by Melinda Minx
“Alright,” I grunt. “Where do I sign? Get me the fuck out of here.”
11
Joanna
“Hey, Sara?”
“Yeah?” Sara says, looking up from her screen.
“I know we’re not done, but I really need to leave now. Daycare is closing in twenty minutes and I need to get my son.”
Working an office job is a step up from dive bars, but the hours are long, and the extra pay barely offsets the cost of daycare. Once Logan is old enough for kindergarten though, the extra money will really help us out.
“Sure,” Sara says. “Go ahead.”
This project we’ve been working on has meant a lot of extra work for everyone, but I can’t stay late, not as a single mom.
I walk quickly through the parking lot. I really can’t afford to be late. When I see my car, there’s a man leaning against it.
My heart stops in my chest. It’s not just any man. It’s Logan’s father. It’s Stone.
I stop dead in my tracks, and my body goes into full fight-or-flight mode. Adrenaline surges through me, and I consider turning and running. What if he broke out of prison? What if...what if…
“Jo!” he shouts. Holding up a hand.
Fuck, he spotted me. I can’t even run now. I could just call the police.
“Jo!” he says again. “You don’t even have to talk to me, okay? Just listen! Like before, with the letters. You don’t have to respond.”
Not like the letters. I never read the letters, now I’ll actually have to hear what he is saying.
He’s not wearing his big biker jacket, instead he’s wearing a tight grey Henley and jeans. The jeans aren’t really even tight, but his muscles are just so big that they make them look tight.
He starts walking toward me.
“Go away,” I say, voice weak. “You’re supposed to be in prison.”
“I didn’t do it, Jo,” he says.
‘I didn’t do it.’ The mantra of the convicted felon.
“Right,” I say. “Your fucking promise. You knew what you were going to do…”
“No,” he says, his tall shadow reaching my feet.
He takes a few steps closer to me, until his presence completely envelopes me. His smell hits me, and I’m brought back to that wild night in bed with him. That night before everything changed. Or it would be more accurate to say ‘the night that changed everything.’
“Talk,” I snap. “And then I’m gone.”
“Alright,” he says. “I know about Logan. I want to be there for him, and--”
I cut him off. He’s not talking about my son without me interrupting him. “You have no right! If you wanted to be there, you shouldn’t have--”
“I didn’t do it, Jo,” he says. “But I was doing some shitty stuff when they framed me. I would have done something bad sooner or later. I got shot, though, and I thought I was going to die, and that’s when I realized how stupid I’d been. Before they framed me, before all that shit happened, I knew I should have never made you make that promise. I should have been the one to make a promise--a promise to leave my old life behind, to--”
“Jesus,” I say. “You’ve had three years in prison to perfect this story. To think of exactly what you should say to trick me back.”
“The cops know I didn’t do it,” he says. “I’m working for them now, for a clean slate. I came here to promise you one thing. I’m going to take them down, and then I’m going to start a new life. I just hope you’ll consider letting it include you and Logan. I want to be a father. More than anything. And I want to be a father together with you, Jo.”
His face looks sincere, and I want badly to believe him. If it were just me, I would grab hold of him and give him a chance. But my world is more than just me now, and if I give into Stone and his charm, if I grab hold of that rock-hard body again, I may be ruining my son’s life.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “Now please, I need to go now.”
He nods. “Alright, thanks, Jo.”
He steps aside and I rush to the car. I can barely get the key in the ignition. My nerves feel shot and my adrenaline is still surging through me. I look up again after I start the car, and I see him just standing there watching me. There’s a determined look on his face, and as I drive away I realize that he’s telling the truth. I realize that he’s going to fight. For me and for Logan.
12
Stone
I put the jacket on. It feels heavier and more oppressive than the prison bars.
“Welcome back to the Fallen Phoenix MC!” Lenk says, taking a shot.
“He never really left,” Tank says. “He was always our man.”
I nod and hold up my shot glass. “Well said, Tank.”
I look around the Chrome Hog. There are dozens of new faces, though many old ones are gone. J.C. and Malik included. I know they survived, but no one talks about them. Maybe it was one of them who went to Ramirez? The bar is full and it looks like we have almost twice as many guys in the MC as before. Lenk has really expanded the numbers. Though half of the guys look strung out. Remmy was harsh on members who used, but Lenk doesn’t seem to care. Quantity over quality.
I hold my glass up and say, “I was an arrogant cock before. I thought I knew best, and I always wanted to measure my dick against Lenk’s…”
Everyone laughs.
“But Lenk took care of me while I was locked up,” I continue, “And now that I’m out early, he’s welcomed me back with open arms to a Fallen Phoenix MC that is twice as big as before. Twice as strong. To Lenk!”
I take my shot, and everyone else does as well. It tastes bitter in my mouth, having to bullshit as if Lenk is my savior. But we slam the glasses down, and everyone cheers.
I see Lenk grinning. He thinks he’s won.
I’ve pretended to accept Lenk’s “official story” of what happened that night. The official story within the MC. It’s different from the plea deal I signed--so many stories and lies to keep up with. Remmy and Rigg had a secret lab, and they were stealing from the MC. Remmy was worried I’d find out--or that Rigg would spill it to me. So he sent me there and had told Rigg to kill me. Lenk found out and rolled up to stop it all from happening--to save me--but I opened fire on them since I thought it was the Black Spear. They had to take me down with a non-lethal shot, and then they executed Rigg and Remmy. The cops came up too soon for Lenk to save me, and I was the only one alive on the scene when the cops arrived so I had to take the hit for the MC.
And Joanna? No, they weren’t threatening her. Not at all. Lenk was just assuring me he’d keep her safe while I couldn’t. He was just helping a brother out. I misinterpreted what Dalton said.
All bullshit. All of it. It was Lenk’s secret lab, and everyone else got smoked for getting too close to the truth. And with this new official story, Lenk got away with it clear and free. Probably only Tank and Luger know what really went down.
But I drink with them. I toast to Lenk. I kiss his boots. None of it matters. I swallow my pride now so I can eventually take him down. Once I’ve earned his full trust, and once he believes I’m just as loyal as Tank and Luger, he’ll bring me in on a real operation. The feds will catch him red-handed, and I’ll gut the MC from the inside.
I feel drunk way too fast. Three years of clean living on the inside has destroyed my tolerance, and after just a few shots my head is spinning.
I try to avoid drinking more, but Luger keeps close by my side, pouring me more and more. He watches closely as I drink. They want me loose-lipped. They want me to slip up. To say the wrong thing.
When they bring in some girls, I flirt. I want them to think I forgot about Jo, I want them to get the crosshairs off her.
But as drunk as I am, when one of the girls goes in to kiss me, I shove her away. I ain’t kissing no one but Jo.
“Damn,” Luger says. “The slammer turn you gay? You were at least on top, right?”
Tank laughs wildly, and Lenk sneers at me.
“I got whisky dick,” I grunt. “Had one too many.”
I can feel my head swaying back and forth. The room isn’t just spinning anymore, it’s a whirlwind.
“So?” Lenk says. “A blowjob feels good either way.”
I jump to my feet. “Nah, I want to fight.”
It feels like the ground is warping and moving in waves, trying to knock me down.
Luger laughs. “Who ya gonna fight, man? Steven Hawking could knock you out cold right now.”
“Who the fuck is Steven Hawking?” Tank asks.
“That wheelchair scientist guy,” Lenk says, laughing. “Dude can’t even talk without a computer. And yeah, he could beat the shit out of Stone right now.”
“Wanna try me?” I ask.
Lenk snaps his fingers. “Alright, Tank, he wants a fight? Take him outside.”
“Don’t matter if I win or not,” I slur. “But I miss a good fight. On the inside…” I hiccup “...on the inside...the guards always break up the fights.”
A circle forms around us, but all the faces blur together. Tank is almost six inches taller than me, and weighs at least fifty pounds more. I put my hands up, but the movement sends me off balance, and I fall sideways into the crowd. Someone catches me and steadies me.
“You sure you wanna fight now, man?” the voice says.
“Yeah!” I shout, “Let me at ‘em!”
I wake up on a couch with the worst hangover I’ve ever felt. It feels as if the liquor grabbed me by the shirt and literally punched me in the face.
I bring a hand to my face and touch it. Shit, even the bone hurts. Something did literally punch me.
I get up to orient myself, but I’m still a bit drunk. Jesus.
The last thing I remember is shoving one of Lenk’s hired girls off me. Shit, I hope I didn’t do anything with her. I wouldn’t. I know I wouldn’t. Not with Jo in the picture.
I look around and realize I’m in Chuck’s office in the Chrome Hog.
I open the door and stumble into the main bar. Chuck is still there, cleaning.
“Chuck,” I say, my voice hoarse. “What happened?”
He shakes his head at me. “Tank happened. The dude rolled you over.”
Shit. Did I blow my cover?
“Why did he hit me?” I ask.
“You wanted to fight!” Chuck says. “You couldn’t walk, but you thought you could fight. You fucking dumbass.”
“So it was just a nice light-hearted brawl?” I ask.
“Well,” Chuck says, “you got a black eye, but your nose ain’t broke. I’m guessing Tank went easy on you.”
Good. I nod.
“I didn’t, uh…” I struggle for words. “I didn’t fuck anyone, did I?”
“Nah,” Chuck says. “Like I said, you couldn’t even walk. You want a coffee, man? I got a pot brewing.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just don’t put any liquor in it.”
Chuck laughs. “Lenk taking over has been good for business. The meth heads don’t drink, but the ones who aren’t cranked out drink a lot more.”
“A lot more fights and shit though, huh?” I ask.
“I still make them happen outside,” Chuck says. “Feel the grains of sand pressed into your face?”
I run a hand up to my face and feel the coarse grains. “I must look like shit,” I say, laughing.
“You always looked like shit.”
My phone rings. It’s an unknown number. Ramirez wouldn’t call me and blow my cover, but I still feel nervous.
“You gonna answer that?” Chuck asks, putting the mug of coffee on the bar.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. I hit ‘answer’ and say, “Yeah?”
“You sound like shit.”
It’s Joanna’s voice.
Shit! I jump off the barstool and clear my throat. I walk quickly outside, not wanting Chuck to overhear anything. When the door opens and the sunlight pours in, it nearly blinds me, and my splitting headache flares up.
“Yeah,” I say. “Long night...work stuff.”
She scoffs. “Whatever. Listen...I want you to meet Logan.”
My mouth goes dry. Is this really happening? “Yeah? When?”
“Now?” Joanna asks. “It’s eating away at me, Stone, I just want to get it over with. Before he asks me ‘Where’s dada?’ You know?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Now is good.”
“Good. I’ll text you an address. Meet us there in an hour.”
“Got it,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
We hang up, and a huge grin fills my face, which makes the black eye hurt.
Shit! The black eye. I’m going to meet my son for the first time with a big fucking shiner and a hangover?
I get on my new bike and hurry toward the address. It’s some diner--a safe and neutral location, I realize.
I pull up early, and I don’t see Jo’s car anywhere. Good, I’ll have more time to clean and sober up.
I get a table and order a coffee, and then I head into the bathroom.
I look like shit. The eye is purple and blue, but it could be way worse. At least my entire eye isn’t swollen shut...yet. I wet some paper towels and wipe off the dried blood. There’s nothing more to do for it than that. If I had some ice I could try to stem the swelling, but I’m not going to hold an icepack on my face in the middle of a diner.
I could have told Joanna to have me meet Logan later, but fuck that. No black eye will keep me from meeting my own son. I’ve already had to wait an eternity.
When I sit back down at the table, I drain my coffee.
The waitress smiles at me. “You look like you could use another,” she says, laughing.
“Shit,” I mutter. “You can tell I’m hung over?”
“I just meant your eye,” she says. “It still looks fresh.”
“It’ll only look worse as time passes. Yeah, I’ll get another coffee. Thanks.”
She pours me more coffee, then smiles. “You still look great, even with the black eye.”
I grunt and don’t make eye contact. I’m watching the door, waiting for Joanna and Logan.
I wonder if I saw Logan playing in a crowd of other kids, if I’d be able to spot him, to pick him out of the crowd. He must look at least a little bit like me.
The coffee really starts to hit me, and I feel hyper alert, but that soreness and tiredness that is soaked into my bones from a night of drinking and fighting is still there below the buzz of the caffeine.
I push the mug away, not wanting to get even more wound up.
Each time the door opens, I prick up in expectation, like a dog waiting for his owner to come home. And each time it’s not Joanna, I sink back down into the booth.
The sun, which had been behind a mountain, crests over the peak, and a ray of light shines into the diner. Moments later, the door opens again, and I know it’s her before I even see her.
She’s wearing sunglasses, and her hair is tied back into a bun. The ray of sun shines onto her, illuminating her skin and casting soft shadows across her face. She’s even more fucking beautiful than I remembered. My chest tightens, and then my heart beats some life back into me, the adrenaline making the hangover seem to melt away. Joanna’s hand is out like she’s holding a child’s hand, but the booths are blocking my view. Logan--my son--is just behind those booths.
Joanna stops when she sees me. The sunglasses block her eyes, but I know she’s staring right at me. I grin and lick my lips. My cheekbone and entire eye hurts when I smile.
She pulls off her sunglasses and holds them in her free hand. One of the waitresses is asking her something, but she’s just staring at me. Her jaw drops open, and her cheeks redden in the sunlight.
“Jo,” I say, but my voice comes out as a hoarse whisper.
I stand up. I want to see my son.
Joanna takes a step forward, and Logan comes into view. His hair is a dirty blonde, and he has his mom’s nose. His eyes are a bright blue, like mine, and when he sees me, he points.
Joan
na pulls his hand down and picks him up. I realize I’ve already taken half a dozen steps toward them.
“He’s heavy,” she says.
I look down at him in disbelief. My son.
“Want me to hold him?” I ask.
I hold out my hands, but Logan looks at me, and his face scrunches up. He looks away and buries his face into Joanna’s chest.
“He’s afraid,” she says, “of your…” she touches her eye. “What is that, Stone?”
“Injured in the line of duty,” I say, grinning and scratching the back of my head.
“Logan’s never seen a black eye,” she says. “Have you, sweetie?”
“You like cartoons, Logan?” I ask.
He risks a look at me now, and his childish features that look so much like me examine me. As if he’s seen me now for the first time. Before I spoke to him, I was just some stranger in the background, some adult with a scary black eye. Now that I’ve spoken to him--said his name for the first time--he has to reassess me.
He nods, but doesn’t speak. He’s shy.
“You know when Yosemite Sam and Bugs Bunny are fighting, and--”
“They don’t have Looney Tunes anymore, Stone. He likes Tom and Jerry, though, right, Logan?”
Logan nods enthusiastically.
“You know when Jerry hits Tom with a big hammer, and he has a black ring around his eye?”
Logan looks up at me again, wide-eyed. Great, now he thinks I’m a fucking cartoon character.
“But, but, scary guy’s eye! It’s blue! Blue, mom, it’s blue!”
Scary guy? Is that me?
“And purple,” Joanna says. “See?”
She points to the area around the bridge of my nose. Well, at least my stupid drunken brawl can teach my son the difference between blue and purple.
Logan laughs and points at me. “Purple eye! Purple eye!” He giggles as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.