by Jc Emery
“You really are just a little girl, aren’t you?”
As I loop a loose strand around the end of my braid and secure my work in place, a new kind of heat rises to my cheeks. A mixture of frustration and exhaustion overtake me as I shoot him one of my best angry looks.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I snap. Now that my hair is secure, I have nothing else to distract me from his presence. I toss my braid over my shoulder and turn to face him. I’m really over being called a little girl and being treated like I’m going to break at any moment.
“I know more about you than you know.” He takes another gulp and rests the half-empty bottle on his knee. I move my arms across my chest before correcting my position and place them on my hips. I refuse to wither under his criticism.
“Do enlighten me,” I say, trying for my best smirk. I have absolutely no practice at being snarky, so I’m sure the effect isn’t what I intend. He raises his brows.
“You’re sheltered. You know nothing about the way the world really works. You’ve never actually done anything worth mentioning, even though you think you have.” His words hit me straight in the gut. It doesn’t matter that he’s hit the nail on the head. It still feels like a dull butter knife is being shoved in between my ribs. I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I just don’t know how not to be.
With my fingers digging into my sides, I eye the whiskey bottle. It only takes a second for me to make my decision. Dropping my hands to my sides, I walk toward him slowly. He remains silent as I sit on the edge of the bed before him, our knees touching, and take the bottle from his grasp. I bring the bottle to my lips, close my eyes, and take a small sip. The burning tang of the alcohol is brutal going down. But I force it down anyway. Opening my eyes, I shake my head free of the buzzing that’s already begun.
“Again,” Ryan says. His voice is hard and commanding. I’m trying so hard to prove to him that I’m not a baby and that I can hold my own—maybe even that I can make it here with this leather-clad bunch of roughians. I close my eyes and toss back some more whiskey, barely keeping it from coming back up.
“Again.” And once more I follow his orders, but it’s the last time. I set the bottle down on my lap, barely keeping it in hand and use my other hand to keep myself from falling backward. It’s not my first time trying whiskey; it’s just the first time with cheap whiskey. I force myself to breathe steadily in order to control the impending nausea.
When I dare open my eyes, Ryan’s cold expression looks foreign. It’s like there’s a part of him that’s actively working on killing the part of him that can actually feel things.
“I may be a spoiled mob brat who’s never had the chance to do anything worth noting, but what the hell have you done?” As the words leave my lips, I start shaking with fear. I’ve never spoken to anyone but my brother like that before.
I’m rewarded for my boldness with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Leaning forward in the chair, he places his left elbow on his knee and grabs the bottle of whiskey with the other hand. He’s so close now, he has to angle the bottle to the side to avoid hitting my face. My breathing becomes ragged as I imagine what it would be like to have those lips on mine. He lowers the bottle, but says nothing. I won’t be getting an answer, so I try another question.
“What’s with the nickname?”
“Everybody’s got ‘em,” he says without elaborating.
“And they have meaning, right? So why Trigger?”
“I was fourteen the first time I shot a gun,” he begins. Both of his elbows now rest on his knees with the bottle hanging from his right hand. Feeling a little more stabilized and brave from the liquor, I take the bottle back and down some more. The more I drink this crap the less it stings going down, so I try for another two gulps before I decide that drinking myself stupid is probably not the best idea.
“Okay,” I say, encouraging him to keep talking.
“I accidentally shot Rage in the foot.”
Unable to control myself, I bark out laugh that dissolves into a fit of giggles.
“He said I shot before I was supposed to.”
I peek up at him through my lashes, still shaking with laughter. “Is that a problem for you, shooting early?”
The surprise on his face urges me on, and I give him a flirtatious wink. But I’ve forgotten the world I’m in and who I’m talking to. Ryan is no school boy, nor is he impressed with my ability to banter. The amusement is gone, and so is the shock. In their wake is an intensity I can’t process. Swiftly, he takes the bottle from my hand and drops it on the wooden floor. The farther he leans over me, the farther back I have to lean in order to avoid bumping heads.
He places his right hand on the bed beside me, his left knee coming up beside my outer thigh. As he hovers over me, I do everything in my power to keep my heart from straight-up beating out of my chest and to stop myself from losing consciousness. With his free hand, he grabs the back of my neck, squeezing so hard I worry he’ll leave a bruise. Maybe that’s what he wants. Pulling me in, our noses collide and a rush of pain shoots up between my eyes. My ears heat from the stinging sensation. With labored breaths, my lips part. My chest rises and falls and suddenly, I can feel my beating heart everywhere. From my wrists to my neck to my lower belly.
“What are you doing,” I whisper. His warm breath wafts over my face, coating me in the sickly sweet scent.
“I’m going to fuck you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
I pull away and push on his chest, but it does me no good. The more I push him away, the closer he gets, bringing his body directly on top of mine, his pelvis resting between my legs. Unable to meet his eyes, I focus my attention on the marked wall over his shoulder.
“Please, no,” I whimper. He angles my neck, forcing me to look at him.
“Don’t worry, I don’t fuck little girls,” he sneers. Releasing me, he crawls off the bed and storms out of the cabin, leaving me to my thoughts. I scramble to the center of the bed and curl into myself. He’s not who I thought he was. No matter what impression I got of him, clearly, it’s just what I wanted to see. He’s not lonely; he’s just a bastard.
Chapter 11
There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.
C.S. Lewis
WE LEAVE SO early the next day that the sun isn’t quite out yet. After Ryan left last night, I lay in that bed, staring at those words on the wall for what felt like hours. I fell asleep eventually. It was sometime after I heard Duke’s voice at the door.
WHERE SOULS SPOIL AND HEARTS ROT.
There’s so much I’ve wondered about in my lifetime as far as my father’s family goes. Like, how can these men go out and do these horrible things, then come home to their families? It always happens, you see. A wise guy goes to work and things happen on the job. Maybe it’s a slow day and all he’s got to do is threaten somebody. Maybe it’s a busy day and he’s got to teach somebody a lesson. Maybe that lesson has the guy ending up like Sal, with a bullet hole in his throat. But when these guys get home, they’re all hugs and kisses to their wives and children. They talk about ballet recital and hockey practice. They dispense words of wisdom about how important respect and earning a quality education is. But they don’t talk about life the way it really is—bloody and painful. They don’t talk about where the money comes from to pay the mortgage or what truck their wife’s fur coat fell off of. We all know, but they never talk about it.
It wasn’t until I had been staring at those words on the wall for so long that I was worried I’d slipped into some kind of coma that I finally understood how people do such awful things and then manage to play the part of the loving husband and father. They just let a piece of themselves die and when they’ve done enough screwed up stuff, I think they just stop caring. Because it only matters—all the death and pain—if you let it. So in that bed, I made a vow to myself and to God that I would stop letting it matter. If Ryan, and my father, and all of my father’s men can shut off
the guilt, then surely I can shut off the pain.
We’ve been in the van for hours and hours on end now. Morning passed and bled into afternoon. That was around the time we crossed the state line into California, which was, apparently, a big deal as horns sounded from all around us and echoed in the silence inside the van. Duke said once, a while back, that we had about an hour or so left. The excited buzz from the men is starting to rub off on Ruby, who has been particularly silent today.
The highways have gone from wide and expansive to narrow and winding a few times since we made it into California, but this has got to be the worst yet. Driving on the side of a mountain—which Duke insists is a small mountain—that twists and turns and has a small shoulder is making my stomach a little flighty. My knuckles are white as my hands clamp down on the torn fabric seat beneath me. About ten minutes back, I decided to stop looking out the window. The highway is, mostly, one lane going in each direction, with the occasional rest stop carved into the dark brown rock of the mountain. Trees, taller than I can see, line the highway, their trunks dug deep into the ground at least a hundred feet below the concrete.
“Just a few more minutes,” Ruby says, leaning toward me. Her shoulder bumps mine, and I take the opportunity to peek at her.
“Isn’t that what you said like a half an hour ago?” We speed around another curve, and then we begin our descent. I glance over her shoulder out the windshield, seeing nothing past the bikers but a flat concrete strip nestled between scattered redwood trees and the occasional house or barn. I let out a deep breath and thank God about a hundred times.
“So sue me. I was trying to be comforting,” she says with a wistful smile. The closer we get to Fort Bragg, the more she relaxes. Her jaw has loosened up, her brows have finally become two distinct units, and her mouth turns up slightly at the corners. Catching my look, she gives me a real smile and says, “What?”
“You’re relaxed,” I say. Having been caught staring is a little uncomfortable, but trying to lie about it or cover it up would only prolong the conversation.
“I just wanted to get you home is all. You’re much safer here.” I nod my head, letting the conversation end there. The bikes start up on their horns again, and Duke, Diesel, and even Bear break out into an excited laughter. Just as I’m looking around trying to figure out what all the fuss is about, I see it. A wooden sign with the words WELCOME TO FORT BRAGG, CALIFORNIA is up ahead. Beneath that, carved into the wood, it says POPULATION 7,723. My eyes nearly bug out of my head at the prospect of living in a place with such a small population. I’ve spent my entire life in Brooklyn, New York City’s most densely-populated borough.
Intuitive in only the way a mother can be, Ruby picks up on my change in mood. She pats my knee and offers me a smile, accompanied by a soft laugh. “It’s small, and not very cosmopolitan, but it’s safe. It’s home now.”
“I don’t know what I was expecting,” I admit. “But I’m sure it’s going to be cool.”
For the first time in hours, Duke addresses me. “Fuck yeah, it’s going to be cool. Ain’t no place like it.”
I meet his eyes and shake my head, trying to fight off the smile that’s threatening to overtake me.
“See, you like me,” he says. I tighten my jaw, but it’s no use.
With a smile, I say, “I’ve gotten used to your particular style of conversation.”
We come to a dead end that intersects at the left and right. Far off in the distance, beyond the low-level houses, beyond the road before me, beyond several hundred feet of land, is an expanse of blue sky as far as the eye can see. Diesel rolls down his window and the fresh, salty ocean air wafts in through the open window, leaving a heavy dampness to settle on my skin. I’ve never smelled anything this pure and unfiltered before. Even at the beaches on the New Jersey shore and Long Island, which have always been favorite spots of mine, the natural scent of the ocean is covered by the smell of sunscreen and sweat, and the rhythmic sound of crashing waves is diluted by the volume of the people. I’m excited to explore my new home.
“Is that,” I ask, but I’m cut off before I can finish my thought.
“Pacific Ocean,” Ruby says, a smile covering her entire face. I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean before.
We hang a right at the light, turning onto South Main Street. We pass a few blocks of strip malls that house everything from local relators to attorneys’ offices right beside buffets and fast food restaurants. I can still smell the salt of the ocean to our left. We drive over the Noyo River on the right, which spills into the bay on the left. The bay is a large alcove that spills into the Pacific. It’s absolutely gorgeous the way the rocks jut out against the tide and curve inward, creating a definitive line between the bay and the ocean.
Beyond the river, the strip malls give way to local businesses and street signs that proudly hold banners on either side that welcome us to downtown. Here, the streets are formed in tight grid patterns off of Main Street to the right. From what I can see beyond the commercial buildings, small, older homes make up the local area. To the left, the coastline shrinks the closer we get to the heart of town, providing a better view of the water and the pure blue sky.
Ruby takes the time to tell me as much about what I’m seeing as possible, and even though our first few days were rough with her being so hot and cold all the time, I’m so grateful I have her. Even if I didn’t know she existed a week ago, I can’t imagine not having her in my life now.
Just as the van makes a right down Oak Street, the bikes both in front of us and behind continue forward. My heart sinks in confusion. Until this moment I hadn’t realized how safe I felt with the rumble of the bikes embracing our journey westward. Now, as we make our way through a residential part of town, the cacophony of Harleys fades into the distance. I look at Ruby, searching for answers.
“They went to the club house,” she says.
“Oh.”
“We’re safe. I promise.”
“It’s just quiet now, without the bikes,” I admit.
Duke smiles and shoots Ruby a mischievous smile. His entire face lights up, creating dimples in his cheeks.
“Like mother, like daughter,” he says. Her face falls as she eyes the pair of us and then levels her gaze on Duke.
Oak Street morphs from densely-packed single family homes with little land to homes of the same size with larger yards that sit farther back from the road, eventually sprawling out to residential properties that sit on at least half of an acre each. The farther we get from Main Street, it seems, the closer we get to the country. The straight shot of Oak Street winds and bends as it becomes Sherwood Road. Minutes pass before we slow and turn down an unmarked gravel drive.
Up ahead is a dark-brown one-story ranch house that sits parallel to the curving drive, then bends at the mid-point in a forty-five degree angle that features a large sun room with a furnished deck jutting out into the tall, wild grass. The house is nothing fancy, but it looks cared for, if not updated. The van pulls up around the side, revealing an attached three-car garage, and another deck that leads up to the front door. Behind the house, nestled in a wide-open field, is a large red barn. Diesel stops the van in view of the front door, which opens and out step two men, both wearing leather vests. One is tall and slender, the other is rather squat in comparison. They rush toward the van eagerly and slide open the side door.
“All right, princess. Get the fuck out. You’re home,” Duke says with a smile on his face. I try to smile, but the arrival of new people puts me on edge. I crawl out of the van first and Ruby follows. One of the men shuts the door behind us, and the van speeds off.
“Ma’am, it’s good to have you home,” the tall one says, addressing Ruby. She nods her head and lets out a deep breath. He looks to me and gives me a polite smile. I try to smile back, but all I really want to do is to find a bed and sleep it in for the next year, maybe two.
“Welcome home, Alexandra,” the shorter one says. I notice neither of them have any patc
hes on the front of their vests. The tall one turns around, followed by his buddy. The only patch on the back is at the bottom, curving up at the ends. CALIFORNIA.
“Where are their patches,” I whisper-shout to Ruby. She walks toward the house and steps onto the deck.
“Prospects,” she says, turning back to the house. Well, that makes sense. They’re not full club members yet, which is why they’re here with us rather than with the rest of the club. It’s what my brother calls “bitch duty”. They look after the stuff the club members don’t want to be, or can’t be, bothered with. A bitter thought hits me. Ryan must be relieved to be off “bitch duty” now that he has prospects who can deal with me.
Two dogs race out of the front door and excitedly leap at Ruby. With a short laugh, she bends down and gives each of them a pet. One appears to be a German shepherd while the other is, I think, a pit bull. I try to keep my distance, but it’s no use. Gloria has a dog, but he’s a small little thing. My best friend back in Brooklyn, Adriana, has a few dogs. I never interacted much with them, though. First the pit bull rushes at me. I tense up, tears springing to my eyes, and keep my arms at my sides, afraid to move. It jumps and claws at me. A moment later, the shepherd joins in. Through the fear, I realize they’re not biting or growling. They’re just panting and whimpering, but their nails dig into my skin and dirty clothes. I peek down at them, still unable to bring myself to move.
“PJ! Tegan!” Ruby shouts, and the dogs stop jumping. They stand beside me with wagging tails. “They wouldn’t hurt a fly. They just get excited around new people.”
“I’m okay,” I say, trying to shrug it off. I give Ruby my best smile and wonder if this hollowness in my gut will ever go away. We walk up the deck; as I step across the threshold, I know I’m home. I just don’t feel it yet.
Chapter 12
Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.
David Ogden Stiers