Rod

by Nella Tyler

  “You idiots don’t get to come back here until you can play nice,” he tells them before shoving a boot to Ken’s ass as he makes them leave.

  I cackle at the gesture.

  For the moment, our tension gets erased. I walk out and put some distance between myself and the Lair. I get away at what feels like the speed of light. I reach the Corkscrew and park the bike on the side of the place next to the others there.

  Swinging the door open, I walk to the bar like I own the place. I feel hopeless and hollow.

  I look up to find a different person behind the bar.

  “What’ll it be?” The older lady asks.

  “Jack and Coke,” I tell her.

  “Can I see your ID?”

  “Yeah,” I sigh tiresomely as I fish the card from my pocket. I hold it up, but she squints. She takes it from my hands and holds it up to the light.

  “Alright, be right back with your drink.”

  She slides my ID card back over to me. I resign myself to drinking the night away.

  A familiar face sits next to me at the bar, but I can’t make out who he is.

  He’s tall, scarily skinny and looks like a cross between Harry Styles with shorter hair and a young Steve Buscemi – and not in a good way. I explore his face as he tries to piece together something to say.

  “Hi, it’s Jeff,” he says as if it has some special meaning.

  “This seat’s taken, Jeff,” I say nonchalantly.

  He moves to the other side of me and I stop him in his tracks.

  “That one, too,” I tell him bluntly.

  “It’s Jeff Preble, from the club.”

  “Do you want a medal, ‘Jeff Preble from the club?’” I tease.

  “I’m sorry, I know you’re going through some tough shit right now.”

  He walks away and I’m silently thankful for the silence.

  A drink appears in front of me and I slide a twenty to the barmaid. Minutes pass and the space in front of me is full of bills and change.

  “Aww yeah!” I hear coming from the other side of the room. I see figures move by the pool table, but I can only make out one.

  I suck down the first drink and motion for the bartender to come over.

  “Another one?” she asks.

  “Yep, I got a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

  She takes some of the bills from the bar and returns with a drink.

  The sound of balls flying on the table couples with the music blaring from the jukebox. I turn to look at the pool table and suck down drink number two.

  “Are you trying to get drunk?” The barmaid asks.

  “I have a lot of shit going on right now. So, yes.”

  She smiles and says, “Do you wanna talk about it, honey?”

  “I don’t think I do,” I tell her.

  “Another one then?” She asks, taking notice of my empty glass.

  “Yep.”

  “This one’s on me,” she says as she returns with my third drink. I take a gulp and realize that the alcohol no longer burns going down my throat.

  Like a pro, I slam the glass on the bar.

  “Another?”

  “Yeah.”

  I can’t see straight, but at this point, I don’t care. I take the drink in hand and walk over to Rodney.

  “Trish?”

  “Rodney.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “About as okay as I can be considering that everything is falling apart around me and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Captain Obvious rears his ugly head,” I snipe.

  He holds me close and I get a hefty whiff of the mix of his natural scent coupled with his cologne. I nuzzle his neck.

  He moves away to take another shot and I look over at the pool table. The game is almost over. He banks the shot and lands the eight ball in the corner pocket, as he predicted.

  “I got next,” I tell him.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t think you need to be anywhere near a stick and balls,” he jokes.

  “I wanna play.”

  “You’re drunk. Maybe another time?”

  “No. Now,” I am adamant.

  The others move away from the pool table and I sit myself near the corner pocket, with a pool cue in hand. I lick my lips and look at him as if he’s a piece of meat. The gesture doesn’t go without notice. I lean over to pick up the blue chalk square from the table and slide the cue between my legs, teasingly. He watches me intently as I spread my legs and chalk the stick.

  “Chicken?” I ask.

  “Fuck no, I’m not chicken. I’ll rack and you break.”

  I hop off of the table and land feet squarely on the floor. He walks to the other end of the table with the triangle and places the balls inside.

  I tease, “I like the way you play with the balls.”

  His face reddens.

  “I can’t wait to bust them.”

  I pull my arm back and with a swift motion, shove the cue stick forward with a quick thrust.

  “I’m solids,” I declare.

  He moves close enough to kiss me and whispers in my ear, “I’m going to kick your ass at this.”

  I feel his warm breath on my neck and anticipation builds inside of me.

  “This is going to be fun.”

  A half hour elapses and even drunk, I feel like I run the table.

  “Don’t get too cocky,” he says taking note of how I gloat when I’m winning. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say,” I reply.

  He knocks the nine ball in, followed by the eleven ball and then the fifteen ball.

  “Oh, you’re good,” I tell him, witnessing him now running the table. Our ball count is even. He knocks in the thirteen and then scratches.

  “Your turn,” he notes.

  I kill him in the first game and he wants revenge. “Loser racks,” I nudge him.

  He takes the triangle and racks the balls. This time, in a fit of revenge, he crushes me. The game is tied two to two and I grow curious.

  “Where did you learn to play like that?” I ask.

  “Practice throughout the years. No bullshit, practice makes perfect. You?”

  “I grew up in bars like this and I guess I’m just a quick study.”

  “More?” He asks.

  “Oh yes, definitely,” I flirt.

  Chapter Six

  Trish Fitzgerald

  Rodney bends over the pool table to take his shot and I focus my eyes squarely on his nice, plump butt. With a few drinks in my system, I’m bold enough to take a chance. I reach down and pinch his butt through those jeans. He’s sexy.

  He jumps and quickly turns around with a smooth grin on his face.

  “Someone is asking for it.”

  “Oh you have no idea,” I tell him, my face reddening immediately.

  I put my force into the next shot, forcefully sending the three ball into the corner pocket.

  “You’re a total shark,” he surmises.

  “Captain Obvious rears his ugly head again,” I snap with a sly grin.

  After five games of pool, I am as sober as a judge.

  “You’re good,” he says.

  “Better than you, apparently,” I say mockingly. Naturally, I reign supreme with a score of three-to-two against Rodney.

  “Better luck next time,” I say, walking away.

  “You’re leaving?” he says, following closely behind me.

  “How else am I going to get home?” I ask flatly.

  “What am I going to do here all by myself?” he asks, trying to inject sympathy into the conversation.

  “Apparently you should just practice until it makes your game perfect,” I tease.

  He throws some quarters in the table and racks the balls. I feel silly for suggesting he practice, considering that the last game was so close. Even sillier is the notion that he is taking my
advice.

  “Catch you later,” he says playing the game by himself.

  “Later,” I tell him.

  I walk outside to my pink Harley and hop on. In a roar, I peel out of the parking lot and to the open road. The wind catches my jacket and tickles my back. It’s a little chilly at higher speeds, but I don’t want to take the scenic route home. I shouldn’t be out gallivanting while the entire county keeps busy looking for my poor missing sister Sasha. Guilt sweeps over me.

  Fifteen minutes pass and I’m in our driveway. Looking up at Sasha’s room, I see the dark space and feel intense worry for her. She could be anywhere.

  I walk into the house, stashing my jacket in the closet. My mother barely acknowledges my presence, but given our previous conversation, I don’t stress myself over it too much.

  Walking upstairs, I’m stopped by my father.

  “Trish,” he says in his monotone voice.

  “Yeah?” I say looking down at him from the stairway.

  “When I told you to leave the club, I did it to protect you.”

  I nod, leaving his sentence hanging in the air. I know my father loves me, but at this point I feel completely useless in the grand scheme of things. I want to help, but no one can appreciate that.

  I wish I had Jasmine’s home number; she listens to me. I mean that she actually listens with the intent to comprehend my words instead of being like my mother and listening with the intent to respond.

  Resuming my route upstairs, I open my door but close it tightly when I get inside. I rack my brain thinking of Sasha and where she could be. I fall over on my bed, feeling the weight of my eyelids. I’m tired. I can’t think clearly when I need rest.

  My body molds the bed underneath me and I pull the blankets snugly around me. Warmth engulfs me, rendering me dead to the world.

  I wake up to the sound of my alarm clock and can’t for the life of me figure out why I didn’t shut that stupid thing off before bed. I slam the thing until it’s quiet and I lay there and fixate on thoughts of my baby sister. She could be anywhere, the cops are useless and my father hell-bent on keeping me out of things.

  I pull myself to an upright position and ponder doing things on my own. Dad will be furious, but I decide that I can no longer sit on the sidelines waiting for something to come from the cops or the club. I know my sister better than anyone and I need to help.

  Feeling the cold water from the shower breathing life into my body, I devise a plan that I will enact and will also keep me safe by my father’s standards. The water rains down upon me and I have a eureka moment. What if it was an inside job?

  My father had his closest friends in the motorcycle club and started it years ago. Year after year, he and the founding members voted in prospect after prospect. Some of the guys are an illusion of sorts. Everyone has skeletons in their closets and I could be the one to uncover them.

  I run warm water over my body to rinse the soap and self doubt down the drain. With my ambition anew, I dry myself off with purpose.

  I know now what I need to do. I dress myself, run a brush through this mop and push forward. I need to find my father and get this thing rolling.

  I march through the house, seeking him out. The blaring of the television tells me ahead of time that my mother is currently occupying the couch. I open the door and see that I’m right. Moving through the house, I am determined to seek out this rat, if there is one at all.

  I formulate my argument in my head as I make my way to dad’s office. He’s going to absolutely hate the idea that I suspect someone from the club, but he has to admit it’s an avenue that he hasn’t thought of.

  I knock on his door and patiently wait for his response.

  “Yeah?” he growls.

  “Got a minute, pop?” I ask.

  “Yeah, come on in.”

  I walk inside and sit down in front of his desk. He’s busy looking over some of the books for the club.

  He stares me squarely in the face and says, “If this is about your sister, for the last time, forget it.”

  “I have a new approach,” I pose.

  He looks up at me as if to placate me unwillingly.

  “Is that right?”

  He puts his pen down on the desk and I realize that I have his full attention.

  “Yes. Well, I was thinkin’, and I know you may hate the thought, but what if it was an inside job?”

  “Get the hell outta here,” he commands me. He isn’t joking. I squirm by resolve to stay put and have him hear me out entirely.

  “No, listen. I know that you love the brothers and sisters of the club, and I’m not saying that I’ll find anything. But it’s definitely worth a shot to question them all and see if anyone really knows anything.”

  “Remember when I first came in to tell everyone that Sasha was missing?” he asks plainly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I gave everyone the opportunity to come forward and tell me what they know.”

  “Well, maybe they’re scared of you.”

  He looks like he’s considering that idea, but teeters back and forth.

  “Fuck that, these guys know better than to mess with my family.”

  “Yeah, but what if one of them got tangled up in something and couldn’t find their way out of it?”

  He considers it.

  “Would this mean that you’ll stay out of the rest of the investigation?” he poses.

  “Of course, I’d be busy questioning the club members one by one. It would leave little time for much else.”

  “I’ll make the announcement tomorrow, and if you find anything, I want to be the first to know. I mean it, Trish.”

  “You got it,” I tell him.

  Rodney was right about practice making perfect. I can stand up to my father and make him see reason and there doesn’t have to be this giant production about it. Maybe I’m not this useless girl after all.

  I rise from my chair and close his office door behind me. I relish in the idea that I could convince my father to let me help in some small way.

  I walk up the stairs and to my room and fire up the laptop. In my mind I already have a list of questions that I can ask the club’s members. I open up Microsoft Word and begin typing. Not only that, but I make a note to run each and every member through various searches to see if they’re hiding anything.

  I type every question imaginable into the document, beginning with the officers and moving to the prospects and even the hang-arounds. No one will be left unquestioned with the exception of my father.

  The next night at the Lair, dad springs into action. He’s placating me and trying to keep me out of the way, but he doesn’t realize that this is exactly what I want.

  “Alright, everyone. I know this may seem like a step that we don’t need to take,” he looks around the room and at me assuredly.

  “But I’m going to have Trish talk to each and every one of you.”

  One voice calls out from the back, interjecting, “But didn’t we already do this? We talked to the cops.”

  “Fuck the cops,” my dad says angrily. “The cops ain’t doing shit for us and I hate to do this, but I want everyone to cooperate.”

  There are questions on everyone’s faces and some look angry. There’s a muffled roar of bitterness in the air.

  Dad looks to everyone and says, “And if anyone has a problem with this, come and see me now.”

  Boris Cardov steps forward and wobbles on over to my father. I overhear him saying, “How long have we known each other, man?”

  “Years,” dad tells him.

  Boris shakes his head and walks away in disbelief.

  Dad motions for me to come closer.

  “Get that fucker first,” he commands me.

  Does he finally realize that I have value to this club?

  “You got it,” I tell him.

  I feel a rush of relief overtake me.

  I setup my laptop at the far table at the end of the bar. Jasmine saunters over in he
r pinup glory and asks, “You need a drink, honey?”

  “Yeah, that would be great,” I tell her. I wonder to myself exactly what the members of the club might be hiding. I already have a list of people I suspect of having nothing but good intentions toward the group. Another list is more pressing and that includes the people I suspect of being shady in some manner.

  I take a swig of the beer that Jasmine has brought over and fire up the laptop. With Word open, I set my sights squarely on Boris. He’s up first.

  “Boris Cardov,” I yell over the mass of club members.

  I look over to where he is and can tell that he’s not amused to be first on the chopping block.

  “Man, fuck this,” he says as he makes his way over to my table. Clearly he is not happy.

  He grabs the chair in front of the table and makes a big show of slamming it down on the floor so that he can sit backwards.

  “This is all so fucking stupid,” he says.

  “The quicker you cooperate, the quicker we can get done,” I tell him.

  He grumbles something unintelligible and I take it as a sign to begin.

  “Do you have any prior criminal convictions?” I ask.

  “No,” he growls.

  “Any financial problems?”

  “I live paycheck to paycheck, but that’s nothin’ new,” he says.

  During questioning, his eyes never meet mine. He squirms around in his chair, but tries to play it off. He comes across as nervous to my scrutinizing eyes. Curious, I make copious notes. I have a feeling I can’t shake that this man might be hiding something.

  “Why were you fighting with Ken Clayton?” I press him.

  “That fucker owes me money,” he claims.

  I nod as I type furiously on my laptop.

  “You’re on probation, is that correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Care to elaborate on why?” I push.

  “Not really, but I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

  “No.”

  “One time I forgot to pay my dues on time and the other, I didn’t back up a brother during a scuffle.”

  I look at him and he doesn’t appear to feel any shame for not backing one of the other members up. Strange.

  “Do you know Lester Samson?”

  “No,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “Anything you want to tell us?” I ask.

  “No. Are we done? I got shit to do,” he harps.