by Jc Emery
As we travel down Main Street toward Safeway, a blue Honda Civic coupe swerves in the right lane up ahead. It’s just enough to make me nervous, but not bad enough that the driver’s done any damage yet. The car speeds up dramatically and then comes to an immediate stop, causing the car behind it to slam into its bumper. Directly behind the accident is a wagon that swerves into my lane to avoid becoming the third and thus creating an actual pile-up, effectively cutting me off. I slam on my brakes, and my torso is thrown into the seat belt. The surprise of the accident gets to me. The cars behind me approach rapidly, giving little time to make a decision. Pushing aside my near panic attack, I hit the gas and maneuver around the accident and into the clear right lane ahead. As I pass the blue Civic, I flip the driver the bird and scream at her even though I know she can’t hear me over Jeremy’s own personal concert.
My chest heaves in frustration and fear. Meanwhile, Jeremy’s gripping the “Oh Shit” handle that rests in the curve between the windshield and the passenger window. He looks over at me with wide, worried eyes. For the first time in a while, I remember how young he actually is. Not that I forget his age or anything, just that right now I see the boy that tries so hard to be the man he isn’t just yet. He’s the only family I have, and I’m the only thing he’s got that’s keeping him from foster care—or the Stone house, but that’s not an option.
“Were you even paying attention?” he gripes loudly enough that I can hear him, but just barely, over the music. Feeling my temper not just rise, but explode out of my chest and coat the entire car with its venom, I reach over and turn the volume dial down so quickly that it actually pops off—again—and half stare at my brother and half watch the road.
“Shut up!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Just shut your mouth! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” With every word, my voice gets impossibly louder and more frantic. I’ve worked myself into such a state that I nearly miss the Safeway parking lot and end up taking the turn a little fast. My little car jostles its way into the nearest spot, where I put her into park and, with a heaving chest, stare at my brother. He opens his mouth, but before he can say a single word, I yell, “I said shut up!”
“Okay,” he says. His eyes are wide in surprise, and he raises his hands to the side of his head. “Calm the fuck down. Shit. Just calm down. Are you on your period or something?”
I can feel my eye twitching at the question, and my hands tense around the steering wheel.
“No, I’m not, thank you very fucking much! But it is coming up soon, so keep that in mind next time you try to mouth off to me or so help me God I might have to choke you!” I scream in one long stream of words that overlap and mesh together. An older woman walks past the car with a disapproving look on her face. Catching her eye, I yell, “What the hell are you looking at?”
The woman hurries up, huffing, and crosses the parking lot at high speeds. Beside me, Jeremy whispers, “Holy shit.” He says nothing more as I try my best to regain my composure. I take several deep breaths, close my eyes, and focus on the sound of my frantically beating heart.
“Do you need Midol?” he asks oh so quietly from the passenger seat. My throat constricts in response, and my gut tightens with such ferocity that I worry I’m going to make myself sick. I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t get a single word out.
My phone chirps from the center console. Removing my hands from the steering wheel I look over and see that I have two missed calls and a new text message. The text message is from Chel. DUKE & DIESEL. FORSAKEN PKG LOT. HURRY.
The message makes little sense to me, but I don’t wait long enough to let it soak in. Throwing the car into reverse, I back up out of the space then throw her into drive and peel out of the lot. I drive faster than I should back down Main Street toward the clubhouse. Jeremy grabs my phone out of my hand and reads the text message.
“What does this mean?” he asks. I shrug and find myself unable to speak. The phone chirps again and Jeremy says, “Another text. It says HERE. NOW. from ‘Diesel’.” Swiping his finger across the screen, he brings the phone to his ear and nods his head then starts laughing. It’s the same laugh he had when I told him a few weeks back that his principal means business about not graduating on time if he doesn’t cut out the bullshit. It’s the same laugh he gives just before he does something really awful. It’s this deep, throaty laugh that tells me I’m in serious trouble and he’s going to enjoy every moment of it. I don’t even ask what the voice mail he listened to says. Just in case it’s something embarrassing, which I’m sure it is.
Pulling into the Forsaken lot at a crawl, I finally let it sink in what I raced over here for. Duke and Diesel. What in the hell could those two be doing that would require my presence immediately?
Realization dawns on me why I’m here, and a sudden panic washes over me. Brothers don’t fight over Lost Girls. They try to avoid fighting over women in general. Forsaken is one of those clubs that takes care of their own and that means all of their own—men, wives, whores, kids, and associates. Though it’s a long shot to even consider it, I really hope Diesel isn’t making a stink of the whole situation with Duke.
Rounding the corner of the shop, I find that the gates to the clubhouse parking lot are open. With the tightened security it’s kind of a rarity to be able to just pull up into the lot. A crowd has gathered near where the guys park their Harleys, and, the closer we get, the easier it is to hear the shouts.
“Shit,” I say. Jeremy leans forward in his seat. I blink at him, and realize only too late that I’d sworn never to bring him here. I don’t want Jeremy to see this life. It doesn’t matter what I do here because I can walk away at any time. But what Jeremy wants—the patch—that’s for life. There’s no walking away from that. Sure, guys will tell you that you can patch out and cover your club ink and leave at any time, but they lie. Once the club has you, and they know what your weakness is, they’ll exploit it to further their own agenda. The club couldn’t operate on such a tyrannical level if it weren’t for its enforcers—the actual members of the club—who blindly follow through with whatever fucked up shit they have to do in the name of the club and protecting what they consider theirs. Just ask Butch—my dad—what a member will do in the name of his club. And it’s exactly that blind loyalty that wound my dad up in San Quentin Maximum Security Prison that I don’t want Jeremy getting all gleamy eyed over. I’ve seen it before at his age—with Ryan and Duke. They glorified the club and the life, and they couldn’t talk about anything else but being patched and what it would mean. I remember them going on and on about pot, and pussy, and money. They talked about the kinds of Harleys they would have and what they would spend their money on, but they never talked about the death and the sorrow, and all that the club leaves in its wake. Nobody ever talks about that. They only talk about loyalty and family, but some family they are. You either end up dead or locked up. There’s a reason there’s so few older Forsaken, and there’s a reason the club basically finances the town’s divorce lawyer’s daughter’s college fund. These guys are only ever faithful to their patch. I can’t let that become my brother.
So when I pull in and park, I cut the engine and turn to face Jeremy. He almost looks like he just stepped into a strip club with the way he’s eyeing the bikes and all the leather cuts that huddle around in a circle. “Stay put,” I say.
He won’t listen, but I have to try.
Chapter 9
WHEN I CRAWL out of the car, the voices get louder and more pronounced. First, it’s Diesel, saying, “Fuck you, man. You knew what you were doing.”
“You already fucked me when you fucked Nic,” Duke shouts. The crowd gets very quiet and backs up just slightly. I can’t hear much as I approach, just the shuffling of boots on concrete.
“One, you don’t know shit. Two, that bitch Dawn was riding your dick like she was performing at the fucking circus! You were out in the open, jackass!”
Halfway to the crowd, I stop. I don’t really want to be witness t
o this—but there’s not much I can do. If I didn’t want to be part of this, I probably should have thought that over before I broke speed limits to get here.
“Did you or did you not take my girl in a room last night? Duke asks, his voice harsh.
“You are so fucking stupid it’s embarrassing,” Diesel snaps back.
Sneaking out of the crowd, Chel strides over to me. Her bright red hair needs to be redone, and her makeup is a little frazzled. She’s wearing velour sweat pants and a tight baby doll tee shirt, but her make-up is in full force. Glittery silver eye shadow, pink lipstick, and heavy black eyeliner. Reaching out with her perfectly manicured nails, she grabs my hands and pulls me toward the crowd. “Finally,” she says. “Now go break it up.”
I stop dead in my tracks and give her a wide-eyed and weary look. Surely she’s joking about me getting in the middle of this. “Oh, hell no,” I say.
“They are fighting over you,” she says, “And since you were too damn slow to answer your phone the first time I called, this little tiff got out of control. So, break.it.up.”
I pull my hand away and shake my head. “Fuck that,” I say. Suddenly, I feel like such a dumbass for being here. I shouldn’t have reacted like I did—racing down the street and beelining it here like there’s no tomorrow. I should have just figured out what was going on. Had she told me they were having a pissing contest and had decided to drag me into it, I would have done my grocery shopping like I planned and let them sort this shit out on their own.
“No, seriously. Diesel made me text you to get here ASAP, and then he started talking some shit about Duke and disrespect, and then Chief jumped in and backed Diesel up. Duke doesn’t dare get in Chief’s face, so he got in Diesel’s instead. So please, go break it up.”
“You are out of your damn mind if you think I’m getting involved with this. Besides, it’s not like they’re going to listen to me anyway,” I say. Truly. It’s not like any member of Forsaken has ever listened to a Lost Girl. We’re here for show and for fun. We’re not here for our brain power or our diplomacy skills.
Parting from the crowd is Grady, the club’s Sergeant at Arms. He’s the lead enforcer of the club, and he’s probably the last of the men I’d be inclined to piss off. As President, Jim may hold more sway over the club, but it’s Grady who has the tenacity and position to take matters into his own hands when it’s in the best interest of the club. He’s a mean son of a bitch when he means business, but I’ve seen him with his daughter a few times. It’s times like that, where he’s soft and sweet with her, that make me think that if Grady, who they call Bloody Knuckles, can be gentle, then maybe they all can with the right person.
Grady’s somewhere between Jim and Ryan’s ages. He’s seasoned, but not exactly old, and he certainly doesn’t carry himself with that youthful arrogance that the younger members have. His chestnut brown hair is tucked behind his ears, and his green eyes narrow as he approaches. Placing his hands on his hips he looks me over and says, “You cause this?”
“Fuck if I know,” I say and meet his eyes.
“I break this up, you talk it out with Duke. I don’t want you pitting brother on brother again.”
“Yeah,” I say. My eyes slide over to find Jeremy, but Chel is partially blocking my view.
“You Duke’s girl?” he asks. His deep voice practically vibrates with every word he bites out. The second his tone changes from grouchy to pissed—for no reason I can figure out—Chel backs up and wanders off. I’m about to answer Grady when I see Jeremy leaning up against a bike. My heart spasms at the sight, and my entire body tenses up. I imagine this is what being electrocuted feels like. Touching one of the brothers’ bikes is a big fucking no-no, and that’s an understatement. I can’t tell whose bike it is, but it doesn’t really matter. Nobody—not even Chief—will let this kind of offense go. He’s watching the fight from the back of the crowd and nobody is paying attention to him so far. Though he wears a bored expression on his face, I know he’s really excited as shit that he’s here. That excitement is going to wear off the minute somebody sees how fucking stupid he is. I want to scream at him—maybe even slap him—and tell him to get off the bike, but I don’t dare while Grady’s talking to me. If I think Diesel can be mean, then Grady is one fucked up bastard.
“I don’t know,” I say, and cross my arms over my chest. “It’s complicated.”
Grady nods and gives me a questioning glance before turning back around and pushing his way through the crowd. Just as I see his brown hair making progress, the crowd shifts and sways. Hoots and hollers come from the entire circle and beer bottles are raised in excitement. Grunts and groans followed by muted sounds of skin hitting skin reverberate off the crowd.
On my way toward the crowd, I catch Jeremy’s attention. I signal for him to get off the bike and shake my head with the coldest expression on my face that I can manage. He nods his head and lifts off the Harley, then takes a step forward. Disaster averted.
Chel points to the picnic table just behind Jeremy and the bike he stupidly used as a perch, before rushing over and climbing on top of it. I rush over and follow suit.
I can see what’s going on much better from up here. Duke and Diesel both stand in a fighter’s stance. They hop around and then one of them swings, the other blocks, and then the process is repeated. Finally, Duke throws his arms down at his sides and screams at the top of his lungs and barrels forward. Just as he reaches Diesel, he reaches his arms out, grabs a hold of Diesel’s head and slams his forehead into Diesel’s nose. Instinctively, I cover my nose with my hand. Out of sympathy, my nose pounds in my face.
I hate what I’m seeing, but I can’t look away. Blood sprays from Diesel’s nose as he wipes it off and then pulls back and slams his fist into the side of Duke’s face. As Diesel out-manuevers Duke, he manages to take advantage of the situation and slams a few good blows to Duke’s face before tackling him to the ground and slamming his head into the concrete. From what I can tell, Duke started it, but this is horrible. I don’t even realize I’m screaming until the crowd stops and Chel shakes my shoulders from behind. As I come to my senses, I realize my hands are over my mouth and I’m freaking out to the point where everybody’s noticed—including Duke and Diesel. I move to the edge of the table, but Chel grabs my arms and says, “No, it’s too dangerous. They’re way too charged for you to run into that. You could have stopped this shit.”
“His head,” I say, looking down at Duke whose head is twisted, his eyes on me. “Diesel could have hurt him.”
“Christ,” Chel mutters and keeps hold of me. “You used to live for this shit.”
Grady doesn’t waste any time. He strides through the crowd and grabs Diesel by the shoulders and pulls him off of Duke, then pulls Duke off the ground. Chief holds Diesel back, and Ryan takes control of Duke. Neither man gives up much of a fight, but they do shrug off Grady’s intervention. Their shoulders heave in anger, and they walk in circles on the inside of the crowd.
“Are you two fucking idiots done yet?” Grady asks as he looks between the two men. Each gives a non-committal grunt and mutters words of discontent under his breath. “Good. Sort out whose dick is bigger, and we’ll let the winner fuck Trigger in the ass for starting this whole mess.”
My attention snaps from Grady to Duke, who’s holding the back of his head with one hand. He keeps removing it to check for blood and then putting it back. I shove Chel off of me and climb off the table, ready to push through the crowd. By the time I get there, the crowd of people has moved out of my way. I don’t even have a chance to throw up an elbow. In the center of the crowd, Duke stands with his head down. I don’t even think about it as my feet carry me over to him.
Stopping a foot away, I stand awkwardly, unsure what I should be doing. In the back of my head I think I want to tell him that we’re done, but I can’t quite bring myself to feel the words. At least, I know I should. But then he lifts his head, and the way he looks, so sullen with his mouth turned downward
and his eyes empty, I can’t bring myself to hate him, even though I want to.
“Gonna pick a fight?” he snaps. I flinch, realizing what Chel meant about them being charged, then narrow my eyes. I take a deep breath and remind myself of the talk Diesel and I had last night. Not in public.
“We need to talk,” I say. He waits a moment before nodding his head and reaching out for me with his arm. I take the step forward and welcome the way he wraps his arm around my waist, holding me close. The crowd scatters now that the fun is over, and the few people who hang around seem to be primarily on-hand on case shit starts up again.
We turn to walk into the clubhouse when Duke’s eyes catch sight of something near the picnic table. I follow his gaze, and my stomach feels like a thousand butterflies are let loose at once. Directly in the line of Duke’s sight is Jeremy. He’s leaning up against that same fucking bike again, which I now recognize as Duke’s. He’s locked eyes with Duke, and his shoulders are straight. He’s always trying to prove how tough he is at school, and he’s always trying to show me how he can be the man of the house at home. And now here in front of the club he’s trying to be the man he thinks he’s already become. But he’s not, and suddenly I’m horrified for a whole new reason.
“Are you on my fucking bike?” Duke asks. He removes his arm from my waist and rolls his shoulders as he strides toward Jeremy, leaving me behind. I scurry to catch up with Duke, but it’s too late. He’s already reached my asshat brother, who has his chin stuck up in the air like he’s an O.G. or something. Idiot.
“I like the paint job,” Jeremy says, giving the gas tank a pat. The air is forcibly sucked out of my lungs, and the entire world disappears with the exception of Duke and Jeremy.