by Stacey Keith
April always found it funny how her mother, a former stylist who still kept a shampoo bowl, a helmet dryer, and a pump chair in the back of her house, could never do her own hair. I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, her mother used to say. But that wasn’t true. When April was growing up, Priscilla saw everything and never let her get away with any of it.
Now her mother was here to make sure she didn’t get away with khaki.
“Hey, Mom.” April waved from across the store and her mother blew her a kiss.
Sometimes she couldn’t help feeling that she was a huge disappointment to her mother. Despite an endless appetite for gossip and plastic surgery shows, the only thing Priscilla really wanted for her girls was to be happily married. According to her mother, these two things went hand-in-hand and you shouldn’t expect to have the one without the other.
But April saw the sexy closeness Maggie and Cassidy enjoyed with their husbands. Horrifying to think about, but even her own mom and dad were still flirty and affectionate after all these years.
Which left her.
The real reason her mother had busted a gut getting over here was because she clearly thought that April needed emergency help.
Jacey bounced up to give Priscilla a big hug. “It’s so good to see you!”
“Good to see you, too, honey,” Priscilla said.
“Hey, Priss.” Maxine gave her a conspiratorial wink and jerked her head in April’s direction, as though April didn’t know exactly what that meant.
Priscilla winked back, set down her designer knock-off handbag and then took a look around. “Hand to God, when Jacey texted me and said y’all were at Maxine’s buying a new wardrobe, I nearly wet myself.” She flipped through the racks with the brisk efficiency of a woman who shopped often. Priscilla lifted out a green silk dress, inspected it front and back, and said to April, “Oh, this would be darling on you, honey.”
“Wait,” April replied. “Who said anything about a new wardrobe? I just came in to buy a few—”
“What does everyone think about a nice flowy skirt with a sleeveless shell and a statement necklace?” her mother said, pouncing on the sales rack.
April had no idea what a statement necklace was, but it sounded vaguely sinister. Maxine shooed her into a dressing room that had a curtain for a door. April stood shivering under the blast of the air conditioner while Maxine barged in with a mountain of clothes to try on.
Was shopping always this much work?
Maxine created a makeshift viewing area outside the dressing room by grouping a few chairs together and then she brought out a box of wine from the breakroom. Every time April emerged with a new outfit, they all discussed its plusses and minuses as though she weren’t there. Sometimes she had to spin around a few times before they gave it a yes or no. If April offered an opinion, she was voted down.
“This isn’t a democracy,” Jacey snapped. “It’s fashion.”
After a lot of bickering, laughing, and a glass or two of wine, five new outfits were agreed upon: a fitted blue work dress with a peplum. Two billowy skirts, one a brown-and-pink paisley, the other in a color Maxine proudly referred to as verdigris. A white sundress with pink watercolor peonies on it. And finally, because Jacey threatened to throw a tantrum if April refused to get it, a Little Black Dress. April felt horribly uncomfortable in it and kept pulling down the hem, but she had to admit the fabric was soft, plush and stretchy and it made her smile a little to think of Brandon’s face if he should see her in it.
“You’ll get used to it,” Jacey told her. “You can’t keep going on dates in your sister’s Wizard of Oz dress. I’m sorry. Even Ryan’s going to get sick of it after a while.”
By the time accessories were selected—April was pleased to learn that a statement necklace was nothing more terrifying than oversized jewelry—Jacey was tipsy and Priscilla was downright combative. There had been chocolate, too, and now her mother was complaining about the calories. “I put one of those calorie counters on my phone last week,” she said. “Now all I do is wait for midnight to come around so I can start the calorie count all over again.”
They followed April to the cash register, where Maxine added up each item on a calculator, folded it into scented tissue paper, and then placed it in a bag.
April gulped when she saw the total. Women who don’t take chances end up as crazy cat ladies. She handed over her credit card with a brave smile.
“I’m so proud of you, honey,” her mother said once they’d grabbed the loot and gone outside. Priscilla stood on the sidewalk pulling hairclips out of her spit curls, which were two perfect red spirals, like a pair of wood shavings. She smelled of wine and Aqua Net. “All we have to do now is find you a job with a lot of rich men around.”
One of Priscilla’s favorite topics at Sunday dinner was how April never met any suitable men at work. It made April wonder what her mother thought about Ryan. He was suitable, wasn’t he? Or had landing two famous, wealthy sons-in-law spoiled her mother for anyone who earned a normal paycheck?
“Wait ’till Ryan gets a load of you in that little black dress,” Jacey said, beaming at April. “I bet he keels right over.”
April’s heart gave a little flutter, but not because of Ryan. Standing naked in that dressing room, all she’d thought about was the deep, throaty rumble of a Harley.
* * * *
There had only been one television at the Men’s Correction Facility in Banderas. Despite all the inmates who bitched constantly about it, the station was always tuned to a home improvement channel. It was how Brandon had learned that even a little heat could blister fresh paint, and that a pressure balance valve in the bathroom was the thing that mixed hot and cold water together. If he had to, he could probably knock down an interior wall.
But as he and Long Jon pulled up to the Double Aces, knocking down walls seemed like the only thing that might fix him right now. And April was the wall he needed to wreck.
“I’m already sick of this place,” Long Jon said over the rumbling of their motorcycles. “That’s the problem with backwaters. You got no options.”
Brandon didn’t answer. He flipped the off switch on his right handlebar and powered down the Harley.
Long Jon narrowed his eyes at him. “Why’re you so pissy tonight? Got your period?”
“Fuck you. I’ve been working my ass off.”
“You also been doing charity. Why’d you install that cruise control for Little Pete anyway?”
Brandon whipped off his black leather jacket and shoved it into his saddlebag. He wouldn’t admit it in a thousand years, but he felt bad for Little Pete. There’d been a fire at the trailer park last year and Little Pete had lost his woman, his trailer and his dog. A man didn’t just walk away from that. So when Pete asked him to customize his bike, Brandon said yes and didn’t charge him for it.
“Well, I know ole Pete appreciated it,” Long Jon told him. “Guess the first round’s on me. Least I can do for the surly sonofabitch who’s putting my bike back together.”
While Long Jon got the drinks, Brandon found a table on the patio. There were two things all bikers loved: drinking tequila and staring at parked motorcycles. Maybe that will help my shitty mood, Brandon thought. Something had to.
But the minute he sat down, he noticed a few bikers eyeballing him from across the patio. Just club riders, but they still had tattoos and wore leather vests with their club colors on them. He and Long Jon had been independents since they were old enough to ride. Long Jon called club colors boy scout patches because he had an indie’s contempt for the herd.
Brandon kept his radar up, but unless the bikers had guns, he could handle himself. It was just like prison again, only without the home improvement channel.
Long Jon slapped two shots of tequila and two glasses of beer on the table and took a seat. “Who are those assholes? They look friendly.�
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“I moved to Cuervo to get away from this crap,” Brandon said. “These days, it feels like I’m bringing it with me.”
Long Jon bolted his tequila, grimaced and then smacked his lips. “What club they with? That’ll tell you something right there. Some of those clubs are practically vegan. Toys for Tots, Animal Rights, you name it.”
“Talking about yourself again, right?” Brandon gave him a ghost of a smile.
“Okay, maybe Toys for Tots, but that’s it,” Long Jon said. “If you tell anyone, I’m going to kill you.”
Brandon tossed back the tequila and then got to work on his beer. So far, his bad mood hadn’t lifted. “My old man was a club biker. Least that’s what my mom told me. I don’t know because I never met the guy.”
“You never told me that.”
“I never told you a lot of things.”
Long Jon’s gaze fixed on something or someone behind Brandon. He leaned back with the kind of dopey smile he usually reserved for the ladies. Except that Long Jon didn’t always score with the ladies, which was why he generally tried to double down on the charm.
Brandon thought, I’m going to need more beer for this.
The brunette from the other day, the one who’d told him where April lived, pulled out a chair. She wore a black T-shirt and jeans—sort of a mirror image of what he had on—and about ten gallons of perfume. She’d brought a friend with her, another dark-haired girl who looked cheap, pretty and damaged.
They sure weren’t April.
Long Jon introduced himself, which was a good thing since Brandon wasn’t going to do it. The girl he’d talked to the other day—what was it? Roxanne?—said her friend’s name was Monica.
Great.
Brandon let his gaze zoom in on what Monica had going on inside her tight, overstuffed shirt. If Roxanne was a screamer, this one was a moaner. He could usually tell.
And…nothing.
Now he knew something was wrong with him.
“Did you find April?” Roxanne asked, chewing on the end of a plastic straw. She wore big hoop earrings with little sparkly things inside them. “Couldn’t be that good if you’re back in this dump already.”
“So where you ladies from?” Long Jon asked, which set Brandon’s teeth on edge. If he’d told Long Jon once, he told him a million times: Don’t. Say. Shit.
Women liked contempt. If they sensed you were desperate for sex, they were never into it.
Brandon couldn’t watch this. He got up and went to the bar.
Jimmy, the bartender, scowled the minute he saw him coming, which gave Brandon the first happy he’d had all day. That’s right, asshole. I know where April lives. What are you going to do about it? He leaned one elbow on the bar and gave Jimmy what he knew was a nasty smile.
One of the club bikers, a bald guy with a reddish beard and pig eyes, walked up and ordered five beers. He peeled a big bill off a wad of big bills and then gave Brandon the side-eye. There was a tattoo on his meaty, freckled bicep just like the one Matthew had described: a skull on a bed of flowers.
Dia de Muertos. Day of the Dead.
This was the motherfucker who’d been selling weed to his brother.
Brandon’s first instinct was to grab his bald head and smash it against the bar. Pure rage surged into his muscles, driving him to do it. He wanted to see those pig eyes roll back and the blood splatter. He wanted to hear the sound his jaw made when it cracked.
Most bikers had a code of conduct. They had honor. But this piece of shit had nothing but a fat stack of twenties from selling dirt weed to a bunch of kids who were too dumb to know better.
Pig Eyes scowled. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Brandon leaned his elbows on the bar. His whole body had that edgy, twitchy feeling he got when he wanted to kick someone’s ass but knew it was smarter to bide his time. He didn’t look directly at Pig Eyes, but could see the asshole staring at him in the mirrored wall behind the liquor bottles.
“Lemme ask you,” Brandon said softly, “how many dicks does a dirtbag like you gotta suck to make that kinda cash?”
Pig Eyes made a wheezing sound. His lips pulled back, baring his teeth. “What did you just say to me?”
“Hey, Rooster!” someone shouted from across the room. “Where’re those brews?”
Rooster gave Brandon another venomous glare before grabbing the bottles and heading back to the patio. Brandon watched him leave in the mirror and then cracked his neck from side to side to release the tension. He knew that he would find Rooster and break him.
Jimmy placed his big hands on the bar and gave Brandon his why the fuck are you still here glower. “Whaddyou want?”
Jimmy was just another name on Brandon’s shit list, and that list was getting longer. “Two beers and two shots,” he said, pulling some crumpled ones out of his pocket. Jimmy stomped around getting his order together and then clacked the glass down on the bar.
Asshole.
Brandon grabbed two shots in one hand, two beers in the other and headed back. Rooster stood across the room nursing a beer and staring daggers at him.
At the table, Brandon slid Long Jon’s drinks across the table while Long Jon finished telling the women his story about how he shot his dad with a pellet gun but the sonofabitch was too drunk to notice.
“You didn’t even buy us a couple of beers?” Roxanne asked.
Brandon leaned back in his chair and ignored her.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Long Jon said, smooth as gravel. “I’ll spot you lovely ladies a round.”
“Why don’t we move this party over to your place?” Roxanne said to Brandon. “Don’t you live nearby?”
He flicked his gaze across her smooth, pretty face and could tell what she was thinking: sure, he was an asshole, but she wanted to sleep with him anyway.
Was Roxanne the antidote he was looking for?
It seemed kind of pointless to sit around moping for the one woman he couldn’t have when there were chicks like Roxanne willing to put up with a bunch of shit just to be with him.
Maybe running into Rooster and finally knowing who the enemy was had clarified things, made it easier for him to remember who he was.
Brandon wasn’t a one-woman man. He was a loner asshole who broke women’s hearts.
There was a saying among bikers. Never hesitate to ride past the last streetlight at the edge of town. He still didn’t know why April in her pink sundress felt more like the edge of town than Roxanne did. After all, April wasn’t the kind of girl who climbed on the back of your bike and let the wind mess her hair. And Roxanne had this unmistakable heat in her eyes that warmed a man right down to his balls.
A bike on the road was worth two in the garage, right?
“Yeah,” he said to Roxanne. “Let’s go to my place. Long Jon will show you where it is.”
“Why can’t I go with you on the Harley?” she asked, sulking a little.
“First, I don’t need a back warmer. Second, I got a stop to make. Take your car or don’t bother coming.”
Brandon got up from the table and went outside. He didn’t see Rooster or know where he was, but that didn’t matter now. Rooster would turn up sooner or later. And when he did, Brandon would make him wish he’d never set eyes on Matthew. He fired up the bike and took off, expecting to feel his old sense of freedom, but it just it wasn’t there tonight. Restlessness, sure, but not freedom
Originally, his plan had been to call on a friend who was selling some aftermarket parts he needed for Long Jon’s bike. But without even meaning to, he found himself riding toward April’s house. The Harley’s headlamp spilled a wide circle of white on the road ahead of him. He felt a little buzzed—hell, he probably was buzzed. But being near April seemed like the only thing he wanted to do right now, even if he only got as close to her as the street.
Her house sat between two sycamores, which cast faint, moving shadows across the moonlit clapboard. Brandon cut the engine and waited, watching the front window. He didn’t see her yet, but a strange feeling of yearning moved through him.
Brandon had never imagined being the kind of man who came home to the same house every day—or the same woman. Yet for the first time in his life, he considered doing that with someone like April. He saw himself walking through the door, sweeping her up in his arms, taking her to bed. He saw Matthew there feeling safe, fed, cared for. Knowing who he was and where he belonged.
It didn’t make any sense to Brandon why he would think these things. He wasn’t a one-destination guy. He was more pick a direction and go.
But when April appeared in the window, a feeling of quiet happiness washed over him. She wore a white dress with big pink flowers on it that showed off her bare arms and slender curves. Seeing her when she couldn’t see him felt almost like a sexual kink, but he was drawn to her in ways he didn’t recognize.
She went to the piano and leafed through her sheet music. Brandon wondered if she preferred playing for an audience or no one. With a hunger he scarcely understood, he wanted to sit inside that house and stretch his legs out and listen. He wanted to brush the hair away from her neck and place his lips there, breathing in all that soft female goodness and hoping it might make him good, too.
But the truth was, he sat on the other side of the glass. He sat in the darkness watching a woman he could never have: April absorbed in her music, dainty fingers traveling the keyboard, long hair curtaining her face.
April didn’t belong to him. And the sooner he accepted that, the better.
When she finished, April brought the piano lid down and then ran one hand tenderly over the top. Brandon listened to the tick of his engine cooling, the sleepy chirping of crickets, the sound of his own breathing. And there it was again—a wave of longing so strong, it squeezed his heart like a fist.