by A. C. Bextor
“Bring it with you Sunday, and we’ll fix it up while Mom cooks. It’ll help keep us outta the house and avoid the smell of her shit burnin’.”
Nodding, I watch my dad closely. He’s moving slower than he used to. His legs appear weak, and his posture is worse than I remember it.
“Heard from Mel at the post office,” he says.
People in this town never shut up.
“Heard you’ve been seen runnin’ around with little Emilyn Richards,” he continues.
“Yeah, I’ve seen her.”
Turning around and walking into his garage full of tools and building supplies, Dad surprises me with his extended invitation. “Bring her with you Sunday. Haven’t seen that pretty little girl in years. Think it would be nice to have a friendly face gracing us at dinner.”
“I don’t know, Dad. She’s not so little anymore.”
“You and her ain’t friends?” he asks, looking back at me.
“We are.”
“Bring her by then, you idiot,” he mumbles before walking away.
I want to stop him, apologize for my absence and tell him I’ve missed him and Mom every day since I left. He should know how glad I am to be home. I don’t know what keeps me from it, but instead, I mount my bike without a helmet. I start it, rev the engine, and watch as Dad turns around and shakes his head as the noise of the exhaust echoes through the quiet neighborhood.
I’ve probably woken Mom, but it’ll save him the trouble of doing it himself.
He’s glad I’m home, and he’ll tell her within minutes of me leaving.
I’m glad to be home, too, Dad.
Chapter Seventeen
“Are we keeping our own hours now? What memo did I miss that reads we can get here whenever the fuck we feel like rolling our asses out of bed in the morning?” Luke snaps as I walk into his office at nearly eight A.M.
He’s wearing his garage uniform, soiled as fuck and smelling worse, and he’s sitting behind a pile of work orders.
“I’m not late,” I explain, checking my watch and finding I’m actually three minutes early.
“You know the way it is here. If you’re not twenty minutes early, Max,” I join him as he finishes, “then you may as well be late.”
“Right,” I return, taking a seat in the chair across from his desk.
“So, big man,” he jests. “What caused your delay this morning?”
Casually, I mention, “I drove by my parents’ place on the way here.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he jokes. “How’s the place?”
“Dad looks older. I hadn’t realized he’d aged so much. I didn’t see my mom. It was early.”
“We’ve all aged, Max,” he assures. “Except me, of course.”
“You’re just fatter.”
He belly-laughs and leans his chair back a bit to hold his gut. “Late for work and he’s got jokes at my expense. Happy birthday to me.”
Shaking my head, I inform him, “It’s not your birthday, Luke.”
“No, probably not. I did, however, get a little present this morning.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Had a man in an expensive ride come looking for you already this morning,” he informs me, taking a drink of his coffee then setting it down and leaning back in his chair. Resting his hands on his stomach, he asks, “Any idea who that may have been?”
“No,” I answer. I really have no idea.
Luke’s eyes narrow. He thinks I’m lying.
Luke James is older than I am by about fifteen years. He’s also a hot-tempered, tattooed, paternal influence to the younger boys who work here. Luke used to own the corner store in town at a time when the economy was thriving. He’d shuffle the teenagers, me included, in and out of there in packs when we’d come to spend any money our parents had given us for our weekly allowance. He’d give advice on girls, show us the right candy to buy to impress them, then talk old war stories as if we had any fucking idea what politics meant at our age. We listened, though, because he was a good man and treated us well.
Once the economy took a hit, he decided to sell the corner store and buy a bike shop. Bikers were popular around this town and if they weren’t from here, they’d still travel miles to have Luke work on their Harleys. They trusted him to get shit done right, but not rob their wallets.
Luke is respected among most. Before I knew him, he had already served five years in prison for his second assault. The man he beat was seen slapping his daughter repeatedly in an open grocery store parking lot. Luke took it upon himself to show the man what it felt like to be man-handled.
“I really don’t know who’d be lookin’ for me,” I reiterate.
“I do.”
I feel my eyebrows furrow before asking, “Who?”
“Greg Carsen didn’t look pleased. He said he’d be back. Think we’ll be having trouble today, Max?”
Fuck me.
Of course the man with ‘connections’ wants to get in touch. I had my tongue down his wife’s throat and sure as fuck was wishing it was more than that.
“Nah,” I reply. “I’ll handle it.”
“I probably didn’t do you any favors by telling him he could go fuck himself, but he got lippy.”
Great.
“What a way to keep the peace, Luke.”
“What a way to piss in someone’s backyard, Max,” he returns with a smile. “He’s harmless, but I bet he’s back before lunch.”
Standing up, I stretch my back. “I’ll be ready. It won’t get messy.”
Luke laughs, grabs his cup and starts to take a drink after saying, “Too bad for that. I always like a show when it’s not my wrists in cuffs afterward.”
“Crazy fuck,” I utter on my way out the door.
Hours later, I’m dividing up parts from the bikes brought in to piece out. It’s a weekly task no one enjoys doing, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to think and avoid talking to the others. These men are like women at times. They bitch about their lack of money, miserable marriages and uncontrollable kids, and at the end of the day, they all go back to those they love. I don’t have that in common with them, so it makes my end of the conversation difficult to wade through.
“Visitor on the floor!” I hear Marcus, my co-worker and friend, call out.
Throwing down my wrench, I turn to find who I know right away is Greg mother-fucking Carsen. I know this by the suit he’s wearing as he treks his smug ass into the shop. I remain where I’m standing, but rest my ass against the table holding the parts. I cross my legs at the ankles and my arms over my chest as I wait for his approach.
He’s seething.
Good. So am I.
His longer-on-top blond hair is blowing in the breeze and his hands are clenched at his sides. His face is red and his eyes are blazing as he makes his way rapidly toward me.
“Are you Max Taylor?” he shouts louder than necessary, causing all eyes in the garage to land on us.
I nod, but offer no verbal greeting.
“Stay the fuck away from Emma,” he tells me, inching closer to my face.
“Emma’s a grown woman and if she wants me to stay away, she can tell me herself,” I return, watching the vein in his temple protrude. “I assume you’re Greg?”
His eyes narrow and his cheek jumps with anger. “You fucking well know I am. I’m her husband. She’s my wife.”
Hearing his attempt to explain their marriage, I feel my cool slipping. Marcus walks slowly to Greg’s back and nods. The guys here have known me long enough now to realize I’ve got a temper. They have no idea Greg’s a cheating, adulterous liar with a God complex.
Turning around and grabbing the wrench I had released, I toss it in the air and watch his eyes follow its movement. Stepping into his space, I use the wrench to lift his chin so he doesn’t miss my next demand. His cold eyes bore into mine with every word I say. “If you disrespect her again, I’ll cut your throat and watch you bleed, then piss all over the red pool that lies next
to your dead body.”
“You’re an animal!” he returns, stepping back and fixing the front of his suit. Looking around to the rest of us, he seethes, “You’re all fucking animals. This town is full of you fucking people.”
“Not so much as a harsh word said,” I remind him. Even knowing this isn’t my place to say, I still don’t care. “Tell me you got me.”
“No, I fucking don’t. Stay away from Emma.”
“I’ll let Emma tell me how she feels.”
“You were with Dee Dee for a time,” Greg tells me as if I hadn’t known.
My eyebrows rise, waiting for him to say more. When he doesn’t, I prod, “And?”
“You’re Dee Dee’s type.”
“What type is that?” I ask, sensing where this is going.
“Filth,” he sneers in return.
I don’t care that he’s insulted me. It doesn’t hurt at all. I care about Em, though.
“We’re not talkin’ about Em’s sister.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, I note the fight in his eyes. “Stay away from Em,” he repeats.
I don’t answer his command. Instead, I look over his shoulder as the others stand still.
“I don’t understand,” he mumbles quietly. “You’re trash. Why would Emma choose trash?”
“Why’d you choose your assistant?” I fire back.
He feigns a laugh and meets me eye to eye. “People like you always end up with sloppy seconds from people like me.”
“I had Em first.” I’m lying in a sense. I knew her first, but that was it.
His mask of sarcasm falls and in its place is hostile, unplaced anger. He’s so flustered he doesn’t know what to do with it. “I’ll remind her what it’s like to be with someone like me . . .” He takes a daring step in my direction before he finishes. “So she forgets what it’s like to be with someone like you.”
“Tell Em I’ll see her soon.”
Without saying anything further, Greg turns around and walks away, but not before shoulder-shoving Marcus on the way out.
Marcus’ reaction is the same as the others. They don’t have to voice it, but they heard. The tight jaws and balled fists of fury belong to men who know Greg Carsen hurt his wife.
Expensive suits, shined shoes, and exotic cars do not make a man. Adoring your wife, giving her the life you’ve promised she’d have and living each day to love and protect her does.
He’s a piece of shit.
Chapter Eighteen
Finally, hours later, I’m pulling back into Creed MC. It’s still early afternoon, but Luke insisted I’d be useless the rest of the day after my run in with fuck-head.
I briefly discussed with Luke and the guys what happened between Greg and Em. They didn’t feel the same urge to kill the bastard as I had, but they were still pissed off. Since Em knows most of the people in this town one way or another, they were upset on her behalf, but weren’t set on getting involved in a domestic dispute, one Em was capable of handling on her own.
Greg didn’t look settled, and my concern after he left was what he’d say or do to Emma. At this point, I’m unsure how much he knows about our time together.
Greg Carsen’s an adulterous prick, and he broke Em’s heart, but this doesn’t mean he’d be stupid enough to physically harm her. If he ever does, I’ll be sure he suffers the same and more.
When Hoss called after Greg stormed out, he requested a meet. I told him I’d be by later this evening. I needed a few hours’ downtime, but he assumed I was still on the clock at the shop. He gave a smartass comment about working for ‘the man’ and I dismissed it. He didn’t sound unusually pissed off on the phone, but after dealing with Greg, I hadn’t bothered to pay much attention.
Pulling up Em’s name in my contacts, I call her cell.
She doesn’t answer.
I decide to send her a quick text, hoping to hear back that she’s okay.
04:13 P.M. I’m sure you know I got a visit from Greg. Text or call. I want to hear from you.
After sliding my cell into my inside jacket pocket, I park my bike and wait for someone to get me. Hoss hasn’t given me keys to the clubhouse, although I doubt he will.
A few minutes pass and I’m greeted by Dog. He’s a small, young man with a receding hairline, along with a southern drawl so thick I have to listen closely or I miss his words. Doesn’t help that he talks fast, either.
“Hoss is out back with Iron and Wick,” he tells me as we walk side by side to the top of the stairs. “He’s in a mood, so I suggest you don’t piss him off more. He’s unpredictable when he’s like this.”
Wonderful.
“Where’s out back?” I ask, looking around inside and finding everyone gone. Usually, there are some members loitering around with the whores hanging on them. Even the position behind the bar is empty.
“Out back,” he points. “You remember how to get back there?”
“Yeah, I’ll give it a shot.”
“I gotta get supplies. He was askin’ for more shit when I came in, and I’m not goin’ back out there empty-handed.”
Nodding, I walk past him and through the hallways I remember Hoss taking me down the first day I came by. When I open the red door, I hear Hoss’s booming voice ring through the crowd before I see him standing at the center of it.
“How fuckin’ hard is it to keep this shit straight?” His volume continues to increase the more he speaks. “I’ve got eighteen of you sons of bitches, and each one of ya’s more worthless than the one before him.”
As I step out onto the paved slab, I look around and find several men, without cuts, sweating their asses off and moving items in and out of the sheds I thought looked like closets.
“Where the fuck is Hangar?” Hoss hisses.
Then Wick answers. He looks nervous as his eyes drop to the ground. “He’s checking on the girls.”
Eerie silence takes up space between the men.
“Come again?” Hoss asks, his voice low and deep. He’s squinting, but not because of the sun that’s long since set. It’s still light outside, so those standing around can make out his facial features without issue.
“Hoss, he went to check on the girls,” Wick informs again. His pale face, mousy brown hair, and dark eyes look fearful.
Compared to Hoss, Wick is a non-event. He’s nothing.
“Dog!” Hoss yells.
I interrupt, knowing Dog’s not around. “He’s inside gettin’ the supplies you asked him for. He let me in then took off.”
I don’t know what causes me to feel the need to open my mouth and stand up for Dog, but I do. I don’t know the man, but the threat of having his hands removed bothers me nonetheless.
“Fuckin’ kids!” Hoss shouts, lifting a picnic table at his side and tossing it over completely. “My fuckin’ VP can’t even stick around to see a job’s done. Why the fuck would Viktor trust us, much less pay us, if my own men are completely fuckin’ worthless.”
Walking toward him but stopping a safe distance away, I ask, “Is there somethin’ I can do? I can go find Dog.”
At that moment, I hear Iron and Dog arguing at the door behind us. Iron’s face is red and Dog looks nervous.
“Iron, find Hangar. Tell him he’s on this shit. I want these fuckin’ closets cleaned and ready for cargo, and I want it done in an hour.”
“Got it,” Iron confirms assuredly before turning away.
Giving Hoss time to cool down, I start to look around. The units are almost empty, the doors are open, and tools, boxes, and other miscellaneous items surround the area. The last door on the end is open, as well, but it’s still full.
Stepping back and away from the crowd, I slowly make my way to the end unit. The smell hits me first. Decayed or rotten animals, maybe. As I step closer to the door, I hear the others continuing to argue their degree of worthlessness. I open the door further to get a clear view of its contents, and this time my gut churns with the putrid smell coming from inside.
&nb
sp; The floor is empty. Nothing clutters the bottom, other than a few pieces of cloth and what looks like hair. Unsure where the smell is coming from, I look up. That’s when I feel the vomit in the back of my throat. My hand covers my mouth and nose. I’m going to be sick.
The slap to my back comes without warning and the sight in front of me causes me to jump.
I hear Hoss laughing before saying, “Have you never seen a dead person before?”
This isn’t a dead person. These are dead people. People’s heads that have been removed from their bodies, no less. The skulls are lined up in formation, sitting on a shelf close to the ceiling. Some have full heads of hair, long and straggled. Others have none and the skull is clean, as if it was washed and dressed before being placed in the case.
This looks like a fucking shrine.
“They weren’t good people,” he says. “If you’re considerin’ feelin’ sorry for any of ’em. People who borrowed money, women, or used my coke without any intention of payin’ it back.”
“Jesus,” I say out loud, “There must be ten here.”
“Twelve,” he corrects. “Hangar got a little carried away with an anvil once. Even long after the guy stopped breathin’, he kept at him until he was in bits. He’s stashed in the back somewhere in pieces.”
“Christ, Hoss.” I shouldn’t say anything, but fuck, this is a lot to take in.
“You’ll keep your mouth shut about it, unless you wanna join ’em.”
“Yeah,” I say in return. “Okay, to each MC their own, I guess,” I tell him for lack of saying anything else.
Pointing to the one on the end, a clean version of the skeletal bones, Hoss tells its story. “That one deserves to be there more than most.”
“How so?”
“He fucked an animal,” he says casually.
Jesus Christ.
“An animal?”
Hoss laughs, “Hangar’s dog.” Slapping me again, this time harder, he continues, “Hangar killed the dog and buried him near the stream over there. Loved that fucker, too, but couldn’t look at it after what happened.”
“I don’t know what to say to that,” I return, looking at the animal lover’s skull.