by Paula Cox
“Nope,” I say.
“Come on, man. I know you—”
“Then you know I have no problem with knocking teeth from mouths that talk too much.”
Zeke shakes his head. “Alright, man.”
And that’s that as far as Zeke is concerned. We both know I’d never really go for him, but he must know how much I don’t want to be bothered about this ’cause he actually backs off, something I didn’t expect him to do.
We don’t find Trent at the rail station, and so we head back to the club.
The first thing I hear when I get in is some kid shouting, and the first thing I see is this same kid pacing up and down in the bar waving his arms. Shackle is standing opposite him, a bat in one hand, watching the kid carefully. A few of Shackle’ lieutenants are standing behind him. Shackle is as hard as his attitude to the club: a short, squat, hard-faced man with thick arms and thick legs, an ugly gash running jagged from the top of his forehead down to his chin.
“You want to kill me!” the kid screams. He’s about seventeen or eighteen, I’d guess, skinny as a beanpole with thin bone-like arms and long bony fingers, wearing a tattered stained T-shirt and baggy jeans, with sneakers that were once white and are now crusted brown. A street kid, then.
I nod to Zeke, who nods back, and we creep silently into the bar up to where the kid is pacing. I wonder why Shackle and the others haven’t taken him down yet, and then I see: he’s holding a small switchblade in his right hand, which he swipes through the air as he rants. Zeke and I approach carefully, having done this countless times before even if it was under different circumstances.
“You want to kill me, I know you do! I know you do!” the kid rants.
“We’re trying to help you,” Shackle says calmly. Always calm, is Shackle, never laughing or panicking or getting angry. A businessman. “We explained all this to you, kid,” he goes on. “You’re a meth-head; we’re getting you off it, thinking about patching you. You said it was what you wanted, and now you’re ranting and raving with a knife.” Shackle keeps talking, distracting the kid.
Zeke and I get close enough that I can smell him: the stale beer and the lingering cigarette smoke, something deeper which might be the scent of whatever crack house this kid was in before Shackle brought him here. The kid goes on, accusing Shackle and the others of trying to kill him, and then on a silent count of three—something we’ve perfected over a number of years—Zeke and I jump on the kid, Zeke going for the weapon as he always does and me wrapping my arms around him, holding him back. He flops around in my grip, but he’s all skin and bones, not a challenge to hold back. Zeke tucks the knife away into the waistband of his jeans, and Shackle steps forward.
“Calm down,” Shackle says, looking plainly at the kid.
But the kid keeps squirming. I whisper in his ear: “Listen, kid, you’ve got two roads in front of you right now. And you should listen ’cause I’ve been pretty much where you are. You’ve got two roads. One will lead you back to whatever shithole crack house you came from. The other will lead you to be a patched member of The Damned. You need to see past this anger and ask yourself: who do you want to be? Do you want to be one of those toothless fuckin’ junkies who can barely stand up, or do you want to be a patched biker? Come on, kid, be smart. I don’t want to see you slip back into that shit.”
Shackle and the others look surprised as these words come out of me, and I can’t blame them ’cause I am, too. Maybe it’s because I really do see something of myself in this kid. The angry-at-the-world teenager I was when Mom kicked me out all those years ago.
Slowly, the kid quietens down, stops thrashing. We all wait patiently. We wouldn’t do that if this was just some knife-wielding teenager, but if we’re going to patch him, he gets more leeway than others might.
“I’m okay,” he mutters, after a few minutes. “I’m okay. It’s just—coming off this shit is hard. I’m okay.”
I let him go, take a step back. He turns to me. He has a young face, but his addiction has aged it in places: the lines around his eyes, the deep dark bags under his eyes, and the cracking of lips. His freckles and his bob of ginger hair give him a look of youth despite all this, though.
Shackle gestures to me to come over to him. I leave the kid with Zeke and go to Shackle in the corner.
“I want you to deal with this kid’s detox,” he says. “I didn’t know you had that in you. That was good, Rust. Real good. I want you to get him clean, so that we can see what he’s really made of. You have no clue what a man—a boy—is really made of when he’s still thinking caught up in the drug haze.”
I would normally be pissed off at being tasked with something like this, but the kid clearly needs help—and there’s that thought again, that he’s not so different to the kid I once was.
“Alright,” I say. “What should I do?”
Shackle shrugs. “That’s up to you.”
I’m about to say I have no clue, but then I remember a certain lady, and a certain pamphlet.
I nod. “I’ve got an idea.”
Chapter Eight
Allison
I’m sitting in my office, leaning back in my chair, staring at my computer screen. A word document stares at me from the screen, telling me to fill it out. A weekly report, something I have to do, funnily enough, every week, and yet something I dread as though it comes around only once a year. I lean forward and start typing, hating how boring this report is. It’s for management, to justify my existent here at the library, and it reduces all the complex cases which come into my office down to simple cold facts and figures. When the report is done, I shoot it off in an email and look around my office. I’ve been thinking about rearranging if for a while. The office is windowless, the desk resting against one wall, the couch for my patients sitting against the opposite wall. There are canvas pictures of meadows, creeks, and waterfalls on three of the walls, and on the fourth is a window which overlooks the car park: not the best view, but I often close the blinds and allow the sun to glow orange through them. Near the couch is a small armchair.
I stand up, go to the couch, realizing that I’m purposefully turning my mind away from Rust. I’ve been doing that a lot lately: thinking about mundane things to distract myself from him, as though Rust is an anxiety disorder, and I am trying some thought redirection to get rid of him.
I still think about him all the time, though, despite my efforts; I cannot distract myself in the shower, or while I’m sleeping. My only solace is that I know we would never suit each other. The unfeeling Neanderthal biker and the girl whose job is helping people? No, no, no, that would never work.
Knock, knock.
I rise to my feet, going to the door. “Hello,” I say, smiling and opening the door.
The smile drops from my face like a leaden weight. For a second I wonder if I am hallucinating, the image is so strange. Rust, standing in the doorway like some oversized giant, shoulders brushing the doorframe, with a ginger-haired teenager standing behind him. I stare at him blankly for a few moments, waiting for him or me to speak, but neither of us do. We just stand there. Though he’s the one who knocked on my office door, he looks just as surprised as me.
Then Rust says, “I need your help, Allison. I remember the pamphlets you were holding that day when …Anyway, this is Joseph. I need you to help him.”
The emotion in Rust’s voice shocks me. He stares down at me with those same solid black eyes, but I’m sure there’s something in them that wasn’t there at the bar, or outside the bar as he nonchalantly walked away. Joseph stands awkwardly behind Rust; he’s pretty obviously jonesing for something. He’s twitching, his eyes shifting awkwardly from place to place, and there’s just something itching about his entire body.
“Sure,” I say, voice faint. “Come in.”
My legs are trembling as I lead Joseph to the couch. Rust takes a place at the wall, leaning back, hands dangling at his sides. Part of me—the romance-reading part—wants to leap at him right now,
reach down and grab his cock as I should’ve done in the alleyway. I think about what I’m wearing, black pants and a white shirt, and wish I was wearing something sexier. Then I kill that thought, which is completely inappropriate under these circumstances. But pushing my daydream away does little to stop my beating heart, my sweating palms, the fog which comes over my head. I ask Joseph if he would like a drink of water, and he nods. I’m glad; I go out into the hall and get Joseph a drink from the cooler while also downing two cups myself. I return with the water, and then pull up a chair near the couch.
I expect Rust to leave. This past week, I have told myself again and again that Rust is a Neanderthal-like man who does not care about anyone but himself. That is the fiction I created; that is the only way I imagined myself getting over this man, who for some unknown reason has gained such a strong foothold in my mind. That is my only defense. But he does not leave. He just leans against the wall, watching. I glance in his direction as I go to the desk to get my notes, and I’m sure there’s genuine concern on his face. His forehead is creased, his eyebrows knitted, his lips closed, not quite pursed, but no longer curled into his knowing smile, either. His arms are folded, as though concerned, and his fingers tap against his biceps.
He cares.
This man really cares. The thought is too much for me to comprehend right now, because with it comes the absolute crumbling of the walls I’ve erected around him in my mind. If he is not the brute I’ve imagined him to be, then I’ll be forced to come up with a second line of defense. But I can’t do that right now, not with Joseph sitting on the couch and Rust watching the whole exchange.
This realization hits me, processes, and then falls into a backseat during the short time it takes me to walk to the desk to get my notepad.
“Hello, Joseph,” I say, offering him my social-worker smile. You have to be approachable and understanding, but not soft; that’s what I learnt at college. “My name is Allison Lee.”
“Hello,” he mutters, unwilling to look me in the eye. That’s pretty standard. Joseph’s feet are doing a tap dance routine, and his fingers are drumming along on his knees.
“I understand you’re going through a hard time right now, Joseph?” I say coaxingly.
I’m burningly aware of Rust, who is to the side of us, lurking at the edge of my vision. I can just see his arm muscles in his jacket, tight, the leather looking as though it could burst any moment. I can see his big hands, and the way he stares at Joseph as though the two are brothers or something. I wonder for a second: maybe they are brothers.
“Yeah,” Joseph says, nodding. “Yeah, a little—but it’s not too bad.”
“Can you tell me your surname, Joseph?”
He nods briefly, and then mutters: “Cussler.”
So they’re not brothers, but Rust clearly cares a whole lot about him. Maybe he’s a club kid, or …yes, maybe he’s going to become a club kid. I’ve learned a little about the motorbike clubs during my time here, and one of the things I’ve learned is that the clubs will take addicts and detox them and patch them. A few of my colleagues disagree with this—they think it’s better for addicts to go through the established channels—and of course in a perfect world, all addicts would. But if there are people out there who are only clean today because of the clubs, surely that’s a good thing? And after all, the established channels don’t work for everyone. Looking at Rust, seeing how much he obviously cares, I can’t look down on it.
“Okay, Joseph, I’m going to take a few notes on you, and then we’re going to talk about the possibility of you going to a rehab facility.”
At the word rehab, Joseph’s eyes go really crazy. His feet tap against the floor so quickly that even on carpet they make an audible sound, like knuckles rapping wood. He reaches down with his hands and grips the couch cushions, much as I’ve gripped the same cushions over the past week. But he grips them in anxiety, not lust. His breathing begins to quicken, and I see it before it comes: a panic attack. I lean across, but I don’t touch him; without knowing him, it’s impossible to know if it will make things better or worse.
“Joseph, can you listen to my voice?”
“I’m not a junkie,” he mutters, talking to himself, his words coming out quick. I’ve heard words spoken like that hundreds of times, the unmistakably too-fast words that precede a panic attack. He goes on, quicker: “I’m not a junkie, I’m not one of those sick junkies. No fucking way.” He breathes in, out, in, out, face turning red, unable to focus on anything but the panic which is slowly tightening his chest.
“Joseph, I want you to listen to me for a second. Can you do that, honey?”
“I’m not a junkie. I’m not a junkie. No way. No damn way.”
I’m about to repeat myself when Rust kneels next to the couch. Even kneeling, he looks huge, exactly the sort of presence I would assume to be frightening to somebody about to give themselves over to panic.
“Kid,” he says, and to my disbelief Joseph turns to him at once and holds his gaze. Far from finding the large presence frightening, he seems to find it reassuring.
“Y-y-yes?” Joseph manages, teeth chattering.
“I want you to hear me, kid. Can you do that? Can you hear me?”
Is this the same man who pushed me up against the wall of a dirty alleyway, the same man who stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled as he left me to get a cab, the same man who seemed not to give a damn about anything? Is this the same man I have told myself is a Neanderthal, an unfeeling monster? Is this the same man I have convinced myself is cold and unsuited to me? I can hardly believe my eyes as I watch huge, muscular, leather-wearing Rust talk softly and slowly to this teenager, talking him back from the precipice of panic.
“I can hear you,” Joseph says.
“Alright, good. This is Allison Lee, alright? She’s my friend, a friend to the club, and she’s going to help you get better. I know there’s some shit you don’t want to face, but you’re goin’ to have to face it. Life isn’t a sweet ride all the time; you have to earn a sweet ride every now and then. There’s gonna be some work, and maybe some pain, but I swear to you man, you can do this. You can pull through this. I believe in you. Do you get it?”
Joseph manages a nod.
“Good,” Rust says. “Now listen to her. Give her your full attention. She knows what she’s doing.”
I only barely close my dumbstruck mouth as Joseph turns to me—with complete attention, with the sort of attention it would normally take me a few sessions at the least to gain. I was hoping for half-attention at best, but this…
“Okay,” I say, regaining my footing as Rust returns to his place at the wall. “I just need to get a few details…”
I let that hang, waiting to see if he’ll panic again, but he just looks to Rust. Rust nods, and Joseph turns back to me. “Okay, Miss Lee,” he says. “I get it. I understand. Let’s get it done.”
I don’t let my shock into my expression, but I am shocked, more shocked than I was even when I came onto Rust outside the bar. For the rest of the meeting, Joseph is quiet, compliant, and even a little hopeful. He keeps glancing at Rust for support, and Rust offers him a smile now and then.
Soon, I have Joseph on his way to a rehab facility, a good local program that pairs group therapy with interpersonal skills to help people understand what’s going on in their heads when they use, and what will help them stay clean over time. I stand in the hallway, outside my office door, thinking about the man on the other side of the door.
He was supposed to be just some arrogant biker asshole, but now—
As I grip the handle and push the door open, I’m painfully aware of the medley of emotions which swim in my chest, lust and nervousness and shock and warmth, all making it hard to keep my defenses up, all making it hard to think logically.
Chapter Nine
Allison
Rust is still leaning against the wall, looking like a man who really does not care about anything, cooler than cool. Now that Joseph
has left the room, that cocky smile has returned to his face. As I walk to my desk and sit in my chair—thinking that I can put this desk in between us as a kind of shield, I suppose—I wonder if the concern was some kind of ruse. But if it was, why drop it now? And a ruse to accomplish what? I thrust these thoughts down; overthinking about Rust has made me paranoid. I lay my palms flat on the desk, watching Rust, who just watches me right back, smiling nonchalantly.
Here is the man who has captivated my dreams for the past week: who has made me wear out the batteries on my vibrator, who has given me innumerable incredible orgasms in my fantasies.
After a while, the silence becomes unbearable. Rust doesn’t seem to mind it. He just leans there, calm, collected, as though he wouldn’t mind leaning there for the rest of time. I cannot. I have work—yes, yes, that is my excuse. I have more work to do.
I clear my throat, and then say, “Thank you for bringing him in, Rust, but…” I’m supposed to tell him I have to get back work. Instead I blurt out: “I didn’t expect that of you. Really, I didn’t. I’m shocked—” I cut short, wondering where that came from, wondering why I cannot just control what I say and do when I’m around this man. Since I made the decision to follow social work instead of accounting, I have been in control. But with Rust I feel like the little girl who being pushed here and there without ever finding her grip.