by K. L. Savage
At ten, I remember fishing with my dad and learning how to shoot a gun.
Huh. Fishing. I can do that. There’s a lake not too far from here. Maybe getting away for a bit will be good for the small spitfire. We can pack up and go camping, maybe take a few of the boys with us. Since Jenkins has the next few weeks off from school, he’s got nothing but time.
I walk out of my office and pass Pirate, our treasurer.
“I need you to be there tonight in the private room,” I order. “I only trust you with the money. I won’t be there.”
“You got it, Prez.”
One of the cut-sluts comes and sits on his lap, running her finger down his chest, and for the first time, my eyes are wide open. This is not the place for a kid. We have club whores in all corners, itching to get a taste of one of the members to get that property patch ol’ ladies get. We don’t have any ol’ ladies in the club yet. I’m not too sure what that says about us as men, but we’re all kind of young and have plenty of time to settle down.
Right now, though, Jenkins is about to come through that the door, and I don’t want him seeing any whore with her skirt up around her waist and a cock driving into her pussy. I put my fingers to my mouth and whistle, getting everyone’s attention.
“Anyone who is about to have sex, go do it in another room. Also, none of that shit out here before seven. No drinking either.”
“Prez!” Ghost darts up from his seated position, and the club whore on his lap falls to the ground.
“Asshole!” She shoves her skirt down and stomps out the door, but Ghost doesn’t give her another look.
I cross my arms, waiting to hear what he has to say. This ought to be good.
“This is an MC. We should be able to do whatever the fuck we want, when we want.”
“Well, I have a kid to think of, and right now this is where we stay. Either you deal with it until I say otherwise.” I walk toward him, each step closer to what I feel like is sealing a member’s fate. “If you don’t like it”—I grab him by his cut and throw him against the wall—“I don’t mind ripping you of your patches, and you can get the fuck out,” I roar, slamming my fist right next to his head, leaving a large dent in the sheetrock. “Actually, that goes for everyone. If anyone has a problem doing this for the next few years, then get out. Hawk’s kid is the priority right now. If you can’t keep your shit together, then there is the fucking door.” I shove Ghost again for good measure and turn my head across the room to see if anyone has the balls to leave. Once a Ruthless King. Always a Ruthless King.
“Sorry, Prez,” Ghost mumbles.
I turn back to him. “Now, I don’t give a shit what you do behind closed doors, but here, the main space, is off limits. You got it?”
Tool chucks his screwdriver at Ghost, and it thuds against his chest before falling at his feet. “Yeah, you got it, Ghost?”
“Got it.” He straightens his cut and stomps toward his room, slamming the door.
Maybe it’s not the kid I need to worry about; maybe it’s my damn members. They all seem to be pussies right about now.
The saloon doors open, and a small shadow gets casted from the sun, and then a larger shadow appears when Poodle steps behind Jenkins as they enter.
“Jenkins! Hey, kid.” Everyone greets and holds out their fists for him to bump.
Damn, he’s a miniature version of Hawk. All dark hair and dark eyes with pale skin. He doesn’t look anything like his mama.
He bumps everyone’s fists, and Tool messes with his hair until Jenkins stops in front of me. “Hi, Uncle Reaper.”
Tool snorts at the name, but Uncle Jesse doesn’t have the same ring to it.
“Hey, kid. Want to tell me what today was about?” I kneel and tilt his chin up to look at me. “A man always looks in the eye of the person speaking to him.”
With watery eyes, he holds his head up and straightens his spine. “No.”
Damn it, he’s just as stubborn as his dad. I’m so fucked.
Three Days Later
The drive to Lake Mead is beautiful. The twenty some odd miles of desert and rolling hills are the perfect way to enjoy a good bike ride after the shitshow Jenkins pulled at school. The kid stresses me out more than some of the cut-sluts that hang around the clubhouse, dying to fuck any biker just to get that leather. Sometimes they cause a bit of drama, and this little ten-year-old has caused more headaches in the last three months than I know what to do with.
It’s hard handling him and club business. I’ve Tool take the lead on most things, as new club VP now. I don’t really feel like I’m doing my part for the club lately, but I made a promise to my friend to make sure his kid is never alone. I’m a man of my word, and I’ll die before I go back on it.
The kid isn’t on the back of the bike. He’s a little too young for that, so I have a few of the prospects and Jenkins behind me in the Cadillac. I’m not real sure what I’m hoping this trip will bring. I think Jenkins and I need to get to know each other, as men. It’s time for him to grow up and realize loss is just a part of life, not the end of it. People may say he is too young, but my dad taught me that long before I was Jenkin’s age.
It’s life. Bullshitting or sugarcoating isn’t going to make him ready for the world, and I know Hawk would agree with me.
I wave my hand to the right before I take the turn to the safe house. We have a few scattered about the area, but this one is my favorite. It’s a secluded log cabin, nestled between two hills and a rushing river a few yards ahead of it. It’s pretty spacious, three bedrooms and two baths. It’s just the right size for a little ‘come to Jesus’ meeting.
I take it easy on the dirt road, going a bit slower than I need to. I’m not going to mess up my bike because these prospects have yet to fix these damn holes in the road. Poodle and Skirt need to get their shit together. The grunt work is for them, not members with rank.
We pull into the driveway, and I shut off my bike and park it. I cross my arms as I wait for the SUV to come to a stop. All I see is Poodle in the driver’s seat and Skirt in the passenger’s seat, bickering like they’re an old married couple. The kid is in the back, right in the middle, and his face says it all.
He hates being in the vehicle with them.
I chuckle when I think of Hawk and the same expression he had when he was around people he didn’t like. A small pang of agony stabs my heart. Damn it, I miss that big goofy motherfucker.
“I don’t know why you insist on wearing that damn thing!” Poodle jumps out of the SUV and slams the door. “It’s fucking embarrassing.”
“It’s me damn kilt, you bastard! At least my nickname isn’t Poodle because of a dog.” Skirt is very proud of his heritage. He came over from Scotland when he was just a ‘wee boy.’ His words, not mine. He has a slight accent, long red hair, and a beard. He is huge, built like a brick shithouse, so it’s funny to see the man wearing a skirt.
A kilt.
What-the-fuck-ever.
“Don’t talk about her like that!” Poodle shoves Skirt’s chest. “She’s an AKC registered standardized poodle! She’s a damn show dog.” He ends the hundredth time I’ve heard this argument with a stab to Skirt’s chest.
“Don’t touch me.” Skirt pushes Poodle back, and the smaller man nearly goes flying backward. Skirt has an easy hundred pounds on Poodle and almost an entire foot in height. Poodle doesn’t stand a chance.
Most poodles wouldn’t, I suppose.
I snicker at my own joke and then clear my throat to stop the fighting. “Prospects! Shut up. Unload the car, and get the shit inside. Kid—” I point to Jenkins, who is still inside the car, and crook my finger, telling him to get out. He rolls his eyes at me, and if he were older, I’d knock the shit out of him for doing that.
Poodle and Skirt shove each other one last time, and Poodle trips over his own feet, almost falling, but he catches himself with his hands then wipes the dust off on his pants. I place my hands on my hips and look toward the sky.
&nb
sp; How the hell did I get idiots for prospects?
Jenkins drags his feet as he comes to me. He doesn’t want to be here. With his attitude, it’s clear he doesn’t want to be anywhere. He sulks, constantly. He has a temper all the time. Yes, he’s still a child. He doesn’t know it’s time to lock that shit up, push it to the side, and grow up, but he will. I miss his dad too, but I don’t let it compromise my day-to-day life like Jenkins does.
“You know why we’re here, kid?” I ask, placing a smoke between my lips.
“’Cause I set the dipshit’s trash can on fire?”
“Hey, fucking language!”
“You just cussed! Why can’t I?” He stomps his foot, and at the same time, I inhale then blow out the smoke.
“I’m an adult. I can do whatever the hell I want. You can’t cuss because I said so. Now, we’re here because of your fire habit, but we’re also here for other reasons—to have fun.”
“Right. Whatever.” He goes to move by me, but my hand flattens against his chest and pushes him back until he’s standing in front of me again.
With the cigarette between my fingers, I put one palm on his shoulder and point the other at his face. “Now listen here, I’ve had enough of your disrespectful attitude. It ends now. Today. No more. Your dad was a good man, and I refuse to be responsible for his son turning into a disrespectful little shit. I won’t be taking it easy on you anymore. You get me?”
His eyes well with tears, and as much as it hurts that I made him cry, maybe that’s exactly what he needs. “You’re not my dad!”
“I know I’m not. I’m not trying to be. Your dad trusted me to take care of you, but you aren’t making it easy.”
“I hate you,” he spits. “I hate you. I hate everyone in this stupid club. I hate the club! It killed my dad. I wish it would have been all of you instead of him, and maybe my life wouldn’t be over!” he screams as tears run down his face. His small hands push against my stomach. “You hear me? I hate you.” He pushes me again, but I hardly move. “I hate you!”
Poodle and Skirt start to come forward, but I hold up my hand, and they stop in their tracks. I’m glad Jenkins is saying this. He’s letting it all out, something he hasn’t done yet since Hawk died.
“My dad would still be alive if it wasn’t for this MC. I hope it burns to the ground, and I hope I’m the one to do it!” he sobs, punching my gut with his tiny fists. It barely feels like anything, since he’s so small and has no meat on his bones. I have to teach this kid a lot, like how to ball up his fists properly if he’s ever going to hit someone. Right now, he’s going to break his thumb. “I hate you so much.”
He sags against me and wails. Painful sobs. Not the silent kind, but the kind that takes a piece of your soul with you, the kind that really fucking hurts. I wrap my arms around him and pat his shoulder awkwardly, knowing he needs comfort, but not really knowing how to give it.
I’m not an affectionate kind of guy.
Sniffles from my right has me staring at Poodle, who is wiping his underneath his eyes. He shrugs his shoulder and turns around; not even Skirt gives him shit for it. We all feel the pain the kid is feeling. Just because we know how to handle it differently, doesn’t make the intensity of it any less.
It’s there. It hurts.
But we know how to move on. The kid doesn’t.
“That’s it. Let it all out.” I take another drag of my smoke and pat his shoulder again. Skirt coughs, the kind of cough that’s meant to get attention, and I look over at him. He mouths something about a hug.
“What?” I mouth in return.
“Give the midget a mug,” he mouths.
That makes no sense. I have no mugs on me.
He pinches his nose, clearly annoyed that I’m not understanding what he’s saying. I flick my cigarette at him, and he stomps on it, points to the kid, and spreads his arm out in a hug.
Oh, give the kid a hug.
I nod a chin-lift at the prospects, telling them to go inside. I kneel on the ground, my knee digging into the dirt and rocks. Jenkins wipes away his tears on the back of his hand with a bit of snot too. It’s disgusting. Kids are so gross.
“I know,” I say, staring into the eyes of his father. “I know, kid.” I don’t hug. I’m not a hugger. In fact, the closest thing I’ve ever done in giving anyone a hug is when I’m holding a woman to my chest while I fuck her brains out.
Oh, get a grip, Reaper. It’s a hug. How hard can it be?
I grab him by the arms and pull him to my chest. His breath leaves his lungs, and I squeeze. Hugs are tight, right?
“Uncle Reaper.” He taps my back. “I can’t breathe.”
“Shit.” I lighten the grip I have around him and pull back. “Sorry, kid. I’m not much of a hugger.”
“I can tell.” He wipes his nose again. At least he isn’t sobbing anymore, which I find to be a win. I must have done something right. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean those things I said.” He kicks the rocks with his toes, and I tilt his chin up to make him look at me.
“Yes, you did. Never do that. Never apologize for how you feel. There isn’t a day that I haven’t thought what you just said. You don’t trust us. You do despise us. We have to make the best of it. In time, things will change. Right now, it’s hard. And remember what I said about talking to a person. Always look them in the eyes. Okay?”
“Okay,” he says in a small voice. “Uncle Reaper?”
“Yeah, kid?”
“I don’t despise you. I just really miss my dad.” He drags his feet to the steps of the cabin, and the soles of his shoes scuff against the wood.
The door slams, and I don’t move from my kneeling position, letting the sharp edges of the rock dig into my skin. “Me too, kid. Me too.”
Time won’t change that.
Next Day
It’s time to go fishing. I have the poles; and I have a cooler full of beer and apple juice for the kid. Apple juice for the kid. I had my first beer around his age, but I want to at least try to be a better parent than my old man. Poodle and Skirt are following behind us as we head down to the river. It’s the perfect day. It isn’t too hot or humid, the sun is bright in the sky, and there isn’t a cloud crossing the big blue.
There’s a slight breeze that helps keep us cool. The river is calm, and the water is so clear you can see straight through. It’s been so long since I’ve been here, I’ve forgotten how beautiful nature is.
“Hawk never took you fishing?” I ask the kid, plopping our chairs down right on the bank.
“No, he never had the time. It was always MC business. We did other things, but some things he just didn’t have time for. He was still the best dad.” His voice breaks when he sits down, and he tilts his head back toward the sky, and I can tell he’s trying not to cry.
“I want this spot.”
“No, I was here first. Go find ye’ own spot!” Skirt pushes Poodle, and Poodle nearly falls into the river.
Poodle tackles Skirt, and his kilt raises when he’s mid-air. “Oh shit.” I cover the kid’s eyes, realizing he just saw Skirt’s junk. Fucking great. How the hell am I going to explain that?
“He isn’t wearing underwear.”
I pop open the cooler and ignore the stupid prospects. I put a beer in my cup holder and an apple juice in the kid’s. “Skirt’s weird like that. Ignore him.”
Please, don’t ask about dicks or balls. I’m not ready for that.
“Okay.” He shrugs and pops the straw through the box.
I don’t want his mood to get down. The hiss of the beer opening is music to my ears. I take a swig and then stand up again. “You know how to look for bait?”
“What’s bait?”
I groan and scrub my hands over my face. “I have a lot to teach you, kid. Come on.”
“What about them?” He points over to the prospects who are now in the water, dunking each other. Poodle’s has a split lip that’s bleeding.
“Hey! You’re going to scare all the fish away
with that damn noise. Get out. Shut up. Or I swear I’m going to have you clean the shitters—I mean that bathroom—for an entire week.”
Skirt gets one last splash at Poodle, as he never takes his eyes off me. I swear, Jenkins is more of an adult than these damn prospects.
“Come on, let’s go.” Jenkins gets up with more enthusiasm than I expected, kicking up a bit of dust in his tennis shoes. “We’re gonna need to get you some biker boots, kid.”
“Nah.” He kicks a rock. “Only boots I want to wear on are my dad’s.”
Fuck. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You’re a stronger man that that.
“I’m sure he’d love that.” I clear the lump in my throat by taking a big ol’ swig of beer. Now I have to find his boots to make sure the kid gets them. “Anyway, bait. Let’s talk about that because what we catch tonight is dinner.”
“No way!” he says in awe, staring at me like I’m a god or some shit.
“Yep. Bait is what we’re going to put on the hook to get the fish’s attention. It can be worms, crickets, other fish, or bread, but we’re going to get worms.”
“Where do we get those from?”
We walk a bit of a ways down the river and stop when I see a good shaded area where the dirt is wet and there are plenty of rocks. “Here. Worms like cold, wet places. So we’re going to dig a bit and look under these rocks, and we should be able to find some worms. Here.” I pull the small container out of my back pocket and place it on the ground. “Put them in here when you find them.”
Jenkins gets down on his hands and knees and starts lifting rocks and digging in the dirt. “Cool!” he says as he sticks his fingers in the earth. “Nasty.” He lifts up a long earthworm and stares at it like it’s the best thing he has ever seen.
“Right?” I’m glad he isn’t afraid to get dirty. If only we can get him interested in things like this instead of setting things on fire, maybe I won’t feel like such a fuck up of a pseudo-father.
Ten minutes later, our container is full of ugly, squirmy, slimy worms, and the kid is covered in dirt. How the hell he got dirt on his face, forehead, hair, and all over his clothes, is beyond me. He looks cute, though, like finally he’s having fun for the first time since Hawk died. “Jenkins, you’re a mess,” Skirt points out.