, in a way, I look a bit classier—more like fucking Princess—but it wasn’t me.

  The girl in the mirror with the smoothed-down hair and pale pink lip gloss looks so generic that I doubt anyone would be able to pick her out of a crowd. My green eyes don’t stand out, and my roots are that much more obvious. Blotting my lips, I check my red lipstick—the one part of my normal self I decided to keep. Once I’m satisfied, I grab my purse and head out for The 101 Club.

  When I open my bedroom door, I’m met with Jeremy and the girl he’s been entertaining for the evening. They’re in his doorway, and his shirtless torso towers over her petite frame. She looks so much like the last girl he had over, and it takes me a moment to realize she is the last girl he had over. My brother isn’t much for repeat visitors, so this is a new development. He must really like this one if he isn’t making her sneak out his window.

  “Do your parents know you’re here?” I ask her. Slowly, she turns her head in my direction, but her eyes focus on the wall behind me. The pause is enough for me to know the truth.

  “Okay, awesome. So Jer, when her dad shows up all pissed off, I’m going to let you deal with him,” I say and walk off down the hall. He catches me at the front door and places an oversized hand on the door jamb, effectively stopping me from leaving without a fight.

  “Was that necessary?” he asks. I turn around and lean against the closed door.

  “Yeah, Jeremy. It was,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and staring up at him.

  “It’s not like what I just did is any different than what you do with the club,” he says with disgust in his voice. I blanch in a mix of surprise and embarrassment. I don’t talk to my brother about my social life, and he never asks. I guess I just assumed he was so into his own thing that he hadn’t noticed.

  “I’m the adult in this house,” I say.

  “So what, that means you get to do whatever you want? I’m just your stupid kid brother you got stuck with, so I have to listen to your hypocritical bullshit? Fuck that,” he yells.

  “Yeah,” I yell back, “That’s exactly what it means. And if you want to keep inviting your little girls over for play dates you’ll knock it off with the attitude,” I say.

  Cracking a cruel smile and with cold eyes, he says, “Don’t you want to start them off right? You can show them how to be a Lost Girl so when I get my patch they’ll know their place.”

  “You’re not getting a patch. You
hear me now, and you listen good—you can be an asshole, you can use every girl in this town. I don’t care. But if you think you’re going to prospect, you are dead wrong, dude.”

  “And who the fuck is going to stop me?” he says, smiling. “You’re not my mom. She ran off. You’re not my dad. He’s locked up.”

  “Just clean up the kitchen, okay?” I say and push him back then slide out the front door. Walking to my car, I’m fuming mad. It feels like I’ve left the house a hundred times today and half of those have been after a fight with Jeremy. Five months—I remind myself—just five months until he’s eighteen. A sudden panic overtakes me at the thought of him being old enough to prospect. Then for a brief, selfish second I wonder what it would be like to only have to worry about myself. Having one mouth to feed would be a lot cheaper and certainly if he were patched, he’d be earning his own keep. But no matter how less stressful it would all be financially, it’s not worth what could and likely would happen to him. He’d be no better than the rest of them.

  With irritated thoughts of my brother, I drive to The 101 Club on the other side of town, just beyond the bridge that crosses Noyo Bay. The 101 Club sits just off of South Main Street in a large dirt lot on the inland side of the road. The building looks small from the outside, with its worn paint and inconsistent flickering neon sign above the door that invites patrons to “Ente,” the R that nobody ever bothered to replace having been busted years ago.

  I step out of the car and look down at my dark blue jeans tucked into three-inch knee-high black boots. Normally, if I was looking to have a little fun, I’d have gone for a suggestive top, but tonight I decided to wear a fitted, long sleeve, black top. It’s nothing fancy, but it covers up my ink. Not that I don’t love the artwork I’ve had done, but tonight it just feels too obvious. I highly doubt Ms. Mancuso has even an imperfect blotch of skin, let alone tattoos that trail across her arms and lower belly.

  And just like that my bad mood gets even worse. I’m letting this chick and her presence in town really fuck with my head. I know damn well that it’s my own insecurities biting me in the ass, but that doesn’t put a stop to the incessant voice in the back of my head that won’t stop saying, “You’re not good enough.”

  Inside the bar, it’s poorly lit, which probably helps its customers tie one on and take someone home they surely wouldn’t in the calm and sober light of the day. Horny customers make for spendthrifts, and spendthrifts are good for business. The decor leaves a lot to be desired with its mismatched furniture and torn fabrics, but it is comfortable and usually a decent mix between quiet and noisy. The likelihood you’ll have to shout to hear one another is low, but it’s not so dead that you feel alone. It’s perfect, and the owner is a friend of the club. He knows me and will keep an eye on me.

  In the corner, shrouded in the darkness left by a burnt out bulb overhead, is Darren. He has a fresh beer, poured from the tap, still foamy on top, that he’s sipping from. In profile, he reminds me so much of who he used to be toward the end—grouchy, sullen, and mean.

  Taking a deep breath, I give myself a moment to pause before closing the distance between us.

  “Hey,” I say, sliding onto the stool beside him while keeping as much distance as I can. Setting down his beer, he turns to face me. All smiles and arrogance, Darren looks me up and down. With every mannerism and word he speaks, it seems like he’s stuck in a time warp. A few years older, likely a whole lot smarter after college, but still, just the exact same person he was back then—and here I was hoping he’d have changed.

  “Something’s different about you,” he says, looking at my covered arms. I squirm a little under his gaze. Something about Darren Jennings has always been more than a little unnerving, and, yet, I have such a hard time having a backbone around him. Continuing to look me over, he reaches over and lifts the bottom of my sleeve. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you with this much clothing.”

  The comment, as sly as it may be, hits me right in the gut. I just wanted to spend a few hours being someone other than a Lost Girl or a big sister, or even a crappy employee, and this is how he greets me. Signaling the bartender, I point at Darren’s beer and hold up my index finger in the air, asking for one for myself.

  “So, about my dad?” I ask, trying to avoid talking about myself. As the bartender brings the beer over and I place a five dollar bill on the counter, Darren delves into his plans now that he’s graduated, which is not what I came here for. He wants to attend law school, but he doesn’t know where yet. He plans on taking a year off between now and then so he can choose a school, and this way he has the opportunity to spend a year volunteering abroad. I nod my head, unsurprised by his plans, and try to keep smiling.

  Every now and then I interject a “That’s great” or “Very cool” so he thinks I care. It takes a while, but he eventually gets into my dad’s case. Unfortunately, his arrest was all over the news and The Gazette because he’s Forsaken. Darren asks me uncomfortable questions about my dad—most of which I can’t answer. The few questions I can answer, I think of how to word the answers, often times taking a long sip of my beer in an attempt to delay while I think. I can’t tell him most of what he asks about. Instead, I opt for half-truths that don’t get the club in any trouble. The thing I try to focus on is his parole hearing that just happened. We’re awaiting word on whether or not it was denied. Not that I expect it to be approved.

  “More shit with Forsaken?” he says, a snide look on his features. I tense at the word and then slyly look around. Locals have incredibly strong opinions about the Forsaken Motorcycle Club. They either love them for everything the club’s done, which even I can admit is a lot, or they hate the club because they know behind all of the community activism is a very real, very violent, and very illegal enterprise. But they all fear the club, or at least they should all fear the club. Jim, the president of the Fort Bragg charter, has a very creative way of silencing its outspoken opponents.

  “Something like that,” I say coolly, but he isn’t really having it. Darren doesn’t let things go. He’s always the one to decide when to end a conversation.

  “You could have been something, you know,” he says. And here we go. “I’ve always believed in you. So have my parents. I remember back in high school how much you wanted to get out of this town and away from the club. I don’t know what happened, but I remember a girl who couldn’t stop talking about going to college and traveling the world.”

  Feeling my temper rise, I say, “Life happened. I have a brother who needs me. Things could have been different, but they’re not, and I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “You could have let the Stones keep him,” he says, referring to Jim and Ruby. I bite back the smart comment that’s sitting on my tongue. What a stupid thing for him to say. No, I never could have left my brother in the hands of the club—no matter how well-meaning they were. Darren sees something in my face that tells him he’s stepped on the wrong topic, and he gives me a soft, apologetic smile. He’s always been so careful about his public image. If only the public knew.

  “Sorry. I just hate to see you waste so much potential. I remember what you could have been—what we could have been together.” I don’t bother to tell him that us together wasn’t going to happen.

  “Yeah, but listen. I just remembered I’m supposed to pick Jeremy up from a friend’s house.” Sliding off the stool, I give Darren a quick look.

  Reaching an arm out and grabbing my wrist, he holds me in place. Though he’s working to keep his face blank of emotion, there’s a small tick in his cheek. No, nothing has changed since high school. He’s still a total control freak, and apparently, even years later, he’s still upset that I broke it off between the two of us when I got Jeremy back from Jim and Ruby in my junior year. Not that he cared—he’d gone public with that cheerleader a month before that anyway, and he was her problem.

  “Remember the fun we used to have,” he says. It’s not a question, but a statement. It might eve
n be a warning. Back in the day, Darren Jennings suffered many a private temper tantrum. Though you’d never know it by looking at him, he can be a real mean son of a bitch when he doesn’t get his way.

  With that, I pull away, clear my throat, and straighten my spine. “You’d be surprised what I remember,” I say and walk out.

  Chapter 6

  My legs shake as I walk through the bar and out the noisy front door. There was a time when I wouldn’t have smarted off to Darren, much less walked out on him. But times have changed, and so have I, but apparently he hasn’t. Still, I walked away without even thinking about it. Neither of us are in high school anymore, and I’m no longer that terrified and fragile little girl I once was. She’s been gone a long time, and thank God for it, too.

  Struggling with the key in the door lock, I waste precious time trying to calm myself down. Taking deep breath after deep breath, forcing myself to relax before trying to unlock the car door, I don’t hear the footsteps approach behind me. A large hand lands atop the roof of my car. I jump in surprise and drop my keys in the gravel below.

  “You okay?” Darren’s voice travels through the tunnel of paranoia that overtakes me. He sounds so calm, and so nice, but I know better than to assume he’s not the same person he once was. Nothing he’s done is any different than it used to be. As I turn to face him, he brings up his free hand. I take a step back and press myself against the car. My stomach lurches at the movement, and my face contorts in fear.

  Looking him in the eye, I see the softening of his features. His face falls and his forehead smooths. His thin lips turn down, and, for the briefest of moments, I feel sorry for upsetting him, which is beyond fucked up considering our history. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I know I can be a real jerk. I’m just nervous and sad because I don’t want to mess this up.”