Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  That was the first time I saw my father beat on my mother. I was as naïve as she was; I thought it was a one-time fluke. The next morning he woke, stared at her bruised body and vowed never to do it again. He kissed her, told her he loved her and apologized over and over—only to do it again a week later. Every beating became worse than the one before and the apologies died on his tongue.

  I begged her to leave him, pleaded with her to run with me to some place far away where he couldn’t find her, but she wouldn’t have it. She made one excuse after another—there was no work, the stress of the bills, or my favorite, your daddy loved the bottle too much last night, he didn’t mean it. It was clear she would not leave him and I told myself that was because he had ruined her, robbed her of her will and her self-respect. She couldn’t leave him because she had nothing left inside to fight for.

  It was my job to rescue my mother.

  I’d grow up, drag her away from my old man and help her heal.

  But I had to become a man first and my father wasn’t going to teach me how to be one—the motherfucker couldn’t because he never was one himself. He may have a dick but that didn’t make him a man, he was nothing more than a pussy. There wasn’t a trace of testosterone in that bastard’s body.

  I enlisted in the Marines, prayed my mother would survive without me, that she’d keep breathing, and vowed to come back for her. Just give me a chance to be the man you need and I promise you he won’t ever touch you again. You stay strong and remember this shit is only temporary.

  I’d kill the motherfucker with my bare hands.

  Father or not.

  I may have had a plan, but the Marines had a bigger plan for me, and I was sent overseas, to a bigger hell than the one I left my mother to burn in. A hell where women and children died, and sometimes I was the bastard who pulled the fucking trigger.

  A hell where I lost my whole fucking platoon—every man, every brother, not one of them survived the last attack of our mission.

  Except for me.

  I was the lone survivor.

  After the brutal attack I was discharged from my orders and sent back home with a medal to hang on a shelf for my duty served. I didn’t want to go back home, I didn’t want to look my father in the eye and watch my mother fake a smile. And I sure as hell didn’t want a fucking medal reminding me of everyone I watched die.

  I had nowhere else to go though, and I promised her I’d be back for her. If anything, I was a man of my word. Integrity, that’s the shit real men are made of. I showed up on my mother’s doorstep, dressed in uniform with that fucking medal burning a hole in my pocket.

  I can still remember the relief in her eyes as she stared at me for the first time in years, taking in every single inch of me—all seventy-four of them. The tears fell from her eyes as she lunged for me, wrapping me in her delicate arms, holding on as though I was a figment of her imagination.

  For a moment, I thanked God for sparing me, for allowing my mother this moment. It all went to shit when my father emerged and told me I was a worthless piece of shit that let his men die.

  You call yourself a soldier? You’re a disgrace to your country.

  I ignored him, I came here for my mother. This was the last fucking time I had to deal with this fuck’s mouth and the bruise marking her left eye was the last one he’d ever get to give her.

  I packed whatever was left of my shit, ordered her to the same—this shit was over.

  But I was the only one who walked out of that house, never to return again. She wouldn’t leave, she chose him over her freedom.

  Land of the free.

  Home of the brave.

  It’s too bad my mother lost her bravery somewhere between I do and I tripped down the stairs.

  That’s when I found the Satan’s Knights MC. It took a year for me to earn my colors and a whole lot of blood painted my hands in those twelve months. I was used to that though—ripping the life out of someone came as natural to me as breathing did.

  I had no fear, figuring I was on borrowed time as it was—making me an asset to my club and to the men I rode with. I was tough as nails and motherfuckers ran when they heard my pipes.

  But as lethal as I was, I was weak when it came to the woman who brought me into this world, and no matter how much I wanted to I could never turn my back on her. Once a year, on her birthday, I make it my business to visit her. I like to be there before the sun rises when my piece of shit father is still nursing his hangover and passed out on the couch. I don’t stay long, no longer than it takes to drink a cup of coffee and for her to assure me things are fine.

  I pulled my bike into the driveway, noticing every light in the house was on. My body has been trained to be on high alert at all times, I can sniff out a fucking threat from miles away and before I can kill my engine, I know that this won’t be like any other visit—this will be the final one.

  The last stand.

  I throw my shoulder into the front door three times before tearing it from the hinges and stalk through the house as quickly as my bum leg and my worn boots allow. I let her shrieks lead me to their bedroom and spot him towering over her in the corner of the room. He lifted a fork to her face, letting the teeth pierce her skin.

  I used to pause.

  I used to question before I fired.

  I used to doubt my instincts.

  But I wasn’t that person anymore. I wasn’t the boy too scared to step up and protect his mother. I was a United States Marine, and I ran toward the sound of chaos. In that moment I wasn’t only a soldier but also a Satan’s Knight and when I ran, I ran toward the sound of my mother’s cries. I let her plea for help drive my finger and pull the trigger.

  No hesitation.

  No doubt.

  Pure instinct.

  My bullet mimicked the fork as it struck my mother’s skin pushing through my father’s back with force. I kept my hand steady as I moved toward him, pulling him off of my mother as he howled in pain and the fork slipped from his hand.

  My mother’s eyes widened in shock as she stared up at me before averting her eyes to the smoking gun in my hand.

  “What did you do?” she whispers.

  I tuck my gun back into my jeans and hold out my hand.

  “It’s okay. You’re safe now,” I assure her, urging her to take my hand as my eyes pleaded with hers.

  “You shot your father,” she hisses, scrambling to her knees and brushing passed me as she crawls to my father’s side. “Oh my God,” she cries, her hand trembling as she presses it against his wound.

  “Ma, let’s go, let him fucking bleed out like the fucking animal he is,” I shout, my hand reaching for my phone. I’d call Rush, have him send a couple of prospects here with a tarp and a container of bleach—clean this shit up. Then my father moaned—motherfucker was still breathing.

  My hand moved toward my gun instead of my phone when my mother turned her eyes to mine.

  “Get out of here!”

  “Get out of the way, Ma,” I ordered.

  “No,” she screams, throwing her body over his as she peers up at me. “No,” she repeats, staring at the barrel of my cocked gun. “You shoot him, you shoot me too!”

  She laid her life down for the man who tortured her time and time again—without hesitation, without doubt.

  She chose his life over hers.

  And I chose hers one last time.

  I lowered my gun, stared into her eyes, memorizing her face, the dullness of her eyes and the angry three lines that the fork left behind. I cemented them to my memory before I turned and walked out of the house.

  For the final time.

  There was no going back.

  Not this time.

  Not ever.

  If there was any justice in this world he’d bleed out and die in her arms. Maybe then she’d find her strength because I couldn’t give it to her.

  I couldn’t save her.

  The thing wa
s, as long as I was here in this fucking town, I’d always go back for her. I’d always try to rescue her from him—from herself.

  I’d never succeed though, and I’d probably die trying or worse, I’d kill what little was left of her soul.

  I made my way back to the Satan’s Knights compound, parked my bike and slipped the cut from my back and draped it over the seat of my Harley. I reached behind me and pulled the utility knife from my pocket and stared at the patch that declared me part of the Albany chapter. I worked the edge of the blade under the seams that bound the patch to the leather and cut through the stitching until every thread severed from my cut and the patch rested in the palm of my hand.

  There was only one way out of this hell.

  I stalked into the clubhouse and found Rush cutting up coke on the bar, Ally nestled against his side, eagerly awaiting her fix.

  I slammed my fist against the bar, spreading my hand open and dropping my patch onto the distressed wood.

  Rush lifted his angry glare to me.

  “Boy, you better—”

  I cut him off, glaring back at him and spoke the words that freed me.

  “I’m going nomad.”

  Chapter Two

  Present Day, Rikers Island

  “Let’s go Kincaid,” the correction officer orders, escorting me to the Receive and Discharge Department to process me out of here and collect my shit. It isn’t much, just the balance in my commissary and the silver dog tags I haven’t removed from my neck since I planted my feet back on American soil. I left everything else in my room at the Dog Pound the morning I was picked up by Jones. Jones was an officer on the payroll of the Satan’s Knights and my three-month stint for a possession charge was all fucking staged. Little did I know three months would become eight because my ass kept getting thrown in the hole.

  I was the fucking messenger thrown in this shithole to deliver Blackie, our vice president, his orders. His ass landed in lock up after he nearly killed some douche bag who attacked his girl—his girl being Jack’s daughter. Even though Jack wanted to kill Blackie for claiming his daughter, with two wars on the fence, he sent me into Rikers to protect him and deliver a message. Jack had a fucking plan, and I was part of that fucking plan.

  The day after I arrived, Blackie and I staged a fight in the yard. He got his ass transferred to Otisville where the club had enough juice to get him released. And me, I got my fucking nose broken and found myself in fight after fight. Maybe I should’ve considered those anger classes the general recommended when he handed me my medal.

  Another officer hands me my street clothes—a pair of camouflage cargo pants, a black Henley, a New York Yankee fitted hat and my Timberland boots that had seen better days. After I’m dressed, he hands me an envelope containing my check. I shove it into my back pocket and pull out the dog tags, bend my head and drape the chain around my neck before flicking the envelope back at the CO.

  Fuck this place and fuck this jerk off too.

  He took his sweet time processing the paperwork before he handed me off to another schmuck with a badge who brought me down to the control building. I told them my name and my number for the last time before they sent me through a bunch of metal detectors and finally brought my ass to the front gate.

  See ya!

  No more bologna sandwiches for this guy.

  I walk passed the barbed wire fences, each step I take brings me closer to the man who turned my fucking life upside down nine months ago—the big ass biker who goes by the name of Wolf.

  I left Albany, believing I was born to walk alone, there was no sense in torturing myself and pretending like I had a place in this world. I went nomad, sparing myself any attachment other than the one I had to the reaper on my back and freed myself from my past and the need to save people who didn’t want to be saved. Being a nomad meant I belonged to my bike and I could park it in any state I wanted and sleep in any clubhouse I chose. I went where I was needed, rode with some of the craziest motherfuckers to ever be patched into the Satan’s Knights MC—at least that’s what I told myself before I met Wolf.

  I had just finished a run up in New Hampshire when I first met the burly, crass, maniac. He was a patched member of the Satan’s Knights Brooklyn charter and on the hunt for new blood. I don’t know what it was about the man or his proposition but something made me straddle my bike and follow him to the clubhouse he and his brothers had dubbed the Dog Pound. I think it’s the fact that the man looked like he was at the end of his rope, pleading with me to help save something he was so desperate to salvage. I may not know where I belong but Wolf knew with every fiber of his being he belonged in Brooklyn. A part of me envied the passion he had for his club and the brotherhood ingrained into his soul—reminding me of how I felt when I first became a Marine.

  The president of the Brooklyn charter was Jack Parrish, the man everyone knew as the Bulldog. The man had a shit ton of enemies all of whom decided to strike at the same time. The Bulldog had sent Wolf to scour the country looking for nomads like me to join their ranks and strengthen their club. I always rooted for the underdog, and these men, despite their reputations, were most definitely underdogs.

  I should’ve warned them how everything I touch finds mortality—that I lost every man I considered a brother when I was stationed in Afghanistan, but the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn had their own bad streak of luck. They were fucked in every sense of the word.

  Even I couldn’t fuck them any harder than they already were.

  Aside from me, Wolf brought three more lost souls to the Brooklyn chapel. Deuce, Linc and Cobra, all of which were nomads like myself. I had done a few runs with each of them but I knew Linc and Cobra best. The three of them were as much a mystery as I was and I couldn’t help but wonder if Wolf’s sob story was the same reason they found their way to the Bulldog’s table. We were patched in, traded our nomad patches for ones that kept our Harley’s parked in Brooklyn.

  We really had no idea what the fuck we signed up for.

  Idiots.

  That was what our new patch should’ve read.

  Wolf was real vague when he pitched his club, leaving out the fact that their vice president, Blackie, had been abducted by a mobster and shot up with enough heroin to kill a small army. In order to get him and the president’s old lady back, the club robbed a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of drugs from the Red Dragons MC. He also left out there was a war on the rise with the Corrupt Bastards MC of Boston, but in his defense none of them knew about that shit. Well, except for Blackie, he was the one behind that disaster.

  God only knows what kind of shit I was coming out to. I should probably turn around, confess to some more shit I didn’t do because being alone in a cell with nothing but my nightmares to keep me company is better than whatever shit storm I find myself in next.

  “Lookin’ sharp, soldier,” Wolf greets with a smirk, spitting out the toothpick he was rolling between his teeth. He stuck his arm through the open window of the passenger seat of the cage and pulls out a brown bag. “Compliments of the Bulldog,” he says, offering me the bag.

  I snatch it out of his hands and peer into it.

  “Oh fuck you all,” I grunt, staring at the bologna sub before shoving the bag against his chest. Wolf lets out a full belly laugh as he walks around the front of the truck before glancing over his shoulder and leveling me with a glare

  “Get in, boy,” he commands, pulling open his door and climbing behind the wheel. I blow out a ragged breath as I get into the truck and put myself at the mercy of Wolf—God fucking help me.

  He starts up the car, puts it in reverse and looks over his shoulder as he backs up, ignoring the back cameras that display on the dash when he shifts the truck. He slams on the brakes and my body lurches forward and into the dashboard.

  “I almost forgot,” he bellows, reaching over the console into the back seat—a struggle due to the beer belly he was packing.

  “Fucking hell,
” I growl.

  “Put your fucking cut back on,” he says, dumping my leather vest into my lap. “We missed your sorry ass,” he adds as he shifts gears and peels out of the parking lot. “Got big plans for you, man. Starting with celebrating you getting sprung,” he tells me, taking both hands off the wheel to rub his palms together eagerly. “Pulled out all the stops for you, my boy.”

  My eyes widen as he leans back, brings his hands to rest behind his head and uses his knees to steer the truck. Man, who the fuck let this guy drive? I survived fucking war to lose my life in a car ride with this nut job.

  “Yo, Wolf, why don’t I drive?”

  “Nah, take a load off, you just got out of the can. Need time to regroup and all that shit. Get your bearings because tonight we’re going to get down like a bunch of pimps.”

  “Pimps,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I’m good, man. What I really want is a shower, a good meal and goddamn bed with more than just springs.”

  War taught me to appreciate the little things in life—like hot water, a mattress and a steak as big as Wolf’s head. Even when I was back in Albany, the clubhouse parties were never my thing. Rush would throw a party any chance he got, making sure the pussy was rampant and drugs were flowing. I’d show my face, have a drink and sneak out. Sometimes I’d grab one of the girls, but most times I would take to my bike and the open road. Sure, I liked to kick back, get fucked up and fuck until the sun came up, but I didn’t need to do that shit with an audience. I was fine keeping my shit private and finding a woman who wasn’t shared amongst everyone with a reaper on their back.

  “It’s not every day you get released from jail and that shit deserves a celebration, and motherfucker we will celebrate. You did a good thing, proved your worth to the club, that don’t go unnoticed. Maybe where you’ve been they don’t show their gratitude to their brothers, but you’re in Brooklyn now and we take our loyalty and appreciation as serious as a crooked cop takes a handout.” He pauses, glancing over at me. “You’re one of us now.”