DIESEL DADDY

by Naomi West

  “Isn’t the clubhouse the other way?” I mutter.

  “Is it?” He turns on me, standing close to me, his face inches from mine. “Is it?” he repeats, voice sharp. “Is what there it is? You seem to know everything. Why don’t you tell me where Spike is, since you’ve been in there hiding and I’ve been out here? Hmm? You seem to know everything.”

  “You’re scaring me,” I say, glad not to have to lie. “Justin, you’re really frightening me.”

  “Justin!” Spike’s voice is like the swelling at the end of a classical piece of music, causing goose bumps to prick all over my skin. Invisible warm fingers stroke down my back, my spine. A smile which makes all the pain and the anxiety seem petty lifts my lips. Spike, my Spike . . . “What’s going on?”

  Spike jogs to us, looking down at Justin’s hand gripping my wrist. Behind Spike, five men stand, all with weapons in their hands. Justin looks to Spike, then to the men, then down at his hand. After a moment he lets me go and takes a step back, laughing awkwardly. “I thought you were back at the clubhouse,” he says.

  “The clubhouse is the other way,” the new officer retorts. I think his name is Kieran. He hefts a rifle.

  “Spike.” I collapse into him, savoring the scent of his leathers, the feeling of his hand in my hair. “I’m so sorry for leaving. It was a mistake. It was a huge mistake.”

  “Hush.” He kisses me on the forehead, gives me a squeeze, and then releases me, becoming the leader again. “We’ve got the last few pinned down in the dormitory. The raid is gonna be a success real soon. And you’re dragging my woman into the woods, away from the clubhouse? The fuck is this, Justin?”

  “He’s a mole, Spike,” I say, watching the gun in Justin’s hand and wondering if he’ll do something stupid. But he sees the guns trained on him. Six of them, including Spike’s. He doesn’t stand a chance. I quickly tell Spike about what Dad revealed to me, how Justin warned them him about the first raid. “That was why I made that sign. Justin has been feeding them information for a long time. I’m not sure how long, exactly.”

  “Is this true?” Spike steps close to Justin, wrenching the gun from his hand and tossing it to the ground. “Is this fuckin’ true?” His voice trembles. His fists tremble. I imagine his heart is trembling, too. “You’ve been betraying me every step of the way? Speak, Justin. Speak!”

  He speaks for a long time, maybe five minutes, making excuses about his mother, telling Spike how he needed extra cash to pay for her treatments, telling Spike how he never meant to betray him. In the end it comes down to what it often comes down to: a man who needs more money than he has, doing things he’d never normally do to get it.

  “You know I never meant to hurt you,” he says.

  Spike sighs. I can tell he’s hurt just by looking at him. He’s not going to cry—he’s too keyed up and full of battle adrenalin for that—but his face is twisted. He grinds his teeth, staring into his VP’s eyes. Behind us, the gunfire has stopped. The Vipers are emerging from the clubhouse, Dad propped up between two men, his feet dragging along the floor. “You helped the Scorpions kill good men,” Spike says. “I ought to kill you. I ought to string you the fuck up.” He sighs again, heavier. Then he shoots Justin in the knee, a loud bang which makes me jump back. The bullet bites into his trousers, smoke and blood rising into the air. “Limp to your mother and take her somewhere far away. If you’re ever seen in Sunnyside again, you’re a dead man.”

  Spike turns away as though that’s the end of matters. There are tears in Justin’s eyes as he turns and limps up the hill into the woods. It’s only when he’s deep in the woods that he lets himself roar. He roars like a man who hates himself, like a man who wishes he could go back and change each of the small decisions which led to the biggest moment of his life. He roars in a way that makes me sorry for him before I remember Danny and the other men, all their deaths assisted by his intel.

  Soon all the Vipers are turning away from the woods, forming a circle around Snake. If there was pity in their eyes for Justin, it evaporates when they see Snake. There’s nothing there but hate.

  Dad manages to lift his head as Spike approaches. “So,” he says. “This is it, is it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Spike

  I have to push Justin to the back of my head. I have to let it go. I have to be the president and think about all that shit later. Yazmin is safe. I can feel her behind me, watching as I stand toe to toe with her old man. My kid is safe. That’s all that matters. But as I stare down at the bastard, a thousand memories of Justin flit across my mind, a thousand times I had his back and I thought he had mine.

  Part of me wishes I’d shot him in the head instead of the knee, but then his mother would be screwed. Maybe I’m getting too soft since I’ve fallen for Yazmin. But this man, I tell myself, this weasel-looking fuck . . . There’s no getting soft on him. Justin may’ve fed him the intel, but this man was the one who carried it through. This man is the one who killed my men, held my woman hostage, killed my woman’s mother.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “This is it. But before we end your miserable life, I wanna show you something.” I nod to Knuckles, who grins and backs away. I grab Snake by the throat and turn him around so that he’s looking at the clubhouse. I wonder if Yazmin will come forward and tell me to be merciful. She doesn’t, probably because we both know there’s no being merciful when it comes to a man like Snake. He’s raped, killed, tortured, abused for far too long.

  “What’s this—dramatics?” His voice is croaky as I clamp down on his throat. “Is that it, Spike? You a fucking theater man now or something?”

  “You recruited an army of sadists,” I say. “I looked into your men once upon a time, Snake. You recruited pedophiles and rapists and murderers—murderers of innocents, civilians. You recruited an army and you twisted them to make them more evil, and then you sent them after my men. You tried to tear down my club. Now I’m gonna tear yours down.”

  Knuckles emerges from the back door trailing a line of gasoline. He tosses the container away and approaches me, offering me a box of matches. “Boss. I checked for women or kids, like you said. There ain’t any.”

  I shove Snake at him and take the matches. Knuckles catches the man that was once the bane of our lives, holding him up. I strike a match and toss it through the air at the gasoline. It spins end over end, seeming to catch the morning sunlight, seeming to move in slow motion. When it lands in the gasoline, there’s a moment when it just sits there, and then—whoosh—the flames flicker into life and spread into the clubhouse.

  All of us step back, Knuckles dragging Snake, making sure his face is turned toward the clubhouse as the fire licks out of the windows, shattering the glass, as the building moans and rafters snap, the roof caving in, as this hellhole is turned into a wreck that will never bother Sunnyside again.

  I go to Yazmin and wrap my arm around her shoulders as we watch the clubhouse burn. “You can decide what’s done with him,” I say quietly, so only she can hear me. “It’s up to you, Yazmin. Kill him, cut him free, whatever you want.”

  “If we cut him free, he’ll only come back. He’ll never give up, Spike. He’ll wait until my child is born and then hurt him or her. He’ll never leave me in peace.” She swallows audibly. “I want him dead. He killed Mom and he killed your men and he’s done a million other unforgivable things. I want him dead, Spike.” When she says her next words, she sounds fierce. “And I want to be the one to do it.”

  Several heads turn at this. They’ve heard her.

  “Let her!” Snake calls, craning his neck around. “Let her be the one! Yes, that’s how it should be! Listen to me, you stupid slut—” He gasps when Knuckles’ massive fist catches him in the jaw. “Listen!” he goes on, spitting blood. “I killed your mother, but do you want to know something? I fucked her first. I came around with some flowers and then I fucked her. She moaned and begged for it, and when she was lying there with all her pillow talk, that was when I did it!”


  Yazmin snatches my pistol and marches to her father, pressing the gun into the back of his head. “She was innocent!” she cries. “Mom never did anything wrong. She borrowed money from you because she thought you loved her! She never dreamed you’d hurt her!” Her voice is thick with tears, her words obscured by them. I can only pick them out because I’ve spent so much time with her.

  “Yes, she loved me,” Snake agrees. “And I killed her anyway. Go on, girl. Do it. Do it!”

  “Wait.” I go to Yazmin’s shoulder, standing close to her. “Listen to his voice, Yazmin. He wants this badly. Think. Why would he want this?”

  Tears slide down her cheeks. Her hand trembles. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “All I know is there was a bed so soaked with blood the mattress was red. All I know is Mom is gone forever because this man is a sadistic fucking psychopath. All I know if I hate myself for ever thinking he could be my father. All I know is he needs to die.”

  “Yes, yes!” Snake roars. “Then do it—”

  “Shut him up,” I tell Knuckles.

  “Boss.” Knuckles clamps his hand over Snake’s mouth, crushing his jaw. He screams, but they are muffled screams.

  “Think,” I say. “He wants to hurt you. Killing him will hurt you. It’ll be his final revenge.”

  I’ve never seen a woman with so much anger seething out of her, and I’ve made some women pretty damn angry in my life. She strokes her finger up and down the trigger, shifting her feet slightly as though restless. She doesn’t seem to be hearing my words. She just stares at her father, her blue eyes turned dark like a summer sky suddenly stormy.

  “Yazmin.” I touch her arm, give it a soft squeeze. “Listen to me. If you kill him, you’ll come to regret it. You’ll lie awake at night thinking about how he looked when you pulled the trigger. The bastard will haunt you. Not because you care about him or don’t want him to die, not because he doesn’t deserve to die, but because you’re a good person and good people can’t kill without having it weigh heavy on their conscious. I’m your man now. Let me handle this for you.”

  “He killed her,” Yazmin says. “And he would’ve killed me. He would’ve killed my baby.” She presses on the trigger, not hard enough to fire the bullet, but hard enough to make Snake shiver like every man will before death, even if he says he wants it. “He killed her.”

  “This isn’t your job,” I say. “It’s mine.”

  “I don’t love him. I don’t like him. I hate him.” She lets out a breath. “But you’re right. I can’t kill him. Dammit.” She hands me the gun and takes a few steps back, watching us.

  “Let him go, Knuckles.”

  Knuckles releases him. Immediately he goes for me, lashing at my face with as much speed and viciousness and deadly intent as a snake backed into a corner. I catch his wrist and punch him in the jaw with his own fist, sweep his legs and kick him to the ground. He lands on his back, making a hollow, gasping sound as the air is pulled from his chest. I kneel down next to him and press the gun to the side of his head.

  “Turn your face to the sun,” I say. “It’s time to go, you piece of shit.”

  “Wait!” he blurts.

  “No.” I start to pull the trigger.

  “Wait!” It’s Yazmin now.

  I turn to her, still with the gun pressed against his head. Yazmin approaches us, kneels down next to her father, and looks down into his face. “I’ve never been much into heaven and hell, but now I hope there really is a hell.” She stands up, turning her back to us. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” I pull the trigger. All the things which usually happen to a man’s head when you put a bullet in it happen to Snake. It deforms into a shape unlike its original, becoming a mess of blood and matted hair and twisted flesh. I stand up and hand the gun to Knuckles.

  “Throw him into the fire,” I say. “Make sure there’re no remains. The police don’t care none if we go at each other, but anybody driving through ought not to find a mass grave, all right?”

  “Boss.”

  “Oh, and Knuckles. You’re my number two now.”

  “Boss.”

  I join Yazmin, who’s standing at the foot of the small hill looking up into the woods. I lay my hands on her shoulders, thinking that this will be our moment of closeness, the moment when she rests her head on my chest, the moment where we finally let go of all the argument bullshit and just be together. I’m surprised when she flinches away, stepping out of my grip.

  “You just killed my father,” she says quietly.

  The men head toward the clubhouse, waiting for the fire to burn itself out, leaving us alone.

  “I just killed your father ’cause you wanted him dead,” I reply.

  “I know that, I know. But . . . do you expect me to just fall into your hands after you just used those hands to kill my dad? I know it makes no sense, okay? I’ve—I’ve hardly slept and I just want to—Oh, I don’t know what I want!” She throws her hands up.

  “Let me take you home.”

  “To the basement, you mean.” She has her back to me, but I can hear that she’s pouting. “You want to stow me away and keep me as your own personal toy again. I suppose you’ll make me deliver our child in there, too, won’t you?”

  “No, let me take you home,” I say, ignoring her outburst. I have to believe that we’ll be okay. I have to believe we can get past this, whatever this is. “I’ve got a house just outside town.”

  “Oh.” She pauses, and then nods her head up and down. Her hair is sweaty and tangled. When she nods, it shifts like an animal rising from rest. “Can we take the car? I don’t feel like riding. I want my own space.”

  I bite down acid words at this. I tell myself she’s just tired and confused. I tell myself that soon she’ll remember how close we are. “Sure,” I say. “Whatever you want.”

  I climb behind the wheel of the jeep and wait for Yazmin to climb into the passenger seat. I want to help her up, but I can’t stand the idea of her snatching her hand away from me so I let her clamber into it on her own.

  “Yazmin, I . . .” I don’t finish. I want to tell her I love her, but she might not say it back. Even if these months with her have changed me, they haven’t changed me so much that I can put myself out there without getting something back.

  I start the engine, leaving the smoldering husk in the rear-view mirror, wondering if that means I can leave the other smoldering husk in the rearview of my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Yazmin

  I sit in Sunnyside Park, watching as the girls dance around the sandpit, flinging sand at each other and giggling. Their moms are sitting on the bench opposite, a couple of them watching, a couple more checking their phones. Overhead, a flock of birds calls into the clear blue sky. A man beside me is reading the newspaper, the front page declaring, Fire Caused By Faulty Oven, Inspectors Report. I’ve already read the article five or six times now, reading how the infamous Scorpions biker gang were out on a ride when their clubhouse caught fire, and then how they fled Sunnyside and made for New York (the reporter doesn’t explain how he knows this), and how everybody can agree Sunnyside will be a better place now. A week has passed, and yet I don’t know how to deal with these feelings which dance around inside of me.

  One little girl in pink dungarees hands another little girl, this one with big frizzy black hair, a flower. The mother goes aww and smiles at the girl. I watch them sadly, wondering if I’ll ever have that with my child. I’m not upset about my father’s death, but it has left me feeling strange. Even if I hated him, really hated him, even if I wanted him to die, he was still my father, which means now that he’s dead I’m an orphan. Maybe being an orphan shouldn’t feel different to having parents, not at my age, but it does.

  I stand up and walk away from the park, heading down Main Street, the storefronts bright and sunny and decorated, the world with a smile on its face, the universe beaming. Everybody is happy and I feel numb, or unsure of how to feel. I’m staying with Spike but
we’re sleeping in separate rooms. He killed my father with those hands . . . that’s the thought which comes to me every time he tries to touch me. It annoys me, because I don’t want to feel that way. I have nightmares where I can never get over that notion, where the next year and decade is tinged by the ugly idea that since he killed my father I can never be close to him. It terrifies me.

  I end up at the town hall steps. I sit down, watching the town. A group of school kids skips past, giggling about something I can’t hear. I’ve been sitting for a few minutes when a shadow falls over me.

  His face is tight as he smiles. I can tell he’s strained by all this as well. Perhaps he’d like it if I just smiled and acted nice and was pretty and did all the things he wanted me to do. Perhaps he’d prefer it if I hid how I feel, but I can’t. He sits down beside me on the steps, leaving a distance of about six inches between us. Six inches, but it may as well be six miles. After all we’ve been through . . . I want to reach out and touch his hand, to give it a squeeze, to feel the reassuring pressure of flesh on flesh.