Lady Sings the Blues

by Sarah Zolton Arthur

  This, our first time together, Elise deserves to be worshipped. And so I do.

  With my lips and hands I begin to show her how much she means to me. With every captured moan I give her a little more of myself. It don’t take us long to go from boxer briefs and panties to two naked bodies giving and receiving more pleasure than I’ve ever known before. So much pleasure that when I finally slide inside her and she wraps those shapely legs around me, using her heels to push me further in, I almost loose it completely.

  She’s everything.

  She’s everything I ever dreamed, hoped or imagined. And she’s all those things because she’s mine. We’re together now because she cares for me. Her body and her heart, they remember me even if her mind ain’t put those pieces together yet. That’s why she didn’t refuse me.

  I find a pace to make her beg for more of me without rushing. I don’t wanna rush any part of this. But she makes it hard to keep slowly building us up while she’s beggin’ again and again for me to let her let go. “Please, Mark. Please.”

  Every time she begs, I plunder her body harder. Beautiful. Sensual. Our noises fill the air. The thick smell of love and lust, and sex surround us as I continue to deny her that fall she so desperately desires. Pumping and rocking, my thrusts come measured. We fit together. Our bodies meshed into a perfect unity. And I feel the moment there’s no turnin’ back. My balls draw up tight. Fuck.

  She claws at my back begging. “Please, Mark. I can’t take anymore. I…I…”

  And that’s when I let go, pourin’ every drop of love I have for the woman inside her. Elise and I find that sweet release together. I take back what I said before. Her face as she comes is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Her arms hold me close, tight to her chest. Her legs stay wrapped around my hips keeping me planted still inside her.

  “Elise,” I whisper. “Open your eyes, darlin’.”

  She does. Those bright, beautiful eyes stare right into mine. “Wow,” she says, swallowing. A lump bobbin’ up and down in her throat. “I…um…I need to apologize to your friends.”

  That earns her a smile and a kiss as I roll to pull out. “Brothers,” I remind her.

  “Brothers,” she repeats on a hitched breath.

  “You know when I told you that last night I didn’t really expect it to work.”

  We both bust out laughing. This I like. Easy with Elise. Except one minute she’s laughing, the next she’s as serious as I’ve ever seen her. “I don’t understand this.”

  “What’s to understand, darlin’?”

  “Everything. And it scares me. I’m burying my father on Monday in a town full of people who hate me because of something I had no control over as a teenager. And here you come being a friend to me exactly when I need it, telling me how you loved me in high school. But I can’t remember you from high school and then I find out you’re sensitive enough to own a blues bar and offer open mic night, but you’re part of a biker gang.” She stops to take a breath, and sits up, bent knees, tugging the sheet up around her breasts. “Yet despite all this, there’s this connection between us that I haven’t felt in years and I haven’t been in town long enough to feel that. So I certainly shouldn’t be considering asking you if you’d like to try long distance with me, yet the thought of leaving you behind is kind of freaking me out.”

  “That all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Before I tell her what she needs to hear, I wrap her back in my arms where she belongs. Elise Manning just admitted our connection. For a man used to hearing the blues, those words—music to my ears—are anything but.

  “As for buryin’ your father, darlin’ you’re still allowed to be happy and live your life. It don’t make you a bad daughter, and I know your pops would want you to find both peace and happiness. That’s all he ever wanted for you.

  “And this town, you don’t need to leave. Are there some narrow minded people here? Yes. They just ain’t figured out their happiness yet. But there are good people as well. Tommy. Maryanne. Two of the best. You weren’t at their weddin’, but they’ll sure as hell be at ours.”

  “There you go, saying that again. You really think you’re going to marry me?”

  “Baby girl, don’t think it. Know it. I’m not sayin’ it’ll happen tomorrow, but now that I’ve had you, you really think I could let you go?”

  “You don’t have to let me go. We could make it work. Chicago’s not that far.”

  “Whatever,” I murmur. “Back to your points. We’re a club, not a gang.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Fuck yeah, there is. We live with more freedom than most allow themselves, but we don’t trade in guns or drugs or flesh.”

  “Flesh? As in sex trade?” Her voice rises, sounding horrified.

  Since we’re not a part of that shit, I nod. “We’re legit. I own the bar where some of the men work. Chaos owns the tow company. Duke owns the garage where your car is right now, and we all own a stake in the shippin’ business.”

  “So you own the bar and a shipping business?”

  “How am I supposed to afford a wife and a family someday without work? You wanna live with my parents? That’d be fun.” I give her a playful squeeze. “You’re in the bedroom screamin’ ‘Oh, god! Oh, god!’ while they’re prayin’ for us in the living room with Billy Graham reruns playin’ on the TV.”

  “No. I don’t think I’d like that. Will I meet them, your parents?”

  “Don’t think you’d like that either.”

  “Okay.”

  She looks sad now. If she only knew. I take the opportunity to kiss her cheek then. “Back to your points. And this, I think, is the most important. Our connection. Love takes as long as it takes. People put too much pressure on themselves. Honestly, I think the people who insist it takes a long time to develop only believe that because they ain’t with the right one yet. They’ve met someone with checks in all the other correct boxes. So instead of cuttin’ that one loose and goin’ for the right one, they wait it out, tellin’ themselves love is cultivated over time. You might wake up tomorrow morning havin’ fallen in love with me. And even if your head don’t remember, you’ve known me a long time.”

  “How?”

  Not yet. Not ‘til she admits she loves me. “Get this,” I answer instead of answering her question. “You’re mine. I’m yours. I’ll give you a good life, I promise.”

  “When I say I’m scared, I really mean terrified. I gave my heart away once before and look how that turned out.” she admits, quietly.

  “Darlin’ you were young. Didn’t know you were givin’ it to the wrong man. He was too young to know he shouldn’t take it.”

  “But you were young then. If I’d have given my heart to you instead of Logan, would you have taken it?”

  “Absolutely. Because when I met you I was old enough to see that you’re the right one. Benefit of being older than you and Logan, I guess.”

  “It doesn’t change anything. I’m still heading home after my dad’s funeral.”

  “We’ll see.” I warn.

  We make love two more times, once in the bed and once in the shower, before we finally make it out of the house. She said she needed to apologize to my brothers and I intend to hold her to that. But not before we stop for breakfast. Crow don’t taste nearly as good as steak and eggs.

  7.

  Elise

  We stop at Margie’s Homecookin’ for breakfast. Street parking only. I’m glad for Mark to be driving because I could never imagine parallel parking his behemoth truck.

  The only reason I know it’s called Margie’s Homecookin’ would be from the fancy script painted in the front window. Most people know the place by the big neon sign hanging above the door. The sign simply says, Eat.

  From the day I moved here to the day I left, I don’t know that I realized the diner had an actual name. But what I knew then, I still know now. Margie makes the best blueberry pancakes in the county. Not that Mark woul
d know. What’s with men and their steak and eggs? Logan, Beau, and even Tommy—always the steak and eggs.

  With strong coffee and light conversation, I begin to let my guard down, thawing somewhat to the town again. That is until Margie herself steps out from the kitchen.

  I only have the briefest moment to brace before she calls out, “Elise Manning in my store. Missed you, girl.” Not the response I expect from the woman who used to smother Logan and Beau with golden boy attention and comped meals after home games. Highly unfortunate that her greeting calls attention to the other patrons that the traitorbitchwhore lurks among them.

  “Hi, Margie. Good to see you.”

  “Hi, Margie. Good to see you?” She repeats. “That’s all you got for me after what? Five years? Get your ass up.”

  I stand. Margie makes her way over to me through the small dining room. Seems we’re the entertainment for the other patrons. Seems just like old times, Margie still doesn’t care for gossipers.

  “Eyes on your own plates,” she yells at them while just about squeezing the life out of me. “’Cept for you, baby boy,” she says dripping sweetness to my date. “You can stare as long as you want—”

  “Mark,” he cuts in, which yeah, that’s rather odd.

  I can’t see the look on her face, but she pauses a beat. “I know who you are. I may be old, but I ain’t that old. Been comin’ in here his whole life,” she mumbles to herself. “Don’t think I know his name.”

  She releases me allowing both of us to slide back into the booth. “How long you in town for?” she asks.

  Mark reaches over, grabbing my hand across the table. “I’m countin’ on forever.”

  Margie smiles big enough at him to show all five of her missing teeth. “Bet you are.” Miss Margie, she’s a cantankerous old broad, and when I say old, she always liked to joke that God created her then dirt. Her voice is pure gravel from smoking a pack a day since conception but her heart can hold the whole town. I’d been worried her heart held the town minus one. What was I thinking?

  “Marge,” her husband yells from the pickup window. “We got backup orders.”

  “Seems my work ain’t never done. You stay, you come back. You leavin’, you come back first, you hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When she’s safely back in the kitchen and out of earshot I ask him, “What was that about? The name thing?”

  “Looked like she was strugglin’ for a second. Ready to head out?”

  I nod. The waitress sees me nod and thinks I’m asking for the bill because she walks over to drop it on the table.

  “No thanks.” Mark waves her away. “We’re not stayin’ for the drawin’.”

  She blinks looking ten kinds of uncomfortable, reaching to snatch it back. He stops her hand. “I’m kiddin’,” he says and picks it up.

  Now I know I had to have known him back in the day because Lo and Beau used to use that exact same line to fluster the waitresses. Heard Tommy say it at the bar just the other night.

  I open my purse to pull out money when Mark pins me with a hard stare that screams, ‘Don’t you embarrass me by trying to pay.’

  “At least let me leave the tip,” I tell him.

  “Touch that wallet, I spank that ass, darlin’. You’re with me, I pay. Not tryin’ to tread on your feminist sensibilities but we got some traditions you’ll just have to deal with. I pay on dates, hold the door and I always drive.”

  “That it?”

  “It’s a start. I think of more, I’ll tell you.”

  “Why do you always get to drive? I like to drive.”

  “And you can. When it’s just you or you got Maryanne, or eventually the kids.”

  I purse my lips, uncomfortable with him bringing up our hypothetical children again. “Again, why?”

  “Because I’m the man in this family.”

  “I didn’t know we were a family.”

  “Didn’t I already break this down for you? You movin’ in. Ring on your finger. Baby in your belly.”

  “You know what?” I shake my head. “I can’t even… that logic makes no sense. How do I argue with it?”

  “You don’t. You accept it and move on. These are the rules, baby girl.”

  “What if I don’t want the rules?”

  The jerk has the nerve to laugh.

  “You want the rules.”

  I don’t know about all that, but I do know I want Mark. “What the hell am I getting myself into?” I mumble to myself.

  He chooses to answer me anyway. “A world of happiness if you let it happen.”

  ***

  We’ve been standing outside the clubhouse for a good ten minutes while I continue to stall my internal freak out. The building looks like it started out life as a commercial garage that probably went out of business because it’s located too far outside of town to drive a broken down car, even though in reality, it’s only two miles out.

  The property they’ve surrounded by a twelve foot chain-link fence with those white strips weaving through the chain links so no one can see in from the road. Two men, Mark told me are prospects, guard the gate.

  Prospects are the young guys who basically get shit on by the full members. Charged with doing everything the full members don’t want to do, from cleaning the toilets, to going shopping, to guarding the gates, and everything a full member can think of, in-between. At the end of the prospect period, which doesn’t have a defined date, but ends once the full members decide he’s earned his full membership, he’ll get patched in as a full member. Which is exactly what it sounds like. He’ll get the big patch on the back of his cut, or, the leather vest he wears to show membership to the club. It’s all very official for a group of outlaws.

  Once they let us through, I take in how the property has been sectioned off. The clubhouse stands front and center with a large parking area filled with bikes and a few pickup trucks. To the left is a garage, like of the industrial variety, yet smaller than the initial clubhouse which was probably a former garage, which must be for personal use because I cannot see regular folks venturing inside these gates to find a mechanic. To the right, several trailers. Some singlewides, some doubles. All look to be well taken care of. The prettiest being a blue doublewide with a white wraparound porch. Flower boxes in full bloom hang off the railings. A paved walkway leads to the clubhouse and the whole thing is heavily landscaped with shrubs and bushes. Mark says that home belongs to the club president.

  I’d live there. It reminds me of a grandma house. The kind of place you’d go to sip tea on that front porch. I’d rather go there then inside to the clubhouse. Not because I’m scared of the men. I’m just not fond of looking stupid.

  “Suck it up, darlin’. Time to go.”

  “I know. I just…feel stupid for how I acted last night.”

  “Which is what you’re here to rectify.”

  On a heavy breath I nod, and he opens the door. The space looks exactly as one would suspect an MC clubhouse to look inside. Peeling, brown laminated siding covers every inch of wall, darkened by years of smoke. Drop ceiling stained in several places by water damage, or, at least I’m telling myself it’s water damage. A neon Budweiser sign hangs next to the pool cues above the pool table directly across the room from the front door. There’s an old poker table to the left with ripped and missing sections of green felt. It has four barrel chairs with red vinyl cushions, tucked in around it. To the right of the door is the bar. And on the shelf behind the bar someone has stacked numerous bottles but only with the big four representing: Bourbon (we are in Kentucky), tequila, vodka and gin.

  The very left wall has a newer looking flat screen, a long, overstuffed black vinyl sofa and three matching club chairs all in various stages of wear with rips and tears, even some stuffing pulled up. Then finally to the very back of the manly space there’s the mouth to a hallway. I’m not going to lie, the whole place smells of stale smoke, overly fermented alcohol and years of sex.

  “Bossman.”
He’s greeted. I’m ignored. Not that I blame them. Every man I offended last night is in this room, plus some, who I’m sure have heard the story by the unholy glares shooting my way.

  “Hey guys,” I address the room. Time to man up. To lump my pride. They turn to listen but not one says hi back. Okay, I can do this. “I acted like a judgmental brat last night.” That gets grumbles of agreement. “I was shocked and out of sorts, and used that as my excuse to embarrass someone I care deeply about by being rude to all of you. No more excuses. I truly am sorry. And I hope my behavior doesn’t reflect poorly on Bossman. So yeah…that’s all I’ve got.”

  Mark walks up behind me, giving my arms a squeeze and a quick kiss on my cheek. “You did great, baby girl.”

  “I don’t know. No one really looks to have forgiven me.”

  “Give it time.”

  “Yo Bossman,” a man standing behind a bar area calls over to him. “Need anything?”

  “Beer.”

  “How ‘bout you, Elise?”

  “Does that mean I’m forgiven?” I whisper through the corner of my mouth. Mark smiles his crooked smile at me so I know it’s okay to relax, and ask, “Cider?”

  Pretty soon we’re chatting with the man who brought the drinks. He introduces himself as Sly. When I ask why Sly, he tells me because he is. Chaos joins us and I’m introduced for the first time to Duke, the club president.

  “Don’t much like hearing my men being disrespected, especially in one of our establishments. But I appreciate you coming here today to make it right.”

  “I’m still really embarrassed by my behavior last night. Apparently it was stress induced.”

  “Bossman never claimed an old lady before either. Seems you’re the only one he’s ever wanted. Because of that he warned us yesterday that you got a spitfire personality and aren’t accustomed to club life.”

  Claimed an old lady? Is that what I am? An old lady is the official title for a member’s woman. An old lady is fully recognized by the club, and is someone not to be messed with. Like a queen to the king. How’s that going to work with me living in Chicago?