by J. C. Emery
“What did Mercer do to my kid?” I snap. This bitch is barking up the wrong fucking tree.
“Actually, Sir. Cheyenne lashed out and, should Ms. Mercer choose to do so, she can be suspended for her behavior.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a few,” I say and hang up. Just as I shove my phone back into my pocket, I blow out a frustrated breath and scrub my face with my hands.
“Have a kid, you said,” I say as I stare intently at the Forsaken logo that rests above “CHIEF” in bold lettering. “It’s the best feeling in the world, you said. Look, I ain’t blaming you because I didn’t wrap my shit, brother. Alls I’m saying is that you could have given me a head’s up.”
The ride to the school is short, but it gives me time to think shit over. My mother doesn’t say too much, but she’s obviously worried that I’m not snapping out of this funk. Mourning, she says, is one thing, “but this place you’re in is dangerous.”
As I park my bike and head into the office, I take a deep breath and focus on the task at hand. Chey’s been struggling the last few months, and I don’t know why. She won’t talk to me, and she swears nothing’s wrong. If she tells me she’s “fine” one more time, I’m sending her ass to Ruby. She’s probably the one person on the planet who hates that word more than I do.
“I’m here for Cheyenne Grady,” I say.
It’s no use, but I try to keep my bad fucking mood from getting even worse. Shit is not good anywhere these days, and now I have to deal with straightening Ms. Mercer’s stupid ass out. Fucking perfect. For some reason, this bitch has it out for my kid, and I’ve had enough of it. I got no doubt that Chey earned herself some trouble, but why now? I bet Mercer’s got an ax to grind with the club—just like her cock-sucking boss—and she’s taking it out on Chey. While most people in Fort Bragg are cool with the club, there are a few who turn their noses up at us, and apparently this glorified paper pusher is one of them. We’re too loud, too wild, and too dangerous.
If only they knew.
“Yes, Mr. Grady,” the woman behind the desk says in a faux polite tone. The name plate on her desk reads MARGOT FLORES. She hits the ancient buzzer beside her computer and announces to the principal, Mr. Beck that I have arrived. It’s but a few moments before I see him striding down the hallway with a scowl on his face.
“Mr. Grady,” he says, “Thank you for coming down so quickly.”
He leads me down the hall to his office—a place I’ve never been before. Until recently, Chey’s never had trouble at school. The only trouble I’ve heard about has been from this Mercer bitch, which leads me to believe she’s full of shit. My daughter is a good kid—she just occasionally has to deal with a rough patch, almost always after she sees her mom.
“Yeah,” I say and follow him into his office. It’s small, and every bit of furniture appears to be an aged wood and olive mix. In one corner, near a bookcase filled with awards, is Chey. Her arms are folded over her chest, and her eyes are wet with freshly fallen tears. In the other corner is Ms. Mercer. Her light brown hair is falling in her face as her head is tilted toward her lap. Mr. Beck gestures to a chair between the two, and I sit as he rounds his desk and takes his place.
“We had an incident during a counseling session that needs your attention,” he says.
“What happened?” I ask, looking at Chey. She pulls her lip in and diverts her eyes, a sure sign that she did something she knows damn well she shouldn’t have. When she doesn’t meet my eyes, I wrap my hands around the wooden arm rests of my chair and take a deep breath. “Cheyenne, look at me.”
Still, her eyes don’t lift to mine.
“During a counseling session where Ms. Mercer expressed concern for Cheyenne, your daughter made a comment which was inappropriate and requires immediate attention. She used a curse word to describe Ms. Mercer,” Mr. Beck says.
“You curse at this lady?” I ask Chey, who is determined to be unresponsive. When I finally tire of staring at the top of her fucking head, I turn my attention the other direction toward the bitch who’s started all this shit. I don’t know what went down, and to be honest, I only kind of care. Mercer’s had it out for Chey for months now, and I wouldn’t put it past her to push my kid’s buttons to see what happens.
“What did she say?” I ask Ms. Mercer, who is now looking me in the eye. For such a bitch, she’s pretty fuckable. Her complexion is nice and smooth, and she has light brown eyes that are complemented by her light brown hair and pale skin.
“Cheyenne called me the B word,” she says. I scoff before I can stop myself and earn a disapproving look from both Ms. Mercer and Mr. Beck.
“She called you a bitch,” I say. Ms. Mercer’s lips form a straight line, and her eyes narrow. Yeah, she’s uptight all right. Uptight as all fucking hell. I wonder when the last time she got laid was. I have half a mind to bend her over the desk and show her how to let loose. It’d be a fucking public service. I bet she’s so tightly wound that she’s never even jaywalked before.
“Yes,” she says in a clipped tone.
“Why?” I ask.
“Excuse me?” she says, like she suddenly can’t speak English. I raise my eyebrows and gesture to Chey.
“Why,” I repeat.
“Mr. Grady,” she says then shuts her mouth quickly. From my other side, I hear a sharp intake of breath. I look to Chey, who is glaring across the room.
“Ms. Mercer thinks I’m being abused or neglected,” Chey says with serious attitude. She started this shit a few years back, and it’s only gotten worse with time.
“Cheyenne,” Ms. Mercer pleads in a soft voice. “I’ve apologized. It’s my job to make sure you’re safe.”
“Holly,” Chey says with more venom in her tone than a fucking rattlesnake has in its entire body. “I thought you were cool. I thought we were friends!”
“I am cool, but I will not ignore a situation that concerns me,” Ms. Mercer says. There’s obviously more going on between these two than I’m aware of.
“That why you called her a bitch?” I ask Chey, who nods. Her mood’s picking up now that she thinks she has something on Ms. Mercer. She doesn’t, because the second I get her ass home, she’s grounded. But I’ll let the little princess think she’s snowed me for now. I just don’t want to give Mercer the satisfaction of knowing I don’t exactly have everything under control.
“Okay then, we’re gonna go,” I say to Mr. Beck.
“No, you cannot,” Ms. Mercer says as she stands in objection. “You daughter cannot run around speaking like that to adults, especially adults at her school, and expect no consequence. This is what I was concerned about.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna tell me how to parent my kid,” I say loudly and stand from my seat. Ms. Mercer takes a step closer to me and places her hands on her hips.
“You are a very troubled man,” she spits out with such anger I think she might melt the fucking floor around us. “Time and time again, you refuse to accept responsibility for your daughter’s poor behavior. Further, you have done her no favors by demonstrating to her that she can ignore consequences for mistreating others and that she is without fault. Cheyenne is an awesome kid, but she needs discipline. I’m not telling you how to parent. I am telling you that I won’t stand to be treated so poorly by a student or her parent.”
“Is that so?” I ask, rage boiling in my veins and my heart. I know I’ve been fucking up and it just pisses me off that this stupid bitch has the nerve to call me on it.
“Yes,” she says in a firm voice. I take a step closer to her, but she doesn’t budge. If I could think clearly, I could examine the scowl on her face and see that she’s more than fuckable—she’s actually kind of pretty. Not the kind of pretty I’m used to at the clubhouse with the whores who hang around at a dime a dozen, but a natural kind of pretty. The kind of pretty that a person wakes up with. Too bad she’s such a cunt.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask, leaning in. She closes the distance between us and glares up at me.
“Ye
s,” she says with a slight quiver to her lip that’s kind of attractive. She almost looks like a scared little deer who’s just seen a hunter with a rifle. And I think she’s finally going to back down and show me that she’s smarter than she looks. But she doesn’t. “And I don’t care.”
AN ELECTRIFIED CRACK sounds and is followed by the low buzz and fizzle of the overhead light bulb burning out. Without manufactured light, the room is basked in shadows and feels somewhat cooler. Still, beads of sweat sneak down my back, curve down my spine, and then are absorbed in the thin cotton blend tee shirt that sticks to my overheated skin. It’s never very hot here, along the Northern California coastline, but the exertion from a move will get even those in the Arctic working up a sweat.
I peer up at the encroaching darkness and sigh. My eyes are strained from the setting sun and the encroaching darkness. It figures that my new apartment needs repairs already. We barely got the sofa into the living room an hour ago, and now this. The light bulb, though a small issue, is another reminder of how messed up my life is. First went my job, then my roommate/boyfriend/whatever he was, then my apartment, and finally my pride. Now the light bulb.
Footsteps echo down the hallway, creating creaks and whines from the aging hardwood floor. That’s probably the next to go.
“Holly, are you in here?” an upbeat and excited voice asks from down the hall. Before I can say anything, she rounds the corner into my bedroom and says, “Why are you standing in the dark?”
It’s Mindy, my cousin; on-again; off-again; but most recently on-again roommate; and best friend. I turn in time to see her flick the light switch on and off until a frown forms on her pretty face. Her skin is smooth and taut, and her lips aren’t dried and cracked as they were years back. Thank God. Mindy is just a few years younger than me, but in some ways, she seems so much older. She’s wise in ways I don’t think I’ll ever be, and she’s been through the kinds of hell I hope to never have to pull her out of again. And she’s just barely twenty-three.
“Bulb’s busted,” I say and point to the ceiling. She purses her lips and gives me a big smile. It’s the kind of smile our fathers hated when we were growing up because, when Mindy smiles like this, it means we’re going to get in trouble for doing something we shouldn’t. Back before the world fell apart and then everything sort of…crumbled…I used to love that smile. I longed for it when we were in the church pews on Sunday mornings and trying to pass notes. I lived for that smile back when we were in high school, and I was nearing graduation, but Mindy had just begun, and she convinced me that we so totally had to crash a frat party at Humboldt State. That smile even made me laugh when her dad, my uncle Harry—the cop—had to come pick us up at the frat party at Humboldt State because my car had been broken into and Mindy didn’t give a damn about daddy’s lectures because she’d gotten a freshman named Heath’s phone number. And that smile nearly made me split in two when, a few years later, Mindy had returned home after leaving two days after graduation and telling me she’d married Heath in Reno.
But that was the before Mindy, and the before Mindy could be silly wild. She could get into a little bit of trouble and eat too much ice cream. But I don’t know which Mindy this is, and her smiles don’t sit right with me anymore. I can’t bring myself to smile all silly-like and to just go along with whatever little scheme she has cooked up. I just can’t trust that she won’t go back to that place.
So I don’t smile. I just stare at her, waiting for an explanation. It’s probably not the best way to get started rooming with someone, but this is Mindy—regardless of which Mindy it is—and she gets it. She was there, mostly the cause of it, and she doesn’t take things all that personally. At least she didn’t used to.
“Relax,” she says, with the big smile on her face waning slightly. “I was just thinking that we could walk down to the hardware store, and then we could grab a pizza while we’re out. Nothing crazy.”
“Sorry,” I say. The words come out forced, and I sound like I’m being strangled. I don’t really want to apologize for my reaction, but it’s the polite thing to do. Besides, even though I know Mindy will forgive my rudeness and selfishness, I don’t think I would. I’ve been over this with myself a hundred times. It’s about time I stop blaming Mindy for the last four years. I silently repeat the mantra my community-provided therapist taught me: I am not powerless; I have a choice.
“It’s fine,” she says and waves my comment away. Her smile is totally gone now, and her eyes find the floor. It’s obviously not fine, and this is one of the reasons I didn’t think us living together again was such a great idea. We have too much baggage and too much tormented history to peacefully cohabitate. But peace or no peace, I can’t afford to live on my own right now, so my options are limited.
“No,” I say and reach out for her hand. She doesn’t pull away, but nor does she offer it to me. Snaking my fingers between hers and squeezing, I pull her closer to me. “Pizza sounds great, and maybe if I eat, I’ll stop being a jerk.” A small smile creeps onto her face, and I know I have her. We leave the shadowy room behind and head down the long hallway until we’re in the narrow galley kitchen that shares its space with a small dining area. I let go of her hand to grab my purse, and then we’re out the front door and down the stairs. Within a minute, we’re on East Oak—just half a block off Main Street.
Uncle Harry doesn’t like the location because of its proximity to the town’s resident motorcycle club, and my mother doesn’t like it because I’m almost ten minutes away from her. But the rent is reasonable, parking is easy, and Mindy doesn’t even have to drive to work anymore. Plus, after living with my mother for the last three months, I’m more than happy to be ten minutes away from her. So, I guess the new apartment has its perks and its time I stop griping about silly little things like busted light bulbs and bad history that I can’t change.
Mindy and I walk quickly toward the hardware store that’s about to close. I don’t even know what time it is, but I grew up in this town and everybody knows that the hardware store closes at dusk. Old Man Hill has been closing Early Bird Hardware at dusk since he was a newlywed and was too paranoid to leave his wife home alone after dark. His eccentricities would be romantic if they weren’t so freaking inconvenient during winter. Thankfully, Mindy and I make it in time. Old Man Hill does take a moment to chastise us for being out so late and even talks us each into buying a small, pink can of pepper spray. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, other than likely spray myself in the face with it, since we live in one of the safest towns in the state, but oh well. It’s ten bucks I won’t get back, but it’s also ten dollars’ worth of Mr. Hill’s silence.
Fresh light bulbs, garbage bags, shelf liner, and cute little pepper sprays in tow, we make the three-block trek to Sea Salt Pizza—an old favorite of ours. It’s been years since I’ve been in the place, but I’ve missed it dearly, so Mindy made a good call when she told me she knew the perfect place for us to grab a slice. Not that we have that many choices. For a town of less than ten thousand, and being as remote as we are, Fort Bragg does well to keep their residents’ basic needs met—like movie rentals, wine, and pizza. Still, finding decent food around here can be kind of a crapshoot since local business doesn’t usually depend on whether or not the product is good. It’s all about liking the owners, and thankfully for me, the owners of Sea Salt Pizza seem to be very well-liked since they’ve been in business for nearly fifteen years.
Sea Salt Pizza is the kind of place where you walk in, grab your own table and your own menu—if you even need one, that is—and give the staff a smile and a wave to get them to serve you. If you don’t know the protocol, you’re largely ignored until you catch the right person’s eye. It’s also normally loud from the endless chatter and the joyful clanking of glasses, or even agitated shouts as the customers in the back room are watching sports on one of the TVs. But tonight, the place is low-key and quiet. I can’t hear a single TV, and there doesn’t seem to be any celebra
ting going on. At first, I think the place is empty – then I hear him.
In a corner booth sits Sterling Grady and his daughter, Cheyenne. He sits tall and almost rigid, with his back to the corner, his deep green eyes scanning the area around him. In a way, he reminds me of Uncle Harry, in that he’s hyper-aware of his surroundings. But unlike Uncle Harry, Sterling Grady is a major asshole. I can only hope that he doesn’t see me because it’s too late to change my mind. Mindy’s already heading for a table in the center of the room. Just my luck.
Days-old stubble dots Grady’s well-constructed jaw and extends halfway down his thick neck. His tanned skin peeks out from underneath his black and gray flannel shirt. Naturally tanned skin is something of an anomaly around here. It’s so overcast all the time. He must have a job that requires manual labor. It would certainly explain the broad shoulders, thick arms, and massive chest. Even under a comfortable layer of flannel, I can see that he’s built. Surprisingly, he isn’t wearing his leather vest that labels him as a member of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club.
It makes my skin crawl that, despite how big of an asshole he is, I still find him attractive. He’s not the first hot guy I’ve ever seen, but he is certainly the biggest douche bag. I really shouldn’t be paying any attention to him. Maybe it’s because, being back in Fort Bragg, I’ve noticed that most of the eligible men are either ones I went to high school with or obnoxious hippie transplants. Not that a serious jerk is a better option. He’s just better built.
Mindy and I sit at our table in the center of the room, and I purposefully angle myself so I can watch him from the side, but not head on. I lean back in my seat and give the young boy behind the counter a smile and wave. He nods and makes his way around the service counter. As I’m leaning back, I peek to see who Grady is sitting with. It’s Cheyenne. She’s hoisting up a slice of cheese pizza and staring at her cell phone in wonderment.
“Grady,” Mindy says quietly. I snap back to reality and try to fake confusion. She shakes her head and smiles. She knows me too well. “His name is Grady, and the girl with him is his daughter, Cheyenne. Don’t bother telling me you weren’t looking, because you were. And he’s hot, but he’s also really bad news.”