Bottom Line_Nomad Bikers

by Chelsea Camaron

  I don’t know if I will ever find the answers I seek. In the end, none of it matters. I’m here until the devil calls my number and demands his due in my blood.

  After all, the devil always gets his due.

  Chapter Four

  Bottom Line: Close the Tab

  ~Trapper~

  T he line rings.

  For a moment I think maybe just maybe this is it. Avery is done with me.

  “Fucker!” is what I get when I pick up.

  Well, not exactly a welcome hello, but there is an answer. There is still life on the other end of the phone. This is a positive.

  “Well, hello to you too, Avery.”

  “Fucker, one year. It’s been one year, Trapper.” The impatience is noted. “I should have known when you easily conceded to my ultimatum it wouldn’t really be easy. Nothing with you ever is!”

  “Oh and you are! Forget your choice, Avery. It’s time we move on. You’re what got me in this shit in the first motherfuckin’ place. I’m trying to hold on to something I don’t even know if it’s real.” I look to the screen of my phone and see the seconds tick by. “Do I even know this call is real, hmmmm, riddle me that, Avery!”

  “Jackass, you know this is real.” There is a sigh. “I just don’t understand you. When anyone else is around, you speak freely. Mitchell becomes Trapper and everyone takes Trapper just how he is. Well, what will Mitchell do if he’s not so easy to handle as Trapper?”

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

  “Cuttin’ a little too deep? Well, welcome to my hell, Mitchell Gates.”

  I slide the phone off.

  Fuck Avery Collins. Fuck the day we ever met.

  I pick up the bottle of booze and toss it back, taking a long pull. The burn goes from the back of my tongue and settles into my gut.

  Fuck it all.

  Fuck the devil himself. He needs to call his marker, make his claim.

  I’m ready to give the devil his due.

  After all the devil always gets his due … I just wish he would call for mine.

  Chapter Five

  Bottom Line: Day of Reckoning

  ~Trapper~

  T he air is stifling hot tonight, meaning the air conditioner in the motel is clearly not working. I lay in bed with the cheap-ass sheets chafing against my naked skin. Forcing my eyes closed, my mind drifts off to sleep. All too soon, I find myself in hell once again.

  “Avery, no matter how you spin it, this shit makes no sense,” I mutter, tossing my textbook to the floor and resting back on the bed.

  “You don’t pass this test, you can kiss the whole semester away. Mr. Hill already told you, Mitchell, you need a seventy-six or higher, or you fail.”

  “Stop telling me shit I already know, Avery.” I jump from the bed as the frustration rolls off of me.

  “Take a time-out, then we’ll give it another shot.”

  Making my way down the hall and to the garage, I pull out my pack of smokes. I press the keypad to make the garage door open, knowing the light in here is out, and then step down the stairs to the concrete floor. The door rises about a foot off the ground when I hear the side door open, the keypad being pressed halting the door in its place.

  Before I can turn all the way around, I’m forced harshly against the wall. The cement blocks grind into my cheek as I feel a large person pressed to my back. My feet are kicked apart while he holds my head to the side, smashing it into the unforgiving wall.

  The air is thick. I start to call out when the butt of his palm pushes into my jaw, making any movement difficult.

  “Mitchell,” Avery’s stepdad whispers. “Gotta stay quiet, Mitchell. We don’t want Avery to hear.”

  Bile rises in my throat. Avery’s told me to stay away from him. I know Avery is afraid of Butch. The man is dangerous. He is a bastard with balls, brass ones.

  “You like pretty Avery, don’t you, Mitchell?” He groans pressing his hard cock against my back. “You and Avery have secrets.” He rocks against me. “I won’t tell. I’ll give you rough, forbidden. I’ll give you more than Avery can.”

  I groan as the rough edges of the cement cut into my face.

  “Shhh, can’t let anyone hear us.”

  I am so fucked. Avery hates cigarettes, so there won’t be anyone coming to save me. Butch yanks my basketball shorts down as I try to kick and push my body off the wall. I haven’t filled out. At fifteen, I’m only five-feet-seven-inches, and one-hundred-eight pounds. I’m scrawny. My mom can’t afford to feed a growing boy, she says when she is actually sober enough to speak in sentences.

  When I feel fingers dip between my ass cheeks, I jerk, trying to fight free. He slams my head into the concrete, causing my mouth to fill with blood as the room spins.

  I inhale and smell the alcohol on his breath. His hand goes farther down to tickle the back side of my balls.

  My cock shrivels in fear.

  “I’ve got you trapped,” he pants out as he rubs his cock up and down my ass, the rough texture of the denim of his jeans burning against the tender skin of my hindside. “I’m gonna give you rough, forbidden. I’m gonna give you what Avery can’t.”

  “No!” I cry out. “No!”

  “You wanna protect Avery, don’t you? Your dear, precious Avery. What a puckered hole Avery has … I’ve tasted it, have you?”

  The vomit rises as he holds me with one hand and toys with his pants. I gag and gargle on my puke as he continues at his task.

  Thrashing, I wake up in a cold sweat. How many times did Butch violate Avery? I refuse to think of how many times I couldn’t save my friend. The sheet is tight around me like the bad memories. It’s strangling, suffocating.

  All too soon, we will be back together, Avery and I. What can the future hold when the past is so dark?

  The devil will call. I can only hope it’s sooner rather than later.

  After all the devil always gets his due.

  Chapter Six

  Bottom Line: Paid in Full

  ~Trapper~

  “W e’re sorry; the number you have reached is no longer in service.”

  “What the fuck, Avery!” I yell to no one. The hotel room is empty.

  Tomorrow, one fucking day away, and Avery would have me home.

  Rowdy and Michele left two days ago to get the shop ready to re-open. While they look for a house in Leed, Alabama, fucking Sonnie gave them free reign to use her house. The house I have had Avery staying in for months.

  Dammit.

  Avery. What do I do with Avery?

  There isn’t a single bad thing I can say.

  Loyalty.

  Hell, no one has it more than Avery. Since we were punk-ass teens, Avery has had my back.

  Trust.

  There is not a single person who I trust more than Avery. When someone knows your every secret, both the good and the bad, yet never tells a soul, that’s trust.

  Forgiveness.

  All the shit I have done over the years, Avery knows every fuck, every betrayal, and has forgiven me for them all.

  And I have fucked a lot.

  Fearless.

  To see Avery, a stranger wouldn’t think much. Knowing Avery, knowing the night I should have died and Avery saved me … Avery faced our tormentor to save my life.

  I took too long.

  How many times has Avery told me to come home? How many times has Avery made it clear, Avery is not my dirty little secret? How many times have I brushed it off?

  This is my punishment.

  My time is up.

  The devil is calling … and I’m the one with the debt.

  It’s time I paid my due.

  SECTION TWO

  The Past …

  The past sets into motion our future.

  The following section will take you back in time to before Trapper existed and Mitchell Gates was just a boy trying to survive in a cruel world.

  Chapter Seven

  ~Mitchell~

  I wake up stiff, like every other day.
Sleeping on the floor doesn’t give a person’s body much of a choice.

  Rising, I groan as I stretch my body. Grabbing some sweatpants from my duffle bag on the floor, I lift them and sniff. Still smells clean; they will have to do.

  To my left is the pile of clothes I need to get to the Wash and Dry Laundromat down on Main Street to wash. It’s always something, or so it seems.

  First, I need to scrape up the change to pay for a load. Typically, someone leaves soap behind so I can use that without it costing me more money. The other benefit of the public washers is leftover clothing, like the sweatpants I will be wearing today. I found them on my last trip. Typically, I can snag one new piece of clothing each time I make it there. It’s the only way I get anything new to wear. Sometimes, the items don’t fit right, but I learned to make it work.

  Sliding them on, I yank a T-shirt off the floor, give it a quick sniff, and then pull it on.

  In the kitchen, I take a glance at the stove to check the time.

  Blank.

  Going to the fridge, I open the door, but not for food. There is no food in there that I’m allowed to touch. It’s all hers. No, I open it because I need to see if the light works.

  Dark.

  No power.

  The electricity is shut off … again.

  By the light outside, I overslept for the second time this week.

  Better late than never , I think to myself as I grab my sneakers.

  I am going to catch shit at the school office, but it’s not like there is anyone here to care about the call they will try to make home – the phone was disconnected the first month after she got it turned on. Besides, if they get through to anyone, it won’t matter.

  I slide my feet into the shoes. I found them in a dumpster, so they are a little big. At least they don’t have holes. And the shoelaces from my old shoes are still intact to fit these since they were the only things missing.

  This is my life – making do with what I can find.

  The knock at the front door startles me, but I quickly recover. I don’t have time to mess around. I already missed first period in school, that I am sure of. I need to make it to school before Math. Most of the teachers let me slide, but not Mrs. Morris. That broad is determined to crack her whip all over my teenage ass.

  Whoever is here, I will quickly let them know my mom is probably on a street corner somewhere. More importantly, she’s not here, so they can go on. I need get to school in time for lunch. I don’t have time to deal with some John wanting his dick sucked.

  Opening the trailer door, I am shocked to find the cops on the steps.

  Fear hits me. All those times, Ms. Mildred the school secretary, has threatened to turn me in rush through me, along with the threats from every teacher I have ever had. This is it, they are going to take me away for good this time. The fear of the unknown is worse than anything else. Every home is different and for me each one seems darker and rougher than the last.

  “I’m on my way to school.” I explain, raising my hands up, in surrender.

  I bet it was Mrs. Morris who called about the truancy. When I missed four days last week because my mom needed me here to get her through the withdrawal or overdose – I’m not sure which – Mrs. Morris threatened to report my absences to Social Services the minute she saw me on my return. My mom, though, she was puking, shaking, and shitting so much she was definitely on her death bed, at least in her mind. How was I supposed to leave her? She’s all I have, even if she doesn’t care to keep me around.

  “We need to speak with Bernadette Gates,” the shorter of the two overweight men in front of me explains.

  “I’m on my way to school; I don’t know where she is,” I tell the men honestly. “She’ll be home, though. She takes care of me, and I’m sure I’m already in trouble for being late,” I let the lies topple out of my mouth. “She’s a good mom. Please don’t take me away.”

  The taller one reaches from behind the shorter guy and hands me a paper. “This is the final eviction notice, son. We have to lock the doors. Your mom has been served. Court was this morning, and possession is immediate.”

  I feel my knees go weak. “Possession?”

  “Yeah, so grab what you need to because we have to change the locks,” the short man states.

  The tall man watches me. “You want a ride? We’ll get you to school. Your mom, if she doesn’t take you to the shelter, you can call and we’ll get you a place, boy.”

  My heart beats wildly, I swear it’s going to jump out of my chest. I have no way to reach my mom. I have no way to know if what these men say is true or not. Knowing her, it is.

  Where am I supposed to go?

  She isn’t a good mom.

  No, the only reason she lets me crash here is for the food stamps. And not for me to eat – for her. She won’t let me touch the food she brings in. It’s a cycle she is on and I am the pawn in all her games.

  The first foster family I can remember, I was only three years old. Mom left me in the system for two years. Then, when I started school, she got me back. It was easier, so she thought anyway, having me in school more hours than I was home with her awake.

  Bernadette Gates, single teen mom. At fourteen, her life was on the streets, knocked up by God knows who. She kept me for the free medical and food stamps. It was never consistent. Everything is a pattern to get the medical for us both. She gets her check up so she can get pain pills here and there, plus there is no telling how many STD’s the woman needs treatment for, and there is always the money on the food card which is how they replaced food stamps. Ups and downs played out like a rollercoaster ride.

  She would keep me, then send me to foster care, then get me back for a few months, just to surrender me again. I have always been her play to get welfare, medical, and food stamps, not actually a son she loves and misses. Then, when she actually has to do something for me, I get surrendered again. As long as I go to school, and don’t ask for food, money, or clothes, she lets me stay. It has taken me making mistakes over the years to learn what sets her off. Really, it doesn’t matter if I go to school or not, just so long as I’m gone more than I am home – her actual words to me.

  I go to school so I can get a free breakfast and lunch. Mom fills out the form every year to continue the benefits. It’s the only nice thing she ever does for me. Two free meals a day, except holidays, weekends, and summers. Then again, if she didn’t fill out those forms they would question why she needs the other assistance, but I tell myself she does it for me so I can have one nice thing to hold onto. The dumpster has options, just none of them are good. I make due there only when I have to. I learned I can make it three days without eating in the summer before the pain sets into my bones. I don’t push the limit anymore.

  I try not to be trouble. I don’t steal even though I have been tempted. I may not make it to school every day, I do give it my best effort to get there. I know my future depends on it.

  The men step up onto the steps, their closeness causing me to step back instinctively. They push past me and inside our space.

  The shorter man looks at me. “Five minutes, boy. You got five minutes to get what you need and get out.”

  Rushing to my room, I scramble to get the clothes off the floor and into my single duffle bag. I found it in the trailer two doors down after the last family moved out. In the bathroom, I grab the deodorant and shampoo I managed to find in my last dumpster dive to get me by until I can sort where I will sleep first. Then, I can make a plan for supply runs.

  Taking off out the back door, I don’t bother with the men, their paperwork, or grabbing any of my mother’s things. She left me to face this. She most likely left me for good.

  Even if I could find her, she would turn me in since there is no place for us to go. She has a better chance on her own to crash with a client or get them to cover the expense of a hotel for her as long as she keeps her legs wide open. Having me tag along in life is always bad for business. Bernadette Gates might h
ave a shit life, but she’s smart about how to survive. A teenage son is always a liability.

  Their offer for a ride, I’m not stupid. It’s an offer to get information. I tell them where my mom is and what she does for a living. Then they ask what pimp she’s working for, where she’s getting the drugs, you name it, they will ask it and expect me to answer. I turn on her, she will turn me over for good … or kill me. Either way, my options aren’t good.

  The older I get the worse my situation will be in foster care. A troubled teen is the automatic label I get whether I make the honor roll or join a gang, the judgment is always the same regardless of who I really am. My age and history makes me unreliable to every home they send me to. Most assume I’m a runaway that will give them trouble. I’m not. I just want a place to sleep and shower. I don’t even need heating or air conditioning.

  The kids aren’t the only one that are bad in foster care. I have seen those bad houses where the foster parents are just in it for the check per kid rather than to really help. There is no connection and they aren’t doing this out of the kindness of their hearts. Kindness isn’t around when you see bedrooms upstairs only to be pushed to a basement without proper ventilation, insulation, and there are five of you sharing the small space with no way to have privacy. Yet, a set of stairs leads to a beautiful home with beds, linens, and all the luxuries someone like me could imagine. If you dare to mess a single thing up though, they give you the boot. It’s all the façade they give to the social services worker. Nothing is ever questioned either because who can trust these damaged kids, after all … that’s what everyone thinks.

  Don’t get me wrong; at a couple of places, the people were nice enough, but I am better off on my own.

  On a fast clip, I make the strides to walk the two miles to school. In the office, I ignore Ms. Mildred’s speech on my continued tardiness while I sign myself in. The old bitty says the same thing every time. Maybe one day she will realize not everyone has a parent who gives a fuck about a phone call from the school.