And we were no different; we simply reacted in a manner indicative of the world we lived in.
One with very few rules, and almost no laws.
“Alright, alright, settle the fuck down. Jesus H. Christ, men, that wasn’t all we came here to discuss. Let’s see,” Sarge paused and glanced down at the notepad he was now holding in his hand.
“So keep your eyes peeled for Shovelheads wearing a lower rocker. And keep me fucking posted on anything and everything you see. Now, Ride for the Red is next Saturday. This thing started last year, and it supports the American Red Cross. This is one of a few organizations that aren’t affiliated with the government, and they rely solely on volunteers and donations. One hundred percent of what they raise in the poker run goes to the Red Cross. Last year they raised about ten grand, and this year they’re hoping to double that number. I’m not making this a mandatory ride, but if you don’t show up, you can bet I’ll be paying you a personal visit when the ride is over. I want every one of you to plan on being there, and I want you to dig deep in those pockets of yours for a little extra money. Costs twenty-five bucks to ride, and that’ll get you a shirt, lunch, and a chance to win six hundred bucks if you’ve got the best poker hand. I’ll tell you right fucking now, if one of you wins that pot, you’re giving the money right back to ‘em. These fuckers just might save the life of one of your family members when a disaster hits. Show of hands, who’s gonna attend?” he looked up from the pad and gazed around the room.
Every arm was high in the air.
Sarge gazed down at the pad, “Alright. Shovelheads, Red Cross, and now for the closer. Chili is having a kegger at his house next Saturday night, after the poker run. It ain’t mandatory, but it’ll sure be a lot of fun. If you come, feel free to bring your Ol’ Ladies. Fat Bart’s donating a couple of hogs, and he’s also volunteered to cook ‘em, so they’ll sure as fuck be worth eatin’. Damned sure be better than what Woody tried to cook last year that made every one of us sick. Guess that’s it. Any new business needs discussed?”
“So what if we run into a Shovelhead, it’s just on?” Woody asked.
Sarge shook his head as he tossed his notepad onto the bench beside where he stood.
“No, it ain’t just on. If they ain’t flying a bottom rocker, leave ‘em alone. If for some reason you run into one of ‘em and they are, well, I ain’t gonna give you a list of what to do and not to do, but if you respect your colors and the club, you’ll know what to do. Anything else?” Sarge asked.
Short of a few men talking amongst themselves, the shop fell silent.
“Meeting adjourned,” Sarge growled.
I walked toward Sarge and stood a few feet away while a few of the men talked to him on their way out. As I began to speak, Lucky stepped to Sarge’s side and began yapping like a little Chihuahua.
“That’s really something about the ‘heads. Hard to believe them fuckers are tryin’ to fly a bottom rocker in our territory, huh, Killer?” Lucky asked openly as he glanced back and forth between Sarge and me.
I crossed my arms in front of my chest, rocked back on my heels, and gazed down my nose as his irritating little ass.
“You wanna know what’s even harder to believe?” I asked flatly.
He gazed at me with wide eyes, waiting for me to continue.
“That you’d step in the middle of my conversation with Sarge without an invite. It ain’t a fucking secret that you irritate the shit out of me, so why don’t you go find some rocks to kick on your way out to that little Sporty you’re riding?” I said through my teeth.
“Damn, didn’t mean to irritate you, Killer. I was just…” he began.
“You were just leaving, that’s what you were just doing. Fucking leaving. Now kick rocks,” I said as I uncrossed my arms and narrowed my gaze.
“Yeah, I better get. I’ll leave you two to it. See ya at the kegger,” he said as he turned away.
After watching him walk out of the shop and into the parking lot, I turned to face Sarge.
“Irritating little prick,” I hissed as I turned around.
“Still a brother,” Sarge shrugged.
“Red-headed fucking step-brother,” I chuckled.
Sarge shook his head and laughed.
“You fucking hard ass,” he said as he turned toward the fridge.
“Want one?” he asked as he opened the refrigerator door.
“One. I’ll have one, then I gotta get,” I responded.
Sarge handed me a beer and tipped the neck of his bottle toward me before taking a drink. I returned the toast, and drank half the beer in one long gulp.
Truthfully, I was eager to get home to Em, who was cooking dinner. Each day that passed gave me a new reason to be pleased with my decision to invite her into my life. I was quite confident many men would be pleased with her good looks alone, but for me there was far more to it than that. Em was a simple woman capable of pleasing me to no end by merely being herself, and it was the little things about her that pleased me the most.
Her ability to sit quietly and enjoy life as it passed by was comforting. Her apparent admiration of me was almost humbling, and although I didn’t necessarily need it, massaged my ego slightly. The eager attitude she expressed at each and every obstacle that presented itself to her suggested she was a person who wouldn’t easily give up on anything she desired or held sacred. And it was that attitude and that attitude alone which convinced me I was going to have a tough time breaking her spirit.
As I had in the beginning, I continued to stand back and wait, knowing eventually there would be something about her that rubbed me the wrong way or irritated me. Contrary to my expectations and certainly contradictory to my experiences with women - and people in general - she had yet to do, say, or suggest anything that I took exception to.
My life was beginning to once again feel like it was complete - something I had felt in the past, but doubted I would ever feel again.
“So, what do you see coming of this mess with the Shovelheads?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders, “They paid tax for a while then they stopped. When I talked to their president about it, he told me they were done paying for the right to wear the rocker. I told him without paying their dues they were done wearing the rocker. He agreed. Hell, you and I both know they haven’t worn it for years. Well, now it looks like they’re considering fighting us for the territory. Territory we claim and rightfully so, I might add. Suppose it coulda been one lone wolf out riding in his old cut, but we both know that’s wishful thinking.”
I swallowed the rest of my beer and nodded my head as I reached for the trash.
“Another?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not tonight. I’m going to get home.”
“You alright?” he asked.
“I’m good,” I nodded, “That little girl from the bar’s cooking me some dinner.”
“My Ol’ Lady’s cooking me some, too. As soon as all of these motherfuckers are outta here, I’m headed home to see if it’s worth eatin’. Hard saying with her. She’s hit and miss,” he said.
“This is her first attempt, so we’ll see,” I said, knowing she had actually all but expertly prepared all of our meals for the last five days.
“If I see a Shovelhead flying that rocker I’ll do a little more than kick him in the face,” I said as I turned away.
“Fear the act of no man…” Sarge said.
“For the fury of hell is yours,” I said as I walked toward the door.
The club motto was an easy one for the majority of the men to adopt. As most of them believed they were individually strong, they further believed they were invincible with the strength of the club and their brothers at their side.
I didn’t disagree, but I felt confident I could take care of most all of my problems alone. As I got on my bike and started the engine, I considered what may happen if I encountered a Shovelhead flying a rocker claiming territory.
I shook my head as I swept the kickstan
d into the frame with my boot. I pulled in the clutch and gazed out past the parking lot and into the street. I didn’t want to accept the possibilities of what might happen. Instead, I said a short prayer asking that the rival club have enough common sense not to consider an act so blatantly disrespectful.
And I thanked the man upstairs for allowing Em to enter my life.
EMILY
June 26, 2006
I had no more than pulled our dinner from the oven, and I heard Jackson’s motorcycle in the driveway. As the sound of the garage door going closed caught my attention, I ran from the kitchen cupboards and into the dining room, tossing plates and silverware onto the table as I rushed past.
Although he hadn’t formally invited me to do so, I had all but lived with him since the Saturday night we had the talk and officially began our committed relationship together. So far, everything I had cooked he enjoyed, and he even took the time to compliment me each night as soon as he finished eating. The feeling of having him truly appreciate me was beyond my expectations of what I had always believed to be satisfying.
What little time I had spent with Jackson was redefining so many things in my life. He now filled my every thought. While I worked, I thought of what I was going to cook for him - frantically searching for a better or newer recipe on the internet. While I cooked, I thought of how he may react when he tasted it, and I filled with anticipation of what he might say when he was done. His courteous behavior was still difficult for me to believe, and I wondered just how much he would change in the presence of his club brothers.
Overall, and considering everything, I was in heaven. Although we still hadn’t had sex, I had a taste of what Jackson was going to be like in the bedroom, and I was beyond excited. I had been tickled with feathers, teased, tied up, deprived of hearing him, seeing him, and touching him. I had never in my life been as turned on as I had with him, and if it was any indication as to what sex might bring, I was worried that I may just burst into flames when the time came.
I realized the decision making regarding sex was his and his alone, and I respected him for not rushing into anything. I suspected in his mind he was slowly building my trust, but to be honest, I trusted him already. I had developed a new level of respect for him, and I guessed if nothing else, he had accomplished that much in the six days since our agreement.
“Smells good,” he said as he walked into the kitchen.
“Thank you,” I responded with a smile.
Anticipation of the inevitable was always something I enjoyed. Reaching the apex on a rollercoaster, the assured surprise of the Jack-in-the-box immediately before it sprung from the confines of the box, and waiting for Christmas morning to arrive were things I truly enjoyed growing up. Now, as an adult, waiting on Jackson provided the same satisfaction. Knowing his routine was to kiss me before removing his boots caused my stomach to swirl with butterflies until he did so.
As he sauntered past, he reached out, grasped my neck lightly, and spun me half way around. Surprised by his sudden movement, but not surprised as much by the kiss, I gasped as our lips melted together. After a passionate kiss, he released me without speaking. I sighed as he turned toward the bedroom, wanting more, but having enough discipline not to ask or complain. I had no idea if the entire neck thing was going to always act as the precursor to a kiss, but I sure hoped it was his intention.
While he removed his boots washed his hands, the buzzer on the oven went off. I removed the chicken and set it aside. After removing the salad from the refrigerator, I prepared our plates and carried them to the table. I no more than placed the plates in front of our seats, and he walked into the room.
“Perfect timing,” I said as he walked up to the table and gazed down at his plate.
“Well, I’ve never been one who’s fond of being late,” he said as he sat down.
“Damn that smells good, what is it?” he asked.
“Chicken,” I responded.
“What kind of chicken,” he asked over his shoulder as I walked into the kitchen.
“The kind with feathers. Beer or water?” I asked.
“Water, you little smart ass,” he responded.
I carried two glasses of water into the dining area and handed him one.
“It’s special chicken. See if you like it. There’s spinach salad, and I cooked new potatoes in olive oil. They had some really little guys at the farmer’s market on Saturday. I think the little ones taste better, see what you think,” I said as I sat down.
He watched me as I sat, obviously eager to start eating. After I picked up my fork and pierced a potato, he began to eat. I watched out of my peripheral as I chewed a potato, hoping the chicken I hadn’t taken time to taste was satisfactory. After slicing one of the breasts on his plate into half a dozen slices, he finally lifted his fork to his mouth. He no more than closed his mouth and started to chew and his eyes widened drastically.
Please be good.
I held my left hand under the edge of the table and crossed my fingers.
“Holy shit, that’s the best fucking chicken I’ve ever tasted. What is it?” he asked.
“Boneless chicken breast,” I shrugged.
Although I never told him where I got the recipes, most of them came from the internet. Men seemed to think - my father included - that women were some type of walking computer when it came to cooking, plucking recipes from the backs of their minds and working some type of voodoo magic with their preparation of a meal. Most men perceived cooking as something akin to nuclear science or biochemical engineering - they found it interesting, but impossible to comprehend.
“God damn it, Em. What did you do to it? Shit, that’s fucking incredible. You could open a restaurant and just sell this shit right here. Fuck, you’d be rich,” he said as he pointed his fork toward the chicken.
He poked another slice of chicken into his mouth and as he chewed it, immediately stabbed another with the tines of his fork.
“Seriously, what is it?” he asked as he chewed the piece of chicken.
“Well, its Dijon mustard, maple syrup, salt, pepper, and rosemary. Not a big deal,” I said without looking up from my plate.
No differently than if I’d eaten the chicken a thousand times, I nonchalantly lifted a piece from my plate, shrugged my shoulders, and poked it past my lips.
Oh. My. God. That’s fucking incredible.
I had typed ‘best chicken ever’ in the search engine and searched for recipes. The recipe I used was one of the first ones to pop up, and the pictures were pretty, so I tried it. I had no idea it would taste as good as it did.
“Jesus, woman. These potatoes are…” he paused as he turned toward me.
A potato teetered on the end of his fork, a second away from gravity pulling it down to his plate. With his eyes locked on mine, he guided the fork to his mouth, only to lose the potato half way there. As the empty tines contacted his lips, his eyes shifted downward.
“Should have been paying attention to my food,” he said as he reached for the elusive potato.
“Say you got these little fuckers at the farmer’s market?” he asked as he tossed the grape sized spud into his mouth.
I nodded my head.
“Last Saturday,” I said.
“Go back this weekend and buy a hundred pounds of these little bastards. Jesus. Woman, you can cook a meal. I’m telling you, I’ve never eaten so good in my fucking life. You know what we’re going to do?” he asked as he began to slice the other chicken breast.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Open a restaurant. I’m not shittin’. One of these days, you’re going to open a restaurant. We should all focus on what we’re good at. Me? I’m a natural outlaw, good at riding a bike, mean muggin’ assholes, and being devoted to my lady. You? You’re a natural at cooking. Shit, working at that office as a receptionist? One of these days that’s gonna have to change,” he said with a nod.
The thought lingered with me as he continued to eat. Having a re
staurant would be a dream of mine, but I was no better of a cook than any other woman. I may have taken more time in my preparation, or had slightly more pride in the finished product than some women, but to think I could cook well enough to serve it to the public was almost laughable.
Hearing Jackson praise me was one of the greatest things to ever happen, and I hoped it would never change. I ate my food quietly as I watched him finish his plate, eating his salad last, as always.
“Let me get you some more, there’s plenty,” I said.
He shook his head as he wagged his index finger in the air.
“Hold up a minute. You’ll need to excuse me for a second, I’m gonna grab my phone out of my cut. I gotta send Sarge a picture of this meal. His Ol’ Lady can’t cook a lick, and I want him to see this shit I’m eatin’. How much is left?” he asked as he pushed his chair away from the table.
“Well, I cooked six breasts. I’ve had one, and you’ve had two, so there’s three left,” I responded.
“I might save one for him to try. Be back in a second,” he said as he stood from his seat.
Little things about Jackson not only surprised me, but provided support to his claim of being different than any of the men he rode with. He never carried his phone with him in the house, and rarely used it when we were together. Other men I had been with were constantly texting on their phones. Jackson didn’t even have a Myspace account, and had no interest of ever setting one up. Although he had sent me a few text messages, it wasn’t common for him to do so. He typically called me before he left the shop, just to let me know he was on his way.
His home was filled with pictures of Sarge, Chili, Woody, Fat Bart, and his sister. According to him, they were his family. Accepting him as being an orphan and not having family was easy, but understanding what he had been through as a child was impossible.
His manners, excusing himself from the table, and saying ‘thank you’, ‘please’, and ‘you’re welcome’ on every occasion he felt necessary was a result - according to him - of being raised by a preacher who demanded the foster children adhere to his policies regarding behavior in the home.
EX-CON Page 6