Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  Okay, sex was really scary, even painful at first. But hormones kicked in as my innocence faded and I started to miss my husband during the week and look forward to weekends differently than when I was a child.

  Logan vanished for two weeks following our impromptu marriage, and I had missed him and wondered if the events had just been a dream.

  No one talked about him, and I was too embarrassed to ask.

  Then there came the time almost a year later when he showed up riding with a beautiful girl who was older than I was.

  I grew up really fast then.

  Everyone—except her—laughed as we rolled around in the dirt in my first real cat fight, complete with scratching, biting, and pulling hair.

  Logan slept with her that night but somehow ended up in my bed on the next one. I was furious when he tried—but failed—to get her into bed with us.

  They rode off together with her on the back of his bike giving me the “California salute” with her middle finger as they turned up the driveway.

  Like Lefty, Logan usually got what he wanted.

  Lexi Krauss looked a whole lot better before her nose was broken.

  While there is never an excuse for domestic violence, some women have a natural talent for driving their man to the brink of sanity.

  Lexi's husband, Roland, was a hardworking man. Maybe he worked too hard.

  Maybe he should have spent some of that overtime on his wife instead of saving it for their retirement.

  No matter.

  Roland had come home after working a double shift at a freight distribution center. The kids, ages seven, nine, and thirteen, were all watching TV and giggled when he asked, “Where's Mom?”

  He found Lexi in bed, their bed, with another man.

  First, Rollie punched out Lover Boy. He might have stopped there if not for the hurtful remarks Lexi was screaming in his face about the, uh—how do I say this kindly? —The limited endowment of his manhood.

  Okay, that is too wordy.

  He had a dinky-winky, which is in no way a reflection of his masculinity.

  I mean, guys think size is everything, which is why Lexi used it as a verbal rocket launcher to blast a hole through his ego. But a real woman measures a man by the size of his heart, not his penis.

  If men really understood this, there would be fewer divorces and a lot more happy marriages.

  But Roland's actions constituted a felony and Roland would have to pay the consequences.

  What was exceptionally sad was that while Rollie was in jail, Lexi would probably get divorced, get the kids, and he would have to continue working those double shifts. Only this time, all of his money would go to child support and he would be coming home at the end of the day to a house that was as cold and empty as his wife.

  I wondered as I closed out her file if my mother had been like Lexi; if my dad had worked hard to provide for her, but for whom enough was never enough.

  For a person whose life's mission was all about peace and love, my mother had done an awful lot of complaining and arguing.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Logan, I’m tired and I’m hungry. Can I have some money? Please? I’m starving.”

  In fact, I was famished. Riding across the country had been fun, but the food stops had been few and far between. The heat was intense even as night fell. I wanted food and water, not beer, whiskey and cocaine. I never took drugs, except for the spiked goods Logan would occasionally slip me for laughs.

  We had arrived at Sturgis and set up camp.

  “What the fuck! You want money, you earn it.” I knew exactly what he had in mind but I was more concerned with my stomach than what lay a few inches below it, so I did the cry-baby thing; whining and pleading with tears welling up in my eyes. Logan got mad and fired back with “I don’t need you to get some!” Then he was gone.

  Sturgis is all about sex, sex, and more sex. Okay, it is sex-fueled to radical heights by mountains of drugs and oceans of alcohol. Where else can you throw up on the bartender and still get served another drink?

  The yearly gathering at Sturgis is not really about motorcycles. Motorcycles are just the vehicle of choice. Great bikes are on display at thousands of cycle shows across America every summer. Sturgis is about sex, and the attendees happen to be bikers. They rally around the bikes, but they don’t come to see the bikes. They come to see naked women walking around and naked women riding mechanical bulls, frequently two at a time. They come to get wasted, get into rubber wading pools with naked women and whipped cream, get more wasted, look at more naked women, and hopefully score with one or even two at a time. Angels never have trouble in that department. Beautiful, young, spun-out women are always eager to brag that they had sex with multiple members of Hells Angels.

  I don’t know what time Logan returned to our tent, but he was next to me when I woke up. We did our mating ritual and he got up and dressed. Looking around, I realized my clothes were gone. I mean really gone. In their place was a red thong, a scanty red-leather string bra top, and my black leather chaps.

  “Get ‘em on and we'll go get breakfast.” Logan smiled at me like a sinister kid grinning at a butterfly speared to a mat.

  “But Logan... where’s my stuff?” Panic rose in my throat. I wasn’t allowed to sleep with clothes on when I was with Logan. He had advised me early on in our relationship to grow up and lose the jammies. I grabbed his bag, and he slapped my face.

  “Don’t ever touch my bag or I swear to God, I’ll break your neck.” Eyebrows squeezed together over eyes that burned like coals in the dimness of the tent. I knew he meant it. Evil was behind them. Back then I thought the evil was drugs and alcohol. I didn’t know about evil spirits and demons. I didn't know that drugs can break down spiritual defenses and leave a person wide open as an empty house with an unlocked door.

  “Hurry up and get dressed. I want the guys to see what I got.” His eyes glittered with predator excitement.

  “No Logan, I won't.” I protested.

  Logan grabbed my face and pinched until I squirmed and cried in pain. “Suit yourself,” he hissed, sending a spray of spittle across my face. He shoved me back on the sleeping bag and stormed out.

  Campfires burned throughout the campground, mingling the essence of food with a chorus of wood smoke, unwashed bodies, and exhaust fumes in a Sturgis harmony that hummed across the strings of an evening breeze.

  Wearing a pair of Logan’s pants and my leather vest from the bottom of his forbidden bag, I followed my nose through the wild, hard-core partying. Past naked women and toxic men. Past the Bandido Nation camp, where men leered and called out obscene propositions until they saw my vest with PROPERTY OF HELLS ANGELS embroidered on it. Most of the gangs try to keep Sturgis a neutral turf and avoid all-out war, so the harassment was just verbal.

  Log had tried to force me into tattooing PROPERTY OF HELLS ANGELS across my back and shoulders, but I am terrified of needles. Amazingly, it was Starla who came to my rescue.

  My mother returned to the cabin no more than five times after she walked out when I was ten years old. She had shown up as unannounced and abruptly as she had left, looking for something she had forgotten—and it wasn't me. She arrived in the middle of a huge fight between Logan and me. Shaky Jake, Logan's tattoo artist buddy sat on the sidelines as Logan cursed and threatened. I wouldn't back down and stubbornly refused to let his friend touch me with tools that looked like torture devices belonging to a dentist serial killer.

  “What’s wrong with just putting it on a vest?” Starla asked Logan. “I used to wear a vest.”

  “Because it’s a new millennium Starla, not the fucking sixties,” Logan said, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Nowadays, people get tattoos.”

  “Yeah, Stupid, and people are getting hepatitis and HIV from using dirty needles.”

  “So?” Logan could care less if I got those diseases as long he looked cool with me tattooed on the back of his motorcycle.

  “So? You are such a jackass,�
� Starla declared as she stood there with her hands on her hips.

  I was stunned. I had never seen my mother talk to Logan like this. No one spoke to Logan like that without a fistfight.

  “That means you can catch hepatitis or HIV from her. Idiot!”

  Argument over. The next time Logan came to the cabin, he brought me a vest proclaiming that I was the official Property of Hells Angels.

  Driven by hunger and fear, skirting the party crowds, I moved toward a camp with a banner reading CMA, the Christian Motorcycle Association. The center emblem was a Bible topped with a cross and a pair of praying hands, and the patch called a ‘rocker’ that looks like the leg of a rocking chair, identified the club's roots as, “Riding for the Son.” I didn’t know much about Christian bikers, but I felt safe entering their camp. The people were warm and friendly and food was offered before I could ask.

  A pastor’s wife introduced herself as Katie and put her arms around my shoulders. “Honey, you shur look like you could use a hot meal,” she said.

  “You're not afraid of Hells Angeles?” I asked.

  “Oh my, no!” Katie lightly laughed. Her Southern accent made me think of ripe Georgia peaches, home cooking, and lemonade. “We marry 'em and bury 'em” she said, “and some give their lives to Christ and become an eternal part of our family. Lord, bless 'em.”

  That night I discovered that they were not a just bunch of religious nuts. Katie was right. Many CMA members and other Christian biker groups had members who had been outlaw 1%ers before coming to Christ.

  I finished a hot tri-tip sandwich and an ice-cold Pepsi, pretty sure I had discovered a bit of heaven in Sturgis when Logan found me. It wasn't the first time Logan beat me, but it was the last time he did it while Lefty was still alive.

  It was the middle of the night when I woke, alone and miserable, to the presence of evil. Something sinister. Something large. Something so terrifying, that reality hung in the balance during those fragile seconds between nightmares and waking. My mind stampeded like some wild thing alert to danger, but my body was paralyzed by the proximity of a predator. A malevolent force whose presence set my heart racing and issuing the first notes of a piercing scream… when a dirty hand clamped over my mouth, muffling the cry. The man bit my breasts as he ripped away my clothes. His body was massive and unyielding as he took me with force and violence.

  I struggled against my rapist. And the next one. And the next one. Time stretched and faces blurred. Some were brutal. Some not. One man apologized even as he raped me. One man thanked me.

  I lost count through the night and the blinding stench of battle: foul breath reeking of alcohol, the pungent stench of sweat and unwashed bodies, the coppery scent of blood, the gamy smell of semen that was redolent of a pile of stinking socks.

  Through the fog of pain, and haze of reality, beneath the searing agony of being torn in half, I somehow knew that the rapists were not from our club.

  At first, I tried to protect myself. I fought viciously; biting, kicking, twisting, scratching. I tried my best to kill my attackers. I wanted them dead. Later, as my strength failed and theirs did not, I had begged for death to escape the agony. Finally, I succumbed to the sweet surrender and merciful state of unconsciousness.

  Morning dawned and melted into day. Noon hit its zenith, and I woke up alone. I spent the rest of the day lying in the tent, feverish, in too much pain and too much fear to leave. Nobody bothered me; nobody cared. I looked around the tent and found was an empty whiskey bottle. I gripped it by the neck with what little strength remained and swore I’d kill the next man who walked in.

  I was sick with thirst, hunger, searing pain, and undeserved shame by the time the night fires were lit and the partying intensified. No Logan. No Lefty. No strange men. I crept out wearing the same pants I had stolen from Logan's pack and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders leaving my vest on the floor of our tent. A vest is like an envelope with your name and address on it, and I didn’t want to advertise my presence. Walking in a wide circle, I staggered in by way of a path from the back of the CMA camp on legs as shaky as a newborn colt.

  Katie appeared from out of nowhere then stepped back. “Oh, my Lord!” she started, clamping her hands over her mouth as if to suppress her shock and horror. She reached for me. “What happened?”

  It was a simple question. Katie’s eyes, so unlike Logan’s, were lit with an inner fire that radiated genuine care. She looked at my face, swollen and purple, lips caked with dried blood, body shivering with cold in spite of the heat. “I'll get mah husband, Brandon. We’ll take you to a doctor,” she urged. “You need a doctor!” She hastened to assure me, “You needn't worry 'bout the money. We'll pay.”

  “No! No doctor. No cops. Please! I just need water and a little sleep. Somewhere safe.”

  Katie led me to a different tent on the far side of the CMA camp. “You’ll be safe here,” she said, taking me inside and sitting me on a cot. Katie brought a bowl of warm water, a washcloth, and towel. She helped wash away the filth and blood from my battered face, breasts, and thighs. A short time later she returned with a cold drink and a plate of hot food. She accidently brushed against me and her touch was a spark plug that triggered another wave of adrenaline coursing through my body. To my horror, I dropped the plate of food in the dirt.

  “Don’t worry about that,” she said sweetly, hurrying to pick up the spilled food. “I'll bring you a fresh plate.” And she did.

  We talked as I gulped the water and gobbled food.

  “My husband thinks you should speak with the police. He says they would protect you.” She dropped her gaze. “No matter what happened, you didn’t deserve this.” Tears glistened on her eyelashes when she looked up.

  My words trembled. “My husband, Logan, would kill me if I did... and you know it. I just want to go home.”

  Not only was I terrified of Logan, but I was raised to believe that cops were enemies of bikers. If I couldn't trust the club, who was my family, who could I trust? I started to cry, and like a fractured dam giving way, I sobbed on Katie’s shoulder. Her loving arms cradled me, and she gently rocked me, pulling the blanket on the cot close around and crooning sounds of love and comfort that mother would make for her child.

  “It hurts so bad.” I wept a river of tears.

  I never told anyone what club I belonged to, although Katie had seen my vest the first time we met. Knowing who I rode with, it was a bold decision on her part to help me. Being taken in by a rival gang could easily trigger a war.

  The last thing I remembered was Katie reading from the Bible: “Peace I leave with you. My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

  Two days later I woke up. It was morning, and the sound of silence filled the air. I peeked through the tent flap and saw that the camp was nearly deserted. The party was over until next year. No one had found me, not even my dad, although it was hard to guess what lies Logan might have spun. I felt strong enough to start worrying about how to get back to California.

  The little CMA tent had become an island in an ocean of trash left behind by the crowds. A couple of people moved about, jabbing at the refuse with pointy sticks and stuffing it into black plastic trash bags that hung from their shoulders. I wondered briefly if they were inmates in a work alternative program and shuddered at the thought. They made me think about the bond between outlaws, and I feared that Logan might have them looking for me.

  Stomach rumbling, head throbbing, I turned to face my angel, Katie. She stood there with long brown braids framing her glowing face, balancing a platter laden with a bowl of hot oatmeal, a sweet roll, half a banana, a can of orange juice and bottle of water.

  “Good beautiful mornin' to you. I thought you might be awake and hungry.” Katie set the food down next to the bed and prayed over it, asking God to give me strength, comfort, and healing. “Easy, now. You just take yor time. There’s more food where that came from,” she sa
id with the lilting tones of a dulcimer on a misty Appalachian morning.

  Then she handed me a large towel wrapped around some clean clothes, toiletries, and a toothbrush. I felt a warm rush of gratitude, overwhelmed that a stranger should be so kind and generous. Katie was beautiful. Not that her features were remarkable or memorable. I think it was the peace that enveloped her every move; like soft clouds drifting through the heavens on a spring day. That was Katie's beauty.

  “Katie,” I asked anxiously, the spoon trembling in my hand, “did anyone come looking for me?”

  She lowered her eyes in a moment of thought—or prayer—sat next to me and replied, “A couple of guys came ‘round. I think God must have been watching out for you since they only asked our members who honestly didn't know you were here. Everyone has gone home. Yor safe now. You mustn't worry. Enjoy yor meal and then join us when yor ready. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  She stood, reaching out with a tentative hand, waiting until I nodded. She brushed some hair away from my face and softly patted my cheek in a gesture that spoke volumes. “You just take yor time,” she repeated, before slipping through the door of the tent.

  I ate, found a bathroom and cleaned up. Bathing took all my strength, but it was refreshing to wash my hair.

  When I was done, I found Katie who walked me down the slope towards her husband, Brandon, a CMA chaplain and pastor in their hometown of Trenton, Georgia. Next to him stood a tall man in his fifties; a hardened biker by appearance, dressed in the standard black leathers and with bushy eyebrows and a long white beard that reached to his waist. He and the chaplain were laughing softly with a younger couple over by the bikes. Their attention shifted to me as I approached.

  “Hello, Sunny,” Brandon greeted me warmly. “I’d like you to meet Tim Heartwood. He rides with the Iron Horse Apostles in Northern California.”

  The older man nodded and removed his dew rag in place of a cap and held it respectfully to his chest. “Hello, ma’am.”