Scrap: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

  I wish I could watch what happened like a movie. Force myself to see it all from every angle, force myself to relive every moment one last time until I can understand it, move on. Deal only with now, put then away on a shelf.

  “Annie? What do you remember?” I startle her. She’s on her phone, texting someone. Bullet, probably.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That day. When you came to the hospital. What do you remember?”

  “Shit, Crista. You want to talk about that now?”

  “I remember it happening. Then I passed out. I kind of remember Scrap and Dad finding me. The other guys showing up. That prospect was there. The one who moved to Florida?”

  “Axel?”

  “Yeah. Him. He threw up. I remember Scrap leaning on me hard to put pressure on the wound, and Dad crying. And then there’s pretty much a blank for, like, weeks.”

  “It’s a blessing.”

  “That’s what people say.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I want to know what you remember.”

  “Again?” Annie kind of groans.

  I go through these phases every so often. I want to confront the past. Get what closure I can. I get a little fixated for a while. Eventually, I give up, go back to guarding the life I have. Tell myself that’s acceptance.

  Annie knows the drill. She humors me now.

  “You were totally out of it. You looked like a mummy. Your head was wrapped up, and everything else from the neck down. They had a nurse sitting next to your bed ‘cause every time you woke up, you fought. Fucked up the IV and the wires and shit. Everything would start beeping. It freaked me the fuck out.”

  “Did I say anything?”

  “Not at the beginning. Not when I was there. Later you asked for stuff. Water or graham crackers. Your phone.”

  “Did I talk about it? What happened?”

  Annie shrugs. “Mom said don’t bring it up. And before they found him—Inch—they were worried about the cops. Everybody was worried you’d say something, and Inch would end up in custody.”

  “How did they know it was Inch?” My heartbeat ratchets up a notch. I don’t usually flirt this close with the truth.

  Annie sighs. “You know. The club was out looking for you, and that homeless guy said he’d seen Inch driving around. Little while later Gus spots Inch hauling ass down Route 12. They lose him, so they backtrack. Find you.”

  “And I didn’t say anything about who it was?”

  “Nah. You were hella out of it. Good thing Gus saw Inch. If he didn’t, we might never have found you. Never known who did it.”

  I’ve thought about that. What if no one ever knew who did it? Scrap would be free. Maybe married with kids. My stomach lurches; I think with guilt.

  And if Inch was never caught? Would I have ever worked up the courage to hunt him down? Kill him? Shoot him? Do it up close, gut him like he gutted me?

  No. I wouldn’t have. At heart, I’m a coward. I’ve known for years now that I don’t have what it takes to kill a man.

  Inch is dead, though. Long dead. Scrap Allenbach killed him with his bare hands.

  After I was left me for dead, they found me bleeding out on the floor of an abandoned gas station on Route 12. I was in the ICU for nine days. The doctors didn’t think I’d make it. While I was in a medically-induced coma, the whole club beat the bushes for Inch Johnson.

  My Dad, Scrap, and Nickel found him drinking a beer at the Pylestown Inn. Scrap beat Inch to death in front of a dozen witnesses while Nickel held my Dad back, pinned to a wall.

  While I was unconscious in a bed, Scrap killed the man who put me there. What if I’d been awake? Could I have changed things? Or would I have let it slip, my secret, and sent another man—my dad, Heavy, Bullet—off to ruin his life, destroy his future, over my stupidity?

  The what ifs are enough to drive you mad. Or hate yourself.

  I change the subject. “Did he come to see me? In the hospital?”

  “Who? Scrap?”

  “Yeah.”

  Annie hums. “The whole club was there at first. In the waiting room. Then the doctor said you weren’t gonna make it, and everyone went in to say goodbye. Mom lost her shit. Kicked everyone out. Then two or three days later, the doctor said you might pull through. At that point, everyone had kind of settled into shifts. Aunt Shirl was bein’ a boss bitch.”

  I remember. Aunt Shirl still worked at Petty’s Mill General then. She sat with me after her shifts, reading Ladies Home Journal. I remember finding that weird since Aunt Shirl’s kind of a feminist, not really the Suzy Homemaker type.

  “Was Scrap there?”

  “All the guys were. Except Axel. That dude bolted.”

  “Did he seem really upset?”

  “I’m guessing so if he left town, never to return.”

  “Not Axel. I mean Scrap.”

  “Everyone was upset.”

  I huff. Getting Annie to talk is like pulling teeth, but at least she’ll talk about it. No one else is remotely open to rehashing the past with me.

  “Was he more upset than the other guys?”

  Annie shrugs. “Obviously. Considering he went and killed the motherfucker.”

  “I mean at the hospital. Was he—like—obviously in a homicidal rage?”

  It’s Annie’s turn to groan. “It was forever ago. I don’t remember. What are you really asking, Crista? You asking why Scrap did it?”

  I hold my breath. Yeah. Maybe I am.

  “He was crazy in love with you, dumbass.”

  “He never said anything.”

  “He was twenty-one. You were sixteen.”

  “How do you know he was in love with me?”

  Annie rolls her eyes. “How does anyone know? He was all up in your business. Giving you rides home from band practice.”

  “Dad made him do that. He was a prospect.”

  “Didn’t see Dad letting Axel ride you anywhere.”

  She has a point, but that speaks more to who Dad trusts than anything else. “Scrap never said anything to me back then. Never called me. No texts. No standing outside my window with a boombox.”

  “He beat the shit out of Creech.”

  “Huh?”

  “You don’t remember that? Creech told some stupid, clarinet blow-job joke, and Scrap beat the shit out of him.”

  I remember that now. Vaguely. I thought the guys were just horsing around, sparring. The younger brothers do that a lot.

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  Annie wriggles, combing the carpet with her freaky toes. A real languid note has entered her voice. She’s totally high.

  “What’s this all about, little sister?”

  I exhale. “I didn’t know what to say to him out there. I don’t know what to say to him.”

  “Oh, baby. You don’t have to say anything.”

  “Obviously, I do.” I remember the disapproval on Heavy’s face. Harper’s scowl. The sweetbutt who said I should have at least welcomed him home.

  “Tell him he looks hot as shit.”

  My face heats. He does. He’s in a whole other league of hot. Like a guy from the calendar Ernestine has hanging in the kitchen.

  “I’m too shy.”

  “Tell him anyway. The way he was looking at you—” She drifts off.

  “The way he was looking at me what?”

  “He wants to hear you say it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Annie doesn’t dignify that with a response, and we get quiet, settle in. She relights the jay, and this time when she passes it to me, I take a drag. I try to exhale in perfect rings, but it’s been way too long.

  “You are so lame.” Annie mouths a perfect oval.

  “I’m not the one texting Bullet Nowicki for a booty call.”

  “You would be if you knew what you were missing.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “A lifetime of disappointment?”

  “And nine inches of perfect, albeit fleeting, satisfact
ion.”

  “Oh, gross!” I knock her shoulder with mine, and we’re giggling again when there’s a soft tap at the door.

  “Yes! I bet that’s my nine inches now. Come on in, baby.”

  “Is that who you were texting?”

  I’m totally dope-slow, so Annie manages to half-crawl, half-lunge to the door and open it before I can drag her back. A wall of music and laughter rolls in, and I’m bracing for a dose of the world’s worst decision when I catch a glimpse of gray T-shirt and a half smile.

  He slips in so quick, a beer in his hand, that I don’t have time to do more than freeze, sitting on the floor in front of the sofa with my knees tucked to my chest and a joint in hand.

  “Scrap! Join us!” Annie makes a welcome sweep with her arm and scoots back to nestle next to me, relieving me of the joint while she stretches and crosses her long legs.

  With a soft chuckle, Scrap comes in, gently shutting the door behind him, muffling everything but the thump of the bass. He eyes the sofa behind us and Mom’s desk chair, and then after a second, he lowers himself, propping his back against the wall. He drapes his forearms on top of his drawn-up knees, dangling his beer from one strong hand.

  He’s so long, so much man, he shrinks the room. A feeling close to panic, but pricklier, kind of bubbly even, rises in my chest. I’ve never felt this before.

  “Is this a private party?” Scrap smiles all lop-sided, and the prickles go crazy.

  “Yup. Invitation only.” Annie’s so stretched out, she can nudge Scrap’s boots with her bare feet, which she does. “New boots?”

  God, even Scrap’s feet are huge, especially laced up in brand new black shit-kickers. Of course, they’re new. His whole outfit must be. ‘Cause prison. I dig my elbow into Annie’s side.

  “Yup,” he says.

  Annie leans forward, offering the jay to Scrap. He shakes his head, taking a sip from his beer instead.

  “Harper buy ’em for you?” Annie’s always real worried about what Harper Ruth is up to. They were in the same class at school, and it’s a weird relationship. Annie’s always comparing herself to Harper, Harper always comes out better in the comparison, and Annie’s perpetually left feeling second rate. They say they’re friends, though. I don’t get it.

  Scrap shrugs. “I don’t know. They were at Heavy’s house.” He answers Annie, but his eyes are on me. A warmth creeps up my chest. I squirm.

  “You went there?” Annie asks. “After you got out?”

  “Yeah. We had a few drinks. I got a shower.”

  “That must’ve felt great.”

  “Yeah. It was awesome.”

  What would that look like? Scrap in the shower. No shirt. Hot water. Eyes closed. Bent with his hand around his— Oh, shit. What is my mind doing? My brain doesn’t go there. Not ever. Not even when I try to make it. My skin heats all over, and I start to sweat. I wrap my arms tighter around my knees.

  My wonky brain throws up another picture. Scrap under a stream of water, head tilted back, beads streaming down the cords in his neck, and I miss a breath. I swallow hard, but my mouth is bone dry, so I cough, a real hack, and it keeps going on and on.

  Scrap holds out his beer. I ignore it. I try to hold my breath, force my lungs to quit going crazy. And then he scoots closer, so close that he can press the cold beer against my hand, and he holds it there until I take it.

  Fuck. He’s so close now. He’s not across the room—although the office is so small, it’s not like across the room was far enough. He’s near enough to touch me. I catch myself leaning toward him. What was that?

  I hack again, and then sip the beer slowly. His lips were here. Now mine are, and he’s staring, so he knows. He might be thinking the same thing. That my lips are touching where his were. A wave of heat unfurls in my body, rolling from my chest down my arms and legs.

  If I drink much more, I’ll finish it, but it’s so hard to hand it back. I feel better with something in my hand. Anxiety and self-consciousness and this weird awareness are messing with my head.

  I’m not used to bodies. My own. Other people’s. I try not to think about them. Notice them. Wonder about them.

  This whole scenario should be fucking with a lot of my triggers. Scrap and I aren’t alone, per se, but it’s only Annie here, and he’s really big and between me and the door. It’s not total darkness, but it’s dim, and we’re far away from the crowd. I’m sitting, and I’m buzzed, not the prime position to be able to run if I had to.

  The urge to check rises in me, but it’s stupid, so I force it down. I’m good. Annie is right here. Dad and Mom are down the hall. And this is Scrap. He’s freaking me out, but it’s not in the usual way. My body’s primed, but not to fight or run. I shift in my seat. I need to move, but where?

  It’s like Annie senses my disquiet, and she lays her head on my shoulder. “So how’s the homecoming so far?” she asks.

  “Good. Good.” Scrap smiles politely, but his eyes hold something heavy. “A girl got salty with me, though.”

  I lower my eyes, bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was my fault. I said something dumb about her hair.”

  Again, I can’t help it. I reach up and brush a lock behind my ears with nervous fingers. I’m grateful for the dim lighting. The mess I’ve become—the extra pounds, the obvious lack of effort—it’s harder to make out with the shadows and my bulky clothes.

  “You didn’t really say anything bad.” He didn’t. I do look different. A lot different. It’s part camouflage, part what happens when for a long time, your life was a cycle of surgery, recovery, and episodic depression.

  “I didn’t say what I meant.”

  The room’s grown so quiet, the hollering and throbbing bass from outside is like a bubble around us, and inside, the air’s still. Even Annie’s relaxed, her breath slow and even, her head nods toward her chest. I think she’s falling asleep.

  “What did you mean?” I whisper, half because Annie’s nodding off and half because this conversation feels somehow like a secret.

  “That I missed you.”

  An ache blossoms in my chest. “How could you miss me? You hardly knew me.”

  He exhales. “Shit, Crista. I followed you around for, like, months.”

  He did? “We never talked.”

  “Pig Iron would’ve cut my balls off. You were underage.”

  I don’t know what to do with this. Shivers are racing over my skin, and I don’t even know what churning, bubbling thing is happening in my belly. A lot of times, my mind can’t keep up with the ways my body goes haywire.

  “Well, I hardly knew you.” I don’t want to be so mean, but I can’t help it. I can’t talk and handle what’s happening inside me at the same time.

  “I get that. Don’t change nothin’. Still missed you.”

  “Don’t you hate me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? I’m the reason you were in there.”

  “No, you wasn’t. I made my own choices.” He says it so plain. Like it’s the simple truth.

  “I didn’t ask you to do it.”

  “I know.”

  “I wish you hadn’t.” My voice cracks. Annie snuggles closer, wedging her head in the crook of my neck. I wonder if she’s faking?

  “I ain’t got no regrets.” That’s a lie. I know he does. He said so.

  “What do you want from me?” I know I must sound spiteful. Ungrateful. I can’t help it, though. We’re only talking, but my body thinks it’s an emergency.

  Maybe it’s my quasi-hysterical tone that finally forces Scrap’s patience to slip. His face loses its stillness, comes alive. He drums the fingers of one hand on the side of his leg.

  “Can’t we just talk?”

  “About what? Why?”

  “Shit, Crista. I don’t know.” He exhales heavily. “Maybe I want to get to know you.”

  What?

  “Get to know me? Like what? A date?” I can’t believe I said that.

&nb
sp; “Sure.”

  “You want to go out with me?”

  “If you want. We can go somewhere nice.”

  He can’t mean that. Not as sorry as I am. That’s what he said at SCI Wayne. An unexpected wave of anger ambushes me, sweeps away the weird feelings, leaving me tense and brittle.

  “I don’t do that.”

  “Do what? Go on dates?” He sounds oddly pleased. “Why not?”

  I raise my hand to indicate…all of it. “Well, for one, no one asks.”

  His jaw tightens. “And if they did?”

  I shrug. “It’s a non-issue.”

  “Why?”

  Seriously?

  “Why?” he pushes, and my face throbs, half embarrassment, half this bizarre fury. What is with this guy? He needs me to say it?

  If it were anyone else, any other time, I’d bail. I’m not one who shares. I can’t be. But tonight, I’m on edge from the weeks of waiting for today, from the hours that felt like years while we waited around for him to roll up tonight. His “why” tips me over, and I go off.

  “Who wants to date the hard luck story?”

  His face hardens. “Crista.” He looks so disappointed. Fuck him.

  “Crista, what? You’re the one who came in here. You’re the one who asked.”

  Annie’s head is too light against my shoulder. She’s definitely faking it, but she’s not about to stop me from running off at the mouth. She’s probably loving this.

  “Crista…” He squints like he’s trying to read my face, but it’s dim in here. I yank my hood forward and jerk back so I’m as far from him as the sofa will allow.

  “It’s a small town. No one wants to go out with the poor girl from the evening news.”

  “Crista.” The disappointment in his voice is turning into something even worse. Pity. Raw and ugly.

  “It is what it is. Life sucks, man.”

  I screw up my courage and glare directly at him, hard, willing him to get up, leave, stop sitting there all strong and tough while I flail around in my stupid self-pity and useless rage like some spiteful troll.

  This is bullshit. I don’t feel this way. People pity me, but that’s their M.O. Not mine. I get through the day. I know the value of each fucking one. And he strolls in here, and all of a sudden, my life’s a sob story? Fuck.