by Zahra Girard
“What about law enforcement? The cops should be all over the chance to bust a drug ring,” I say, as I wind bungees around my cargo.
“They don’t give a shit,” Rog says, shrugging. “I spent five hundred bucks of my own money, put on a suit, just to go to some charity dinner and get some face time with Sheriff Daniels. Son of a bitch told me to go fuck myself. Law enforcement doesn’t give a damn about helping us out or cracking down on the Devils.”
“You talked with Gunney about all this shit? What does he think?”
“I have. He doesn’t want to pull the trigger yet, and I don’t blame him. He wants us to be in a better position — more cash, more weapons, but I think we can’t afford to wait too much longer,” he says, taking another length of rope from his bike and looking down at the Devil. “I think you’re going to have to spoon with him.”
“Spoon with Gunney? I mean, he’s a good guy and all, and if he really needed it, yeah, I’d get close to him. But why?”
“I mean the Devil, dumbass. We put him so he’s riding bitch, wrap his arms and legs around you like you’re the little spoon. Tie ‘em together. That’s going to be the only way to keep him on the bike,” Rog says.
I look down, trying to figure out some other way to rig it up so I don’t have to ride with this bastards arms wrapped around me. But there aren’t any other options and we don’t have the time. Sirens are getting closer every second.
And I honestly don’t care that much — I just want this over with. I want to get the club out of this jam so I can work on solving my own problem: getting my Abigail back.
“You know, this is not the kind of intimacy I imagined for myself this morning. I’ve got a hot piece of ass back in my bed, brother,” I say, as I sit down on my bike and Rog positions the unconscious Devil behind me.
“We all have sacrifices to make,” he says, lifting the man’s arms over my head so he’s basically hugging me. Next come the legs, and he wraps them around me too, tying the ankles together. “You know that old fishing hut Preacher has? Let’s take this bitch there.”
“You sure, man? Sounds like you want us to torture ourselves as much as this Devil prick. Preacher doesn’t clean that place — ever. Last time I was there, even the fucking beer in the fridge was expired. There was mold growing in it.”
“Shit,” I say, hesitating. Filth I can deal with, but expired beer? That’s beyond the pale.
“It was still good after we strained it out, though.”
I sigh. “As shitty as it is, I still think it’s the place for us to go. Think of it as motivation to finish the job sooner so we can get the fuck out of there.”
“I almost feel bad for this guy,” Rog says, motioning to the biker who’s got his arms wrapped around me in a very-intimate embrace. “He’s going to wake up in hell.”
“It’s not even close to what he deserves.”
Rog finishes the last few knots to secure the cargo. “You set?”
“Yeah, I’m fucking great. Who doesn’t love a good hug every once in a while?”
He just laughs and shakes his head as he kicks his bike to life. I do the same. After all those years in jail, it feels good to be back among my brothers and helping my MC family. Even if it involves half-hour hugs with leather-clad bikers.
There’s just one thing on my mind: doing whatever the hell it takes to save my club, so I can have my brothers behind me when I go for my daughter.
“I hope you’re ready,” I say to the Devil strapped to my back. “Because you and your brothers are fucked.”
Chapter Nineteen
Roxanna
I fight off waking up as long as I can, until the sun’s well above the horizon and the restlessness in my legs is unbearable. I’m surrounded by Nash’s scent, in his house, and I don’t want this feeling of contentment to end. I don’t want to lose this intoxicating closeness.
But the world wins out and I get up.
I rummage through the cupboards, I fashion together something that resembles breakfast. Over a bowl of dry cereal and a cup of expired instant coffee, I form my plan to help Nash — I’m going to have to break the law to get what I want, but I’m going to do it in a way that doesn’t hurt anybody. That’s the key.
No one needs to die to get this done.
Finished, I reluctantly shower off the remains of last night. I’m still in the same clothes I’ve been wearing for the past few days, I’ve got bags under my eyes, my hair’s a mess, but at least I have something to do and I feel like maybe I can turn this situation into something good.
I take the keys to the truck. It starts on the third turn, sputtering to life and then roaring loud enough to make me grip the steering wheel so tight that my knuckles pop.
The drive to Tacoma is a struggle — this truck is so ancient it doesn’t have power steering — and I keep myself to the back roads because I’m not sure I could actually handle this beast of a machine in regular traffic.
It takes an hour and a half for me to get home.
The sun’s high in the sky, it’s noon, and only my mom’s gold Toyota Camry is in the driveway.
“Roxanna?” she says, opening the door on my tenth knock. It sounds like she’s seen a ghost.
I suppose it has been a while since I’ve been home.
I smile at her and lean in for a hug, squeezing her tight. “Yes, mom, it’s me.”
“Not that I’m not happy to see you, honey, but why are you here?”
She sounds so befuddled, in the endearing way only confused moms can, that I hug her again. “I wanted to come home — I needed to see you and dad.”
She looks at me quizzically and frowns. “Is something wrong?”
I step past her and into the house. Everything’s exactly as I remember it — not a thing’s changed or moved in the years since I went off to college. It smells the same, familiar, inviting. Just being here, I feel warmer, like a comfortable blanket’s slipped over my shoulders and wrapped tight around me.
I step inside, head into the living room and sit down.
“Erick and I broke up,” I say after a heavy moment. I think of a story I saw in the news recently — about dogs reuniting with their soldier-owners returning from deployment — to force the tears and upwelling emotions to make it sound like I actually give a damn about dropping that scumbag from my life.
A few days ago, I might’ve felt different. I might’ve felt that I needed him to make my dream of having a family of my own — husband, two-point-five children, a dog — come true; to have the family I want to go along with the career that I’m building. But now, I feel that even though that’s not something I can have for myself right now, maybe I can make it happen for someone else; I wouldn’t be where I am if not for my family, for the love and support of my mother and father, and the least I can do is help bring a little girl home to her father.
My mom wraps me in a hug so tight black dots swim in front of my eyes.
“Honey, I am so, so sorry,” she murmurs. “He was such a good guy, but I’m sure there will be others.”
When she lets me go, I pull in a deep sigh to clear my vision.
“He was cheating on me, mom.”
That hug is back, tighter than before.
So tight that black dots pop in front of my eyes and I feel a bit dizzy.
It’s lovely.
“Well, I know it hurts now, honey, but you’re better off without him. If he can’t see how wonderful of a person you are, it just shows that he isn’t worth any more of your time.”
“Thanks mom.”
“Is that why you came home, honey?” she says. “I’m sorry that it’s under these circumstances, but it is really good to see you. Your room is just as you left it, if you want to stay the night.”
“Thank you, mom,” I say. “I won’t be staying long, though.”
“Oh,” she says, deflating. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, you know. It isn’t any trouble and I know your father would be so happy to see yo
u. I can make tea. And cookies, if you want.”
There’s a flash where I debate changing my plan. Spending an afternoon with mom, waiting for dad to get home from court, eating dinner together, enjoying the comfortable familiarity of my old room.
I shake it off.
“I know, but I’m working on this thing for Wallis, Hunter & Main. Work is really helping me keep my mind off all the Erick stuff. And maybe I’ll finally turn this internship into a full position. I just need to get some things from dad’s office. Some old legal reference stuff.”
“If that’s what you feel is best, honey.”
“It is. I know it sounds crazy, but maybe this negative can turn into a positive, you know?”
“Well, I’ll leave you to your work. I’ll be around if you need me. And I’ll make up some tea, just in case. And I can run into town to Holland’s Bakery and get those cupcakes that you like.”
“Mom, I haven’t had those cupcakes since I was a freshman in high school. Not since Mr. Holland’s son gave me a dozen rose-shaped cupcakes for Valentine’s day while we were in the middle of math class.”
“He was such a sweet kid.”
“He called me a bitch when I told him I already had a boyfriend,” I say. And then I flinch, because my mom looks totally crestfallen now that I’m stepping all over her plans to mother me. “But, mom, maybe you should go out and get those cupcakes. And some cinnamon rolls, too. Do they still make those?”
She smiles. “They do.”
“I’d love if you’d pick one up. Maybe we can split it, later?”
Her eyes are bright with excitement. “I’ll go right away, honey.”
I hug her again, resting my chin in the spot on her shoulder where I’ve rested it a thousand-thousand times before.
My dad’s office is the same as I remember it; same books, same shelves, same scattering of papers and files on the wood’s worn surface, same old computer that I helped him set up just before I went off to college, same smell, same photos on the wall — me at my graduation, us on a family road trip to the Grand Canyon, Dad holding up a salmon after an Alaskan fishing trip, a photo of dad’s law school graduation that’s seen so much sunlight that it’s almost black-and-white, a photo of my mom and dad as newlyweds.
He’s not here, but I can feel him in this room.
I sit down in his chair.
I turn on the computer.
It takes ages to boot up, so long that I almost think it’s died — reduced to some whirring mechanical mess that’s more decoration than functional. Windows 7 pops up on the monitor. Un-updated, un-changed, the password still the same as the day I helped day set this thing up.
It’s just dad and his luddite-ness.
The wallpaper is a picture of the three of us. Some forgotten Summer day, on a boat somewhere. My mom’s hair looks fabulous even though the gusting wind is thoughtlessly throwing it about.
I stare at the screen for a minute. This plan feels wrong.
In the end, I’m only sitting in this chair, ready to dig through my father’s files and records and cases because of him. I only know how to do this stuff because, at every point along the way where I questioned myself or listened to those nagging whispers of doubt, my dad said in an even louder voice: keep going, I believe in you.
And I know — whether he’s involved in something criminal or not — I’ll find the records I’m looking for on his computer. Even if it’s for the right reasons, I’m breaking the law.
But I dig anyway, because I need to save a man I care about from himself.
Because there’s a little girl out there who needs to know that her father loves her. A girl that needs a family around her. And there’s a father who needs the chance to be with his little girl, to continue down his path to becoming a better man.
It doesn’t take long to find what I want.
It’s in a folder labeled Case Files. Duh. My dad still hasn’t learned much beyond basic technology.
I print the documents — Abigail’s full name, birth records, child services information, foster care information, the works — but it all seems too easy.
I’m my father’s daughter.
I keep digging.
I scour through the hard drive, through hidden files, passing over pornography and a side of my father I’d rather know nothing about, barely mumbling ‘ew’ when a mis-click leads to a mis-adventure with a video involving half a dozen cheerleaders and a young woman who’s about to discover that the initiation ritual for the squad is a lot different than she would’ve expected, but still involves doing the splits.
Further down a funnel of hidden folders, I find what I’d rather not be looking for. Vague ledgers, numbers, accounts, stuff that makes the forensic accountant in me squint suspiciously and the rest of me want to weep in profound disappointment.
I don’t have all the facts yet, but there’s a certainty inside me that what I hold in my hands is anything but good.
It’s a stomach-turning feeling. It starts deep in the pit of me, this cold that throbs with numbing electricity, an icy sensation that grows and grows, spreading outward until all of me is consumed.
I print the files, close everything down, and robotically walk out to Nash’s truck, thankful my mom hasn’t returned home.
I need to leave.
While I still have my voice, I call him. It goes to voice mail. I ramble out what facts I know about his daughter — who’s keeping her, where they are — and I remind him to listen to his better self when he goes to claim her. But I don’t tell him about what I think my father might be involved in — that Nash might be right. I’ve already killed my idea of my father today, I don’t feel like the man himself has to die for my suspicions.
I hang up. And then I call Maria.
I let her berate me for disappearing because it just feels good to hear her honest voice. She might be rough, and foul-mouthed, but she’s always who she says she is.
“Maria, can you stop, please?” I say when she takes a deep breath between verses of her tirade. “I need you.”
“What’s wrong?” her voice does such a one-eighty in tone that I feel like I’ve been slapped.
“It’s a real long story and I don’t think I can even talk about it all right now. It’s just, something really bad has happened with Dad and I’m out in Tacoma — actually, well, I’m staying outside of Tacoma. Stony Shores. That guy I met is a biker, I’m staying at his cabin, and, it’s a long story, but if you come out and ask around at a place called the Broken Crown Saloon, you can find me.”
There’s silence.
“Maria?” I say.
“I’m here, Roxie. This is just a lot of fucking shit to process.”
“I know. I just need you here. Can you come?”
“I mean, fuck. Yes, I’ll come, I love you. I’ll be on the first fucking plane there is.”
“Thank you. I love you, too.”
I hang up, anxious as I start the truck.
I have to get back to Stony Shores.
I have to figure out how to deal with my father.
Chapter Twenty
Nash
My fists concussively introduce themselves to Iron Devil’s face. Knuckle to bone in a satisfying ‘snap’. A tooth and blood dribbles from his mouth.
It is good to be back.
His eyes flutter open and shoot wide as he takes in his surroundings: shitty hut on the shore of some pond overgrown with algae and lily pads and flush with mosquitoes.
There’s a fresh-looking, half-empty bag of Alpo in the corner which confuses even me because Preacher doesn’t have a dog. Never has.
“Talk. Now. Save me the trouble of busting your fucking face in.”
I’m past the point of impatience; I want to get this shit over with; I want my daughter back.
“What the fuck is this?” he says, sputtering.
“An interrogation,” Rog says. “You’re going to tell us where you Devils are keeping the truck you hijacked.”
&nb
sp; The captive stares defiantly at Rog.
“What’s your name?” I say.
“Fuck you,” he says.
“I guess we call him ‘fuck you’,” I say to Rog.
“Strange name, but maybe he had unconventional parents,” he says. “Who are we to judge?”
“You aren’t getting anything out of me,” our captive says.
“You know, Rog, I’m pretty upset, considering this son of a bitch and I just spent nearly an hour hugging. Usually people are nicer after that kind of intimacy,” I say.
“Sorry, Bear, looks like our guest here is determined to be rude.”
“It’s a shame. I was hoping we could wrap this thing up nice and quick, ask him what we need, and maybe have time to grab a beer. But it doesn’t look like it’s going to turn out that way, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“What do you think we should do?”
Rog shrugs, and leans in close to the captive.
“Alright, ‘Fuck You’, tell me something: are you circumcised?” Rog says.
I look over at Rog, managing to keep my face straight, but wondering where the hell this is going. Our captive looks even more confused than me.
“Why do you care about my cock?” he says. “You a faggot? You wanna suck it?”
“I bet you’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” Rog says.
“Fuck, who doesn’t enjoy a good blowjob? They’re in my top five favorite things,” I say.
“Fuck off, motherfuckers,” our captive spits at us.
“Well, ‘Fuck You’, how today goes depends on you,” Rog says. “Today could be a painful, but brief, experience where you tell us what we want to know, you get the shit kicked out of you, and then you get dumped on some forest road and spend the rest of your goddamn day limping back to civilization. It’ll suck, you’ll be embarrassed, we’ll probably steal your clothes, but you’ll make it out relatively unscathed.”
“I’d definitely steal his clothes,” I chime in.
“Fuck off,” our prisoner says.