“I thought that’s what Jason is supposed to be doing.”
“Normally yes, but they had that branch wide meeting today that begin soon as the market closed and it supposed to go till four thirty.”
“Fine, go ahead.”
I almost don’t want her to go. With her out of the house who know how things are going to deteriorate between Mr. Grubby and I. Stacy’s a beautiful and girl and I don’t think Cade wanted to look bad in front of her even if she is his cousin.
“Do you pay her well?” Cade asks as Stacy leaves.
“Moderately so…about 125k.”
“Holy shit, that’s a moderate salary?”
“Well…she does work about 70 hours a week, sometimes more.” Now I have a question. “Why are you two sharing this house? She makes enough to have one of her own. I mean this is a nice place and all…”
“This is actually her place. I’m just here temporarily. My years end I will have cobbled together enough money for my own place. Is my cousin going to be an assistant forever? Why doesn’t she have her own assistants?”
“It’s a long story. But soon she’ll be on her own. Right now she can make a lot more working for me than on her own because she gets a lot of commissions from trades she does on my clients accounts.”
“And you have another assistant?”
“Jason. He makes a little less. He works fewer hours and has fewer responsibilities. They’re both amazing assistants. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”
“Geeze…for a hundred grand…I certainly hope they’re indispensable!”
“I depend on them and a lot of people depend on me.”
“Yeah I get that. The very rich depend on you to make them the filthy rich. You’re a real humanitarian.”
“What do you do?” I ask.
“I have a custom bike shop, Nor Cal Choppers, over on 98th and Highland.”
“Make good money?”
“Not as good as you. Hell, I probably don’t make what your assistant makes either.”
“You mean you don’t know?” I ask incredulously.
“Most of the money the shop makes goes back into the business. I also have one full time machinist, a full time fabricator, one part time, and one part time painter, designer.”
“So…you take bikes and personalize them?”
“Sometimes, but mostly we built custom bikes from the ground up. No two are alike.”
Finally my curiosity gets the best of me. “What’s that stuff on the back of your vest mean?”
“This cut (the biker name for vest or jacket) is worn by members and prospects of the Iron Disciples motorcycle club. Stacy never told you about me?”
“No… we pretty much just talk about work. There’s no time to get personal.”
I notice several things on the front of his jacket. First there’s a rectangular patch that just says president. There’s a similar one that says filthy few. There’s also a small diamond patch that has the numeral one, and a percent sign. And finally there’s another one that says founding member. I believe I can guess the meaning of that one.
“So…what do those things mean?” I finally ask.
“Well…I’m the president…I’m also a founding member.”
“And the one percent patch?”
“Means something like…we’re not like the rest of the clubs around here; were not like the other 99% of motorcycle clubs.”
“If you have to go around telling people you’re different kinda means you aren’t. I mean if you gotta tell peop-”
“There’s more to it than that! I just can’t tell you.”
“I see…and what about the filthy few patch. Why the hell would you want that patch on your vest?”
“If you don’t already know what that means, you don’t need to know what it means.”
“Fine…be mysterious. I’ll just google it then.”
“You won’t like what you find.” He replies mysteriously.
“Then why don’t you tell me.” I ask, getting a little ticked off at him for being so cagey.
“Just Google it.”
“Fine!”
I grab my Google Glass, glasses and put them on. Fifteen seconds later I have my answer on both what the filthy few means and the 1%er patch. The filthy few patch means he has killed for the club and the 1%er patch means that they are an outlaw motorcycle club. Apparently only one percent of all clubs are outlaw clubs and only outlaw clubs wear that patch.
“You’re a fucking criminal!” I conclude.
“Did I not say you wouldn’t like what you found?” He asks.
“Yeah…it’s just too bad you didn’t have the balls to just tell me.” I retort.
“Well it’s none of your fucking business!”
“Hey, as long as you’re playing nursemaid I have a right to know who is watching over me.”
“Then why don’t you leave?”
“Maybe I fucking will!”
I start to get up so I can storm out of the house in a dramatic fashion but my crutches are nowhere in sight. He correctly discovers my plight.
“Ah, so you need me to get your crutches do you?”
“Yes I need my fucking crutches! Where the hell are they?”
When they don’t magically appear I unwisely decide to get up anyway and just hop to wherever they are. I get up just fine, but it takes about two seconds for me to lose my balance and I go down hard on his coffee table. It’s a pretty sturdy wooden one and it hurts like fuck! Suddenly the floor is littered with magazines, my laptop, my papers, and a tall glass of ice and Red Bull. I wind up wedged between the couch and the table. My leg hurts worse than the day it was broken which makes me wonder if I have re-broken it.
“Fuck!” I scream in pain and frustration. “Mother fucking fuck!”
“Don’t move!” He shouts as he hurries to my side. “I’ll help you get back to the couch. You’ll need to elevate your leg again.” He says as he kneels at me side.
He shoves his coffee table and books off to the side so he can get to my side. Then without asking he just scoops me up like a baby with one arm under my legs and the other under my arms and he sets me gently back on the couch. Then he grabs a hand full of pillows and props my leg up higher than my head which actually does wonders for my leg pain. Then he puts a pillow under my head. For a big strong guy he can be amazingly gentle. He fusses over me like my mother used to do when I was a kid. Like she used to do before cancer took her when I was thirteen.
And just like that I’m back home fifteen years ago and I’m bursting into her room with breakfast on a tray. It’s her birthday and I have just made her breakfast. I made her favorite, eggs over hard, crispy bacon, and a tall glass of orange juice. I remember balancing the try in one hand praying I wouldn’t spill it while I was opening the door. I didn’t spill it; not yet anyways. I remember bursting into the room.
“Happy birthday mama!” I shouted as I whisked my way into her room, past the different medical paraphernalia, taking great care not to trip on anything.
“Happy B-Day mama! Wake up; it’s your special day!”
I thought it was a little odd that she didn’t wake right up. She’s always been a light sleeper. The slightest thing will usually wake her up; but not this morning.
“Mama?”
I didn’t want to believe it. No way could she have died on her birthday. Holding the tray in one hand I put my hand on her shoulder meaning to give her a little shake to wake her up. But when I touched her bare shoulder…that’s when I dropped the breakfast tray! Her shoulder was icy cold. Even then I couldn’t believe it. I was thirteen years old and I was going to spend the day with my mom on her birthday and she couldn’t even live long enough to do that.
With both hands I grabbed her by her shoulder and rolled her over. That’s when I totally lost it. She was stiff as a board and her eyes were just staring at me blankly. I remember collapsing on the floor and just screaming over and over. That’s when my dad found me.
He reached down and scooped me up into his arms and carried me to my bed. He set me down with great care, pulled the covers up over my shoulders and I just lay there and cried until exhaustion took me and I fell asleep.
Waking up was the worst part. Every time I woke up I would start to get up thinking I’m going to go talk to mom then it hits me like a sledge hammer over the head; she’s dead. Then I’d collapse again on my bed and cry myself to sleep. I think I repeated that pattern for two or three days and it wasn’t until the funeral that I finally made myself get out of bed. I still can’t believe it. My mom was still dead. With my dad gone so much of the time, I should have been there for my little brother, but I wasn’t. I just retreated into my old world of pain and suffering.
That day changed me! I didn’t see it then, but years later I realized it. Not so gradually I distanced myself from everyone; using anger foul language to keep people at bay. I learned how to get what I wanted by being focused, determined, and by bullying everyone else into giving me what I needed. Kinda makes me damaged goods when it came to having any kind of relationships. I don’t have a best friend; I just have co-workers.
“Morgan…Morgan…Morgan!”
“I’m right here mom. No need to shout.”
“Mom? What were you dreaming Morgan?”
I open my eyes and leaning over me is Mr. Grubby himself with a worried look on his handsome face.
“How long have I been out?”
“Maybe five minutes. Do you need something for pain?”
“Yeah, it’s a real bitch right now.”
Cade nods, and then produces a cup of water and a little white, oblong pill. Thank God for modern medicine! I eagerly swallow it and lie back to wait for the magic. I don’t have long to wait either. Cade is sitting in a recliner watching CNN when a delicious warm glow starts in my head and gradually works its way down my body. And just like that, in minutes all is well. A girl could get used to this. I resist my eyelids for as long as I can, then give up and close them. Seconds later I’m asleep and another dream is served up.
FOUR
Letters
For my fourteenth birthday I received an unexpected gift that came in the form of a letter; from my mom.
Dad was still alive then and it was a school day; Friday. We had plans too. He was to pick me up from school and we would go to my favorite restaurant where at some point he would give me my present; it was tradition. Then on Saturday I would have three friends over for the day and we would go to Six Flags and hang out parent free for the whole day there. I already had a cell phone and as long as I answered when he called and checked in when I was supposed to, I could have my time with my friends without him hanging around to spoil the fun.
When 3:30 came and went that Friday afternoon I wasn’t real worried. He had to commute from San Francisco and sometimes traffic was impossible. When it got close to 4:30 I began calling. I knew something was wrong and it wasn’t traffic; I could feel it in my gut.
When the school vice principal come out to the curb and invited me into his office I was already prepared for the worst. Dad had been in a car accident or something and I was going to get a ride to the hospital. What a way to spend my fourteenth birthday. I was not prepared for what Mr. Peters told me that afternoon.
“Your father is dead.” He said without preamble.
It didn’t register right away. It was just too unthinkable that by the time I became a teenager I would lose both my parents; impossible.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “He’s just late. Probably got caught in traffic coming from the city.”
“I’m sorry Morgan, but there was an accident and he was killed instantly. He didn’t suffer and there was nothing anyone could have done for him. He’s gone.”
That’s when I attacked Mr. Peters. I’ve never thought I was a violent person but something just snapped and I tried to shoot the messenger so to speak. Fortunately no one blamed me for my reaction even though he walked away that day with fingernail marks going down one of his cheeks. After the anger subsided the grief set in and completely took over my life for what seemed like forever. They say kids are remarkably resilient but not me. I didn’t bounce back from that day; ever. I think I am still grieving and still angry even after 14 years has passed. My aunt and uncle came and got me that day and took me home to their house. At first I thought it was going to be a temporary situation but I soon realized it was permanent. No way would the state let a grieving teenager live by herself. Relief came from a completely unexpected source two the day after my father’s funeral. We were at home about to clean up after dinner when my aunt suddenly asked an odd question.
“So what did you think of your birthday present?”
“What?” I asked, totally confused. “I never got a present. Dad always gives it to me at our favorite restaurant but we never got to eat obviously.”
“I wasn’t actually talking about that. What did-?”
She stops mid-sentence. “You never got the letter.” She surmises.
Now it was my turn to be confused. “What letter? From who?”
“We have to go to your house.” Proclaims my aunt.
“I’m tired. Can’t we go after school tomorrow?”
“No, we can’t. This is very important so get your shoes on and let’s go.”
So I found my shoes and followed her out the door, wondering what was so damn important that we had to go right away. When we got to the house she insisted I stay in the car while she and Frank (my uncle) looked for it. That, I thought was very odd. But maybe they thought it would be too hard seeing everything again so I stayed put. It took about a half hour for them to find this mysterious letter and they looked very relieved when they got back in the car. They didn’t say much on the way back to their house. When we went inside my aunt handed me an envelope addressed to me and from, amazingly, my mom, who happened to be my aunt’s older sister.
“Take this upstairs to your room so you can read it in private. Later if you need to talk about it just knock on our door.”
“But how?” I was dazed and very confused.
When my sister found she did not have as much time as she thought, she wrote letters to you and your brother to be given out at different times of your lives. She gave them to me for safekeeping and I swore an oath that I would make sure you received them all, and on the appropriate times. This one is for your 14th birthday.”
“Does Jaime know?”
“No, and please don’t tell him. On September the 12th he’ll receive his first letter for his birthday. I want it to be a surprise for him as well.”
My curiosity satisfied, I went upstairs and carefully opened my mom’s letter. The second my eyes read the first words I could feel the tears begin, but then all of a sudden they get all chocked up in my throat and nothing springs forth. It’s not that I didn’t feel anything; I did, I do. But it all stays buried deep, far from the light of day. Sometimes it is physically painful. I feel the sorrow so intensely and the tears begin to well, then suddenly it’s like turning off a hose or something; nothing comes out. It’s crazy. Sometimes it almost feels like I’m holding my breath or something and I have this desire to take a deep breath; to have an intense cry, but it doesn’t happen. It would feel so damn good to cry. So I sat there on the edge of my bed, all choked up, and began to read.
My dear sweet daughter:
Happy fourteenth birthday honey. I know this is precious little, but since I cannot be here physically, know that I am here with you in spirit on this special day.
There is so much I want to tell you and I will do my best to say the things to you that I would wish to say and to teach you those things I wish to teach, through these letters.
You’re becoming a young woman Morgan and soon you’ll start looking at boys in a different way if you haven’t already been doing so. Don’t just give yourself up to just any boy. I respect you Morgan, and you respect yourself, so make the boys respect you as well. Make your future first love t
reat you well and if he doesn’t respect his mother he won’t think much of you either. Don’t get pregnant! There, I’ve said it so I won’t harp on it. Let me just say this. Children change your life. Having children is the best thing in the world as well as the most terrifying, and most agonizing thing in the world. Don’t take any chances until you are ready for those changes. Enough said.
I love you dearly my darling daughter. Whatever happens in your life, no matter what, know that I will always love you. There is nothing you can ever do that would have made me stop loving you even had I been still alive and now that I am gone, you still can’t make me NOT love you. You are my reason for living; you and Jaime. He is young, innocent, and less prepared for the world. Promise me you’ll look after him. You will always be a success no matter what you do in life you won’t have the struggles Jaime will have and he will need you; especially now that I am gone.
Do your best in school. Most of us spend the better part of our lives at work so find something you love and do well at it so you won’t be miserable working. Go to college that is the key to your financial success. Go to college and you’ll be able to do things you want to do most in life.
I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday. You were so tiny and fragile I thought how can this little person grow up to be a strong young woman one day? At that time, when you were six pounds three ounces, it seemed impossible. Yet here you are on your 14th birthday; not so fragile anymore are you?
If I had but one birthday wish for you Morgan it would be happiness. To me it doesn’t matter what you do so long as you are happy. Be happy my beloved daughter and one day we’ll meet again.
Love Mom.
I’ve received many such letters over the years and I treasure each and every one of them. I keep them in my safe deposit box at the bank. I feel like as long as I have those letters my mother is somehow still alive. There is one letter I have not received and I’m sure I have one. The letter I’ll most certainly get if I get married. In a way I am glad she won’t ever know that I didn’t get married. I don’t do relationships and I am certainly not marriage material. In that I have failed my mother who I am sure wanted to see me married off. No one in their right mind would want to saddle themselves with an emotionless cyborg. That’s me the partial human woman who can’t cry. I’m like the tin man in the Wizard of Oz who when he cries he rusts and cannot move. Maybe that’s what will happen to me if I cry.
The Filthy Few (Iron Disciples MC) Page 3