Phoenix

by Trent Jordan

  “Sure.”

  I recounted... well, not everything, obviously. My father didn’t need to know bedroom details. But I was pretty honest about how I had spent the night at Phoenix’s place, about how he and I had had a crappy first date and then a great one, and how I had told him that I was moving in two months, only to get scorned by him in the morning.

  “So now, I don’t even know what I want to do,” I said. “I don’t want to do anything to get him back, because as far as I’m concerned...”

  If you can get the good Phoenix, it’s worth trying again. But can you really get that?

  I don’t think it’s possible. Not without including the asshole Phoenix, the scarred Phoenix.

  “Right now, it’s about making sure I put myself in the best place. I don’t know what I want to do for a career yet, and I know doing it in Ashton and Springsville probably won’t be the final place, but not like Los Angeles is far. And I worry that if I just move for the sake of moving...”

  “You’ll temporarily get the high of being in a new place, but you won’t truly have moved yourself.”

  “Yeah.”

  My father sighed.

  “You’re probably not going to like my answer, Jess, but it’s the honest one.”

  I need to stay here. Or I need to come home. I need to make things better with Dad first, and—

  “I don’t know.”

  Oh.

  He’s right. I don’t like that.

  But let’s hear him out.

  “I will forever feel ashamed that I pushed you to run away when you did, but the one thing it did was that it turned you into a woman far faster than most girls. You’ll always be my little girl, yes, but to the world and to yourself, you have been a woman for far longer than most people your age. If I try to tell you what to do, I can only do it based on incomplete information and assumptions. But rather than tell you what to do, maybe this old geezer can tell you what not to do.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Don’t run away from your problems, whatever they are. And running doesn’t have to literally mean physically moving; it could mean emotionally or psychologically distancing yourself. Face whatever problems you have head-on, and don’t make the mistake I’ve made for more than a decade. Don’t... don’t let your fear stop you. You’ll be scared no matter what. I’m an adult and I get scared just having this conversation with you. But thanks to you, you pulled me out of my stupor and got me to have this actual conversation. So, I’ll return the favor. Face the ugly truths. And then, with the knowledge you already have, you’ll know what the right thing is. You already know what to do. You just have to let yourself hear it.”

  You know, for someone who hasn’t been a part of my life very much, you sure do know a thing or two, Dad.

  “Oh, and maybe come and visit your old man from time to time.”

  Finally, my father cracked a joke that actually made me want to laugh.

  “I’m sure I can arrange that, Dad.”

  From there, the conversation shifted to lighter topics about the weather and sports, but even after we’d hung up, I found myself thinking long and hard about what my father had said. I needed to face the challenges. I needed to face the difficulties confronting me.

  I needed... I needed to face what had happened with Phoenix. Even if he was mostly at fault, I needed to explain myself to him. I needed to honestly tell him why I was moving away.

  I was so exhausted I wanted to just sink into the couch and not get up until the following day. Getting to my bed would require an inordinate amount of energy. But to just dial...

  I called Phoenix. I put him on speakerphone.

  But he did not answer.

  I decided I had done enough thinking for the night. I had emotionally exhausted myself, but at least I had turned it around for a good reason. More phone calls would come, and more decisions would be made.

  I still didn’t know what I would do. But at least now, I finally knew what I needed not to do, and that was as good an outcome as this day could have asked for.

  Phoenix

  One Week Later

  With a beer in my left hand, my phone in my right, and my ass on a couch at the Gray Reapers’ headquarters, life felt... OK.

  I checked my phone for probably the millionth time that day. No new text messages. Of course not. Why would there be? Keep hoping for that number to pop up, buddy.

  I sipped my Blue Moon as Cole sat in a chair across from me, his arms crossed, his brows furrowed, but not reading or looking at anything in particular. I didn’t envy him in the slightest—at least the asshole in my position in the Black Reapers was someone I could ignore for the rest of my life if I could manage it. He had to deal with family being on the other side of that MC coin forever.

  “You feeling all right?”

  Cole had spoken, but he had not looked at me. So, at first, I ignored him and just casually sipped on my beer.

  “Phoenix.”

  “Oh, shit, um, yeah, I’m fine.”

  “How’s Jess?”

  Way to get right to it.

  “Not great,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  Cole leaned forward, exhaled, and stood up.

  “I was just hoping to have some good news these days,” he said, forcing a smile that seemed anything but pleasant. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. Just grasping for straws right now.”

  You and me both, I thought. Cole left the room, heading outside to a late afternoon. The sun had reached the bottom of the skyline, but not yet dipped below, giving us maybe another hour of light. The golden light glistened off our bikes, creating an effect that I would have taken more time to admire if not for all of the thoughts rushing through my head.

  My phone buzzed.

  It wasn’t Jess.

  But it was someone who could prove equally important.

  It had been one week ago that I had found myself outside of the Black Reapers’ headquarters and seen everyone except the one person I cared to see.

  Now, it was the exact opposite.

  “My son,” Father Marcellus said as he spread his arms for a hug. “It is good to see you. And you look good for what happened last week.”

  “Good to see you too, Marc,” I said. “It didn’t look good right after. But I think we dodged the worst of it.”

  “Unfortunately, I am all too aware,” Father Marcellus said as he led me to two chairs outside the clubhouse.

  It was a relatively serene night. Rain was expected later in the evening, but not until well past midnight, a point at which even I would have at least returned to Ashton, if not gone to bed entirely. The sound of motorcycles was nowhere to be heard, not even in the distance. It felt like the world hit pause whenever I got to see the good chaplain, and tonight was no different.

  “I grow weary of having to bury so many bodies over such senseless violence.”

  His face showed his words, too. He had more gray hair on his crown than before, and the bags under his eyes looked like they had doubled in size.

  “But what is even worse, I know that it is not truly senseless. I am not going to be the priest who says turn away from evil, because evil wants good to turn a blind eye. We must stand up against the Fallen Saints, but I know it comes with the heaviest of prices.”

  He sighed.

  “Please tell me there was some semblance of hope in the dialogue the two Reaper clubs had. Please tell me that there was at least something that could bring the two of you back to the table.”

  Wouldn’t that be nice.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t see it,” I said. “But really, it’s ultimately up to Lane and Cole, isn’t it? If those two can find a way to bridge their differences, it doesn’t matter what the rest of us think. Similarly, if they’re at each other’s throats, it doesn’t matter how well the rest of us can hold hands and speak about unity.”

  It’s no different than it ever has been. Since the day Roger Carter died, it’s always been a story of sibling
rivalry.

  Father Marcellus bowed his head and closed his eyes. I knew he was praying—or perhaps just thinking—but if someone had driven by, it would have looked like he had fallen asleep in his chair. I would have loved to know how he would come to whatever conclusion he did, because for as much as I’d racked my brain, I hadn’t found anything.

  I wouldn’t say the situation was hopeless, but I would say the only hope was surrender to the tides of time.

  “You are familiar with the story of Cain and Abel, right?”

  “The one where one of the brothers murders the other? Is that supposed to give me hope?”

  I added a dark laugh, mostly because I didn’t want to consider the possibility of him saying that was inevitable for the Carters.

  “Yes, but there is a strong difference between that and this,” he said. “In that story, Cain and Abel were largely left to their own devices. As children of Adam and Eve, they did not have confidants or friends or club partners to tell them to cool off. You do.”

  Oh, shit. It clicked even before the chaplain added another word.

  “Phoenix, I know that you have nothing in your heart but anger for Butch and other members of the club, and no one blames you. It is a very human response, and I think even the holiest of people would understand and empathize with your anger. But no one in either of these clubs is a lowly, hopeless puppet that cannot make change while the two puppet masters clash over ego. You can be the catalyst for change. You can encourage the two brothers to reach across the aisle with handshakes instead of fists.”

  What I could do was starting to turn some gears. But how I would do it seemed virtually impossible.

  “And how would I do that?” I said. “I mean, I can stop them from fighting—”

  “You can make it a visible point to forgive Butch.”

  “What.”

  I hadn’t asked a question. I had been so stunned, so floored, so flabbergasted by what Father Marcellus had said that I just said the first word that came out.

  But then I let what he had said sit a little bit. I thought about why Butch had killed my father. I thought about where my father’s loyalties lay, where Butch’s lay, and how I felt about it all.

  And...

  “You want me to forgive Butch,” I repeated back to him, the words still tasting rotten on my tongue.

  “Yes.”

  You know he’s right.

  “That seems ridiculous.”

  “Maybe so, and I can acknowledge that it is far harder than anything I have been asked to do in this life. But look at it like this. What will not forgiving him do? Give you the momentary ego boost that you can lord that over him, when in reality, it poisons you? And what’s the downside to forgiving him? I have already spoken to Butch about this. He would not hold it over your—”

  “Wait, stop, stop, stop.”

  I took a breath. I didn’t think Father Marcellus had betrayed my trust; actually, I thought that if he had done this, he had done something potentially critical to the unification of the clubs. But I was terrified to hear what Butch had thought.

  “You talked to fucking Butch about it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Butch is Butch. It was not a momentous conversation for the ages. But he is not stupid. He understands what needs to be done. And more than that, he understands why you acted the way you did. He was at the funeral, after all. It gave him no pleasure to have to kill your father.”

  I know what he’s saying makes sense. I know there’s something to it. But damnit...

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I left it at that. This was not something I was going to resolve talking to anyone, even a chaplain. It needed to be something pondered.

  It needed time.

  “I would encourage you to think about it,” Father Marcellus said. “Time is of the essence, and the Fallen Saints will not be waiting long for their strikes.”

  “Yup.”

  A silence fell as it looked like Father Marcellus wanted to add something more, but given we were alone under a peaceful night, the situation felt anything but urgent.

  “How are you doing otherwise?” he said, a sly smile on his face.

  “Fine.”

  Father Marcellus chuckled.

  “You know it’s a sin to lie,” he said. “I’m more perceptive than you might think. I know when you are suffering.”

  Damnit.

  “It’s also a sin to keep pushing someone to talk when they don’t want to confess something,” I said, albeit with a massive, guilty grin on my face.

  Father Marcellus just sat there, folded his hands in his lap, and let me stammer and try to contain myself until the words eventually came out. Which, sure enough...

  “Well, there’s this girl...”

  “Ah, as many of you have said in recent times.”

  “And it was going great, but then she told me she was planning on moving in a couple of months. I took it really hard. I know, that’s fucking stupid, just one date, but—”

  “That one date was not the first time you had met her, was it?”

  Get out of my head, old man.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But the point is, it’s affecting me a little bit. I gave it to her great in bed...”

  I paused for a second when I remembered it was probably more accurate to say she gave it great to me in bed. But there was no way I could admit something like that.

  “And we clicked well, maybe I was a little blinded by the sex. So... you know what? It’s not that I’m taking it too hard. Something like that...”

  I’d already confessed that it was hurting me. There was no real reason to act all macho here to try to prove a point. I just shut up and let the good man start speaking.

  Off in the distance, I could hear the sound of about half a dozen motorcycles approaching. Father Marcellus didn’t seem the least bit concerned—perhaps they were the other Black Reapers returning—so I followed his lead. I knew, though, this would mean the end of our conversation soon.

  “You know, I have often heard people say, ‘If you love someone, let them go,’ and they think it is profound advice. Really, it is quite practical—if you cling to someone far too hard, they will feel overwhelmed and will look for any chance to escape. And, on the flip side, if you do let them go, they are likely to admire you for having the courage to do this.”

  “OK, Dr. Phil,” I said with a chuckle, but having a third party say it to me like this was reassuring—I guess it made me feel a little less guilty about having had no contact for a week.

  It was too bad that didn’t really provide any guidance for me on how to atone for my rushed behavior the morning after sex. Or if I even needed to—you do, don’t pretend like you don’t.

  “I guess that makes sense,” I said, the motorcycles now almost in full view. “You’re pretty wise, you know.”

  “Hah, thank you, but I am no wise man. I simply pause, clear my mind, and think—”

  BANG BANG BANG!

  The gunfire erupted in our direction, and I quickly hit the deck, grabbing Father Marcellus and pulling him to the ground.

  “Fuck!”

  Father Marcellus just growled. I pulled out my pistol and looked over the chair, but we had two massive fucking problems. One, our bikes were too far away to provide real cover. And two, it was us against what looked like six.

  “Damnit!”

  I had about eight rounds in my pistol, plus another magazine, but there was no way that was going to provide us anything other than a delay of a minute or two for our deaths.

  “Father—”

  “Get inside,” he said. “I’ve got a gun. I’ll lay down suppressive fire while you make a run for heavier weaponry.”

  “But—”

  “Do it, Phoenix,” he said, his voice far too calm. “You need it more than me.”

  “Goddamnit!”

  But then he rose without waiting for me to agree and provided cover fire. Acting on instinct alone, I rammed my shoulder into th
e door, smashing it off its hinges, and went to the armory. I found a machine gun inside, rushed back outside, and laid down a wave of fire. I hit one of the Fallen Saints, and the other five drove off. They left with almost too much haste.

  “What the hell...”

  And then I listened a little more closely, and I could hear with some horror what was to come.

  This initial wave of Fallen Saints had meant to launch the initial ambush, to surprise us and try to dwindle our numbers before the real calvary came. And when they did, it didn’t matter if I had a handgun, a machine gun, or an RPG—the two of us were fucked.

  I rushed back over to Father Marcellus, who had his hand over his right shoulder.

  “Father—”

  He pulled back his hand briefly before clamping it back down. He’d been hit. It didn’t look great.

  But, honestly, I didn’t panic. He hadn’t gotten hit in a critical spot. His throat, heart, and other organs were spared. He was bleeding, yes, but it wasn’t throbbing out like it would have if they’d hit an artery. I was sure he’d have to go to the hospital, but if ever there was a spot to get shot, it was probably the ass or where he’d gotten hit.

  “Really wish the rest of the club was here now,” I said as the sound of more bikes came.

  “My son,” he said, straining against the pain. “They will be.”

  “Sure better—”

  And that’s when an explosion came—but not near us.

  Near the group of approaching Fallen Saints bikers.

  I looked back over our chair and watched with awe as about a dozen Black Reapers charged in, decimating the ranks of Fallen Saints. As soon as the threat was neutralized, they came forward, using their bikes to form a wall against further attacks, and hurried over to the two of us.

  “Are you all right?” Lane said.

  He’s asking if I’m alright.

  Perhaps there’s hope for peace between clubs yet.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Father—”

  “Shit.”

  Perhaps.

  Lane brushed past me and went to the chaplain. Butch followed and came to me.