by Lux, Vivian
The smell was making me nauseous. Or maybe it was something else.
Andy opened the window over my bed so quickly the hinges shrieked in protest. He was angry.
"Hey," I muttered.
"Sorry." He didn't sound sorry. His back was to me, broad, mannish shoulders hunched tightly as he knelt on my tiny bed. He looked ridiculously overgrown for this tiny house.
I tried for humor. "So, that went well."
He sat heavily on my old canopy bed. The springs squeaked as he bounced his leg rapidly, a nervous habit that had always irritated me. Now it made me smile fondly. "Well it's nice to have you back, if only to have someone else in the doghouse for a moment," he sighed.
The hurt of being left alone with them bit at the edges of his voice. It seemed no matter what I did, it was the wrong thing. I slid carefully next to him and matched his bouncing leg.
"It's a strange feeling," I admitted. "I haven't been there too often."
Andy looked at me. "You noticed that?"
"Of course I did. I made it my life's mission not to piss them off." I grimaced. "It fucked me up pretty badly, to be honest."
"You don't seem fucked up." Andy's voice was gentler than I expected.
"Oh I am, believe me." The words wanted to be said. "I thought I was starting over again when I got away from Robert. Andy, you have no idea. These past two weeks have been horrible. And amazing. Horribly amazing."
Andy knew I wanted to talk. He leaned back onto the pillows and propped his head. "Tell me the amazing parts first."
Where to start? "Okay. Well I fell in love. That was amazing."
He smiled and nodded, encouraging me to go on. "But that got a little overshadowed by all the other shit." I pressed my lips together. "And things kind of fell apart. Myself included. Now I'm wondering if I fucked it all up."
"You said he's a biker?"
"His name is J. Well, Jeremiah actually, but everyone calls him J. He lives and works at this custom bike shop with a couple other guys." I considered for a moment, weighing whether or not to mention that my biker boyfriend also was a black man. The fact that I was hesitating felt like a betrayal to J. Then I remembered that I had left the clubhouse without saying goodbye.
He probably would consider that a bigger betrayal.
Andy, unaware of my inner struggle, was still focused on what I had said out loud. "He does choppers?" he asked, eyes glittering.
I looked at my brother. His face was rapt. Slowly I realized it wasn't my story he was interested in. It was the motorcycles. I had to laugh. "I guess that's what they are? Custom stuff, like weird tailpipes."
Andy sat up. "What's the name of the shop?"
"Steel Cycles?"
"Holy shit!"
"You've heard of it?"
"Um yeah, Em. It's one of the best custom places on the East Coast. Damn." He shook his head.
"I, um, didn't know you were into motorcycles. "
"You left before I could even drive," he pointed out.
"Fair enough."
"Steel Cycles, wow. You say he lives there?"
"Well there's a garage that doubles as the clubhouse. It's not the most luxurious place in the world. You saw the neighborhood."
He sniffed a disturbing imitation of my mother. "It was the ghetto."
I was glad I hesitated in telling him everything about J.
But his redneck's distaste for the inner city was fighting with his interest. "You said there were other guys too?"
"They're a club. Well, more like..," I groped for the word to describe the connection. "They're like brothers. Family. A bunch of different types of guys, from different backgrounds," I added pointedly. "J.'s family kind of sucks. So he went and made his own."
He made a sharp noise of understanding. I decided to press a little harder. "Philadelphia's a pretty diverse city, you know..."
"I get it Emmy. Christ, I'm not dense." Andy leaned back in a huff. "He Spanish? No wait, not with a name like Jeremiah. He's a black guy?" He sat bolt upright "You're dating a black guy?"
"I guess I was. Past tense. Now I'm not exactly sure what's going on."
He poked his tongue into the corner of his mouth and contemplated for a moment. "Mom's gonna shit a brick," he noted. He looked positively gleeful.
I smacked him in the arm, but I knew he was right. Part of me wanted to keep it hidden from my mother forever and ever. The other part, the newborn fighter part, wanted to grab J. and kiss him right in front of her. Let him put his hands all over me while she gasped and sputtered.
In time, I told myself. It was a happy little lie to keep me going. J. would come to me...somehow...and we would be like we were that night in the cow field. With no one around to drag us back into the harsh reality of the day.
Andy had seen my silence and settled back onto my bed to stare at the ceiling. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head. "Are you still thinking about Mom disowning me?"
He laughed. "Nah, wait yes, just a little longer....okay I'm done." I poked him in the leg. "No, now I'm thinking about motorcycles."
"You should talk to him."
He lifted his head. "You should probably talk to him first."
"Touche, jerk."
He laughed again, flopping his head back down onto the bed. I wrapped my arms around my knees and hugged myself close. I remembered telling J. about this being the place that made me, for better or worse. I realized much of the better parts were because of Andy.
Just as the warm thoughts had begun to take root, the voices started up from downstairs. First there was a basso rumble, my father's voice so low I couldn't make out the words. I could only feel the instant fear they inspired.
Then my mother's high whine. Beseeching, begging, cajoling. Andy lifted his head from his daydream to listen with me.
Neither of us caught what she said, but it seemed to infuriate my father. "...your business!" I heard him say.
"Here we go," Andy muttered, drowning out my mother's response. I smacked him and listened harder.
"...attention, nothing more. She always has."
She was talking about me.
In spite of my lifelong attempts to play nice, it had always been my mother's assertion that I wanted to be the center of attention. The more I faded into the woodwork, the more I tried to meekly go along with the crowd, the more she accused me of causing drama.
I felt my cheeks go hot at the injustice. Andy slipped his hand over mine as we listened for my father's reply. It was too low to hear.
My mother's was as clear as if she was standing and shouting the words in my ear. "I'm not about to let her laze around here all summer getting even fatter!"
I swallowed back my tears.
Andy squeezed my hand tightly and we huddled together just as we always had.
We heard my father's tread slam across the kitchen. The hot, angry part of me was grateful to hear something like anger in his voice. I hoped he was defending me.
But my eagerness was replaced with nausea when I heard the protests.
Followed by the thud. And then the small shriek of pain.
Then the stifled sobs as his heavy tread faded. We heard the door to the garage slam. I jumped at the noise, but Andy didn't move at all.
My mother was crying quietly. I wanted to go to her. I hated how badly I wanted to go to her. I loved her too. I loved my poisonous, treacherous mother so much that I was willing to overlook the horrible bile she had just spewed about me and go to comfort her. I shifted to do so, but Andy closed his fingers around my wrist and shook his head.
We heard the squeak of the garage door hinges and my father's footfall in the kitchen. "Oh get up, Linda," I heard him scoff.
She sniffled something high and keening. I heard him snort and walk away.
The sound of the TV blared to life, drowning out any further argument.
Andy let out a rush of breath then clapped his hands together. "Okay! Good show tonight. That's a wrap."
His cyn
icism made me feel slightly nauseous. "Is it always like this now?"
"I think tonight's performance was one of the better ones in a while," he observed. "You inspire them, Emmy."
"That's not funny."
"It's not supposed to be."
"Andy, we need to get you out of here."
"No fucking shit." He kicked his leg harder, staring fixedly at a point on my wall. "Em?"
"What's up?"
"You say you're in love?"
I looked where he was looking. Our two reflections stared back from the low child's vanity that still squatted against the wall by my closet. It was too low for me to sit comfortably at anymore, but I had never been able to bring myself to get rid of it. My father had bought it for me on one of the good days. Those all too infrequent days where he would be present in my life. I would bask in his undivided attention, his little princess that made him so proud. We had gone out for ice cream in the strip mall that replaced the center of our town. At the counter, he had suddenly declared that I could have a present. Anything I wanted.
I knew I needed to act fast. These happy moods were fleeting and I never knew whether the promises made during them would last. So I had looked around wildly, trying to find something to ask for that would seem special enough.
I had pointed to the furniture store three stores down. I didn't actually want a vanity, had never even thought of it before that day. I was happier to see my father's proud face as he handed over the money and declared that it was a gift for his "good little girl." I had been happier to throw my arms around his shoulders and kiss his whiskered cheek. "You're the best daddy in the world," I had declared, because that's what I was supposed to say. That's what he wanted to hear.
Now my brother's face was looking at me. It was easier to talk to his reflection than it was to look in his eyes and say, "I was. I think I still am. But it's too messed up right now. I went from being Robert's possession to being J.'s burden."
"You're not a burden, Em. And if he made you feel that way, he's an idiot."
I settled my hand gratefully on Andy's leg. The sound of the TV below us rumbled on, drowning out our words so I was sure no one was eavesdropping.
"I wanted him." I realized. "All of him. But he can't give it. And it's pathetic of me to wait around until he's ready. I need to stand on my own two feet. For the first time in my life."
"So do that then." Andy sounded frustrated. "Don't depend on him. Be his equal."
I turned from his reflection to look at him. "You know, for a teenaged boy, you're awfully perceptive. It's creepy. Cut it out."
He slid smiling from my bed. "The minute I turn eighteen, I am leaving here, and never coming back. I need to get you fixed up so I have a couch to crash on when I do."
I grinned back. "Oh, so you're not being completely altruistic?"
"Noooope," he drawled in that same sarcastic singsong. "Get your shit together Em. I got plans for you." He backed out of my bedroom, ducking under the doorframe gracefully to avoid smacking his head. He left me to the sounds of my parents' murmured conversation and my own tumbling thoughts.
Chapter Twenty Two
J.
He had only been sleeping next to her for a week, but he was already used to her being there. The sheets were permeated with her scent and the smell of the two of them mingled together. He rolled over onto the pillow and inhaled the perfume of her hair, then got angry when he felt himself stiffen helplessly. Waking up without her soft body snuggled close to him left a void in his chest that pain rushed in to fill.
If he had known where she was, maybe he could have held some of the bad thoughts at bay, but his brain kept forcing him to picture her going back to Robert. As he turned to lay face up in his cot, his traitorous mind played out the scene in minute detail. Robert's sneering face as he looked down at Emmy, thrilled to have her in his grasp again. Emmy's tears as she swallowed her pride and begged him to take her back. To let her back into the penthouse and off the streets because J. hadn't cared enough to notice she had no home besides his.
Fuck.
The anger propelled him out of his cot and to his feet. With a strangled cry he whirled and sank his fist into the perfumed pillow. It connected with a dull thud.
It was completely unsatisfying.
He moved through the garage in a daze. He could see Case in the corner, fiddling with some shipments. The big man moved slowly, still babying his injured ribs. J. coughed to catch his attention, but Case acted as if he didn't hear.
J. needed a distraction. He went into the office to grab the order slips from the inbox. There was still a stack a half an inch thick. He leafed through them uncomprehendingly, then shook his head and tried to focus. Three after-market kits to install. A tricky new 120 cubic inch motor to add to a soft-tail. Two metal-flake paint jobs for a picky but very well-off repeat customer. And it was all rush stuff that needed to be done yesterday. Focused, finicky work that required his undivided attention.
Fuck.
Riding would help, he told himself as he made his way to his bike. A ride would clear his head, then he would come back and work on his orders. He would strategize with Case about tomorrow's peace meeting. He wouldn't think about Emmy and her backpack anymore. He wouldn't worry about where or who she ended up with. He wouldn't think about her, unsafe and alone, her small fists clenched the way he had taught her.
Fuck.
He meant to aim his bike for the entrance to 95. Ride north until he shook himself free of the city's clutches. Head into the rolling hills along the Delaware River, maybe loop around west through the country roads of Bucks County.
Why the hell was he riding through Center City?
His bike was driving itself, weaving through traffic, turning right and left, right and left. He was almost surprised when he pulled up in front of the building on 18th.
He hit the throttle a few times. The bike's roar echoed across Rittenhouse Square, rolling up the apartment building. Up to the twentieth floor. If she was there, maybe she would hear it and come down.
Or maybe Robert would come down and he could kick his ass properly like he should have from the very beginning. While Emmy watched with a smile on her face.
He hit the throttle again. "Asshole!" he shouted up to the sky. "Hey asshole! Where is she?!"
When the lobby doors opened he almost believed it had worked. But it wasn't Robert's sneering face that saw him idling there.
It was the lobby guard. Officer Wilkens, Emmy had called him. The one who had spied on her, and told Robert where to find him. The former cop took one startled look at J. and rushed back into the lobby. J. could see his silhouette through the tinted glass. He was picking up a phone.
Fuck.
J. roared away, hot flames of unspent rage licking at his cheeks. The last thing he needed was to be taken down by a rent-a-cop for stalking. Especially since Robert had already tried to get him back in jail once.
He wished he could sink his fists into Robert's face without consequence. He could already feel it in his itching fingers. Smashing his nose into bloody fragments and watching him double over screaming. Cracking him backwards with another hook and hearing the crunch of his newly broken jaw. In his mind he kept punching, over and over, raining down hellfire and justice with superhuman strength. Bringing this arrogant asshole the kind of comeuppance that he would never receive in real life. The only way to make him pay for what he did to Emmy was to make him suffer to the very end.
His anger roared and he reveled in it. He wanted to pick at this wound, watch it bleed and fester. He wanted to prod at his pain, make it flare to life. Emmy was gone, his club was slipping away, he couldn't kill Robert without consequence....
His bike was leading him to the house on Dauphin Street.
Here was the perfect place to let his anger loose. He would call Randall out and let him feel the weight of his betrayal behind his fists. It was beyond time for his debt to be paid in broken bones and blood.
As he slo
wed down to make the turn, he spied a figure on the roof of the rowhome. As he neared the house, the figure stood up from his stooped position. Wiping his brow with a cloth, he looked down at the street, then shoved the cloth into the back pocket of his cargo shorts.
With his shirt off, Randall looked even less imposing than he did in a polo shirt. The soft, saggy plane of his chest sloped into a rounded belly that stood out in front of him. He looked like a pregnant woman, J. decided.
How was he supposed to hit a man like that?
Randall shielded his eyes against the searing sun. J. didn't know why he was acting like he couldn't see who was here. What other black leather clad motherfucker would be rolling up on a custom chopper in front of this house? He hit the throttle angrily, sending a blast of sound rolling down the claustrophobic street.
After what seemed like a lifetime, Randall put his foot carefully on the ladder. Slowly and cautiously, he made his inexorable way down to the street level.
When he finally stood on the sidewalk in front of J., he could see the rivers of sweat pouring from Randall's forehead. He looked like he was seconds away from dying of heatstroke. The sight of him pissed J. off.
"You playin' handyman now?" he spat. "You even know what the fuck you're doing up there?" He flexed his knuckles, feeling the surge of power his rage gave him. Yeah, he could definitely hit a man like that. This was a long time coming and he was going to enjoy every minute of it. "Playin' man of the house or some shit?"
Randall held up his hands for calm. "I'm not playin'," he said, his voice low and calm. "I am."
"The fuck you say?" J. almost hit him right then.
"I say I am the man of the house."
"Ruin my life and then step in to replace me, I ought to kill you right now."
"You want to hit me, J.?"
His fingers itched. "Yeah, I really fucking do."
"Fine." Randall crossed his arms behind his back and sucked in his gut. "Hit me. If it'll make it up to you, go."
J. wavered. He wanted begging and screaming. Not this. He didn't want Randall taking it like a man.