Her mind flashed to all the times in recent months when she and Jens had seen Roy around town when they went out. That time he happened by their table at the Millstone, hinting that he should join them for brunch. Catching a glimpse of him at Canyon Lake Park when they were feeding the ducks and thinking he’d been watching them before he jogged away on the bike path. Maybe Jens had been right about Roy’s obsession with her, Michelle thought.
“You took a ten-minute afternoon break at four fifteen and haven’t taken a break since. You expertly averted the advances of that wannabe biker dude shortly after, even though he was putting a full court press on you to become his lady.”
“His lady?” Michelle shot back, disturbed that his creepy mania was spiraling out of control. “Roy, what are you talking about?”
Just as her mind raced to find an excuse to end this conversation, Michelle saw Roy’s eyes narrow as he stared past her shoulder and down the aisle. She turned slowly to see what had distracted him from his bizarre fixation on the minutia of her life.
Three bikers were walking toward them. These were motorcycle club, or m. c., bikers, the real deal. The kind known for illegal activities like selling drugs. The bikers who often started trouble: mostly with other m. c. bikers, but trouble nonetheless. The bikers whom the police—the authorities who flew in by the hundreds from all over the country for the week—watched closely during the rally, jetting in authorities. And because Jens had pointed it out to her last year, she knew what it meant to be flying colors, and that the authorities generally disallowed it during the rally to help prevent knife fights and shootings. These three bikers, however, were most definitely flying their colors.
The well-worn black leather jackets had patches and badges across the front, and the skinny biker on the right was wearing a red-and-silver skullcap with Lucifer’s Lot stitched neatly across the front. The scary-looking guy in the middle was staring directly at her.
Ray scuttled to his feet and stepped between Michelle and the men. She rose to her feet. Watching Roy draw in air to inflate his chest, Michelle thought he looked more like a puffer fish than the friend she’d known for so long, the friend whom she now wondered why she had kept all these years.
She barely recognized his tone when he barked, “What do you want?”
The scary biker in the middle, who wore his hair in a black-and-gray ponytail and had a black mustache, ignored Roy’s question, never taking his eyes off Michelle. With a voice like Trace Adkins, the biker said, “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you help us find a few things?”
Roy shielded Michelle, but the biker had such an overwhelming presence that Roy seemed nearly invisible.
“Sure,” Michelle said, relieved by the interruption. She definitely preferred a hardcore biker’s attentions to Roy’s unusual interest in her at that moment.
“Michelle, no,” Roy said, grabbing her elbow as she stepped around him.
The two bikers flanking the ominous one growled like two guard dogs. Michelle turned to Roy, removing his hand from her arm, and whispered, “It’s okay. Really. They just want a little help finding things.”
Roy scowled. His disapproving eyes pierced through her.
Michelle turned toward the bikers. “These gentlemen, our customers, need some help with their grocery shopping. I’ll be right back to help you finish stocking.”
“My name’s Mully,”the biker said, cutting his eyes at Roy and walking alongside Michelle down the aisle, the two other bikers falling in behind them. She could almost feel Roy’s glare burning a hole through her as she turned the corner with the strangers. She imagined his disappointment that she didn’t wither or faint from the fear of it all, allowing him to protect her as the hero he was meant to be. Lord, he was getting to be so annoying. Two more weeks. That’s all she had left to work here.
Welcoming the break from Roy, she replied evenly, “Michelle. That’s my name. What do you need help finding?”
One of the guard dog bikers handed her a short list. She glanced at it and made quick work of finding the items for them. Needles, thread, fishing wire, matches, and rubbing alcohol. She wondered if they planned on sewing up a buddy’s knife wound or something.
Michelle walked briskly toward the aisle of miscellaneous housewares with the three bikers in tow, the lead biker with the velvet voice falling in step beside her once again. She scanned the shelves for the items, the one called Mully standing so closely beside her that they were almost touching shoulders and arms. The other two bikers stood behind them. By the scruffy looks of them, she had imagined the three of them would stink. But the scent emanating from Mully was actually quite pleasant, suggesting a dash of expensive cologne perhaps.
“Where did they relocate the Harley Davidson dealership?” he asked.
“So, you’ve been here before? To Rapid City?” she replied, handing the scrawny biker his list, pointing to the shelf where sewing items were displayed, and watching him check the list while the other biker gathered items.
Up until that moment, Michelle had hoped the black leather jackets the three bikers were wearing were not their colors but rather a second riding jacket. When their backs were turned away from her, however, she saw the familiar grin of the chunky idiot in the skintight red spandex and evil horns, the bold rocker arcing above the cartoon. The bikers were definitely Lucifer’s Lot, one of the motorcycle gangs that were from time to time banned from crossing South Dakota state lines because of the trouble they caused with the Fallen Angels, who were also banned occasionally from entering the state. She had read about them in the newspapers years ago and tried to recall niggling details about a gunfight or ambush that involved the two gangs near a small lake in Custer State Park. A drug deal gone wrong or something. The article had indicated that the authorities would escort known m. c. gangs straight through to the next state, disallowing the bikers from using any off-ramp within the state.
“Yeah,” Mully answered. “I know the area fairly well.”
“It’s out on the corner of Deadwood Avenue and I-90. By the Windmill truck stop. You know where that is?”
Mully nodded. “I do.”
Michelle pointed down the aisle to the camping section, and the two bikers were off to find the fishing wire and matches. She hadn’t noticed before, but the youngest biker wore a jacket with the word “Prospect”printed on the back underneath the logo. Mully stood shoulder to shoulder with her, his eyes never once straying from her face. She pretended not to notice. She glanced over toward the checkout lanes and realized Roy was nowhere in sight, which made her more nervous than having this gang leader stare at her.
Michelle stole a quick glance up to the manager’s loft and barely detected the light inside his office shining behind Roy’s silhouette through the tinted window. She could feel his eyes on her and a shiver skipped down her spine. He would be angry with her for disobeying him and for showing kindness to these men. What did she ever see in Roy besides someone to be pitied, she wondered. They had nothing in common other than this workplace, and she concluded that pity doesn’t make a very stable foundation for friendship. And she further concluded that feeling safer with Mully standing beside her, knowing what he represented, underscored her deeper concern about Roy.
The last of the items, the rubbing alcohol, was over with the first aid supplies, and she led the trio to the farthest aisle of the store. She pointed at the shelf and the young biker retrieved several bottles. Her suspicion that a wound was involved intensified. Mully beside her, she watched as the two struggled to redistribute the load of items between them.
She wasn’t sure why Mully’s silence made her more uncomfortable than their conversation did, so she decided to break it with small talk. “Are you here for the rally?”
He nodded once and said, “Starts tomorrow.”
Before she knew what was happening, he had turned to face her, a kind smile on his face. She thought the look in his eyes was sad, maybe even lonely. She felt his groomed fingernails lightly drag a
cross her left cheek as he brushed a strand of hair from her face, and she detected the faint smell of cloves on his breath when he asked, “Want to join me?”
Michelle took a step back, pushed the loose strand of hair behind her ear, and said, “No thanks, but I’m sure you guys will have a great time up there.”
Just then, she felt long arms sliding around her waist from behind, a chin resting on the top of her head—the familiar hug of her boyfriend. She closed her eyes, turned around so she could return the cuddle, and said, “Hi, hon.”
Michelle sensed Jens’s tension then connected it to Mully and his minions nearby. “Jens, I was just helping some tourists find their way around the store.”
When she turned back toward them to introduce Jens, Michelle saw Mully walking away with the bikers without even acknowledging Jens’s arrival and without saying another word to her. She suspected Jens was reading the Lucifer’s Lot rocker above the familiar gang emblem on all three jackets as they ambled toward the checkout registers, Roy scrambling down the stairs from the manager’s loft to stand guard by the checkers.
“He asked you to go to the rally with him?”
Michelle nodded.
“You have to be more careful,” Jens said.
“I know,” she replied. “Thanks for the tip. By the way, what are you doing here?”
“Just wanted to see if you have time for a late dinner.”
“Char’s waiting, and I need to talk with her about something. Later?”
“Sure. Come by my house?” he asked, giving her a wave as he headed for the front of the store.
Before she could answer, Roy stormed toward Michelle and jabbed a finger at her nose. “What in the hell are you thinking?”
She saw Jens pull up short, noting Roy’s tone.
“I was helping some customers,”Michelle answered, glad that Jens had noticed and had stopped in the aisle.
“Why didn’t you let me handle it?” Spittle flew from Roy’s lips. “Why did you deliberately disobey me?”
“Hey, calm down, Roy,” Jens warned, approaching from behind and laying his large hand on Roy’s shoulder.
Roy glared at Jens. “Stay out of this, pretty boy. This is an employment issue. Subordination.” He turned back on Michelle.
“Roy, come on. My last day is in two weeks. I’ve worked here for eleven years without a single reprimand,” Michelle said, calmly.
“Lucifer’s Lot, Michelle? Really? You won’t help me, but you’ll help them? Mean sons of bitches?”
Unfazed by Roy’s temper, Michelle shook her head and said, “Good night, Roy. See you tomorrow.”
When she turned away, Roy snatched her by the arm again.
Jens intervened, “Hey, hey Roy. I said calm down.”
“What’s gotten into you?” Michelle wrestled quickly from Roy’s grip and checked her watch. “I have to go. Charlene’s waiting for me.”
Roy followed behind as she headed toward the back of the store. “Lucifer’s Lot is a dangerous motorcycle gang, Michelle. Not nice. Killing machines.”
“I know, Roy. All they wanted was a little help with their grocery shopping.”
“You let him touch you.”
Michelle ignored him and pushed open the swinging door that led to the cool storage and the employee break room. Roy turned and held out his hand like a traffic cop to stop Jens just outside the door marked “Employees Only.” Jens shook his head and waited for Michelle as Roy followed her to the punch clock.
Michelle noticed Roy checking behind him, either making sure Jens hadn’t followed or making sure the door had swung shut, leaving Roy and Michelle alone. His anger quickly dissipated and he almost pleaded, “Michelle, how could you?”
“How could I what, Roy?” Her anger mounting, she spun on her heels to find him directly behind her, too close. She felt trapped between the wall and Roy. His breath smelt like a sterile mouthwash.
“Touch you like that,” he said, dragging his fingers across her cheek as Mully had.
With a shudder, she shoved at his chest, making him step back from her, and slammed her fists on her hips, hoping to snap him out of the hypnosis he seemed to have fallen under.
“What’s it to you, Roy?”
Roy blinked. “He . . . he’s nothing more than a filthy criminal.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of not judging a book by its cover?” Michelle argued. She grabbed her time card, keeping a watchful eye out in case Roy grew angry again as his creepy catatonia ebbed. “You don’t know he’s a criminal. And I didn’t let him touch me.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. He watched as she slid the time card into the punch clock, still careful not to turn her back on him.
He cleared his throat and pointed to the small pile of belongings she was gathering. “Speaking of judging books, you’re reading the newest John
B. McDonald. It came in last week, right?”Michelle looked down at her pile, scooped it into her arms, and said, “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Foolishly ignoring her indignation and warning, Roy continued, “At precisely three o’clock, and not a second earlier, you took a ten-minute lunch break and read a book in the employee lunchroom. Then you came back to work and relieved Sarah so she could eat lunch.”
Michelle spun around and held up her hand. “Stop, Roy. Just knock it off, will you? You really are scaring me.”
Michelle stared at the man she had once considered a friend, studying his glassy green eyes. She instantly recognized the embarrassment in them and felt sorry for him. In an attempt to push him back over that fine line between friendship, which would never be the same again, and obsession, Michelle cautiously inquired, “Why do you know so much about me?”
He lowered his eyes, pushing the designer frames up his nose, although they hadn’t slipped since the last time he had done so. A nervous habit. She studied him as he contemplated his answer. His large hands hung limply by his hips, his long, lean body straight and strong, bent only at the neck. Roy’s grocery store uniform was rolled up at the sleeves, the folded cotton barely fitting over his toned biceps. His arms and hands were bronze, as were his face and neck. He looked very humble in his pose and she wondered if she had gone too far by asking her question.
Roy looked up from the floor and smiled sadly.
“Because you’re my friend,” was the answer he settled on.
It was a blow. Maybe she had been too harsh, too judgmental; maybe it was a matter of his simply being socially awkward. Maybe she’d been the one to cross the line and was bullying him. Remorse swelled in her belly. She opted for being compassionate, yet truthful, by saying, “You’re my friend too, Roy, but I don’t make it my business to know every move you make every minute of your day. It’s kind of freaky, like I’m being watched or something. Do you understand?”
She had avoided the word “stalker” so as not to further anger him, but it was definitely the word she would use to describe him.
He added, “I admire you, Michelle. You could have been anything, gone anywhere, but you stayed here after high school to watch after your little sister. That’s admirable.”
“Anyone would do that in my situation. Good night, Roy.” She walked toward the hall and paused just before the swinging door. As an afterthought she said, “Nightmare in Pink.”
“What?”
“Nightmare in Pink,”she repeated, holding up the paperback and offering him a conciliatory smile. “That’s the book I’m reading.”
He stared up at her and she recognized the gratitude in his expression.
Casually, she added, “And yes, it’s a John D. McDonald. D as in dog;not B as in boy. And it’s not a new one. It first came out in the sixties, I think, but it’s a new reprint. A very good one, I might add.”
She moved toward the door, to Jens who awaited her on the other side. She could just make out his silhouette and was relieved to know he was nearby.
“I love you,” Roy said quietly.
“Wha
t?” Michelle asked, turning on her heels, aghast by what she thought she heard him say.
“I . . . I love you,” he repeated with less confidence. “I thought you should know.”
“What are you saying?”Michelle gasped. She wondered what had possessed her to take pity on him just now. Her decision to show him a little kindness seemed only to have inspired him to go deeper into his fantasy about her. She had made a terrible mistake.
“I have never given you any reason to believe we were anything more than friends, Roy. At least we used to be friends until you started obsessing over every little thing I do, stalking me wherever I went this summer. Don’t you understand? I’m in love with Jens. Not you. You know that. You’ve always known that. So why are you casting aside our friendship after all these years? Why, Roy?”
Roy stared blankly at Michelle, speechless.
She shook her head and added, “Our friendship must have been more important to me than it was to you. You must be crazy.”
The anger rose to Roy’s cheeks, an anger that touched his eyes in a way she had never seen before. She was used to his childish tantrums, such as the fit he threw a few minutes ago over her willingness to help Mully and his buddies. But she’d never seen Roy like this.
His voice was nearly unrecognizable when he demanded, “Do not call me that.”
“Roy, this isn’t—”
“You listen to me,” he interrupted, closing the distance between them instantly, and gripping her arms in his hands, shaking her. “Never say that word again. Ever. Or you will pay for it. Do you hear me Michelle Free-burg? You will regret this for the rest of your life.”
A shiver ran down Michelle’s spine and she forced a smile to her face.
“Roy, calm down. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
The door swung open and Jens was filling the space with his six-footfour-inch, two-hundred-twenty-pound frame. He had overheard Roy and she was glad of it.
“You want to step outside and pick on someone your own size?” he said, nostrils flaring.
Roy froze.
Michelle shook free from Roy’s grip and clung to Jens’s arm. “Jens, listen to me. This isn’t worth it.”
In the Belly of Jonah: A Liv Bergen Mystery Page 27