by Melinda Minx
“I never quite got the horse thing,” Stone says. “They cost more to maintain than a bike, and they’re way slower.”
“They don’t use fuel, though, and they don’t pollute.”
“Feeding a horse costs more than putting some gas in a bike. And I was reading about methane bubbles…”
“Oh, God,” I say, laughing.
“You know what methane is, Logan?”
“Muffin!” Logan says, “I wanna eat muffin.”
“No,” Stone says. “When a horse farts…” he makes a big farting noise, “It lets out a stinky gas that is bad for the environment.”
Logan giggles, and I make sure he’s still holding on tight. If my son falls off the horse because Stone made a fart joke, I’ll never forgive him.
“See?” Stone says. “Logan agrees with me, bikes are better.”
“He’s just laughing because you made a farting sound, that’s a cheap trick.”
“Hey,” Stone says. “Logan. You know what this place is called? It’s called MacDonald’s Ranch.”
“McDonald’s,” Logan says. “I want ice cream.”
“No,” Stone says. “MacDonald’s, not Mc. Like Old MacDonald Had a Farm, you know that song?”
“Mooooo! Moooo!” Logan says, I feel him bouncing up and down behind me.
Stone imitates a chicken, and Logan laughs again.
Stone turns toward me and grins, his muscular body and tight jeans look perfect on a horse, though the tattoos make him look slightly out of place. “Got him to laugh again, or are animal sounds a cheap trick, too?”
“Logan,” I say. “What sound does a horse make?”
Logan tries to blow air through his lips, but it sounds like a fart.
“Who farted?” Stone says, turning toward us and holding his nose. “Logan! Did you just fart? I can smell the methane from here!”
Logan laughs harder than ever, and I reach back and hold him secure. “Okay, you’re hilarious to a toddler,” I say, “but ease up or he’s going to laugh himself off the horse.”
Stone smirks at me and moves his horse forward to cut me off. He’s a natural rider--I knew it as soon as I saw him put his feet into the stirrups. He mounts a horse with the same ease he mounts a bike.
“How fast do you think this thing can go?” Stone asks. “I bet it’s got a lot of horsepower.”
“God,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Already making dad jokes?”
Stone laughs. “Seriously, though, how do I make this thing go full speed?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” I say, “or you’ll--”
“I remember from movies,” Stone says, and then he kicks his feet.
The horse breaks out into a full sprint, and Logan cheers.
A cloud of dust kicks up into my face as Stone’s horse tears through the desert, weaving not-quite-expertly through brush and bramble.
“Idiot,” I mutter. Then I say to Logan, “Let’s hope Daddy remembers from movies how to stop.”
I bring the horse to a trot, but Logan’s too small for me to risk matching Stone’s speed. We can’t keep pace with Stone, but thankfully he hasn’t been bucked off the horse--in fact, it looks like he’s having fun.
He loops around and starts racing back toward us, the dust cloud now behind him. I hear him cheering as he rides, and he even raises up a hand to fist pump the air, his big, tattooed bicep bulging.
Idiot. His first time riding a horse and he’s running it around with just one hand. He deserves to get bucked off.
The dust cloud dies down as he approaches us--he figures out how to slow the horse--and he laughs with a wild grin as he approaches us.
“That was fu--” he looks at Logan. “Freaking awesome!”
“Yeah?” I ask. “I thought horses were slow and boring.”
“Man! I could feel its muscles moving below me, like all that power under my control.”
“Barely under your control,” I say.
“Ah, Mommy’s giving me a hard time, Logan,” he says, smirking. “She’s actually quite impressed with how well I handled myself, but she’s gotta go through the motions and give me a hard time about it. That’s how women are, remember that when you hit the playground and all the bossy girls are busting your balls.”
I scoff. “Logan gets along well with girls his age, he doesn’t need your bad advice.”
“A woman’s like a horse, Logan,” Stone says. I consider cutting him off, but Logan is too young to really absorb such awful advice, and Stone must be joking. Or at least half joking. “Just like a horse, they can be wild, and that’s why you’ve got to tame them.”
Our horses have reached a small stream and are drinking. “Jesus, Stone,” I say, dismounting.
Stone jumps off his horse like a born cowboy, and he grabs Logan under his arms and lifts him down effortlessly.
“So see, Logan,” Stone says, “if you want to ride a horse, you’ve got to tame her. But if you get her too tame, she won’t be any fun to ride--”
“Okay, enough,” I say. “He’s not even three years old. And you’ve been on a horse one single time, that doesn’t make you an expert on horses.”
Stone gives me an evil grin. “I’m not really talking about horses, though.”
No shit.
“Muffin?” Logan asks, tugging at the saddle.
“Sorry, sweetie,” I say. “No muffins.”
“I brought sandwiches,” Stone says. “You like PB&J, Logan?” He reaches into his saddle bag and pulls out a Ziploc bag.
Logan eyes it.
“Peanut butter and jelly?” I say, putting a hand on Logan’s back.
Logan nods and reaches his hand out. Stone hands it to him.
“I sliced it all up,” Stone says, “and cut off the crust. Kids never like crust.”
“Expert cook, too,” I say, somewhat sarcastically. But not entirely sarcastic; making PB&J and cutting crust off is actually much more cooking than I’d ever expected out of Stone.
Stone helps Logan open the Ziploc bag, then hands him the first piece of sandwich.
“I got us some real sandwiches,” Stone says. “You like bologna?”
And then, even more surprising, Stone pulls out a big blanket and throws it down on the ground.
“I figure if you’re gonna ride horses, you gotta have a picnic.” He holds his hand out and helps me to sit down.
“Picpic!” Logan cheers.
I reach into our saddle bag and take out the Duplo train. I place it down onto the blanket, and Logan crawls over to it, puts his hand on it, and starts making train noises as he moves it back and forth.
“Nice,” Stone says. “You build that all yourself?”
“I think Jane built it,” I whisper.
“Ah, so Aunt Jane helped you some. It looks great. What do you like better, Logan, trains or horses?”
“I like vroom! Vroom!” Logan says.
“Is that a train?” I ask.
“No!” Logan says, pointing at Stone. “Vroom! Vroom!”
“Motorcycle?” I ask. “You like motorcycles? Like Daddy rides?”
Logan nods rapidly. “Vroom! Motorcycle!”
Stone gives me a worried look, but I do see pride covering his face. He pushes the train back toward Logan. “Bikes are cool, but wouldn’t you rather be a train conductor? Or a cowboy? Those are really cool.”
Logan holds his hands out like he’s reaching out for handlebars, and he keeps making vroom vroom noises. He jumps up and pretends to ride around.
“Crap, sorry,” Stone says. “He’s never setting a single foot into the outlaw life. I promise you, Jo.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s sweet to see him looking up to you, though.”
A worried look covers Stone’s face, and he avoids eye contact with me.
I scoot closer to him and put a hand on his leg. “You’re a good man, you just got off to a bad start in life. Logan doesn’t see any of that, he just sees someone who wants more than anything to be a go
od father, and that matters.”
Stone sighs. “If I open a garage, I’d love to have Logan helping me out in there. Once he’s old enough, I mean. He can help me get all the cars and bikes going vroom vroom.”
I know I shouldn’t press this, because I don’t really want to know the details, but I ask anyway. “Did you...find something on Lenk? Any idea how close you are?”
“It’s handled,” Stone says.
“Want to talk to me about it?”
“Not really,” he says.
“Stone…” I put a hand on his arm, but he shakes his head. “What is it?”
“We rode all the way out here.” He looks out across the desert. “Just the three of us leaving the rest of the world behind, but now I’m right back in that dirty bar.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I just want you out of there, too. I was wondering if you’re close.”
“Close,” he says. He locks eyes with me and takes hold of my hand. “Jo, if anything happens to me...you’ll be taken care of. I know you don’t like Lenk, but--”
“What?” I pull away from him. “Why would anything happen to you?”
“I told you I gotta do what I gotta do, and--”
“And why the hell would Lenk be giving me a dime? I’m not taking his dirty-ass money.”
“Jo,” Stone says, brows furrowing, “Nothing will happen to me. But if something does, you gotta take it, for Logan.”
“Don’t bring Logan into this.”
“Logan’s already here!” Stone says. “Why the hell do you think I’m doing any of this?”
“Oh? So I’m not enough?”
“I didn’t say that!” He shakes his head.
“Tell me what you are doing. How are you taking care of it? Specifically.”
He gives me a long stare. “You know it’s better if you don’t know.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But still, I want to know.”
“Alright,” Stone says. “Now don’t get your panties in a twist over this, it’s going to sound dangerous, but--”
I scoff. “That’s like, ‘I’m not trying to be a dick,’ followed by an asshole comment that only a dick would say.”
“You want to hear this or not?” he asks.
Logan is still vrooming around on his pretend motorcycle, and he can’t hear what we are saying.
I nod.
“So Lenk has me running point on this operation, and after the cartel jacks some drugs from--”
“Wait,” I cut in. “The cartel? Like the cartel? From Mexico?”
“Yeah,” I say, “But hear me out. So the plan according to Lenk is that after the cartel jacks the meth, I run a big strike to jack the meth right back from the cartel. I get my boys to split the loot and scatter.”
“I hate this,” I say. “You could die.”
“So,” Stone says, continuing his story as if I never spoke, “I brought this all to the cop who has me working undercover, and she found a way to make it airtight. Totally safe so I won’t get hurt.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “Is she going to replace all the cartel’s weapons with nerf guns?
“Nah,” Stone says. “The feds are going to cut a deal with the cartel--get them to play along. Just as good as if they had nerf guns.”
“Why would the feds work with the cartel?”
“Shit, I dunno, Jo, according to this cop lady they don’t give a rat’s ass if meth goes into Mexico. Usually it’s the other way around. The cartel will agree to keep the drugs south of the border, and in exchange they help us to set up Lenk. It’s win-win for the cartel, since Lenk was going to blindside them. Nipping an enemy in the bud, keeping drugs out of the U.S., all that shit.”
“Okay,” I say. “So, you ride up and the cartel just gives up?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Basically. The hijacking from the cartel won’t quite go as planned, but it’s all for show. Most of their guys are gonna get pretend-arrested, but the rest of them will pretend-escape with the product. When I roll up with 15 big bikers, the six or seven cartel dudes are just going to drop the shit and turn tail. Makes it look like a lucky win for the MC. Lenk gets his hands on the meth, and boom, the feds catch him red-handed. Game over, I ride off into the sunset and get some hard-earned peace and quiet. I get my family back.”
“So the U.S. government is actually going to use stolen drugs to pay the Mexican cartel? All to take down some greasy biker?”
“Hey,” Stone says, throwing up his hands. “I’m a greasy biker, watch it.”
“You’re not greasy. I don’t like this, Stone, is there another option?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I can give the cops the finger, and they put me right back into prison. Three more years.”
I bite my lip, and a thought pops into my mind. One that I know Stone won’t like.
He furrows his brows and leans closer to me. “What? What’s that look? You’re thinking something.”
“Promise you won’t get mad?” I ask.
“Forget it,” he says. “I’m not promising that.”
I just blurt it out anyway. “I’ll wait three years for you. I will. Logan would just be going into kindergarten...you’ll barely miss anything.”
Stone’s look says it all. He pulls away from me as if I’d just slapped him.
“You fucking kidding me?” he says. “Tell me you’re joking. You want me to go back to prison? What about our son?”
I try to take his hand again, but he won’t have it. He stays away from me as if I’m radioactive. “I don’t want you gone, no. But if three years is the cost we pay for your safety, I’ll take it. If you do this crazy cartel thing, so many things could go wrong. I can think of a dozen just off the top of my head. If anything goes wrong, you could die. If you die, you’ll miss more than three years. You’ll miss everything.”
And we’ll miss you. Logan and I will miss you.
“No way,” Stone says, standing up. “Look, Jo, I’ve got the balls for this, and--”
“Holy crap, Stone, don’t make this about your balls and your dick.”
“It ain’t about that! But this is a risk I’ve gotta take! I don’t want to miss half of my son’s childhood--or what’s left of it. I never even got to hold him in my arms when he was a baby. I’m going to miss teaching him to ride a bike? I’ll miss his next three birthdays? I’ve already missed the first two. And shit…”
He looks at me, licking his lips. “I’ve had you again, Jo. I’m hooked on you like a drug. I need you like I need water. I’m not going to be apart from you again. I would rather die.”
Now I stand up, and I shout. “Well, that’s incredibly selfish. What if we need you? It’s not just your risk to take!”
Logan dismounts his imaginary bike and looks up at me with a quivering lip. We both look down at him, worried he’ll break into a full cry. It’s like watching a man teetering on the edge of a cliff, unsure if he’ll regain his balance.
Just when I think he will calm down, he starts to wail.
“Great,” Stone says, scoffing. “You made him cry.”
“I made him cry?”
I lift him up into my arms and hold him against me. He’s getting so heavy I can barely hold him. I look over at Stone and realize that Stone could still easily hold him. Give him piggyback rides. Do all the things a father does for a kid at this age.
Is it really fair for me to ask him to give that up?
Stone picks up the train and tries to hand it to Logan. “Hey, buddy, want your train?”
Logan gives it one look, hits it out of Stone’s hand, and goes back to crying.
The train hits the ground, but since the Duplo blocks are so big and chunky, it doesn’t break.
Stone and I both work together, and through our combined efforts of various fart sounds, animal noises, and promises of muffins, we get Logan to quiet down and relax.
I give him a look, and understanding is written all across his face. I didn’t make Logan cry, and Stone didn’t make him cry either. We made him cry.<
br />
“We’ll work this out,” I say.
“Yeah,” Stone says.
“Will you at least think about it?” I ask.
“Drop it, Jo,” he says through gritted teeth.
I clench my fists, frustration threatening to burst out of me. We clean and pack up, and we ride back to the ranch and to my car with few words spoken.
“I need some advice, Jane.”
“Yeah, sure.”
We both have the day off, and I normally bring Logan over for a few hours while Jane and I have coffee. I’d planned to spend the day with Stone again, but I’m not quite feeling like it right now. Not after his selfish bullshit.
“The thing is,” I say, moving my coffee mug around in small circles across the table, not meeting Jane’s eyes, “I can’t actually give you any details.”
“Oh,” Jane says. “So it’s your friend’s problem?”
“No, Jane, seriously! I really, really can’t give you details. It’s life and death.”
“You can trust me, Joanna.”
“I do trust you, but I really can’t give you any details here.”
“I’ll do my best then,” she says, leaning back and crossing her arms: listening mode.
“Did you see that movie Gladiator?” I ask.
“Jesus, Jo, you’re like, obsessed with Russell Crowe.”
I laugh. “I know I am, but just put yourself into the movie. Russell will be easy on your eyes when you imagine the situation.”
“Okay,” Jane says. “Got it. I’m in the dirty fighting pits.”
“So let’s say that Russell--”
“Maximus?” Jane says. “Wasn’t that his name?”
“Just call him Russell,” I say, grinning. “So Russell is stuck being a gladiator for, uh, five more years.”
“They were slaves for life,” Jane says.
“Just pretend Jane, please. So Russell had a family, remember? A wife and kids on the farm.”
“You really think Stone looks like a young Russell Crowe? I guess I can see it.”
“Not the point!” I snap. “Anyway, so Russell’s got a choice to make: he can either do hard labor for five years, or fight in one big tournament. If he survives the tournament, he’s free to go.”
Jane narrows her eyes at me. I see her trying to piece together what I’m really asking. She’s trying to figure out what the big tournament is, and what hard labor is.