by Hazel Parker
“Yes,” I said. I was having to think on my feet. I hadn’t planned for her to retort as she had. “But with the Degenerate Sinners getting more and more aggressive by the day, I don’t think it’s a smart idea for us to be alone. I know it’s still daylight out, and I know that they’d be hard-pressed to hit us while we’re on the highway. But is that a risk you want to take?”
Mama shrugged.
“Not really,” she said. “I don’t want to die. Doesn’t prevent me from riding a bike.”
“Shouldn’t—”
I cut myself off from making a joke about her preventing herself from riding other things. Instead, I shook my head and cleared my throat.
“I don’t see the big deal. I’ve seen you come in with Richard before. Nobody’s ever thought you and Richard were a thing.”
“You can follow me,” she said. “Just don’t ride right by my side.”
That seemed fair and easy enough. I’d get to make sure she was safe, and she’d get the space to make sure people didn’t suspect anything. Of course, I wondered if the perfect timing of me arriving just a couple minutes later might spark more, not less, curiosity, but I didn’t feel like mentioning anything right then.
Our bikes were parked on the ground floor, so we had to leave the sweet view that we’d given ourselves before, but that just meant we were on the highway that much sooner, experiencing the hot, dry wind blowing against our faces. This particular segment of the Las Vegas highway wasn’t conducive to speeding that much, but once we hit the main interstate that ran directly parallel to the Strip—the one Dom and I raced on to the club—we gunned it, easily hitting triple digits on the speedometer.
Not sure what’ll kill us first: our own decisions or the Degenerate Sinners. Won’t give them a chance to find out!
Strangely enough, even though the higher speeds should have mandated that we paid more attention, it didn’t exclude me from becoming reflective and thinking about the evening. It was going by so fast, my mind had little choice but to focus on what mattered and not drift into stupid puns and one-liners.
What did I think about the evening? I thought it was a dream fulfilled, and the perfect dream deferred.
It sucked not getting to kiss her on the lips. I wanted those full lips; I wanted her curves; I wanted every part of her body. When I had my hands on her hips and was moving in for the kiss, I really, truly believed I was about to kiss her. Maybe I wouldn’t have time to have her body for myself, but I would have time to set that up. Who knew? Maybe I could just head right over to her place after.
But I’d do whatever I needed to do to make it work. I knew that made it sound like I was groveling for her, and I was. I didn’t have a lot of options. But neither did she—and I didn’t mean that coldly or to mock her. I just meant that in both our worlds, there were very few people who understood us.
That was doubly true given my path, which I hadn’t discussed much. Despite my knowing I’d have to speak up about it… I didn’t. I chickened out. I deflected with some bullshit jokes like I always did.
Who was that in those moments speaking to Tanya? Was it Joseph Young? Or was it the goofy Pork that the club didn’t have to know much about? Just do better next time.
Whenever that may be. If that may be.
It had happened often enough that I didn’t bother to assume anything could happen. Hopefully, it would be different.
But there was a reason I said stupid jokes all the time, and it wasn’t because I was a natural comedian.
I backed off a bit when we made the final exit off of the highway, allowing Mama to get some space between her and I. A quick scan of the area confirmed that there were no Degenerate Sinners in the area. I let traffic go by me, pulling my bike to the side of the road. After two minutes had passed—putting me a little past our scheduled arrival but not too late—I pulled to the back of The Red Door, parked my bike, and headed to the front.
I arrived, apparently, just in time to have Mama—not Tanya, but the Mama of the club—stand there with her arms folded.
“The hell are you so late for, hun?” she said.
I cocked an eyebrow at her in confusion. She’s playing a part, you fool.
“Oh, I was trying to test myself and see how much trouble I could get into!” I said with a short chuckle. “You know me, Pork, always eating, always causing trouble, always—”
Mama came right up to me and slapped me. But she didn’t slap me on the cheek. She slapped my hand—which still stung and, I realized a couple of seconds later, still produced the same sound as getting slapped on the cheek—but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as a cheek slap would have.
“You know what time you have to be here, and you are past that time!” she said.
“Because we—”
I bit my tongue so hard, I almost began to bleed. I would have bled a lot more from Mama cutting my tongue out if I had said something stupid, though, so it was a worthwhile tradeoff.
“You’re a lucky man, hun,” she said, and I knew she wasn’t referring to her merciful punishment of a hand slap. “Next time, show up on time, or I’m gonna have Richard take care of you. Anyway, you’re on guard patrol on the roof for night one. Get to it, sugar.”
She winked at me before she left, giving me a little reassurance. We all had a role to play here. I had to be the jokester, Richard had to be the leader, and Mama had to be the tough love, the woman who kept everyone in line while giving her devotion.
The question was, how much of that was grounded in who we were, and how much of it was just masks that had more or less become fortified over the years?
In my case, at least, I realized that it was closer to the latter than the former.
But such questions were not of importance to me when I had roof patrol. I grabbed a rifle from our meeting room, hurried to the roof, and took a position where I could see all of Sahara Avenue, from the bridge spanning the highway to the west side, where many Asian restaurants had sprouted up. I knew well enough how to stay hidden yet poised to strike at any moment. No one would know I was there unless they were extraordinarily well-trained, which the Degenerate Sinners most certainly were not.
I kept my post for the next eight hours, never once leaving. While that may have seemed like an enormous length of time, I’d held posts like this in Iraq for much, much longer. When the body doesn’t need to move, doesn’t need to think, and only needs to react, it has a way of calming itself and reducing energy waste. Food wasn’t necessary. It was hot, as it always was, but it wasn’t “soaking in the devil’s balls” hot like Iraq could be. I didn’t need to pee, despite the drinks we’d taken
Once four in the morning hit, though, and the crowd dispersed?
It all came rushing back.
But that was fine. No Sinner came by, let alone attempted a suicidal strike as they had before. I almost felt disappointed that I wasn’t going to get to reduce their numbers myself. I liked making a difference, and in a way, getting this role went a long way to helping me forget the tragedy of my past.
I dismounted, went inside, and said my goodbyes for the evening to the rest of the club. Mama had already left, which was slightly disappointing, but then again, what had I really hoped to get out of seeing her? A second chance at kissing her? A private conversation?
And it wasn’t Mama I wanted to see. It was Tanya. And while Mama was here every day at the club, Tanya was here only in very private moments.
I got to my bike and started to pull out when I realized I needed gas. I didn’t have enough to get to the highway and then get home, short as the ride was. So, with some begrudging acceptance and a pistol close to my hip, I took a left toward the more dangerous area of town and drove a mile and a half before I got to a gas station.
I kept my helmet on as I pumped gas just in case someone got the bright idea to come up and try to shoot at me. A helmet was far from bulletproof and not going to do much to protect me, but the difference between death and injury was worth wearing the helmet. I was sure I
looked a little ridiculous, but—
Is that Krispy?
I looked across the street. I recognized the face—I recognized the faces of everyone who came to our game as a guest. He didn’t have his cut on, which was confusing enough.
What was even more confusing, though, was that there was a man in the darkness, but the man was on a bike and had a distinctive cut on him—and it was not ours.
Krispy moved forward under the light, slipping into the shadows next to the other man. He had his hands raised as if indicating he was not armed. Another biker came forward, patted him down, and gave a thumbs up.
Krispy is doing business with the enemy.
What the actual fuck?
It was too dark to see anything else that transpired, and I wasn’t about to sit there and gawk until the Degenerate Sinners saw me. But I had seen enough. Krispy was, at the very least, in secret conversations with the enemy.
I smelled a rat.
And there was nothing worse in life—not just in the Savage Saints, but in any organization—than a fucking rat.
I tried to avoid notice as I drove off, even going so far as to remove my cut. I didn’t want the eyes of the Sinners on me, thinking that this was a ploy. If Krispy was a rat, he was our rat to kill, not the Sinners’.
But that wasn’t something I wanted to push for right now. There could have been many mitigating factors I wasn’t aware of. Not that there were many that gave Krispy an out.
I had to tell Richard. But if I told Richard, then gossip could spread. And the accusation of being a rat was perhaps the most damning thing one could accuse someone of being.
If I were right, then yes, I would have done a great thing for the club. But if I were wrong, that was the fastest way to get me kicked out. I could have banged Mama on the poker table in our clubhouse, and that would have at least gotten me props for being so bold. Falsely accusing someone of being a rat might as well have been the equivalent of trying to burn a bridge to prevent someone bad from coming over, only to have the fires engulf you instead.
By the time I’d gotten back to Panorama Towers and had a chance to think it through, I decided I wasn’t going to say anything right now.
Well, not to Richard. But I was going to confront Krispy at some point. I was going to collect more evidence, keep an eye on him, and then take the appropriate steps.
For now, though, I just wanted to get to bed.
I got to the room to find Dom finishing what looked like a late-night ham sandwich.
“Sup, player,” I said.
“Word, player,” he said right back. “How was the day? How was guard shift?”
One was easy. The other?
“Indescribable,” I said with a snort.
“Damn, who would have thought sitting on the roof like an eagle could be so compelling?” he said with a chuckle.
“I like to be America’s symbol, you know,” I said, standing as if saluting. “Pork Porky, reporting for duty, sir!”
“Pork. Porky.”
Dom said the words very slowly, a bit floored at the fact that I had said them in the first place. Someday, they’d get used to me speaking like a total idiot.
Apparently, that time was not now.
“I have no words,” Dom said. “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”
“No girl tonight?” I teased him.
“Nah, man, even Michael Jordan needs to rest some nights.”
I rolled my eyes as Dom laughed at his own line, leaving me by myself.
It was a state that, with all of the things I was keeping to myself, I had a feeling I’d have to get quite comfortable with in the coming weeks and months.
Chapter 8: Mama
Nothing about what I said when Joseph walked in the front door of The Red Door made me feel good.
I knew I had to keep up appearances. The tough love Mama needed to be at the front to keep her boys in check however necessary. I understood that I had a role to play, and I was willing to do it as much as I had to.
But that didn’t mean I felt good doing it. That didn’t mean I enjoyed slapping Pork’s hand to spare him the cheek slap—I didn’t want to slap him at all. I didn’t enjoy deflecting any of the blame I deserved for keeping him away. I didn’t enjoy having to treat him like just any other coworker.
I actually left about five minutes before the end of the show because I just felt bad. It would get easier with time, sure, but that wasn’t something I accepted at the moment. I did, however, text Joseph when I got home.
“Sorry I had to do that,” I wrote. “Had to stay in the part of Mama. It was my fault you were late, not yours.”
I waited until about four-thirty a.m. for him to respond before I gave up. I was surprised at how anxious his lack of response was making me, but then again, for how much he had surprised me so far, was that something that really should have surprised me? You would have thought that by now, the experience of Joseph Young was one that would have me prepared for the unknown, but the only thing that was slower than my willingness to open up was my willingness not to be so damn stubborn.
Imagine how much relief I felt when I woke up around noon and saw he had written back an hour later, and how, yes, still surprised I was to feel this.
What was this nonsense? I didn’t fall in love, and most certainly not with other members. I didn’t put anything above the club, most certainly not flings or casual sex. I needed this to fucking stop.
It was just a rotten cherry on the top of it all that as soon as Joseph came to know my past, he’d get scared of it and want to run far, far away. And then I wouldn’t have anything to worry about. He’d get to stay in the club, having learned his lesson, and he’d know not to approach me again.
It was that easy, right?
If only. If only it wasn’t going to be too much. Too damn much.
* * *
And sure enough, as soon as I pulled up to The Red Door, as soon as I stepped inside, and as soon as I saw Joseph waiting for me—obviously having made it a point to get there sooner—all of the confusing emotions from the morning and the day before had returned.
Goddamnit, he was handsome. He was funny.
And I could show none of it.
“You’re so late, Mama! Oh my God, you’re—”
“It’s my job to yell at you, Pork, not the other way around,” I said, crossing my arms and rolling my eyes demonstratively. I had to fight not to show anything—it was that bad. Which probably means I’m showing quite a lot. “I’m glad you’re on time, though. The fewer people I have to yell at, the fewer people I have to babysit.”
Ugh, I hate having to bury my emotions. This is no fun.
“You don’t need to babysit me,” he said, his voice going very quiet and very flat.
This was not the Pork that I had yelled at. This was not the goofy Pork who delivered terrible one-liners to try to keep things light. This was the Joseph Young that had charmed me at Green Valley Ranch and nearly gotten me to kiss him. This was the Joseph Young that was going to get me into a lot of trouble if I wasn’t careful.
And this was the Joseph Young that I really liked.
For that very reason, I couldn’t be around him right now.
“I need to take care of some things,” I said, brushing by him, not looking at him as I moved ahead, ignoring the fact that I didn’t have anything to take care of.
“Some things, or someone?”
The words reached my ears before the volume did, and for a split second, I thought Joseph had shouted the words as a means of keeping me with him, a threat of sorts to go public. But before I turned around, I realized he’d softly spoken the words with a hard edge—quiet enough for only me to hear, but forceful enough for me to know what they meant.
Not here, Joseph. Not here.
I kept walking and headed to the girls’ changing room, just so I could be somewhere Joseph wouldn’t go. A few of the girls looked at me nervously and expectantly, but I was just catching my breath a
nd my mind.
“Mama?” one of the newer girls, a girl named Stephanie, said. “Do you need something?”
“Hmm?” I said. “No, no. I’m good. Just… came here to wish you well on the show. I know you’ll do well.”
I departed before they could start asking questions too. Questions, questions, questions. Richard was asking them. Joseph was asking them. Wouldn’t be long before Barber and Dom started asking them too. Now the girls were asking them?
But the person who asked the most questions, the one that I could never get to shut up, was me.
For every question that someone asked me, I asked at least a dozen more to myself, and the worst part of it was, I couldn’t provide an answer that would shut myself up. Damn it, Joseph. Why do you have to go and treat me better than I deserve?
Why would I ever think of kicking you out? Why would I ever think—
OK, stop it, Tanya. You’re doing exactly what you said you wouldn’t do to yourself.
I went outside, grabbed a cigarette from my pocket, and lit it up, holding the cigarette close to my lips. I took a couple of stress-relieving puffs, but the feeling was akin to getting a massage while nursing a broken leg. It distracted from, but did not eliminate, the source of the pain.
“You’re in some kind of mood tonight.”
Thank God for that cigarette.
“Pork, it’s not you; it’s me,” I said. “I need some space right now, OK?”
Joseph—or Pork to anyone listening—laughed after I’d used one of his favorite lines. It almost made me smile, but Mama didn’t smile while she was on duty. I instead let my lips turn from a scowl to neutral—on the Mama facial expression scale, that might as well have been a smile.
“Is everything alright?” he said, again lowering his voice so that no one could eavesdrop on us.
Is everything alright? Does everything look alright?
There was one way, I recognized immediately, to at least move forward. And it wasn’t going to come by dodging Joseph.
“Alright enough,” I said. “What are you doing next Tuesday?”