DIESEL DADDY

by Naomi West

  I lost friends for that. Nobody wanted to be friends with a freak who screamed stuff like that in clubs.

  Mom came to get me, a bottle of water in one hand and her car keys in another, her face streaked with tears. Mom was blonde like me, but she dyed her hair red and had a tattoo of a spider on one of her forearms. She was a hard woman, a nurse who worked eighteen-hour shifts, the sort of woman who didn’t take bullshit. But as she stood there, watching me stumble, drunkenly leaning on my friend’s shoulder, she didn’t look hard. She looked broken. She sat me down as gently as she’d sit down a dying girl and made me drink the entire bottle of water. Then she took me to the car, sitting me in the back. I expected her to drive me home, but we just sat there for a while, in total darkness.

  “Do you want to talk about something, Yazmin?” Mom asked quietly. “My friends told me what you said to that sick old man. You shouldn’t do that. You shouldn’t be here. You’re fourteen.”

  “You don’t think I know how old I am?” I hissed. Tears kept sliding down my cheeks and I couldn’t stop them. “Just drive me home, Mom.”

  “Why did you say those things to that old man, Yazmin? Explain it to me.”

  “Why do you think?” I blurted, getting angrier by the second. “All my life I’ve watched my friends with their dads, or listened to them talk about their dads. ‘We went here, we did this. My dad would never let anybody hurt me. I brought my boyfriend home and my dad freaked. I can’t stay out late. My dad would go crazy.’ Over and over, Mom, over and over! And where’s my dad, huh? Where is he? You know I used to stare out the window waiting for him to come home. But he’s never going to come home, is he?”

  Mom sighed, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. “I don’t want to talk about this,” she said.

  “You never want to talk about it!” I snarled. “You just want to go to work and pretend that everything is okay. You’d prefer if I was a machine, something you could turn on when you got home and turn off when you had to leave. You don’t care what’s going on inside of me. You just care about what I do.”

  “That’s not fair, and it’s not true,” Mom said.

  “Where is he, then?” I sat up, leaning through the front seats so that I could look into her face. “Tell me that. Where is my dad?”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Mom said. But I could tell she was lying.

  I started to scream, punching the back of the chair, screaming until my voice box hurt and my voice cracked. I screamed until I was crying and the screaming stopped. Mom wrapped her arms around me, burying my face in her blouse, my tears soaking through like acid.

  I swallow, sick, as the car makes a wide loop around a roundabout, making me feel like I’m on a roller-coaster. My head isn’t aching as badly now. Nothing serious.

  But still the memories come.

  I remember when Mom finally told me who Dad was. She sat me down like she was about to tell me she had cancer or something and then explained it all to me. She explained that my father was the leader of a vicious group of bikers and that she’d borrowed money from him. “He’s a mean man, Yazmin,” she said. “He’s a very mean man. But he has a code, too. His own code. He’d never hurt you.”

  “What about you, Mom?” I had never seen her so scared. It was infectious, her fear transferring to me. “Would he hurt you?”

  She just smiled at me, a shaky smile which held no confidence. “Let me make some coffee.” She jumped to her feet without answering.

  As the car speeds up, the final memory hits me, the one which returns to me again and again, the one which makes me feel rotten and pathetic for ever dreaming I could form a bond with my father. I was coming home in the early hours of the morning after being at a bar, tipsy, singing with my arm over my friend’s shoulder. Her name was Daisy and she wasn’t a close friend, just one of those women who liked to get wasted every now and then. We said our goodbyes and she went on her way, leaving me to walk up the stairs to our apartment. I’ll always be glad the elevator was broken that night. It meant I didn’t see it any sooner.

  The bed was soaked through with blood, Mom’s corpse lying on it twisted and bent out of shape. She had been beaten savagely with a baseball bat and left like a piece of meat on the bed. I approached her numbly at first, my brain not accepting what my eyes were telling them. The human mind is a tricky thing, I learned that night. I saw Mom—those were her eyes and her face and her dyed red hair and her tattooed arm—and yet my mind did whatever it could to turn the shape into something else. It was an animal, or a patterned blanket, or I was drunk and hallucinating. Only after holding her hand and looking directly into her eyes did I know.

  I bite down, fighting off tears. The car is slowing down now. I can’t believe I ever went to Dad. I can’t believe I was ever so stupid. Maybe the girl sitting at the window or the teenager coming onto older guys would go to him despite what he did, but a fully-grown woman should know better. Even if Mom gave me that speech about his code and honor, I should’ve known better, because Dad doesn’t have honor, even a twisted personal kind. Dad is a piece of shit who wants to sell me to some old man. Dad doesn’t give a damn about me. All those dreams of a perfect father I had as a girl were just that, dreams. So getting taken by the Smoking Vipers is a blessing in disguise because I will make it a blessing in disguise. I will feed them information, and I will help take down the Scorpions. I will avenge my mom’s death.

  I think of Dad, sitting there in his office with his weasel’s face looking down at his figures and tables. I think of Dad roaring and throwing the computer across the room when he sees those figures getting smaller, those tables getting less complicated. I think of myself, a scared little girl in a woman’s body going to a depraved father.

  I hate that woman. I hate her down to her core. She betrayed Mom and she betrayed herself. She sat in that clubhouse, going for runs and waiting for something to happen to her.

  Now I’ll make something happen myself. I won’t wait anymore.

  I’ll play the Vipers’ little game, and I’ll play it to win.

  Chapter Five

  Spike

  “We’re going to run the cold tactic on this one,” I say. “This girl thinks she’s cold as ice. Let’s see how she feels with scary bastards walking around like they’re getting ready to tool her up, eh? But I need to make this clear. No one’s to hurt her. Not yet, anyway. If there’s any hurting to be done, I’ll handle it.” I’m not sure if I’d be able to hurt a woman, not really, but I can’t leave it up to the men. Maybe a couple of them might go in on her thinking they’re doing me a favor. Maybe they’d go too far. “I’ll handle it,” I repeat, just to be clear.

  “Boss.” Justin nods.

  “Boss.” Danny nods.

  We climb from the car outside the clubhouse. A few of the guys sit near the windows, watching. A few more are returning from a ride, climbing from their bikes. Most of them wear the Smoking Vipers patch: a viper rearing up, fangs bared, smoke curling from the tips of the fangs. Danny looks nervous as he walks around to the trunk with me and Justin.

  “Take him inside,” I tell Justin. “I can handle this.”

  “You sure?”

  We talk quietly so she won’t hear us. “Yeah,” I say. “She ain’t running again.”

  Justin nods, leaving with Danny. Red-Eyes and Knuckles return, jumping from the car and going into the clubhouse. Except for the eyes of the men staring from inside the clubhouse, I’m left alone outside with the daughter. I wonder briefly how things have gotten so bad that I’m standing here, ready to uncage a woman like I’m some kind of kidnapper, but then I push that down. It don’t matter none. Things are what they are. I just have to do what needs doing.

  I unlock the trunk and stare down at her. She’s lying on her back, mouth open, tongue lolling, looking smoking hot in her running gear. Now that she’s safe in the trunk, I can get a proper look at her. I like what I see. Hell, that’s an understatement. She’s the sort of woman men go to war f
or, I swear. The biggest, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, pale skin, flushed, freckles dotted here and there, her breasts natural and just the right size, her running leggings wedged between a crotch with a gap between the thighs. It’s like she was made in a lab.

  But I don’t let my appreciation of her body show on my face. I can’t. Making my face cold and emotionless, I reach down and grab her by the arm, hauling her from the car. She stares at me defiantly, not at all the scared damsel I need her to be.

  “You know,” she says, when she’s on her feet beside me, “this whole scary staring thing isn’t going to work on me. I’ve decided I’m not going to be scared anymore. I decided quite recently, sure, but I decided. And I’m not backing away from that decision.”

  I want to say: “You’re scared. That’s why you’re talking so much.” But that would mean letting her lead the conversation, so I remain silent. It’s harder than it should be. Her voice has an LA accent, lilting toward the end, the sort of voice I can imagine moaning in pleasure. I try and repress that thought, but it’s difficult. She’s too damn hot.

  “This is a nice place,” she comments when I drag her into the clubhouse. The men have returned to their tables now, drinking whiskey, smoking, and playing cards. I expect the woman to flinch at the sight of Knuckles at least, as he lumbers past, all seven some feet of him, but she just smiles blandly. “Howdy, friend.”

  If this fearless thing is a performance, it’s a good one. I try and square the woman who climbed the tree in fear and this wisecracking woman and I can’t. I get the feeling that she’s playing us somehow, but I don’t know why or how.

  Knuckles looks sideways at her but keeps walking when I give him the nod.

  I drag her into my office, leaving the door open so I can call out. “Bring me a chair and some rope.”

  “There’re two chairs there.” The woman nods at my desk chair and the one opposite, both big comfy things. “But I guess that would ruin the effect, wouldn’t it? If you had me in a comfortable chair, I mean. Wow, you’re really not going to say anything, are you? Well, I think it’s rude if you meet someone and don’t at least tell them your name. My name is Yazmin.”

  “Spike, here’s the chair.” Justin drops the chair next to us and then retreats.

  I get the urge to curse but repress it. Justin is a great second, but sometimes he can be an oblivious prick.

  “Okay, Spike.” Yazmin smiles at me. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  I push her into the old wooden chair, the wood chipped, whatever paint it was once covered in long since flaked away. Yazmin looks so damn good squeezed into it, her legs pressed together, her breasts bulging against her running top, I almost kick the door closed and put my hand between her legs. Beautiful women have always been able to make me forget . . . forget about the smoldering car and the war and the fighting and the death. I wonder what those plump lips would look like curled in pleasure. I wonder what those tits would look like bouncing up and down. My cock gets hard, pressing painfully against my jeans.

  Justin returns with the rope. I turn on him, giving him a look which tells him not to say anything else. He nods and leaves.

  “This is a nice room,” Yazmin says, looking around. “Is it yours?”

  I pick up the rope and start tying her up, binding her hands and legs, the back of my hand brushing her breast. When I’m done with her, she watches me for a few moments and then sighs, shaking her head, as though giving up at trying to get me to talk. I go to the door, meaning to close it and leave her in here for a few hours, let her listen to the men in the bar and wonder what will happen to her. That’s the way to get someone to talk, I know. That’s the way to make somebody nervous. Let them wonder what bloody things these bloody men will do to her.

  But when I get to the door, I can’t resist a look back. She doesn’t look scared. She looks calm, her face composed. In a flash, my mind takes me to dirty images. I see my fingers wrapped around her blonde hair, tugging, her body arching back, opening for me.

  A flash moves across her blue eyes. She knows what I’m thinking, I sense. I turn away and close the door behind me.

  I join Justin and Knuckles at a table in the corner, one of the pledges bringing me a glass of whiskey. Sipping it, looking over the bar as the club girls circulate, handing out drinks and shaking their asses in their tight dresses, I can’t stop thinking about Yazmin, sitting in my office, her body looking like it was made for fucking. I swallow, trying to tell myself that this is business, trying to tell myself that I can’t let myself go crazy like this. I have to stay focused. But she’s too damn hot, too tight, too tempting. I close my eyes, sipping my third—or maybe my fourth—whiskey.

  “You all right, Spike?” Justin asks.

  “Fine,” I mutter. “You know.” I open my eyes and look at my ginger-haired VP. “I remember when you first joined us, Justin. I remember you walking in here like you were applying for a job at a bank, in a suit holding your résumé, outlining how you could help us with the business side. You were just a new blood back then, weren’t you? A square, never fought a day in your life.”

  “He doesn’t fight now!” Knuckles roars, chuckling.

  “He does.” I smile. “He fights because he’s got something worth fighting for.” Maybe I’ve had more than three or four whiskies. Maybe I’m tipsy.

  “My mom,” Justin says, when Knuckles looks at him for an explanation. “She has cancer.”

  “So you need the money.”

  Justin nods. “I need the money.”

  “Well this just got fucking morbid,” Knuckles grumbles and then jumps to his feet, walking over to one of the club girls and pawing at her. The girl giggles and jumps into his arms, wrapping her legs around him. I look around the room. Fifty or so men, just as many club girls. I could have my pick of any of these girls, take three to bed if I wanted. I’ve done it before, lost myself in their flesh until the next morning I feel like a new man. Christina could make me feel that way, too. But as I sit here, looking at the girls and remembering Christina, I don’t want that. I find myself wanting Yazmin in the next room. I force myself to stay in my seat, worried I might stumble in there and forget she’s a prisoner, not just a sexy-as-hell woman.

  We’re just finishing up the burgers some of the girls have cooked for us when one of the men stumbles in, looking like he’s just gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champion. His face is a ballooned mess. He clutches onto a plastic bag, limping, bleeding all over the floor. I recognize him when he gets closer, his face emerging through the mess. His name is Ryan. He’s one of the men I’ve kept posted on our warehouse in San Diego for almost a year now. Twenty-two years old, an ex-bouncer, tough, with a twice-broken nose and a deep voice.

  He stumbles over to me, holding that plastic bag between his thumb and forefinger like it’s something nasty. The music goes quiet. So do the men. Some of the girls whisper to each other. Others just stare.

  “Boss,” Ryan says, standing near my table.

  I gesture to Justin’s seat. Justin stands up and steps aside, letting Ryan sit down. He slumps in his chair like he’s about to fall out of it, breathing heavily. His hair is usually blond, I think, but right now it’s crimson. He places the plastic bag on the table, wheezing and shaking his head slowly. Something in the bag rattles.

  “Tell me what happened,” I say, once he’s been given some water.

  “We were at the warehouse like usual, overseeing the merchandise, when they hit us, boss; they just fuckin’ hit us. Like a wave breaking, they just fuckin’ hit us. I don’t even know where they came from. It must’ve been through the service entrance, you know, the one we keep locked except for deliveries. I’m the only one with the key for that. Well, and you and Justin, so they must’ve broke the lock or something.”

  “The men?” I ask, but I don’t need to. I know the answer. Fucking Snake.

  “Dead,” Ryan says,

  “And the shipment.”

  “Burned.” Ryan looks around the r
oom like he’s expecting a bullet to come whizzing at his face. I know that look. I know that feeling. Everything’s a potential source of death for him right now. “They burned the whole warehouse down, boss. They left me alive to deliver a message, that’s all.”

  “Message? What kind of message?” Knuckles peers down at the plastic bag.

  “This.” Ryan tips the bag open. The jar lands on the table, rolling before becoming still. Inside the jar, the scorpion jabs at the glass with its pincers, its tail flailing behind it, the glass making a tiny tinkling sound.

  I stand up slowly, looking over my men. “We’ll get them back for this. I swear to fucking God, we’ll get them back for this.”

  I think of Yazmin, tied up, hopefully getting more scared by the minute. She’s more important now than ever.