“That they are, my brother.” Heavy cracks a smile and slaps the bar for a beer.
“I’ll be back around. I’m just bein’ a pussy for a while.”
“Well, I guess you fit in here.”
“Guess I do.” We clink glasses. “Slanted.”
“Slainte.” Heavy’s rumbling laugh fills the air, and I roll my shoulders. This ain’t hopeless.
Starin’ down a fifteen-year stretch? That’ll suck the hope right out of you. Lived through that, got out in ten. It’s only been a month dancin’ around Crista Holt. It takes a few more months, a year or two?
I got nothin’ but time, and I’m used to doin’ time.
CHAPTER 8
CRISTA
Well, I guess whatever’s between Scrap and me is in the past. After he startled me into a premium, Grade A flashback, he hasn’t showed up to the clubhouse for three weeks. At first, I thought it was because shit’s been flaring up with the Rebel Raiders, and Heavy doesn’t want him around where he can get pulled into shit and have his parole revoked. Then I heard Cue talkin’ about how Scrap’s been spending his evenings at The White Van, so I guess he’s not been keeping out of trouble so much as getting into some pussy.
I get it. Ten years is a long time if you’re normal.
My chest aches, but it almost feels good. Pain is familiar. I understand it, and it has a way of pushing the bullshit out of your brain.
There’s plenty of bullshit, too. Everyone’s blaming me for Scrap not being around. Mom and Annie are watching me even closer than usual. Dad acts like I pissed in his Cheerios. I think he had his heart set on Scrap coming back and me turning into his sweet little girl again.
I try really hard not to give a shit. I work, I go home, read, let Frances out to run around the backyard. That’s what I’m doing now, sitting on a chaise lounge out behind my place, e-reader in my lap, watching him trot to Mom and Dad’s back door and then back to me. He wants a treat, but no one’s home.
I got Frances when I came home after one of the surgeries. It was hitting home that I’d never be able to carry kids, and I kind of wanted to care for something other than my own health for a change. I also had this idea that a guard dog would help with the hypervigilance, so I got Frances from the shelter. He doesn’t guard anything but his food dish.
It’s Saturday, and Dad said he wants me to take a night off, that he’ll cover the bar. He says I’ve been working too hard, but that’s bullshit, too. I haven’t been doing any more than usual. I think they want Scrap to come hang out, and they want me gone so I don’t make it all awkward and piss Scrap off to the point he does nothing but spar out back with whoever’s drunk and stupid enough to fight him. That’s what he was doing before he stopped coming around.
I wish I was at work. I’m bored and antsy. I’m between books, and my place is clean despite Grinder’s best efforts to hide all his empties and dirty drawers in random places like the world’s foulest Easter Bunny.
Frances isn’t exactly high maintenance. He’s getting on in years, and basically, he’s interested in whatever I’m interested in. Curling up on the couch? He’s down with that. Laying in bed? He’s down. Treats are the only thing that get him excited.
He whines at Mom and Dad’s door once more before he gives up and comes to lay next to me, plopping his wrinkly head on his front paws. His tongue lolls out like he’s been running for miles instead of a yard or so.
It’s getting hot. I shove up my hoodie sleeves. Damn, my forearms are white.
A car purrs down Dunston Avenue. I stiffen, but it doesn’t turn off on Jackson. Birds are chirping. Someone’s running a hose down the street by the Aronson’s.
My keys are in my pocket. The Beretta in my glove box is ten feet away. I could be in my place or Mom and Dad’s in thirty seconds. Frances is snoozing by my side. I’m safe.
Why is my body wound so tight? It’s a weird tight, too. More amped up than freaked out. It’s not my usual anxiety and paranoia cocktail.
Maybe I should cook something. That would take some time. Distract me. I’ve got some kiwi fruit that haven’t quite gone mushy yet. Green peppers. Frozen fish sticks. Eggs.
Yeah, cooking’s out.
I swipe through the library on my e-reader. Maybe there’s a book worth a reread. Or a download I forgot about.
I can’t keep my eyes on the screen. I keep checking out my body. My cuticles are shredded. My boots are getting really scuffed on the toes. Laying flat like this, my thighs spread so wide they almost flub over the edges of the chaise lounge. No wonder Scrap’s at The White Van. The girls there are tight.
Ugh. Why do I even care what he does?
I need to get out of my head. What do normal people do when they get bored and down on themselves? They go out.
Ain’t happening.
They text a friend. I have friends. Not “go out places” friends, but there are girls I hang with at the clubhouse. Fay-Lee. Story.
Fay-Lee’s always asking me to come to her house and check out the hot tub Dizzy got her. Watch TV. I think she gets lonely watching his boys. She comes from a family of, like, twenty kids or something, so alone time freaks her out.
I should call Fay-Lee. It’s four thirty. The boys’ll be home, but Dizzy won’t be home from work yet, since he manages for Big George on Saturdays at the Autowerks. I bet she’s bored.
I pull up my Contacts. My finger hovers over the green phone icon. Am I really going to call someone and speak to them on the phone?
Nope.
I open the text app instead.
What r u doing?
It literally takes seven seconds, and my phone is ringing. I’m so startled, I fumble it.
“What are you doing?” Fay-Lee is so loud, I don’t need to put her on speaker.
“I’m bored.”
“Yes!” I can almost hear the fist pump.
I can’t help but chuckle. “I’m happy that my boredom makes you happy.”
“Honey, I been waiting for you to get bored since I met you. I’m coming over.”
Whoa. That wasn’t what I was thinking. I don’t have people over.
“You want me to bring a DVD?” I can hear rustling on her end.
“What? No. What about the boys?”
“Parker’s in eighth grade. He can watch his brother for a few hours.”
“Is Dizzy cool with that?”
“So what if he’s not? Win-win, that’s what I say.”
Fay-Lee and Dizzy have a weird relationship. She started out as his house mouse when her man bailed on her a few years back and she got stranded at the clubhouse. Now she wears a collar and calls Dizzy “Daddy” when his kids aren’t around. She lives to get him riled up.
“Well? Should I pick up some Zimas on the way over?”
“Zima? Like from the 90s?”
“It’s back, baby! I’ll get some Jolly Ranchers, and we’ll get sloppy and all girly-girl.”
“How do you even remember Zima?” I hardly remember sneak-chugging Annie’s and replacing it with Sprite, and Fay-Lee’s five or six years younger than me.
“You know how some moms put Benadryl in the baby’s bottle to get them to go down?”
“Yeah?” This is going to be another fucked up Fay-Lee Parsons origin story.
“Well, Zima costs way less than Benadryl. A little for Roy Junior or Terrance, a lot for big sis, you know?”
“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You know it’s not.” Fay-Lee laughs real big, and a small blossom of warmth erupts in my chest. This is why I love Fay-Lee. To her, with the things she’s seen in her life? What happened to me isn’t the worst thing she’s ever heard of. “So that’s a yes to the Zima? I’ll be over in an hour.”
“Okay?”
She’s hung up already.
Frances snuffles and rolls over on his side. His tongue flops as he rolls.
It’s really hot out here. I should go inside, give the place a once over. Grinder’s at the
clubhouse, but who knows what he left out. At a minimum, I should shut his door so no one can see the wreckage. Ernestine’s a saint for only putting that man out every few years.
I can’t bring myself to move, though. The sun’s kind of soothing on my face. I unzip my hoodie, shrug it down my shoulders. The warmth feels good on my neck and chest.
My feet are baking in my boots. I untie them, heel them off, and roll down my socks. Damn. My feet are so freakin’ white, they glow. The sun and the light breeze feel good on them, too, though. I wiggle my toes. Frances whines, plops his head on the bottom of the chaise lounge, and starts sniffing.
“You want to lick my toes, you have to buy me dinner first.”
Frances gives me a lazy side-eye before he snorts and drifts off, again.
The sky’s a perfect blue today.
I want to see Scrap.
The urge comes from nowhere, but it settles in my stomach, and I squirm.
I want to see him.
I don’t want all the heavy shit, the whispers and gossip and panic and memories. I just want to watch him like he was in the hangar, his shirt hanging out of his back pocket, a small band of his plaid boxers visible above the waist of his jeans. His stance, so easy, but so ready at the same time. Like he owned the space.
I felt frumpy next to him. Squat. Awkward. But breathless, too. Not afraid for once.
Excited.
That’s the thrum that’s making me so restless. It’s so close to fear, maybe I got mixed up. I lay here, soaking up the sun, and I let my mind wander to him, stalking toward me in the clubhouse that first day, his stride so confident, that half-smile gentling his sternness.
My stomach bubbles, but not in a bad way. More champagne than nausea.
I’m drifting and daydreaming for maybe an hour when the buzz of an engine turning onto Jackson yanks me from my thoughts. I spring up, grab my phone, and zip my hoodie back up. By the time Fay-Lee’s Jeep pulls into the drive, I’m tugging on my socks.
To my surprise, a short woman with a dark halo of wild, curly hair pops from the passenger seat. It’s Nevaeh Ellis. Her brother, Lou, is a hang around, and she used to date Forty in high school. She dropped out of school and left for Pyle when Forty joined the service. Now she’s back. Petty’s Mill is like that. People turn back up like a bad penny.
My mind careens for a second to man pumping gas, but I drag it back into the moment. Nevaeh is a great distraction. She’s a lot to take, kind of a cross between an 80’s hair band groupie and a barker at a carnival who really wants you to win a goldfish.
Fay-Lee works her way out of the Jeep ass first, arms full of brown bags and a purse and a tote with a beach umbrella decal...and a duffle bag?
Wow. That’s a lot of crazy that just rolled up.
“Hey.” I finish tying my boots.
“I’m so stoked!” Nevaeh throws her hands in the air, smacks kisses on my cheeks, and then collapses down on the grass to scratch Frances. For a short girl, all her movements are huge. Dramatic.
“Why are you stoked?” I am so afraid to ask.
“We’re going out!” Nevaeh announces as if someone won a car. Shit, like everyone won a car. I swear Frances rolls his eyes.
“Where are you going?”
Fay-Lee has joined us, having dumped everything but a six-pack by the stairs to my place. “Jesus, Nevaeh. We’re supposed to ease her into it.”
“Into what?” I take the bottle Fay-Lee offers and take a long swig. I think I’m gonna need it.
“It’s Saturday night, baby! We’re going out.” Nevaeh says this like it’s good news.
“I don’t go out.”
“Yet. Until tonight.” Fay-Lee plops down next to me. “Tonight, you go out.”
“We’re gonna change your life.” Nevaeh’s disappointed that Frances is just kind of laying there, so she starts playing with his paws like he’s a marionette. She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. Frances flumps flatter. It takes more than high energy to get that dog jazzed. It takes treats.
“I’m good. You guys have fun.”
“Crista.” Fay-Lee nudges me with her bony shoulder. “We all know that’s not true.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“You made the call for help. Help has arrived. Now this is how it’s gonna go. I brought some cute dresses.”
“Your clothes will never fit me.” Fay-Lee’s long and lanky. Maybe a size six. I’m a one-size-fits-all.
“They’re not mine. Dizzy’s ex left them.”
“I don’t want to wear Diane Jones’ hand-me-downs.”
“Don’t worry. I washed them. And crabs can’t swim.”
“Crabs can definitely swim. They’re—like—seafood.” This is from Nevaeh who’s folding Frances’ paws on top his head and watching them slowly slide back down.
Fay-Lee and I pause a moment, blinking at each other, before Fay-Lee continues. “They’re all brand name. Only the best for Diane Jones.”
Before she bailed on her kids, Diane Jones only came around the clubhouse if she was looking for Dizzy to tear him a new one. I really don’t want to wear her clothes. Crabs or not.
“I have a dress, but I’m not gonna wear it.”
“Yes! We’re going out!” Nevaeh stomps her feet and pumps her arms, and Frances slowly eyes her and then ponderously rolls to his side, giving her his back. “Is your dog seriously telling me to tone it down?”
I shrug.
Nevaeh leans over Frances, lifts one of his ears, and says, “Are you telling me to tone it down, buster?” Frances farts. Nevaeh shrieks and fans his butt.
“I can’t believe you actually agreed!” Fay-Lee crows, ignoring Nevaeh.
My stomach starts to swish. I did agree to go out. How did that happen?
“Where are we going?” The first tendrils of panic creeps into my chest. What did I agree to?
“Sawdust on the Floor. It’s line dancing night.”
“I don’t know how to line dance.”
“No worries. They have a guy who calls out what to do.”
“Like do-si-do, now circle left?” To be honest, that does not sound like a scene Fay-Lee or Nevaeh would be into.
“Not quite that bad. But close.”
“I don’t know…maybe we could go to the movies?”
“The movies isn’t out. Besides, it’s ten-dollar bottomless pitchers of beer all night long, so you’re gonna have to deal with swingin’ your partner round-and-round.”
“Ten-dollar pitchers?”
“It’s watery as shit and tastes like piss, but Dizzy has real trouble counting my drinks when there’s dozens of half-full plastic cups on a table and a bottomless pitcher.”
“He counts your drinks?” Nevaeh looks horrified.
“Yeah.” Fay-Lee grins all wicked. “I’m allowed one per hour, three total per evening. If I have too many, I get a spanking.” She says spanking like Annie says special surprise when she’s trying to bribe my nieces.
Nevaeh relaxes. “Is this one of you guy’s kinky sex things?”
“Yup.” Fay-Lee makes the p sound pop.
“So basically, we’re going line dancing so you can drink too much and drive your old man to spank you?” I just wanna be clear.
Fay-Lee considers. “Well, when you put it like that…yeah?”
Weirdly, this makes me feel a little better. This isn’t all about me. Maybe it’s not even mostly about me. My anxiety eases a bit. “Is he meeting us there?”
“Not quite. I’ve got a scheme.”
“So who’s driving? I can drive.” Sawdust on the Floor is on the way to the clubhouse, right before Main Street turns into Route 9. My brain runs the route.
“I’m driving,” Fay-Lee counters.
“No, you’re not. You’re drinking.”
“Exactly. I’m gonna have to call Dizzy to come drive us home.”
“I feel weird being part of your kinky sex games.”
“Not me.” Nevaeh rolls onto her stomach and kicks her le
gs up, back and forth. “I love being part of your kinky sex games. I’m gonna be the bad influence.”
“No, your job is to take lots of pics and post them on social media. I bet Dizzy shows up twenty minutes after the first pic of me with a beer in my hand.”
“Do I get a job?” I ask.
“You’ve already done it.” Fay-Lee pats my thigh and stands.
“Yeah?”
“Why do you think Dizzy even agreed to let me go out dancing at a bar without him? With Nevaeh Ellis, for heaven’s sake?” She glances at Nevaeh, but there has been no offense taken. “I told him we were helping you work through your trauma, and you needed a girl’s night to, like, heal or some shit.”
“It was very compelling bullshit.” Nevaeh’s nodding, her brown eyes rounded.
“Are you guys serious?”
“As serious as we ever are.”
I really have no idea what to think. Talking to these two is like taking Frances to the vet when it’s busy. There’s so much yapping and random movement that I’m kind of overwhelmed.
I’m not panicking, though. I think I’m about to move the perimeter of my life, and instead of being terrified, I’m kind of…amused.
“Okay. I should get ready.”
“I’m doing your makeup!” Fay-Lee pulls an enormous Caboodle from her duffle bag.
“Dibs on hair!” Nevaeh pops to her feet, and the mop on her head springs up and down a few times.
I’m shaking my head as they circle me like hyenas. “I got it covered, ladies.”
It takes about five times longer than it should to get ready to go. I’d thrown on a clean hoodie and jeans in a minute, but I didn’t figure that when I turned down a makeover, Fay-Lee and Nevaeh would decide to do each other up instead.
They crowded me at the bathroom mirror while I brushed my teeth, and then trailed after me into my bedroom, asking me what I thought about this eyeshadow or that hair style.
It was hectic and awkward and kind of nice. It reminded me of way back in the day when Annie would be getting ready for a date, and she’d let me play in her makeup and help her pick her outfits.
Fay-Lee kept a Zima in my hand, and Nevaeh blasted music, bounding around the place, hopping on the sofa to dance, generally driving Frances nuts. You could tell by the way he occasionally opened one eye to glare at her.
Scrap: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 9