Red Hot Bikers, Rock Stars and Bad Boys

by Cassia Leo

  He pictured Stella, vulnerable and shaking at the top of the tower. She had gone up there despite nearly falling off a few days earlier, just because of him. He’d seen the bent rail, just like she’d described it once he was able to get her talking. He exhaled in a rush. That girl had balls, going up there just because he’d told her to.

  Damn it, he couldn’t get that woman out of his head.

  Dane began popping the jets with the screwdriver. He held one up to the light, peering through to see if it was clogged. Yup. That man had messed with the wrong woman if she was willing to fill his bike’s tank with syrup. He glanced behind him. The ’83 Yamaha Seca rested on its side on the floor like a dead horse. An image of Darlene loomed over it like an apparition. If some girl pulled a number like this on his Harley, well, there’d be payback.

  ***

  10: Beads

  STELLA’S mother opened the door to Grandma Angie’s house, her face twisted into a warning. “She’s up. Made us turn down the morphine. This is probably going to be her last good day. Don’t upset her.”

  Stella pushed past, pissed as hell. Like she would be the one to ever bring a moment’s grief to Grandma. That was Vivian’s job. Vivian, who had screwed half the population of Holly while Stella’s father watched television. Vivian, who decided Bible beating was better than dealing with her real issues.

  Grandma Angie was sitting up, surrounded by TV trays full of beads.

  “Grandma! You’re jeweling!” Stella set her bag on the floor, wishing she’d brought the pieces of the broken bracelet even though she didn’t have all the parts.

  “I am.” Her hand quivered as she tugged a tray into her lap, the beads nestled in the flocked partitions. “I have all my favorites.”

  Stella perched on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers along the edges of the tray, the flecks of felt wearing thin. The colored rows of square boxes were filled with crystals, seed pearls, bone beads, spirals, balls, and shells.

  Grandma Angie grasped Stella’s wrist as if divining a secret from her bones. “A new boy.” She always knew.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you made a bracelet yet?”

  Stella reached for a spool of fine wire. “I was waiting for you.”

  “Ahh.” Grandma ran her hands across the rippling surface of the beads, as though she were reading Braille. “Usually you do them alone.”

  “This one’s different.” Stella heard the words and wondered why she’d said them. Dane couldn’t be all that different. Cheated on his girlfriend already. Bad news. Totally bad news. She should stay away.

  “He torments you. You are not in control of this one.”

  Pegged it, as usual. “I thought I could use your help this time. For this bracelet.” Stella made a bracelet for each boy, just like some people compiled mix tapes. Each bead had its significance, an observation or a hope.

  And when each relationship ended, she smashed them to pieces.

  “Let’s start with the clasp,” Grandma Angie said. “Box clasp, subtle, gentle?” She held up a gold ball.

  Stella shook her head.

  Grandma’s fingers fluttered through the largest partition, full of metals. She showed Stella a silver loop on a hinge. “Lobster claw? The most secure, more functional than beautiful?”

  “Nope.”

  Grandma nodded knowingly. “I didn’t think so. You are not like your mother.”

  She knew Grandma was thinking of Stella’s father. They had often talked about Vivian’s choice of husband, especially during the tough years, when strange men would show up at the house. Stella practically lived with Grandma Angie then.

  “Toggle?” Grandma held a braided circle and a matching T-bar in antique gold.

  “Too risky,” Stella said. “I don’t want to lose it.”

  Grandma tucked the toggle away and laid three ornate clasps on the flat panel of the tray, where finished pieces could be admired. “S-clasps,” she said. “The most beautiful, simple, strong.”

  Stella ran a finger along each of them, two silver, one gold. “Possibly.” One of the silvers had an edgy look, rows of tiny balls encircling the center of the “S.” She touched it again. “Especially this one.”

  “I have one more,” Grandma said, reaching to the TV tray behind Stella to tug a tiny velvet bag from another box. “I have never used one like it. Unusual. Strange. Strong.”

  She pulled the clasp from the bag. “I’ve had it a long time. I bought it on vacation, from an old woman selling bone jewelry near the Grand Canyon. An Indian woman. She had the most beautiful wampum belt.”

  The clasp was a slide lock, one of the more elaborate types. Intended for bracelets with multiple strands, the slide lock had two pieces that fit together perfectly, creating one slender bar.

  “Most slide locks are plain silver or gold,” Grandma said. “But this one was crafted by a silversmith.” She rolled it out onto the blue velvet tray. “See?”

  The slender clasp was still open, each rod with three small hooks. Carved on each side were four stylized swirls, like the form a woman’s body might make if she curled up on a bed.

  Stella picked up the pieces and fitted the slots together. They slid into place as smoothly as a caress, locking in with an almost imperceptible snap.

  “I had planned to make a bracelet with it. A strand for Vivian, one for me, and one for your grandfather.” Grandma paused, then said his name. “Thomas.” The syllables spread out, expanding beyond the ball of lamplight and into the gloom beyond, into the spaces where he had once been. Grandma Angie ran her fingers through a bin of cool sky-blue beads. “I didn’t ever make it. I let life get in the way.”

  “We’ll make it now,” Stella said quickly.

  Grandma Angie shook her head. “Vivian’s would be too sharp, too blood-red. It wouldn’t match. It isn’t the strand it would have been then.” She touched the pale yellow, pine green, and peach, and Stella understood that those would have been her mother’s colors, back when Vivian was a child. But she agreed with Grandma. Now they’d all be angry and dark, scarlet and jet black.

  “What would Grandpa Thomas’s have been?”

  Grandma’s face relaxed, soft and serene. “A spiral, the symbol of becoming. In blue.” She lifted one from a container of cerulean glass. “And circles, for unity. Pale greens and clear.”

  “Which metal?” Stella asked.

  “Silver, certainly. He was a calm man. Gentle. Never raised a voice to me or Vivian.”

  “Was he sad you didn’t have more children?” Stella couldn’t imagine her mother being anything but a disappointment, although if she thought hard, to when she was very small, she could remember her mother happy, smiles and kisses and cookies after lunch.

  “He would never say it. Wouldn’t want the grief of it to cause me any pain.” Grandma lined up the beads absently, forming a pattern of blue and green, spirals and spheres.

  Stella knew they had tried to have more children after Vivian, but Grandma repeatedly miscarried. One baby had been stillborn.

  “I barely remember him,” Stella said. “But when I picture him, I see a puffy-cloud-filled sky. Or a newly mown lawn.”

  “Blues and greens,” Grandma said. She seemed more tired suddenly and laid her head back against the pillows. “I remember when Vivian made a bracelet for your father.”

  Stella pulled her fingers from where they had been buried in the beads. “Really? She has one? I never saw it.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember the day we made it. Your father had asked Vivian out on a third date, but he hadn’t worked up the nerve to kiss her good night yet. Shy, that boy.”

  “So you made a kissing bracelet?”

  Grandma chuckled. “Sort of. We did alternating beads for him, mostly wood, with rich bone, in all the colors.”

  “Love beads? Like the hippies wore?”

  “Exactly. It made a beautiful piece, vibrant and yet grounded with all that texture, the lightweight and the heavy.”

  “Di
d he kiss her?” Stella couldn’t believe she’d never heard this story before. It should have been basic family lore.

  “He did. They were married six months later. She wore the bracelet at the wedding.”

  Stella walked up to a photo of her parents by the altar of a church, peering closely at her mother’s wrist. Sure enough, she wore a strange bracelet, although the colors were lost in the black-and-white image. “Funny I never noticed it before.”

  “Sometimes the most obvious things are right before our eyes.”

  Stella studied her mother’s young face, radiantly happy. “Then it all went to hell.” Stella returned to the bed and plopped to her knees again. “When she starting boinking everything with three legs.”

  Grandma sighed. “That was a difficult time of all our lives.”

  “Not hers, apparently.” Stella poked at the red beads, blisteringly bright.

  Grandma picked up the small carton of red and moved it to a table on the opposite side. “Stella, my girl, you must learn to forgive and forget.” She swirled her fingers in a compartment of crystal beads, clear and glittering. “So tell me about your man so that we might choose the beads.”

  “Dane.” The word sounded beautiful to her, the forceful beginning, the soft end. “He’s tall. And lean. A bit dangerous.” She remembered him cradling her on the tower platform. “Kind. Very gentle. A lot of opposites.”

  Grandma rolled the ornate clasp. “There’s your three, then.”

  “Three? I can see the danger strand and the gentle strand. What’s in between?”

  Grandma laid her fingers on the back of Stella’s hand. “You.”

  And so they began sorting beads, bones in dark brown and crystals in fiery orange. Then earth tones in green and sand and antique gold.

  And in between, for Stella, a colorful collection of bright tones, seed pearls, and, at Grandma’s insistence, an eye bead, hand painted with a blue iris, for warding off evil spirits.

  Like Darlene.

  ***

  9: Knife Revenge

  DANE perched on a rickety stool, leaning against the scratched surface of the bar, waiting for his beer. Since it was mid-afternoon, the joint was mostly empty, a few old men smoking cigars in a corner, broad and silent, like a trio of Hibachi grills.

  The woman tending bar was stout, mid-forties, and not too friendly. She communicated primarily in grunts, and the breadth of her upper arms suggested that she could toss any unruly boozer out on his ass.

  The beer foamed over the rim as she slid it to him. “Thanks,” he muttered, but she was already gone.

  Two days had passed since the water tower with Stella, and he hadn’t even talked to her. Darlene neither. His brother was running interference should either one of them call, but they hadn’t.

  He didn’t blame them. He was no good at this. Stella was especially keen on getting out of this town, moving on to something bigger. He might hold her back.

  Or not. He didn’t have anything special to offer. Plus, there was Darlene. He shook his head. Damn.

  “The loser knows his game.” The voice seemed a little drunk, and more than a little belligerent.

  Dane didn’t turn around. Not talking to him.

  Another voice. “Deaf, too, apparently.”

  He sipped his beer, keeping his eyes on the bottles opposite him, but he noticed the bartender’s jaw tensing, the rag wiping down the counter going still.

  Someone shoved him from behind, and beer spilled over the edge of his glass and onto his hand. Dane leapt up, knocking the stool backward. “What the hell?” He turned around. Some punk he’d seen around town a time or two—Allen or something—laughed into his curled-up fingers. Bobby Ray, Darlene’s brother, skulked beside him, arms crossed. He turned his fist against his bicep, revealing a set of brass knuckles.

  Dane had survived a fight or two. And he should have seen this one coming. “What’s your problem?”

  Allen cocked his head. “You need a little attitude adjustment?”

  Dane laughed. “What is this? The Italian mob?” He returned to his stool, back to them, but angled just enough to catch any sudden movements in his peripheral vision. “Another Guinness?” He raised his eyebrows at the bartender, wishing she was someone he’d built a camaraderie with, so he could count on her if the punks got out of line.

  Not that she couldn’t tell they were no good. But he looked the same. It’s as though the punk losers always found each other and fought it out, a community feeding on itself.

  He sensed them moving behind him, but they passed by and sat at a table at the other end of the room. Bobby Ray must not have heard about Stella, or he wouldn’t have let it go. Boys like that, even if they thought their sisters were full-blown skanks, would still use the girl’s honor as an excuse to pound someone’s face. Their entrance was probably just how they greeted everyone.

  The barkeep brought him a fresh glass. “Watch yourself.”

  He couldn’t tell if this was a warning about his behavior or theirs. Probably both. She seemed like an equal opportunity hardass. Didn’t matter who was right or wrong, just don’t come to blows in her bar.

  But then he felt a breath on his neck. “Darlene tells me you came down the tower with Stella two nights ago.” Bobby Ray. So he did know.

  Dane lifted the beer to his lips. It was 2 a.m. when they’d descended that tower. This town was too damn small.

  Bobby Ray seemed to know the direction his thoughts had gone. “Old Lady Springer lives across the street. She’s friends with our mother.”

  “You always settle scores for your sister?”

  The back of his arm pricked, like a needle, then burned with an unholy fire. He jerked it forward. “What the hell?”

  “There’s more where that came from.” Bobby Ray headed back to sit with Allen. “If you mess with her head.”

  A rag landed in front of him. “You’re bleeding on my bar.”

  Dane lifted his arm. A clean cut ran from the sleeve of his T-shirt to just above his elbow.

  He jumped from the stool, upsetting it again, and raced across the room, snatching Bobby Ray from his table. Before the man could react, Dane landed a bone-crunching uppercut to his jaw, knocking him to the floor.

  Bobby Ray had not even fully landed when the bartender rounded the counter and grabbed Dane by the shirt. “Out of my bar,” she growled.

  “Why are you throwing ME out?”

  She pushed him toward the door. “You ain’t the regular.”

  “He fucking cut me!”

  “You probably had it coming.” She opened the door.

  Shit. Only one bar in Holly, and he’d be walking trouble from here on out. How had Ryker managed in this town?

  The air cooled his flaming face and sent a roar of pain up his arm from the cut. Screw Darlene. He didn’t want to have anything to do with that family.

  He jumped on his Harley, aware of each throb of his arm, the wet stickiness. Damn it to hell. He roared out of the parking lot and down to Main. He’d better just get this over with. Now was as good a time as any.

  He held the throttle wide open, ignoring the single stoplight. No one was sitting there anyway. Darlene worked at the car dealership on the outskirts of Holly, a questionable job where she did light office work in short skirts and low-cut tops. No doubt her manner of dress was attractive to the sales guys, all men, and she was tucked away and hidden from the disapproving public.

  He parked the bike and strode into the showroom, dimly aware of the crust forming down his arm.

  A poor sucker in a tie, flashing a shit-eating grin, approached him as if to expound on the qualities of a two-door sedan. Dane waved him off, darting to the back offices through the cars parked at haphazard angles.

  He brushed past the manager, a fat man named Ted or Tim or something, who apparently regularly tried to make the moves on Darlene. The man stopped, so Dane shoved him hard enough that a stack of sales receipts in his arms cascaded to the floor.

  �
��What the hell?” the manager said, then, “God, what happened to your arm?”

  Darlene sat at her crappy little desk, her chair so high that she had to lean over it, cleavage hanging over a giant calendar with scribbles across its face. She glanced up from her phone pad, face registering surprise as he stalked forward and swept the entire contents of the surface onto the floor.

  She rolled backward. “Dane! What’s gotten into you?”

  “Your brother.”

  Darlene bit her lip. “Yeah, he was pretty pissed.”

  “You got something to say to me?”

  She stood up from behind the table and tugged on her short skirt, taking care with her fake nails. “Yeah. You wanna explain why you were up on the water tower with that little slut?”

  “Fucking her senseless.” Damn. He hadn’t meant to say it. He pressed his palms into the desktop, trying to bring himself down.

  Darlene dropped back into her chair, her breath rushing out. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Dane stepped back to the doorway, legs spread, arms crossing over his chest. Too many bad scenes like this in his life. He forced himself calm. “I thought you were cool with whatever.”

  She bent down, picking up the calendar and a mug she used for pens. He noticed now the doodles, hearts and bubbles. His name, written all over it, like in high school. Damn.

  But she surprised him. “You’re right,” she said. “Nothing big here. Move right on along.” She wouldn’t look at him, flipping through the loose pages.

  “We had a good time.”

  “Yeah. Roll in the hay.” She tapped the papers on the desk to straighten them. Then she noticed his arm. “Oh, Jesus.” She stood for a second, then sat back down. “It was Bobby Ray.”

  “At the bar. Just now. Nice family.”

  She set the stack carefully on the desk, lining up the corners. “He’s got a temper, that one.”