Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Ah, there it is.

  “Forget it,” she insists. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over and done with it.”

  “Let’s get back to you robbing a car from a cemetery,” I grunt, trying to find my patience. “Whose car did you crash?”

  “Relax it wasn’t any of your people,” she sneers, turning her back to me.

  “Gina, shut it,” I order, grabbing the hem of her t-shirt and pulling her to me. “Now, I don’t know what the fuck got your panties in a twist but I can’t fucking fix it if you keep this shit up.”

  She spins around, poking her finger into my chest.

  “I’m not your dirty little secret.”

  “The fuck you talkin’ about?” I holler.

  The old man downstairs starts pounding his cane on the ceiling, ordering us to take it down a notch. I wonder when she throws my ass out if he’ll come outside with a cup of coffee like he did the other night.

  She pushes my hands away from her and takes a step back, lifting her glossy eyes to mine.

  Shit.

  Tears.

  Fuck me.

  “Baby,” I start, stepping closer to her but she shakes her head.

  “No, please don’t,” she pleads as she stares up at the ceiling fanning her eyes. “I hate this,” she whispers.

  “I can juggle,” I blurt, watching her eyes come back to mine and the tears roll down her cheeks. I mumble a curse and walk closer. “I’m so fucking good I won the fifth grade talent show. I miss football on Sundays. In fact, a perfect Sunday would be you and I in bed all day watching the game and fucking in-between. You got plans this Sunday?”

  “You’re crazy,” she whispers.

  “Yeah, I am. You are too. So what do you say about Sunday?” I raise an eyebrow, taking her hands in mine.

  “I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I’m having a shit day.”

  “Yeah, I got that much,” I tell her, kissing the cut over her eye.

  “I crashed Rocco’s car,” she groans, burying her face against my chest.

  “Does he know?” I ask, breathing in the scent of her shampoo as I walk us toward the couch. Sitting down, I pull her onto my lap and against my chest.

  Where she belongs.

  “Yeah, the bastard is making me fix it. At the rate I’m going I’ll never get that Chloe bag. Do you know how much parts are for a Maserati? The fucker has insurance too. He’s just being a dick because I took the car without his permission.”

  “Who is Chloe?”

  She giggles against my chest as I lift my shirt from her body and slide my hands underneath.

  No bra.

  “Stryker.”

  “Gina,” I murmur, caressing her bare back as she lifts her head from my chest and looks up at me.

  “I’m a girl.”

  “Thank fuck for that.”

  She smiles as she reaches out and touches the dog tags around my neck.

  “Sometimes I pretend I’m not. Sometimes I pretend I’m not wired like every other girl in the world and think I’m immune to the feelings and insecurities girls have. But they come with the boobs and I’m not always able to shut them down. Today the girl I keep buried won.”

  I don’t have the slightest fucking idea what she’s saying but I nod my head because that’s what I’m supposed to do, right?

  “I hated that we were both at the same place pretending like every night we’re not here like this,” she admits. “I like you, Stryker; I like you a whole lot. I didn’t expect to, didn’t even want to, but I do.”

  “Good, because I’m fucking crazy about you.”

  “What’re we going to do about it?”

  “Why do we have to do anything? Why can’t we just be what we are?”

  “Because I don’t know what we are.”

  “You don’t?” I lean back and cup her face with both my hands as I stare into a sea of green. “Who do you fall asleep with?”

  “You,” she whispers.

  “Who takes care of your body?”

  “You,” she breathes as I drop my hands and lift the shirt over her head, baring her naked body.

  “Who’s the first person you should’ve called when you got into the accident?”

  “Rocco?”

  “Me.”

  “Who’s got you, pretty girl?”

  “You,” she says with conviction.

  “That’s right. I’ve got you, crazy girl feelings and all. I’ve got you,” I murmur as I wrap my arms around her frame. “You belong here, in these arms and to the man they belong to.”

  “I lied.”

  “About what?”

  “I am the girl that falls easily,” she rasps.

  “Fall, pretty girl,” I tell her as I ignore every fucking fact I know about myself.

  I forget I’m a drifter.

  I forget I’m not the sticking type.

  Not the loving type.

  “Got my arms open to catch you,” I promise her as I bend my head and take her mouth.

  Fuck it all.

  I’ve got her.

  For now.

  I’ll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

  Tomorrow comes real fucking soon and after I take her to work, I head to Pipe’s garage and call the towing yard that towed the Maserati last night and have them bring it to the garage. Gina didn’t like the idea I was taking control of the situation and I’m getting the feeling the girl never had a damn person in her life ever take care of her. If she had, then it wouldn’t be so foreign for someone to offer to help her. It wouldn’t be such a fucking chore for her to accept without believing she was showing signs of weakness.

  The cops finally gave us full access to the compound and Blackie had a cleanup crew go in to clear out whatever couldn’t be salvaged. It will be awhile before we can rebuild since the club is in the red, and for now we’re using Pipe’s garage as our new chapel.

  Cobra put legs on the fucking table and sanded the bitch down. It’s sitting in the middle of the garage under a lift waiting to be used, but with baby Parrish’s grand entrance Jack put shit on hold until he could get his boy and his wife settled in at home. His hearing is still on the fritz and the stubborn prick refuses to wear a hearing aid so whenever he decides to hold church we’ll all be screaming.

  Stepping inside the office I see Deuce sitting behind the metal desk staring at the computer screen in confusion. He lifts his head and lets out an exasperated breath.

  “Dude, this place is a fucking mess,” he declares.

  “What?”

  “You know anything about ordering parts? There’s two dozen Atlantic Express buses due to arrive for repairs and I don’t know how in God’s good name to order the parts. Hell, I don’t even know if I have to order them, we might have them but this computer system is as old as Wolf.”

  Stepping around the desk, I stare at the black screen of the monitor then back at Deuce.

  “You need to turn the fucking thing on, Deuce,” I point out.

  “Yeah, smartass. Go ahead, turn the fucking thing on.”

  I search the monitor for a button but I come up short and lean over the back looking for a plug.

  “Where the hell is Pipe?”

  “Gone,” Jack says.

  Lifting my head, I turn my attention to the door and spot Jack, Blackie and Riggs.

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “Everyone here?” Jack asks, ignoring my question as he strides to the glass window and peeks out of the mini blinds. “Where’s Cobra?”

  “Out back waiting for the buses to show up.”

  “Get him,” Jack says, turning away from the window. Pointing a finger to Riggs, he grumbles, “Find out what the fuck is wrong with the computer, will you.”

  “It’s from the fucking stone age,” Riggs says. “Shit don’t even have a flat screen.”

  “Pipe never had a fucking problem, and he’s not nearly the computer whiz you claim to be,” he
barks.

  “Man, aren’t babies supposed to make you warm and fuzzy?” Deuce questions.

  Riggs slaps him upside the head and pushes him away from the computer.

  “That don’t happen until they sleep through the night. Now move aside and let a real man fix this shit.”

  “Deuce, go get Cobra and tell him we’re having church,” Blackie instructs as he pulls up a chair and straddles the back of it. Deuce does as he’s told and Jack closes the door behind him, turning around to face me.

  “Funny thing happened today,” he starts, narrowing his eyes at me as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stick of Nicorette gum.

  “Yeah? Hit me with it. I can use a laugh.”

  I divert my eyes to Riggs who isn’t fixing shit and is staring at me with his hands propped behind his head. Blackie’s got his eyes pinned to me too, assessing me through the long hair that hangs in front of his face.

  “Got a call from my boy Richie at J&J Towing,” Jack says pointedly, taking a seat on the worn sofa in the middle of the tiny office. “Told me he got a call from one of my guys about towing a Maserati here. Said the car is as fucked as a two-dollar hooker and is going to need a ton of work,” he leans back against the cushions, spreading his arms wide along the back of the sofa. “You going to tell me why we’re fixing Rocco Spinelli’s Maserati?”

  Crossing my arms against my chest I lean against the wall and stare back at him.

  “The girl I’m seeing crashed into the fucker’s car and he’s being a real dick about it. I offered to help her out.”

  “So…you’re pussy whipped,” Jack declares with a nod.

  “If that’s what you call helping someone out,” I reply with a shrug. “Then yeah, I’m pussy whipped.”

  “Well fuck me, I didn’t think you’d be next,” Riggs chimes in. “I thought Deuce would get nailed to the cross before you.”

  “She ain’t my old lady,” I tell him.

  “Ah, don’t be a bitch. If she’s hot and ducks you right, own that shit,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “But make sure you wrap your dick because you seem like a flight risk.”

  “Did you just say ducks?”

  “Yeah, I did. Like I said, wrap your shit, bro, or you’ll be ducking right along with me,” he warns.

  The door opens and Deuce and Cobra walk into the tiny office.

  “Gangs all here,” I announce, eyeing Jack. “We done here?”

  He stares at me for a moment before laughing in my face.

  “Saddle up boy, you’re about to find your heart,” he says through his laughter. “Now, where the fuck is my table?”

  I refrain from telling him to bend over so I can show him his table by shoving it up his ass. Instead, I follow them out of the shoebox of an office and into the garage. We pull up a bunch of oil drums and take our respective places around the table.

  Blackie reaches into his leather jacket and pulls out the meat mallet we gave him and hands it to Jack.

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

  Demonstrating how he should call order to the table, Blackie taps the top of the table with the mallet before he hands it back to Jack.

  “Like that,” he says.

  “Fuck you, Black.” He takes the mallet in his hand and slams it against the wood. “Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters, pausing a moment before he takes in all of our faces and leans forward on his elbows. “I’m proud of you sons of bitches.” He points to Blackie, “You especially, you’re a born leader and when this body can’t handle this shit no more this club will be in capable hands.”

  “I had a good crew,” Blackie replies, looking around the table.

  “With that being said, we’re fucked,” Jack sighs. “It’s going to cost a shit ton of paper to get the Dog Pound back. This place…” He waves a hand around the clubhouse, “…isn’t going to cut it. We’re going to have to find a buyer for the guns sitting in Pops’ range. Riggs has been looking into any legit ventures the Bastards had that we can take over, but they were running smack all over Boston and looking to bring that shit here too, so there isn’t much to work with.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cobra says. “Where’s Pipe?”

  All eyes turn to Jack as he lets out a sigh and leans back.

  “Pipe handed in his patch,” he declares.

  “He went nomad?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “No,” Jack replies with a curt shake of his head. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a bunch of folded papers and throws them down on the center of the table. “The deed to this place.”

  “He’s done with the club?” Deuce asks skeptically.

  “He’s done with everything,” Jack answers. “Wolf is chomping at the bit to get back to us so for now you three take over around here and when he’s well enough Wolf will take Pipe’s place.”

  He turns his gaze to me.

  “I hear Linc is fucked and Wolf mortgaged his house to get him the care he needs. When that shit runs out the club will step in.”

  “Prez, you’re talking about rebuilding the clubhouse and taking on Linc’s medical bills, but we ain’t got a pot to piss in right now,” Cobra tells him.

  “He’s right,” Blackie intervenes. “Even if we get a buyer for the guns, we’re nowhere near where we need to be.”

  “I’m probably going to regret even saying this but what about Spinelli?” Riggs questions.

  Immediately my eyes turn to Jack and I watch as he scratches the scruff lining his jaw.

  “The club isn’t looking to play nice with the mob anymore,” Blackie replies. “Besides, that motherfucker has five fucking families looking to gun him down and take what they thought was going to be theirs.”

  “You know that for a fact?” Jack asks.

  “I’d bet my life on it,” Blackie says.

  “Well then, that’s how you get your money,” Riggs chimes in. “Call the guinea bastard here and tell him we’ll protect his Mafioso ass but it’ll cost him.”

  “Because we’re doing such a fine job of keeping the people around us breathing,” Blackie mutters.

  “We’re still standing,” Cobra insists. “That’s gotta count for something.”

  “Hold it,” Jack interrupts. “Before we shake down Rocco for a dime, there’s something you should know. He came over to me after the funeral and made a pretty bold accusation. According to him, the Bastards didn’t blow up the clubhouse.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Riggs says.

  “No, now I think he’s reaching—”

  “Who does he think did it?” I interrupt, lifting my gaze to Jack.

  “Some Russian named Vladimir Yankovich,” he says, peering at me. “You know the name?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “I do,” Cobra says, lifting his head. Stone cold blue eyes stare across the table at Jack. “And if there is a grain of truth to what Rocco is saying we might as well hang up our cuts because we’re no fucking match for him. And if he’s looking to inch in on Rocco’s territory, he might as well surrender now because anything he loves is as good as dead. Yankovich has no fucking mercy.”

  “That’s some pretty harsh words, boy,” Jack grunts.

  My vision blurs and all I see is Gina’s pretty eyes.

  The bile rises in my throat as I listen to Cobra fit the pieces of the puzzle together.

  “Alexandria.”

  “Who’s that?” Blackie asks.

  “She was my twin sister,” Cobra reveals, bowing his head as he balls his tattooed fists on top of the table. “Went missing after our fourteenth birthday. The cops never found her body and with no body my parents believed she was still out there somewhere. My father hired a retired bounty hunter to look into her disappearance and he was more successful than the cops that worked on her case for four years. Turns out there were over two dozen girls that fit Alex’s description, all of whom went missing that year.”
<
br />   He pauses, reaching up to run his hands over his face before he continues.

  “It took five years to find a common thread amongst the kidnappings. That common thread is Yankovich. After we found out he may have had something to do with Alexandria’s disappearance my old man went after him. Two days later they found my parents’ bodies in the bottom of the river.”

  “You think Yankovich took your sister?” Jack asks. “And what? Is there a possibility she’s alive?”

  “I know Yankovich took my sister,” Cobra seethes. “Been spending every day since I turned nineteen years old trying to find her. It’s why I went nomad with the club. That motherfucker don’t stay in one place. But he’s rarely in the states.”

  “Answer the other part of the question, boy. Do you think your sister is alive?”

  “No, I don’t. Yankovich doesn’t keep his girls long. The ones that survive his torture are sold to the highest bidder”

  Unable to listen to another fucking word I slam my hand against the table and look over at Cobra.

  “I found Yankovich’s business card in the Corrupt Bastards' clubhouse,” I confess, turning to Jack. “What if Rocco is right? What if Yankovich is the one who blew up the Dog Pound?”

  “Why us?” Blackie says, turning to Cobra. “Does he know who you are?”

  “No, I’ve never gotten close.”

  “Yo, guys…” Riggs says, pulling the skull cap from his head. “Remember when Ronan came to the clubhouse trying to warn us about the Bastards? He mentioned girls. We thought he was fucking talking out of his ass, looking for a handout but what if the motherfucker was right? If Yankovich was working with Charlie Teardrops, then they were making a play for the harbor.”

  “Rocco controls the harbor,” Jack mutters.

  “Jack, if this is true I can’t sit back and ignore it,” Cobra tells him. “If Yankovich is playing on innocent girls like my fucking sister, this may be my chance to avenge her death.”

  “Simmer down, boy,” Jack orders. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

  “You said Rocco mentioned Yankovich, right?” I query. “Then he’s gotta know something about him. What if I got him to tell me what he knows?”

  “How you plan on doing that?” Deuce asks.

  “The car,” I rattle off. “I’ll use the fucking car.”