From the Ruins

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Wondering if he’s referring to me or my five-year-old, I blow out an exasperated breath and watch the three of them stomp toward the stairs. I cross my arms under my chest and lean against the wall as they bicker over who will get what room. I should probably intervene, maybe even draw straws or some shit but I don’t. By the time they reach the landing they’ve figured it out for themselves and without any bloodshed.

  That’s a win in my book.

  A small victory, but nonetheless a victory.

  Chapter Seven

  After deciding who got which room, the kids took turns showering. I thought I was in the clear for the night until Tommy commented there was no hot water left. Adding a plumber to my list of must haves, I got everyone to bed. Whether they were sleeping or not, I didn’t care, all that mattered was that they were quiet. It’s funny, being a city girl my whole life I thought the quiet of the woods would annoy me, but instead I craved it. Well, that and a vat of tequila because silence and Patron are the remedy for all.

  I was both physically and mentally exhausted but I knew I’d never fall asleep. There was so much to do and I felt compelled to get as much done as possible. The naïve part of me figured if I worked through the night and whipped this disaster of a house into shape, well, then maybe the kids would wake up a little happier than they felt when they went to sleep. I had my work cut out for me though and the more I glanced around, the more clear it became that this house was worse than the ones that came before it. The outside of our new rental looked like a palace compared to what we discovered when we turned the key on this nightmare. Every room needed to be thoroughly cleaned, painted and then there was the kitchen and bathroom, both of which needed extensive repairs. However, at one in the morning there wasn’t much I could do about any of that.

  Deciding I could at least get a head start on unpacking some of our belongings, I stalk toward the front door and pull it open. Stepping onto the porch, I realize I forgot my shoes and turn back inside. I slip my bare feet into my daughter’s red rain boots and grab my son’s hoodie. There are perks to having a pre-adolescent daughter who shares the same shoe size as you and son who is twice your size.

  Making my way down the front steps, my feet touch the overgrown grass and I head for my car which has seen better days too. It seems like everything in my life is falling apart and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. Reaching the end of the driveway, I step around to the back of my car and stand there unsure where to begin. The trunk seems to hold every cherished possession I’ve accumulated over the last sixteen years, and for a brief moment I let myself recall the years I spent convincing myself I was happy. It wasn’t all that bad or maybe I’ve blocked most of it out. It’s easy to forget the nights when I cried myself to sleep and wondered where Louie and I went wrong because in the end I’ve got three amazing children who are truly the best of both me and Louie.

  Three amazing children who are miserable and think I’ve ruined their lives.

  My son especially.

  Pushing my hair away from my face, I grab the elastic band from my wrist and tie my long locks into a ponytail. Trying my hardest to keep the tears at bay, my mind flashes back to earlier, to Tommy’s outburst. It kills me to know how badly affected he is by all the changes, but at the same time I’m not sure how to make any of it better. Part of me wonders if I made a mistake by leaving the city. Who knows what would have happened if I had stuck it out. I might have found a job. Hell, I may have even found two if I went off the island and into Manhattan, but my pride was wounded and my heart too broken for me to think straight. It was easier to load the car and disappear than sticking around to admit defeat, something I was never very good at doing.

  Even now, with everything a mess I can’t bring myself to admit I’ve failed as a wife, mother, and well, simply a woman. There’s no time to lock myself in a room and cry until I’ve run out of tears. When you’ve got three kids, crying isn’t an option. I busy myself with mundane things when in truth all I want to do is lock myself in a room and isolate myself from the world.

  And maybe I want to kick something too.

  I definitely want to kick something.

  An engine rumbles loudly, jolting me back to the present and I peer over the side of my car just in time to be blinded by the headlights of an oncoming motorcycle. Paying no regard to me as I stand on the side of the road, the bike zooms past me and turns into the driveway next to mine. The driver nearly clips me as the tires kick up the mud left over by the rain and splatters all over my backside. Angrily, I turn around and stare across the lawn at the man who yelled at my son.

  The silence of the woods returns as he cuts the engine on the bike and I watch as the leather clad bastard throws one leg over his bike. Stumbling to his feet, he pulls the helmet from his head and reaches into the bag tied to the side of his motorcycle. In the dark with only the distant porch lights as my aide, I study him as he straightens his posture and combs one hand through his salt and pepper hair. Clutching a bottle of booze in his other hand, he turns his eyes and I feel the power of his gaze slice through me. The darkness of the night seems to match everything that exudes off him except his eyes.

  A moment passes before he breaks the stare we seem to be engaged in and turns abruptly toward his house. Swallowing, I force my gaze away from his tight ass and take notice of the patch taking up the entire length of his leather vest. Squinting, I forget about the mud staining my clothes and I read the words surrounding the reaper.

  Satan’s Knights MC.

  While I may have never seen an actual Knight before, I’ve read all the stories that painted the front pages of the city newspapers. The men who wore the patch my new neighbor was sporting were nothing like the old bikers that sat outside Country Donuts on Saturday morning straddling their Harleys. That patch represented mayhem and hell.

  I can’t explain what comes over me but before I even realize what I’m doing I slam the trunk of my car closed and start toward him.

  “Hey, you,” I holler.

  Ignoring me, he continues toward his house.

  “I’m talking to you,” I growl as I quicken my pace to catch up to him. My foot slips and I go flying. Landing hard on my ass, a curse slips past my lips as I close my eyes.

  I won’t cry.

  I won’t fucking cry.

  Drawing in a much needed breath, I somehow find the courage to open my eyes and am greeted with a brutal glare.

  “Serves you right,” he sneers from the top step.

  The fleeting sense of shame I felt a moment ago vanishes and is replaced by red, hot anger.

  “Serves me, right?” I grit as I scramble onto my knees. I forget about the patch on his back and all the headlines associated with it. I also forget that I’m covered in mud or that I’m dressed in thin pajamas and my son’s sweatshirt as I reach for the bannister. I use it to hoist myself onto my feet and climb the steps until I’m standing in front of him. The scent of motor oil, leather and whiskey wafts over me and I wave my hand in front of my face trying to escape it.

  “You’re drunk,” I sputter. The accusation sounds ridiculous and I quickly wish I could take it back.

  “What’s it to you?” he growls.

  “You almost ran me over!”

  “Shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the road then,” he retorts as he moves to turn his back to me. Angry that he’s trying to dismiss me, I lean forward and grab a hold of his arm.

  Big fucking mistake.

  Quick to react, he spins around. The bottle of booze falls to the ground as he wraps his large hand around my wrist and squeezes. Flinching slightly, I pull my arm free and lose my shit.

  “Get your fucking hands off me,” I growl as he loses his footing slightly. Taking full advantage of his drunken stature, I shove a finger into the center of his chest.

  “Let’s get something straight,” I begin, giving him another poke. “I’m not like the rest of these women up here. I keep a pair of brass knuckles in my junk
drawer for shitheads just like you,” I tell him. It’s true. I stole them from my ex-husband and while I may never have used them, this son of a bitch doesn’t need to know that. He also doesn’t need to know I didn’t unpack my junk drawer.

  “You about done?” he questions, glancing down at my finger that’s still wedged between his pecs.

  “Oh, I’m just getting started,” I spit, stepping closer to him. A part of me knew I should have been intimidated by the man, but a bigger part was drawn to him. Maybe it was the alcohol on his breath and knowing he was inebriated or maybe it was his red-rimmed eyes that told me he wasn’t in a good place. Whatever the case may be, in that single second I knew he wasn’t a match for my fury and I fed off his pain and suffering.

  “If you so much as blink in my son’s direction, I will knock your fucking teeth out,” I hiss, continuing to use him as an outlet to unleash the anger and humiliation that’s been coiling inside of me. “I mean it, stay the fuck away from my kids, or so help me God, I will make you regret the day your mother birthed your miserable ass,” I spit as I notice my trembling hands.

  Instantly, I shove them in the pockets of my sweatshirt and take a much needed deep breath. I should peel my eyes away from him but I can’t. I’m hypnotized by the regret flashing in his light eyes.

  “You’re a day late and a dollar short, killer,” he grunts finally.

  Then the control slips from me and I feel small compared to him. It’s not his size that suddenly intimidates me but the aura of him. In a single second, he’s not the man who yelled at my kid for no reason, or rather an unknown reason.

  He’s just another lost soul with a story.

  For a second, I forget my own misery and wallow in his.

  “Keep your kids away from my property,” he warns roughly as he swipes a hand over the stubble covering his jaw. “I won’t be around much longer but I don’t need some little rebel thriving for his mama’s attention fuckin’ with my shit while I’m here.”

  “He’s sixteen,” I whisper. “He didn’t mean anything by it—”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” he interrupts. I’m actually grateful he cut me off when he did because I was a breath away from telling him all my hardships.

  I may be losing my mind.

  “Next time he’s sniffing around my bike, I won’t be so nice,” he warns.

  I’m definitely losing my mind because his threats seem empty to me. Like I’m not the slightest bit concerned, which is baffling considering that leather cut declares him a goddamn criminal.

  It dawns on me then that I just threatened some gangbanger with a pair of brass knuckles.

  I wasn’t losing my mind.

  It was fucking gone.

  “I’m not scared of you,” I blurt.

  See, certifiably insane.

  Lifting my hand, I cover my mouth before anymore bullshit seeps out and watch as he kicks the broken glass away from his boot. Then he cocks his head to the side and stares at me, or rather, right through me.

  “You damn well should be, I’m the fucking devil,” he mutters before turning his back toward me. He takes two steps forward and as he opens his front door my eyes lock with the reaper on his back. I mindlessly study the stitching of the words before he disappears inside. Snapping out of my trance, I steal another glance at the menacing man.

  In a world where bikers are meant to be feared I can’t help but think Satan never looked so sad.

  Then he slams the door in my face.

  Sad and angry as fuck.

  Chapter Eight

  My head pounds violently as I blink open my eyes and curse the dawn of yet another fucking day. The shit thing about life is no one gives a fuck when you’ve had enough. That motherfucker upstairs keeps you rising and grinding until the only thing that motivates you is revenge.

  Rubbing my face, the coarse hairs prick my calloused hands and I try to remember the last time I shaved. Not really giving two fucks, I throw the sheets off my body and force myself to sit up. The blood rushes to my head and I close my eyes in agony. Flashes from the night before assault me, reminding me of my new neighbor and the tongue lashing she delivered on my front porch.

  If I was half the man I used to be that shit never would have transpired. I would have dismissed her before she got a chance to utter a word or I would have thrown her over my shoulder and shut her the fuck up with my cock. Either way, she never would have gotten a chance to mouth off like she did.

  Making my way into the kitchen, I glance around at the mess. Empty liquor bottles decorate the counter like a fucking frat house. Not in the mood to deal with them, I pull open the fridge and the findings are just as pathetic as the rest of the house. There isn’t so much as an egg in there and the realization gets me thinking. It makes me miss my wife even more and not because she was such a fantastic homemaker. In fact, Oksana wasn’t much of a housewife which suited me just fine. I didn’t need a hot meal waiting for me or someone to press my shorts. I just needed her.

  After hours on the road it was nice to come home to my woman. She never asked questions or got on my case. There were times I’d come home covered in another man’s blood and she’d simply hand me clean clothes and ask me to take her out for breakfast. A hungry man special at the diner cured all.

  Slamming the fridge closed, I shut the door on my memories too and head toward the bathroom. In a few hours I’ll be in the city, surrounded by the men I call my brothers and we’ll ride. We’ll ride deep and we’ll ride wide. Fully loaded, running on adrenaline and vengeance we’ll pull up to the gates of hell and let Satan guide us as we rip the life from the Bastards. My brothers will do it in the name of the club and I’ll do it for Oksana. I’ll lay it all on the line and sacrifice myself in the name of revenge and the vows I took. Then I’ll pray to whatever God will have me that he gives me one more glimpse of my lady before I’m sucked into the flames.

  Stepping into the shower, I tip my head back and let the water rain over my face. By the time the water runs cold, I’ve sobered up some and when I’m finished rinsing the soap from my body, I dress in a pair of worn jeans. I throw a black thermal over my head and reach for my cut. The reaper I used to worship stares back at me and I wait for the sense of pride to wash over me. I fight to remind myself of the rules of brotherhood and that loyalty is the core of every biker. It’s the one thing that binds one brother to another. In a world gone soft, loyalty means a fuck of a lot. It’s the thing that takes years to build and only seconds to destroy.

  For years I built that shit up, but in every life there comes a day of reckoning. For the righteous it’s a joyous event, for the wicked it’s a day where values are severed. It’s the day darkness is exposed and sinners are punished for their trespasses. My punishment, my day of reckoning is now.

  Once the man who believed in the sanction of brotherhood, I am now a widower whose club got his wife killed.

  I’m a man with a choice.

  Will retribution on the Bastards be enough to get me by?

  Do I pardon my club when they deserve death or do I leave it all behind?

  Conceding time will tell, I slip my arms through the vest and run my hands over the worn leather covering my chest. My fingers glide over the patch labeling me the sergeant at arms and I fight the urge to rip it off knowing a man contemplating his religion doesn’t deserve the title.

  After a moment, I tie the laces on my moto boots and head down the hall. I step around searching for the hollow floorboard then I get down on my hands and knees and pull it up. Hidden inside is an envelope and my very first gun. I fold the envelope and stuff it inside my back pocket before reaching for the Glock. Deciding it’s fitting that my first and last kills are made with the same weapon, I shove the gun into my holster and replace the board.

  Then I head toward the door and pause when I see the shoes.

  “This one’s for you, babe,” I rasp, pulling open the door.

  It takes me two hours to get into the city and when I do, I make
my way straight to my garage. I take a good look around and reminisce over the blood, sweat and tears I put into this place. There was a time when the idea of being legit laid the foundation of this joint. Now, it’s acting as a fucking clubhouse. Hell, Jack’s table sits under the lift for fuck’s sake.

  A short while later, Blackie rounds up the boys. What’s left of the Brooklyn chapter and all of Smoke’s Bergen County charter straddle their bikes and load their weapons. I watch idly as Riggs carefully produces a crate full of bottles. Each of them has a rag shoved into the neck and he begins to carefully load them into our saddlebags. As he moves to put one into Blackie’s bag, the acting president grabs it. He turns his eyes to me and lifts the bottle before producing a permanent marker from his back pocket. Without a word, he scribbles something onto the glass and then turns it to face me.

  For Oksana.

  I tip my chin and he puts his right hand over his heart and nods slightly. It’s a silent promise we’ve made a thousand times.

  I’ve got you.

  It’s a nice gesture, but it’s too late.

  It won’t bring her back.

  And he knows it too.

  Deep down, Blackie knows this is the final ride.

  With the bottles securely tucked away and our guns loaded, we roll out. A sea of chrome spreads wide and we take to the streets. Once we hit the highway, our speed increases and the cars part like Moses parted the sea. Day turns to night and when the Corrupt Bastards’ clubhouse comes into view, Blackie lifts a hand into the air and his index finger circles in the wind.

  Knock, knock.

  Who’s there?

  Death, motherfucker.

  Flashing our lights behind him, we ride tight through the gates. Stryker and Cobra rev their engines, steer with one hand and pull up alongside Blackie. They open fire with no regard and announce our arrival.

  Blackie pulls in front of the clubhouse and drops his kickstand. It’s something I’ve watched Jack do a thousand times but witnessing Blackie do it is a poignant moment. It symbolizes the times have changed. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he lights one end of the rag. The flame travels the length of the fabric and in a flash he rears his arm backward, tossing the bottle.