FILTHY SINS_Sons of Wolves MC

by Nicole Fox

  “You’re too drunk to drive,” I say, meaner than I intend.

  “No.” He laughs strangely. “I’m actually too sober to drive. I’ve got a wicked headache and I can’t stop shaking and I don’t think I’m in any state to drive. No state at all.”

  “You’re sober?” I ask. “Really?”

  “Really,” he says. “I want to apologize, Nancy. I want to apologize for everything and show you I’m a better man—”

  “I don’t want to hear that right now,” I say. He’s been sober before. It’s never lasted longer than a couple of days, but a couple of days is plenty of time to get my hopes up, to make sure I’m all the sadder when drunk Dad reemerges. “You can show me you’ve changed in the long run. For now, we’ll just get you that tool. I’ll be by in ten minutes.”

  Maybe this could be the thing to keep me in Salem, I reflect as I drive through the bleak, gray-clouded city toward Dad’s apartment building. The reason I stayed here after college in the first place was to help Dad get better, and maybe this is it. This might be the first day of a long journey to redemption. I want to hope that, but I’m also aware that my hopes have stacked up like this before, stacking higher and higher until they all come tumbling down. I have to be vigilant, to make sure that they don’t stack so high that I lose control of them.

  But when I see Dad outside his apartment building, clean-shaven and clean-suited, his hair combed and his hands folded in front of him like he’s in church, I can’t help but feel a flicker of hope. Against my will, fantasies frolic in my head: I see Dad holding my child in his arms, taking my child to the park, teaching him or her to shoot. I see Dad in the waiting room, completely sober now, there for me as an adult as he never was when I was a kid. I try to banish the fantasies as I pull up beside him, but it’s hard.

  He climbs in next to me. “Nancy,” he says, offering a shaky smile. His hands tremble nonstop. He has to clamp his knees to stop the trembling.

  “Dad,” I say. “Where’s the store?”

  “Five minutes down there.” He points with a shaky finger to the road on the left. “I’ll give you directions.”

  “Okay.”

  Dad guides me to the store. I stop in the parking lot and we just sit there for a few minutes. After a long pause, Dad says, “I don’t remember much about yesterday. Hell, I don’t remember anything about yesterday. I remember I had my gun out, and that the fellas came by and I convinced them to leave, and I remember you being there. But I don’t remember what we said, or how we left it. I know it was bad, but I don’t remember what I said. I’m . . . I’m a mess, Nancy. That’s the truth of it. Your old man’s a mess.”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Not a darn thing.”

  That means he doesn’t remember about my pregnancy. He doesn’t remember the test, the argument, me storming out on him.

  “Let’s look for that tool.”

  We walk into the hardware store. A plan formulates in my mind as we walk up and down the aisles. Dad takes longer than usual to find the right tool, looking unfocused and barely awake. Sober Dad is a strange sight, like a rare breed of bird, and it’s also a chance to test if there’s really any possibility of us becoming close, becoming a real father and daughter, becoming something more than a mess. If I can form some kind of connection with Dad, then maybe Fink abandoning me won’t sting so harshly.

  I’ll tell him about the pregnancy when he’s sober, I decide. I’ll tell him and see what his answer is without alcohol poisoning his veins.

  We buy the tool and return to the car. I don’t start the engine, though. I just sit there, trying to form the words. It’s not often we get a second chance like this in life.

  “Are you okay?” Dad asks. And it’s like he actually cares. There’s real kindness in his voice.

  “I need to tell you something,” I say. “It’s about Fink.”

  I watch his reaction. He swallows, but doesn’t say anything. After around ten seconds he nods. “Okay.”

  I take a deep breath and then just blurt it. “I’m pregnant and Fink’s the father.”

  I can’t look at him. I stare out the window at a lady walking her dog. His breathing gets heavier and heavier until he’s practically growling. I turn to him. His face is red, his jowls trembling, his cheeks quivering, his eyes shot with blood and wide with rage.

  “I hope this is a joke,” he says.

  My chest drops; my hopes tumble. I feel like a fool for ever thinking things could be different.

  “Is it?” he barks. “It better be! I’m telling you right this second, Nancy. This better be a joke!”

  “It’s not a joke,” I say tiredly. “It’s true. I’m pregnant. And now I’d like you to get out of my car, Dad. I don’t want you in here anymore.”

  “What?” he barks. “Get out of your car? Why? You can’t tell me something like that and then demand that I get out of your car! What sort of daughter are you? What sort of woman are you? You let that criminal impregnate you, Nancy! It’s fucking sick!”

  “Get out!” I scream, thumping the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. “Get out before I scratch your fucking eyes out! Get out right this second!”

  “Wait.” He softens, but not by much. “Listen to me. We can deal with this together. I’ll come with you. You don’t have to face this alone. There’s no shame in taking control of your life. You don’t want to raise some criminal’s brat, do you? I’ll be with you the whole time. We can go right now.”

  “Dad . . .” I swallow, trying to keep my voice calm. “If you don’t get out of my car right this second, I am going to kill you. I swear to God, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you for all the times you made me fear for my own life growing up. I’ll kill you for ever letting me hope. Get. Out.”

  He tries to speak again, but I’m in no mood to listen to him. I spin on him and scream, “Get out right now! I mean it! Get the fuck out or there’ll be trouble!”

  I’m not sure exactly what kind of trouble I mean, but my message must get through to him on some level. He leans against the window, his eyes wide and watery. It’s the first time I can remember seeing him afraid. “Wow,” he says. “Just . . . wow.”

  He opens the door and almost falls from the car, pacing away and watching me warily.

  I screech away, ignoring his judgmental looks, full of hate for him for judging and for myself for hoping. I should know by now that hoping and Dad don’t go together. I should have learned that a long time ago. Instead I let myself fall into the trap and then act surprised when the trap snaps me up.

  I fight the tears as I head for the highway. I don’t think of Dad and I don’t think of Fink. At least, I try not to think about him.

  But as I drive down the highway, I keep feeling his hands on me, his breath on my neck, his tongue in my mouth. Most of all I hear his laughter and see his smile and imagine the love we could have shared together.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fink

  “What do you think this is for?” Snake says, holding up his cellphone. “Fuckin’ decoration? Do I wear it around my goddamn neck on a chain? Do I wear it on my wrist? It’s a phone, Fink. You need to answer it when the Old Man calls you. You’re in deep shit with the boss now.”

  “Are you the boss, Snake?” I step close to him, staring into his eyes and waiting for violence to erupt. The way I’m feeling right now, with Nancy haunting my every moment, waking or sleeping, I need to let out some tension. He shrinks away from me, but I just keep staring. “Well?” I bark. “Are you the fuckin’ boss now?”

  “Fink!” the Old Man calls. “Leave the rat alone. I need to speak with you.”

  “I know.” I sigh, stepping back and massaging the bridge of my eyebrows. “I should have answered. I know.”

  “You know?” The Old Man waddles over to me, poking his forefinger at my chest. He’s a cunning bastard; he knows I won’t hit him or square up to him, ’cause he’s older than relics. “What do
you know?” He pokes me again. “Do you know that your club needed you, and you made the decision to just say fuck it? Fuck it, Fink. Fuck it. When one of your brothers could’ve died.”

  “What was the job?” I mutter.

  “A protection job,” he says. “Four men, one truck. But since you decided to tell us to go fuck ourselves, it was three men, one truck.”

  “And . . .” I wait. If one of the men has died because of me, I’m done for. I’ll hate myself even more than I already do, and maybe the boss will take my patch, or maybe he’ll go one step further and take my life. “Well, is everyone okay?”

  The Old Man smiles at me, taking a step back. “You can’t have it both ways,” he says. “Either you care or you don’t care. Either you think ignoring us was the right thing to do, which means you don’t give a damn. Or you’re sorry for not picking up and Snake here is right.”

  “Fuck’s sake.” I take a bottle of whisky from a nearby table and swig. “I should’ve answered, all right? Goddamn. Just tell me our brothers are safe.”

  “They’re safe,” the Old Man says, nodding and smiling, more snake-like than Snake. “You don’t have to worry your big stupid head about it. Oh, and the boss doesn’t want to talk to you himself. He’s too busy. But he does have a job for you. A way for you to make it up to the club.”

  Snake sniggers behind me and I know it’s not going to be good.

  “Oh, yeah. What’s that?”

  “There’s a car in the garage,” the Old Man says. “It’s seen better days. Covered in muck and shit and oil and who knows what else. The boss needs it to shine by tomorrow morning. You can handle that, can’t you, Fink?” The Old Man moves lightning-fast, darting forward and puffing himself up. “And you’re lucky that nothing bad happened. Because if it did, your punishment would be a hell of a lot worse.”

  I ignore Snake’s jeers and go into the garage next to the clubhouse, take off my shirt and get to work. The car has been made as dirty as possible on purpose just for my punishment. Either that or someone’s driven it through a car wash that uses shit instead of water. The smell makes me gag at first, but I’ve smelled worse and after a while, I get used to it. I fill five buckets of water, each bucket turning brown and gunky and the car’s not even one-fifth clean.

  It takes me the better part of an hour and a half to get the car clean. All I do during this time is think of Nancy, think about our time together and wonder why in the hell I’d pick a dirty car over her, wonder why the hell I’d run out on her when she’s warm and soft and willing and lovely and beautiful. It’s only been three days, but I’m already going crazy thinking about her. Three days and I’m aching for her, hungry for her. Three days and I wish I’d never found that pregnancy test. I imagine a scenario where she tells me, and because she has her hands on mine and she’s kissing me and hugging me, I can’t just walk out. So I stay there, and we work it out. We grow closer. We grow stronger. Instead, I ran and ruined everything.

  I emerge from the garage covered head to toe in grime and dirt. Snake leans on his bike off to the side with a few of the men behind him, all of them laughing.

  “Laugh it up, fellas,” I say, heading for the hose. “One day I’ll get you all back for this. That’s a damn promise.”

  “Get us back for what?” Snake laughs. “This is us getting you back, Fink. We’re square now.”

  I hose myself down, getting as much of the dirt off me as possible, and then go into the clubhouse and get a change of clothes from the dormitory wing. I shrug on my jacket and sit in the bar for a while, playing poker and drinking whisky, but unable to get Nancy out of my head. She’s always right there, no matter what I do, lurking, watching, waiting. She’s always there with her gorgeous eyes and her gorgeous smile, her gorgeous way of making me feel like a real person. And I left her.

  “You’ve been odd lately,” Snake says. “You’re normally a violent bastard but fuck, Fink, I can’t count the number of times you’ve threatened to take me out.”

  I cough out a laugh after a slug of whisky. “Sometimes life gets complicated. You know I wouldn’t do anything serious with you, Snake. We’re both Sons of Wolves.”

  “Yeah, I know, man.” Snake nods. “But what’s got into you?”

  I look around, making sure our conversation is ours and ours alone. “You ever been with a girl you love?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been with a girl I love. I’m still with the girl I love, only now she’s my wife.”

  I sit up. “Wait a second. You’re telling me you’re married?”

  Snake grins. “It’s crazy, ain’t it, how we can all see each other damn-near every day and not know a thing like that? I’m married.”

  “And how is it?” I ask.

  “How do you mean?”

  “How is being married? This must be why you’re always so shy with the club girls.”

  “Tryin’ to be loyal. How is it? Let me see . . . It’s like having a best friend around all the time, I guess, if the best friend had a twat and some tits.” He laughs raucously and necks his whisky. “It’s fine, man. It’s damn fine.”

  “Aren’t you scared?”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Of getting her hurt. Of infecting her with . . . with this.” I wave a hand at the clubhouse. “With twisting her or hurting her or dammit, anything.”

  “I was at the start. But what was I gonna do? Pass up on the woman I love ’cause I was scared? I’m not a fuckin’ pussy.”

  “I’ve never thought of it like that,” I say honestly.

  “Where are you going?”

  I pace away from him, ignoring his question, and climb into my bike and kick it to life, growling away from the clubhouse and toward Salem proper. I need to see her. It isn’t a question of just missing her anymore, or just feeling like it’d be good to feel her touch again or any of that. I need to see her, and there’s nothing in this world that’s going to stop me. As I ride, I see myself how I must’ve looked when I left: a coward, fleeing, a coward who’s got even less grit in him than Snake, a coward with a cowardly way of looking at the world. I thought I was doing the right thing by walking out but maybe all I was doing was protecting myself.

  And yet, that moment of clarity doesn’t last long. I stop a few streets down from her apartment building, sitting in a mild autumn drizzle, kneading my knuckles and wondering why I’m really going to Nancy’s. I need to ask myself this question because for all I know, I’ll fuck her and then leave again. Maybe that’s the sort of man I am without even trying to be: the type to swoop in, take what he wants, and then swoop away. Maybe that’s the type of man I’ve always been and I’ll always be. I pace up and down near my bike, thinking. I’ve never been much of the introspection type but I think it’s necessary now. I need to know exactly what I’m doing to that girl before I do it.

  I ask myself some fundamental questions: what do I want from Nancy? What do I think I can offer her? Where do I see this ending? I’ve never asked myself this bluntly about a woman before. I guess I’ve never thought it mattered since all the girls I normally go with don’t want anything from me except for some fun. I sit on the curb, not caring when the rain gets heavier and clings to my hair. What do I want from her? Sex, obviously. I want sex from her because she’s smoking hot and I’m a man. But what else? I want to spend time with her like we did at The Mermaid, drink shots and learn about each other, get closer to each other. I want to see her smile at me because it makes me feel like less of a piece of shit. But what can I offer her? That’s a tougher question. I can tool guys up for her, if it comes to that, and I have some cash stowed but she doesn’t seem like she’s struggling for money.

  “What can I offer her?”

  Goddamn, is my self-esteem really this fucked up? Did my ranting mother and phantom father really do this much damage to me, or is it just me, something deep inside of me, unchangeable, something poisoning me bone-deep?

  I move on from the question. If I’m honest, it scares me.

/>   “Okay, where does this end?”

  I see two scenes: in one, Nancy is on her face, hair matted and bloody, a pool of blood spreading around her; in the other, she is holding a baby and cooing and radiant, sunlight framing her.

  In the end when I climb back onto my bike I don’t know which fantasy I believe in. I don’t even know if I’m going to Nancy’s to end it once and for all or to beg her to give me another chance or just to hear her voice. I wish I could be more certain about this, but it turns out relationships and women are more complicated than shoot-ups and outlawing. I never would’ve guessed that.

  I press down on her apartment buzzer to no answer. I press it a couple more times and then check the time. It’s half past five. Maybe she’s got a new job; maybe she’s got a date. I should probably just leave and come back later, but I’m amped up now. I press down on the buzzer of the elderly woman who answered the last time I came here.