Riding The Edge

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “Yeah, well, you don’t get to decide,” he retorts. “I’m a prospect for the Devil’s Cross and those men you just saw, they’re my brothers. I’ve always shown your brotherhood respect, I’d appreciate it if you did the same for mine.”

  “One fucking bullet wasn’t enough for you?” I shout. “You think you’re a badass now, is that it? Got yourself a scar to prove your worth to a bunch of pissants. You underestimate me, Nico,” I grind out, rounding the bed. “If you think I’m going to sit back and let you sell your soul like I sold mine, you’re out of your fucking mind.”

  “I needed my old man to take the training wheels off my bike when I was six. I don’t need shit from him now that I’m twenty-six. I can hold my own on two wheels just fine.”

  Like a knife to the chest, his words sear me. The rage that consumed me a moment ago, fades and is replaced by desperation.

  “Son,” I rasp. “I won’t allow you to make the biggest mistake of your life. Not while I’m still breathing.”

  “I want you to go,” he interrupts. “Turn around and just go.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Sure, you can you’ve done it my whole life.”

  And the knife twists again.

  Feeling my eyes fill, I quickly swipe both hands down my face and swallow the lump in my throat. My eyes linger on the boy I created, the man who kneels for the Devil and I realize nothing I say will bring him back. I’ve lost my son to the same world, I lost myself. Turning around, I draw in a deep breath before quietly walking towards the door. Stepping outside, I brush past Patty in a state of oblivion. She calls upon deaf ears as I continue down the hallway, reaching into my pocket for my phone.

  Bringing up my list of contacts, the phone starts to vibrate in my hand with a call from Riggs.

  “What?” I grunt into the phone.

  “Well, it’s nice to hear your voice too,” Riggs replies.

  “I don’t got time for your shit, Riggs—”

  “And you think I got time for yours? I got three fucking kids and a bar that needs to be converted into a clubhouse. I don’t need to deal with some pencil pushing creep looking for his car.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m at the garage and there’s some stiff here claiming you stole a Dodge Charger from his dealership.”

  Why the fucking guy from the dealership is at Pipe’s garage, makes no sense at all but, I don’t dwell on it.

  “I didn’t steal shit. Look, tell him to charge my card and I’ll bring the fucking car back when I get a chance… why the fuck didn’t he call me?”

  “Says, he’s been trying to get in touch with you all morning.”

  “That’s bullshit. The car wasn’t due back until a little while ago.”

  “How’s about you tell me why the fuck you’re renting a car, to begin with?”

  “Piss off,” I growl.

  “You’re extra grumpy today, Wolf. What’s the matter? Did a field mouse get a hold of your tomatoes?”

  “Fuck you, Riggs. Stop breaking my balls and handle the shit with the car,” I demand, disconnecting the call before he can argue. With the line free, I round the hallway and call Jack. The son of a bitch answers on the fourth ring.

  “Parrish,” he greets.

  “When were you going to tell me, my boy expressed an interest in the club?”

  “Wolf, I don’t got time for this—”

  “Make the fucking time,” I shout. Ignoring the stares of nurses and doctors passing me by, I clench my jaw and lower my voice. “Nico’s prospecting for the Devil’s Cross.”

  “Shit.”

  “That’s all you got?” I ask incredulously.

  “Look, the kid came to me a couple of years back and asked me how one goes about becoming a prospect. At the time, I thought he was just curious until he asked me if I would consider him. I shut that shit down, brother. I told him he needed to talk to you first. It was never brought up again so, I assumed you either nipped it in the bud or the kid lost interest in the idea. How the fuck did he get involved with the likes of them?”

  Unwilling to admit this whole fucking thing is my fault, I ignore the question.

  “Who is the president of the charter here?”

  “Alvarez.”

  “I need you to get me a meeting with him and quickly too.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Fuck that.

  “My boy, my business. Just get me the fucking meeting, Parrish.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “Both,” he hollers into the phone. “I ain’t letting you go in there by yourself, without your patch.”

  “No one fucks with my son, Parrish.”

  “I hear you, brother.”

  “Then hear this too…” Holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I crack my knuckles one by one. “… make the fucking call.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Staring up at the fluorescent lights, I try to take my mind off my current situation and the six-inch needle the doctor is about to inject into my breast. However, my mind betrays me and instead of picturing myself on a tropical island, sipping Pina Coladas, I think back to a couple of years ago when my co-worker Leanne found out she had breast cancer. Of course, my initial reaction was to console her but, how do you console a woman after she’s told she must sacrifice a part of her anatomy to live. Like so many others, I’m sure she never thought it could happen to her. She got lost in her daily life and neglected her health. I think we’ve all been guilty of that at least once in our lives. We say we’re going to make an appointment with our gynecologist, something comes up and we forget to reschedule. They send the little reminders in the mail, you pin them to the refrigerator and never give them a second glance. Then one day you’re in the shower and you feel a lump. Immediately you rack your brain trying to recall the last time you went to the doctor and suddenly you remember the postcard on the fridge.

  At least that was the case for Leanne.

  The cancer had already spread by the time she caught the lump and though she had a double mastectomy and three rounds of chemo, my friend lost her battle with cancer.

  Then there are women like me, who religiously go to the doctor because they have families that rely on them and grandchildren they want to watch grow. Since I turned forty, every year I go for a mammogram and every year I’ve gotten a clean report. Now, here I am, fighting back tears as I stare at the white lights, wondering if my luck has changed and if it has why me… why now?

  It’s selfish and completely out of character but until it’s you until you’re the one under the knife, you can’t understand the debilitating fear. It’s incredible how one dreadful word can hold so much power over the entire human race. After all, cancer doesn’t discriminate, it knows no gender or race.

  “We’re almost done. How are you doing?”

  Licking my lips, I wipe the corners of my eye and force a brave smile.

  “Fine,” I rasp hoarsely.

  Turning my head, I close my eyes as the nurse assisting the doctor squeezes the hand raised over my head.

  “Dr. Kennedy is finished taking the tissue samples and will now insert a marker into the breast just as we discussed. Once she’s done with that, she will cover the incision site with Steri-Strips and we will send the tissue samples off to the lab.”

  “How long does it take to get the results?” I ask, keeping my eyes closed.

  “It can take pathology anywhere from two days to a week. Our office will continuously call and follow up. As soon as they are in, Dr. Kennedy will call you into the office to discuss the results. In some cases, she might invite an oncologist to sit in on the visit to answer any questions the patient may have.”

  I’m sure that’s comforting to some people, but the word oncologist is as frightening to me as the disease in which it treats.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “You’re going to
be fine, Mrs. Bianci,” she assures me.

  Unable to speak, I nod in agreement.

  Twenty minutes later, the procedure is complete. After icing my breast, I dress in the loose-fitting clothes I was instructed to wear and head into Dr. Kennedy’s office. Watching her shrug on her lab coat, I take a seat on the opposite side of her desk and wait for her to take a seat.

  “Is there someone here to take you home?”

  “No, I wasn’t aware I couldn’t drive myself—”

  “Oh, no, you most certainly can. However, I encourage you to take it easy today. Ice your breast as needed and if you experience any discomfort, you may take Tylenol. Don’t shower for twenty-four hours. The Steri-Strips will fall off on their own in, give or take, three days.”

  “Okay,” I reply, realizing I sound like I’m on autopilot.

  “Do you have any questions for me?”

  Meeting her gaze, I fold my hands on my lap and stare at her silently.

  “How long have you been practicing?”

  She smiles at the question.

  “Fifteen years.”

  “So, it would be safe to say, you know what you’re looking for,” I surmise.

  “Mrs. Bianci—”

  “All, I’m asking is for a little peace of mind, Dr. Kennedy,” I cry. “I want to be prepared. I need to be prepared.”

  “I understand that but without the pathology report—” Realizing she’s not going to confirm anything without hard facts, I push back the chair and adjust the strap of my purse on my shoulder.

  “Thank you for your time,” I say.

  “Mrs. Bianci, I know this is difficult, but it’s important we don’t jump to conclusions.”

  Reaching the door, I glance over my shoulder at her.

  “But there’s a mass on my breast.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the tissue you took today will confirm if it's cancerous.”

  “Correct.”

  “In your experience, would you say it is?”

  “Eighty percent of biopsies are negative.”

  “Thank you, I could’ve googled that myself,” I say as I turn my back to her. Straightening my shoulders, I walk out the door and completely bypass the receptionist. Desperate for air and more importantly solitude, I hurry out of the office and down the hall as quick as my legs will carry me.

  Lost in my head, I take a wrong turn and find myself standing in front of the hospital chapel, a room I often escaped to when my daughter was in the hospital. Remembering my faith has gotten me through some of the darkest days of my life, I push open the doors and step inside. I barely make it three steps before my knees threaten to give out on me. Clutching the wooden pew to steady myself, my body shutters as I begin to sob uncontrollably.

  “Please, God…” I beg. “Please let me be okay,” I cry, blinking through the tears to stare at the crucifix on the wall. “I beg you,” I whisper.

  “Lady?”

  Frozen in place, I gasp at the sound of Al’s voice.

  “Please go away,” I rasp.

  I’m not foolish enough to believe he didn’t just witness me fall apart but I’m not willing to give him any more than that.

  I won’t give him my tears.

  I won’t give them to anyone.

  They are mine and mine alone.

  Yet the moment his hand touches my shoulder, they fall without restraint. I feel my body sway and before I realize it, I lean my back against his chest, sobbing while he wraps his arms around my waist. Tightening his hold on me, he kisses the top of my head.

  “Shh… it’s okay,” he says in that gruff voice of his. How something so masculine can also be so comforting is beyond me. “Tell me what happened. Why are you at the hospital? Did you have an accident?”

  The idea of telling him why I’m there is not appealing and as much as I want to push him away, I don’t. For the first time in my life, I just want to lean on someone. I want to cry and not worry about everyone else. Just this once, I want someone to hold me and tell me it’s going to be okay.

  “Can you hold me?” I ask hoarsely. “Please just hold me and don’t let go.”

  “Yeah, Lady,” he whispers against my ear. “I’ll hold you for as long as you’ll let me.”

  I don’t know if its seconds, minutes or an hour, but I cry until there are no tears left in me. Part of me wonders if I’m crying because I might have cancer or because I’ve spent the last thirty years of my life bottling my emotions, braving one storm after another.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I lift my hands and wipe my eyes. Finding my courage, I slowly turn around in Al’s arms and meet his worried gaze. He doesn’t ask me to share my grief. Instead, he slides his hands to my hips and bends his head to kiss me.

  Softly and comfortingly.

  It’s a kiss that whispers a promise.

  You’re not alone.

  Pulling back, I touch my nose to his and stare into his curious eyes.

  “The doctor found a mass on my breast,” I whisper.

  At the revelation, his fingers squeeze my hips and the touch provides me with a physical sense of assurance.

  You’re not alone.

  “I had a biopsy this morning.”

  He lifts his head and his lips brush my forehead.

  You’re not alone.

  “I might have cancer,” I croak.

  With my voice merely an octave above a whisper, the tears that I thought had dried were back and fiercely falling from the corners of my eyes.

  “Let it out, Lady. Let it out and lay it on me,” he murmurs.

  You’re not alone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Absentmindedly, I stare across the dimly lit chapel, at the figure nailed to the cross and wonder why anyone believes in God. After my call with Jack, I was quick to rely on the faith I gave up on and so, with my grandmother’s rosary beads in my back pocket, I made my way to the chapel to pray for my son. The plan was to ask my Heavenly Father to forgive me of my sins and guide my son through his mistakes. I should’ve known he wouldn’t go easy on me. I should’ve realized the best laid plans always fail. Every sinner has their day of judgment and apparently, today was my day in the Lord’s court.

  Running my hand down Maria’s arm, I glance down at her, memorizing her soft features. Thankfully, she stopped crying a little while ago. There are few things in this world that I can’t bear to stand, and a woman’s tears is one of them. I used to think God had kept that in mind when he gave me three sons instead of a daughter. I was no match for a crying woman yet, Maria’s tears didn’t scare me. If anything, they compelled me to do right by her, to give what I knew very few had given her. I held her and let her be. I took her tears and gave her my shoulder while silently vowing to give her my ear when and if she felt like sharing.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, lifting her head from my chest.

  “Got nothing to be sorry for, Lady,” I reply, brushing my knuckles over her cheek. Lifting a hand, her fingers close around my wrist and for the briefest moment, she closes her eyes. I try not to read too much into it or allow myself to wonder falsely if I can help her through this. Going by experience, I’m the last man any woman wants in her life during the trying times.

  “It’s just a lot, you know?”

  Dropping her hand, she pulls away and turns her head. Keeping her eyes pinned to the cross, she draws in a deep breath. “I’m not telling anyone so if you could keep this between us, I’d appreciate that.”

  Stretching my arms over the back of the pew, I stare at her in bewilderment.

  “Your kids don’t know you had a biopsy?”

  “No, they don’t.”

  Snapping her gaze back to me, she gives me the same look she did when she told me to take off my boots, making it clear there is no room for argument.

  “There is no sense in worrying them when it might be nothing,” she continues. “The earliest the pathology report will be available is Monday. After that, I’ll decide whether I need t
o tell them or not.”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I ignore the objection resting on my tongue and weigh my options. I’m not an expert on parenthood, far from it, but, knowing Lauren and Anthony, I think they would want to be made aware of the situation. Yeah, they’ll be devastated by the possibility but after the shock subsides, I think they’d want to be there for their mother.

  On the other hand, Maria is going to do what Maria wants and damn anyone who stands in her way. If I took anything from the conversation we shared last night, it’s that she isn’t a woman who leans on others. She stands alone in a storm and if I hadn’t walked into this chapel, I would be in the dark just like her children.

  My eyes dart to the cross and I can’t help but wonder if finding her in here was more than a simple coincidence. Maybe he does exist. Maybe he speaks to us in ways we don’t understand.

  Turning my attention back to her, I watch her rise to her feet.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time and I should be getting home. The local anesthesia is starting to wear off and I should be taking it easy.”

  “I’ll take you home.”

  “No, I have my car here.”

  “Lady, I wasn’t asking,” I say, pushing myself off the pew. Standing before her, I watch her lift her chin and stare up at me. The vast change in our height leaves me confused and I divert my eyes to the sensible flats covering her feet, needing validation as to why she suddenly seems fragile in my eyes.

  “I appreciate that—”

  “I’m taking you home, Maria and I’ll come back later for your car.”

  “I swear I’m fine,” she starts to argue.

  Placing a finger to her lips, I silence her.

  “I know you’re fine,” I tell her. “But you can’t give me what you gave me and expect me to turn my cheek, Lady. I’m not wired like that just like you’re not wired to depend on anyone. Now, I know you’re used to doing things on your own and I respect that but, I’m here. Here, to hold you when you when you’re crying in a chapel. Here, to listen if you want to talk and here, whether you like it or not, I’m here to drive you home. There ain’t much I’m good at, but the ones who need me, always got me and you, Lady, you got me for as long as you need me.”