Scrap: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

  I’m fine.

  Scrap Allenbach is coming home.

  When I can get away, Frances and I go down to storage for a few more bottles to stash under the bar, and as soon as I’m away from other people—just like I knew it would—the compulsion hits. I have to check and make sure everything’s okay.

  If I were home, I’d check the door. The windows. The closets. If I were in my car, I’d check the rearview. The Beretta Nano in the glovebox. Pop it open, take a quick glance, pop it shut. Everything’s okay.

  I’m at the clubhouse, though, surrounded by family, as protected as I can ever be. Still, the itch crawls up my spine and spreads over my skin. How do you convince yourself that you’re safe when you are safe, but your body doesn’t believe it? I check. Then I check again.

  I bend, touch the knife in my ankle sheath. Slide it out, tuck it back in. It helps, but not much. Not enough.

  Shit. There’s only one way to deal with the urge when it won’t go away.

  I don’t want to. A knot coils in my stomach as my hand reaches into my pocket for my phone. Looking at the photo fucks with my head almost as much as the itch.

  Almost.

  I shouldn’t need to look. What good can it really do? I can’t calm myself down, though. Not on my own. Not with lazy 8 breathing or visualization or slamming shots. And if I leave the compulsion to fester, it’ll become a panic attack, and the hydroxyzine will put me in bed for the rest of the day. If I take a pass on the pills, I’m rolling the dice that the panic won’t put me on the floor and slap a look of pity on everyone’s face.

  My fingers shake while I swipe the unlock code, F for Frances. I tap my photos. Tap again on a folder with one picture in it, and his face appears, so familiar now that I have to force my eyes to focus on the features: the eyes, the chin. Instantly, the itch is doused by a jolt of adrenaline, a full body slam that sends me sinking to my butt against the wall.

  He’s in profile. An open hood in the background. His mouth is open, mid-sentence. His face is tan. Healthy. You can only see one blue eye, and the faint outline of the tattoo on his neck.

  It’s an older picture. He looks different now. Life’s been hard.

  I should delete it. It does nothing but drag me back. I figured out a long time ago I’m not the kind with the guts to do anything about it myself. If I thought I’d ever move forward, maybe I would delete it. But I’m stuck as sure as Scrap Allenbach has been for the past ten years, a prisoner of a different kind. He’s coming home today, and I never left. I don’t know why I spent the morning blowing up balloons.

  I shove my phone back in my pocket and grab a box to carry the booze in. Frances turns three times in a circle and flops down, blocking the door. He’s snoring before I’ve pulled a single bottle off the shelf.

  He’s gonna be a grumpy pup in five minutes when I have to wake him up to leave.

  This is a party, after all. I got shit I need to do.

  CHAPTER 2

  SCRAP

  The bike’s the only thing that feels right.

  Shoes with hard soles feel weird. Jeans feel weird. Pickin’ shit off a menu feels weird. Do I want the fries or the onion rings? And it’s like you gotta know how to work the computer from Minority Report to get your drink. There ain’t six flavors of pop no more; there’s a shit ton. Do I want regular or diet? What kind of fake sugar? They got a whole other kind now. You want vanilla or cherry or lime?

  Fuck. I give up, man. I tap the button that says water and sit back down with my brothers. It’s weird sittin’ down to eat in a chair with a back. Hell, it’s weird eatin’ without havin’ to watch your back.

  I just wanna see Crista.

  The thought lets air flow into my lungs. I bring her to mind, the same picture I always go to, her waitin’ for me on the stairs in front of Petty’s Mill High. Long hair shinin’, mostly brown but reddish when it catches the light, the hem of her sundress flippin’ in the breeze, clarinet case clutched in two hands. Her shy smile quirkin’ up the corners of her sweet mouth. I know she’s older now. With what she’s been through…she ain’t gonna be the same. I know this.

  She’s good, though. My brothers keep me updated. Not much. No pics. She don’t like havin’ her picture taken. Besides, I couldn’t handle it, gettin’ too clear a picture of her outside when I was locked up, so I never asked, and they never volunteered. But she’s done well. Moved out, workin’. Happy.

  I bet her tits are bigger now. She was kind of skinny back then, with these little apple-sized titties, but goin’ by Deb and Annie, I bet she grew some. Don’t matter. She’s healthy. Ain’t needed surgery in a long time, now. She’s good.

  Now, me, I’m antsy as hell. Wired. I been that way since the parole hearing. Like my skin’s stretched too tight over my muscles. Ain’t been sleepin’ much. Or eatin’. I kept runnin’ every movie through my mind where a cop is on his last day of the job, and he gets shot.

  All this week, I been waitin’ for a shank in the back or for them to toss my cell and find a bag of cocaine or something. Bang of the gavel. Ten more years. Nothing happened though ‘cept some paperwork and some bullshit wait for an asshole to get back from his coffee break to sign some shit.

  I thought the shakes would go when I cleared the place, but not even that long ride down here could soothe me. My knee’s jiggling, and Creech, who’s pulled up to the table beside me, keeps shootin’ me irritated looks. He looks the same as he did before. The tattoos on his head are faded, but other than that, he’s the same asshole.

  “What?” I finally ask.

  “You got to piss?”

  “You got even freakier since I went in, eh?”

  The brothers laugh, and fuck, it hits me in the chest. I’m back. Home. The agitation eases, turns a little more into anticipation.

  “We headin’ to the clubhouse after this?” I wasn’t hungry, but Heavy’s playin’ road captain today, and the burger joint was his idea.

  I don’t want to say straight out Can’t we go see Crista? Her dad’s sittin’ right there, and even though we understand each other, I ain’t gonna disrespect him. That’s what I want, though. Her sweet, shy smile. Her slight weight in my lap like that charmed day before the world went to hell.

  Heavy strokes his long-ass beard. When I went in, it had some length, but now it’s like the love child of ZZ Top and fuckin’ Gandalf. Crazy. “Thought we’d go out to my cabin first. Relax. Open a bottle of Macallan.”

  I set my cup back on my tray. Take a pause. Try to find words that don’t sound ungrateful.

  Unless Crista Holt’s at his house, naked with that bottle of whiskey, I ain’t gonna relax. She needs to be in my arms. Under me. Fillin’ my hands. But it ain’t like I can say that. Not with her dad watchin’ me like he’s my own proud papa, ketchup dribblin’ down his gray heard. Still, these fuckers are my brothers. How do they not know that I need to be balls deep in my girl?

  “I really want to see everyone. Crista.” They exchange looks. What the fuck? This can’t be a surprise; they must know I want to see her.

  “The women are puttin’ together a surprise party for you, man.” Creech mumbles through the burger he’s chewin’. “You gonna ruin the surprise.”

  Nickel punches him in the arm at the same time Forty reaches across the table and slaps him across the back of the head. Funny how they move. Nickel like a street fighter, and Forty like the soldier he used to be.

  “Dumbass,” Pig Iron grunts.

  “Well. Surprise is ruined. Might as well head to the clubhouse.” I shoot Heavy a look. He’s the boss, but end of the day, I ain’t got a warden no more. I’m gonna do what I want. And I want to see Crista.

  She works the bar at the clubhouse now. I would’ve thought she’d have some fancy office job with how smart she is and how good she was at school. Maybe even gone to college like Harper and Heavy. But I guess all them surgeries at the beginning got in the way of that. She’s happy, though, so who cares, right?

  Heavy shakes his
head slow. “The women’ll be mighty pissed if we ruin all their hard work. Let’s go to my place. You can get a shower. Pick your own clothes.”

  “Yeah, you smell like inmate, man. You gotta wash that off.” Creech waves at me with a fry.

  “What’s inmate smell like?” I take a sniff of my shirt. Don’t smell nothin’.

  “Public bathroom soap and ball sweat.” Charge flashes his pretty-boy smile. He should know. He’s done enough time himself.

  “Oh, so like your mom?” I grin back.

  The table cracks up. More weight lifts. All of a sudden, I want to get back on the road. Not only to get closer to Crista, but because I need that wind in my face again.

  “So my place?” Heavy asks.

  The need to see Crista wars with the desire to ride off these past years, air out any darkness that still’s clinging to me. She’s so sweet, so innocent. She don’t need to be anywhere near the filth I been wallowin’ in these past ten years. I nod, push back my tray.

  We’re back in the saddle in no time, and as if he’s in my head, Heavy takes us by way of the scenic route, picking up the Luckahannock north of Pyle and riding along the river. It’s a perfect early spring day. The wind has a bite, and the sun seems far off overhead. The river runs fast and wild, racing at our side.

  I ain’t never regretted what I done, but damn, I have missed the world.

  Sunshine. Open road. Crista Holt. All the proof of God a man could ever need.

  As I ride, I throw the doors in my soul open, set all the wanting in me free, let my heart finally feel what it’s been dyin’ for. In a few hours, Crista will finally be in my arms. I’ll wrap that long, silky hair in my fist, toss whatever pretty little dress she’s got on up, and drink her shy smiles in while I stroke inside her sweet pussy. Show her I ain’t never goin’ anywhere ever again.

  I ain’t stupid. I know it ain’t really gonna go down like that. It’s been a long time, and when I went away, she was only sixteen, and I’d kept some distance out of respect for her age and for Pig Iron. We shared a few rides and a stolen kiss at a picnic. And then at Wayne, I sent her away. It was the right call at the time, but it’s stolen more than one night’s sleep from me.

  I know she ain’t gonna run to me, leap into my arms.

  But the dream? Under this blue sky, ridin’ beside my brothers…it don’t seem so impossible. Not when God can make a day like this.

  CHAPTER 3

  CRISTA

  My heart’s slamming against my rib cage like a loose shutter in a gale-force wind. The roar of motorcycles pulling up in front of the clubhouse is matched by the roar of the crowd of men inside, echoing off the vaulted roof. Women whoop, feet stomp, and there’s a clinking as dozens of bottles are tapped together.

  He’s here.

  I try to swallow, but my throat’s too tight. What do I do with my hands? I grab a rag, swipe a condensation ring off the bar. No, that’s wrong—disrespectful somehow—so I stop, and snake my hands up into my hoodie sleeves.

  There’s a mob of people between where I stand and the front, so I can see when the doors swing open, but I can’t see the men who walk in. The crowd surges in that direction, and a cry rises and echoes in the renovated arch-roofed garage that serves as bar, game room, and dance hall for the MC.

  “Scrap! Scrap! Scrap!”

  Sweetbutts clamber up onto tables, flashing their tits, and a prospect pops a bottle of champagne, dousing the knot of men wending their way through the onslaught. Is that Dom? Where the hell did that kid get his hands on that? Damn. I must’ve left the storage unlocked earlier when I stocked up. Shit. That ain’t cheap.

  I knead the wristbands of my hoodie, squeezing, dampening the fabric with my palm sweat. I need to calm down. Pull it together.

  It’s nice that for the first time in weeks, there are no eyes on me. Everyone’s either following the slow procession, some old-timers like Boots and Gus with tears in their eyes, or they’re elbowing forward to clasp hands and slap backs. From my position behind the bar on the far wall, all I catch are glimpses.

  Heavy, all huge and hairy, stands to the side for once, accepting the overflow of congratulations like a benevolent giant. Nickel’s scowling, and Charge is charming his way through the press of drunken, messy bikers and hang-arounds, old ladies and club pussy. My dad brings up the rear of the entourage, chest swelled with pride as if this is his son and a truly happy day, not the postscript to a tragedy.

  And there—in the middle—Scrap. The air whooshes from my lungs, and in my sleeves, my hands fist, my nails biting into my palms.

  Damn. He’s so much older.

  His hair’s buzzed like it was the last time I saw him, ten years ago behind that thick pane of glass at SCI Wayne. He’s filled out in the shoulders, imposing even next to Forty and Charge, but he’s still cut more like Nickel, less thick and burly, more chiseled and hard.

  My cheeks heat and my heart kicks up a notch. I don’t recognize the feeling, half panic, half fascination.

  A brother raises a beer, shouts a toast, and Scrap’s lips curve in a half-smile—oh, I remember that smile. It’s the same smile—kind of wry, kind of chagrined—and the past rushes over me in a cold gust, goosebumps prickling my arms and the back of my neck.

  He smiled like that the handful of times when my dad had him pick me up from band practice on his bobber. He’d carefully tuck my clarinet in his saddlebag while I flushed so hot, with all the other band kids gawking from the steps of Petty’s Mill High, I thought I’d burn up on the spot. He’d hand me a turtle shell, smiling that smile, and I couldn’t look him in the eye for weeks afterwards. Months.

  He’d smiled that way before he kissed me that day out back by the firepit. That quick brush of lips. Still my only kiss. My stomach does something weird and squishy. I ignore it before my face flames even worse than it is now.

  Scrap’s talking to Harper now. He stands still and steady, the way men do who are taller than most. I can make out a scar on his temple and faint lines dusting the corner of his eyes. In my memory, he’s twenty-one, but this is a grown man making his way across the clubhouse, each step closer to me. My heartbeat ratchets up another notch.

  I need to get busy. Pour some drinks. I scan for empties, but…nothing. My gaze darts left and right. There’s no one at the bar. Oh, ugh. This is no accident. The bar’s always two or three deep when we have crowds like tonight, but there’s no one on the stools, no one standing anywhere near.

  It’s a setup. My mom’s hovering from a distance, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, my sister Annie next to her. Heavy’s escorting Scrap this way, and everyone’s made themselves scarce. God, this is so embarrassing. What do they think? We’re gonna run into each other’s arms like the last scene of Dirty Dancing?

  I bet they do think that. That’s the story, after all. He’s the white knight; I’m the damsel in distress. Sweat breaks out under my boobs and behind my knees. I wipe my palms on my baggy jeans.

  I am so not dressed the part of the princess. Although I didn’t ask them to, Mom and Annie went to the mall and bought me a dress for tonight. It was the kind I used to wear, a swingy skirt with a tiny print, the outline of birds and foxes made to look like flowers from a distance.

  It was so pretty. I tried it on, the first time I’d worn a dress in as long as I can remember. Then, I stood in front of the mirror for ten minutes, staring at all the places the seams strained. It was stretched taut across my boobs and my doughy middle. The hem of the sleeves dug into my jiggly upper arms. My skin was so white against the fabric it looked almost blue, and my big thighs smooshed together unless I move my feet so far apart it looks like I was about to do squats.

  Welcome back, Scrap. Remember me? I ate the girl you used to know.

  It never felt so good to pull on my jeans and hoodie.

  Anyway, if the crowd’s expecting an “I’ve had the time of my life” lift, it ain’t happening. For so many reasons.

  The men are getting real close n
ow, and Scrap’s so tall I can see him survey the room, despite the cluster surrounding him.

  Is he looking for me?

  Shivers shoot down my spine.

  Ten years ago, when Scrap sent me away, Dad tried to explain during the ride home. When a man is looking at hard time, he has to do what he has to do to make it. Sometimes he pushes people away. I knew that was bullshit, but I didn’t say anything. Dad felt guilty enough that Scrap was the one to end Inch Johnson. I didn’t need to add to the guilt by letting Dad know that Scrap regretted doing it.

  Everyone in the club thinks Scrap’s carrying this huge torch for me, but he’s not. I know he didn’t really mean to do what he did. Not kill a man. Scrap probably wishes I’d get gone, let him have a fresh start without a human reminder of the mistake that cost him a decade of his life.

  Everyone acts like I know him, but I don’t. I was a kid back then. All I remember are snatches. A few rides on the back of his bike after band practice. Playing cornhole at a picnic. The kiss. The weight of his body on my torso while my guts leaked out on a concrete floor.

  God, I don’t know what to do.

  What do you do when the man who held in your intestines so you didn’t die finally comes home from jail?

  I reach under the bar, grab some limes and a knife. I slice one down the middle, managing to crush half in the process. Damn. I shake out my hands, refocus. I salvage what I can and grab another, but I can’t stop glancing up, checking Scrap’s slow progress, and now I’m making a huge mess. There’s juice and pulp everywhere. I nearly nick my thumb.

  And then he’s there. A few feet away. I look up, and he’s staring at me. All the blood in my body floods to my feet, leaving my heart sputtering in a void, and I sway into the bar, praying I don’t crumple to the floor.

  He keeps staring. Why is he staring? His face is a careful blank, his faded blue eyes burning. With what? My anxiety ratchets up another notch, and how high can it possibly get before my chest just explodes?