by Dawn Mattox
“Chance?” Sitting up, I rubbed my head as everything came back. “Oh... Chance!” Trembling, terrified, threw my arms around his neck and held on.
“It’s okay, baby. I got you. It’s okay.”
The biker lay in an unconscious heap in a pool of blood. One of the male onlookers rolled him over, exposing a pulpy face, saying, “Looks alive to me. Missing a few teeth, though.” Some soft laughter and joking followed the people as they left to resume their business. Violence was not a big deal in this neighborhood. Chance stood, scooping me as he did, and quickly carried me out to the truck. The cold rain on my face felt good.
“Am I okay? Are we safe?” I asked as he set me on my feet to open the truck door. A kiss to the side of my face assured me that I was still alive.
“Not for long. He'll be calling other gang members as soon as he's conscious. Let’s get out of here. I’ll tell you on the way home.”
Chance took off his flannel jacket, wrapped it tenderly around me, and boosted me into the truck. He stood on the running board and reached over to buckle me in, paused to press his head tightly against my chest for a few beats, then jerked back. Pulling himself together, he closed my door and locked it before walking around to get in. He wasn’t taking any chances.
“I nearly killed him.” Chance swore as we pulled onto the freeway and sped away from the inner city.
“Am I really okay? Are we going to a hospital? Did he... was I ...”
“No, honey,” he reassured me with a gentle touch. “You're going to be all right. I came looking for you. I heard your screams when I when I opened the door and saw him...” Chance struggled with his emotions as he gripped the steering wheel. “I could have killed him!” Chance sniffed and then laughed a short, tough-guy laugh. He looked grim and vengeful.
I gazed at him in fear and gratitude. This was a different Chance. One I rarely glimpsed. The same tender man who majored in rescue and comfort was also powerful and dangerous. I loved him—this man who fought for me and shed tears for me—unashamed.
Chance called 9-1-1 and reported that a man was in need of an ambulance at the tenement building. He didn't offer any more information. His reasons for getting me out of town were the same reasons that I had been dodging Logan for years.
“Hon, did you know those men?” Chance glanced anxiously.
I paused to consider my options. Lying would definitely take too much effort, and I was tired. My resolve was crumbling.
Maybe I should just blog about my life or post it on Facebook, I thought hopelessly. What's the use?
“I never saw the man upstairs before.”
“There was another man upstairs?” Chance tensed, putting on his cop face. “Did he have a gun?”
“I don't know if he had a gun or not. I didn't know him, but he wore Bandido colors. I've seen the guy downstairs, though. At the cabin.”
Chance paused to call 9-1-1 again; this time to advise the responding officer that there was a second, possibly armed man upstairs.
“You know his name?” Chance asked after he hung up.
“No. He was just some guy Logan brought to the cabin a couple of times. The first time was right after he got back from Laughlin when my dad died. I thought it was weird he would bring two riders with him from other clubs. One was a Bandido, and one was a Mongol, just like tonight.”
Chance's brows pinched in thought. “You know, it was no coincidence those guys just happened to show up while you were there.”
Startled, I replayed the sequence of events carefully back through my mind, telling Chance everything that had happened while at my mom's, from beginning to end. The thought flashed through my mind as lightning branched across the night sky and thunder rumbled over the throaty sounds of the turbo engine.
“Oh, Chance. Do you think it was my mother? You think Starla sold me out?”
“You tell me. How could she have known you were coming?”
I thought of Sheena but immediately dismissed the idea. I hadn't told Sheena when I was coming. Then I thought of something else. “When I wanted to leave, my mom went into another room to make a phone call. Then she guilted me into staying and drinking a beer with her.” Silence filled the cab, drowning out everything else.
“Why, Chance? Why would my mother do that to me?”
I stretched out across the seat, pillowing my head on Chance's warm lap and wept softly. I felt his chest heave as a tear fell and mingled with mine.
“I am sorry you have to go through this. You’ve been through so much.” Chance's voice was thick with emotion as he tenderly stroked my hair from my face. “I expect Starla needed drugs or money. But why do the gangs want you? What is it you know?”
Everything. And nothing, I answered to myself.
“Not much,” I said. “That man you beat up did business with Logan, and the man upstairs thought I still had a relationship with him.”
“What kind of business?” asked Chance.
“Guns. Drugs. Money. I don't know. I didn't want to know. I mostly stayed in my room when Logan did business. I think it was some kind of gun deal. I don't know anything else.”
Chance recalled that a Mongol rider had started the fire below my house. But neither of us could figure out what was going on.
I lay in silence for a long time, listening to the rain drum on the windshield and the wipers beat a gentle rhythm that lulled me toward sleep. The last thing I felt was Chance's comforting arm wrapping around my shoulder, protecting me from the terrors of the night.
Chance took me home and tucked me into bed next to Kissme while making his own bed on the couch. He was gone when I woke up, but he had left a fresh pot of coffee and note that read, “Call me if you need me. You are in my thoughts and in my prayers. Love, Chance.”
I waited all weekend for the Laundry Fairy to arrive. In spite of the pain of being punched in the stomach and the terror of my brush with death. In spite of my mother dying of HIV and the frightening possibility that even more bikers might be trying to locate me. In spite of the confusion and passion that welled up from a deep desire to love and be loved, I still needed clean underwear. Life goes on.
CHAPTER 33
Moonlight slipped through the moon-roof on the car, peeking in and out of cotton ball clouds, bathing the hills with a pale yellow light. The air was warm, rich with the smell of parched summer grasses as I wound my way through the valley and up into the foothills. My brain flipped between the ethereal beauty and processing the night's CODA message.
CODA expects me to accept responsibility for my behavior. The program focuses on how we have hurt others as opposed to how others had hurt us. Much like religion, CODA was proving more of an anchor than a life jacket.
Tonight I had a very real ache for Chance to be back in my life. I still loved him but couldn’t deny my feelings for Travis. Wild, crazy feelings reminiscent of the exhilaration of skinny-dipping in a cold river. The thrill of Travis was different from what I felt for Chance. I sighed, as hungry for security and friendship as I was for intimacy and passion. I drove along, concluding that having feelings for two men did not make me a slut. I hoped.
I parked and gathered my things. Daydreaming—is it still considered day-dreaming if it's already night?—I beeped the car shut and headed for the door. Fumbling, I dropped the keys.
The doorpost exploded into fragments as I bent to retrieve the keys. My heart leaped and body arced into a massive spasm as if hit by a defibrillator before dropping to the ground. Stunned, I hugged the porch, panting as panic surged through every cell.
The Glock was in the gun safe. Crap! Teeth-grinding, I waited for the kill-shot. Ten heartbeats later, rolled off the porch, dropping down some two feet into the flowerbed where I would make less of a target. Didn’t even feel the rose bush whose thorns peppered my body, except for the one that hooked through my eyelid. Silence reigned except for the ringing in my ears and Kissme’s frantic cries from the house. Time was ticking and every second of delay worked against
me as I fought ropes of terror that held me captive. A salty tear trickled, igniting a flame that freed me from the trance. Moaning softly, I pinched my eyelid and pulled it up, twisting the thick, thorny stem. The shrub and I both shuddered, and the sound of whimpering cut through the night.
No one needed to tell me the shooter was Logan. I didn't need to look for a Bandido or a Mongol or a crazed former inmate. I could sense him—the presence of evil—and the hair stood up on the back of my sweating neck. I groped for options, knowing that my life would depend on my next choice.
Tick-tick-tick.
If I tried for the door, I would be a clear target. I could crawl to the side of the house, but Logan might have moved around and lined himself up for the next shot. I was pretty close to option number three, doing the sobbing-girl-thing when the roar of a motorcycle shattered the stillness. He was leaving!
“Oh, thank God. Thank you!” I let go and took a deep breath. It was too good to be true.
Literally.
The sound of the bike grew... louder... closer, instead of fading away.
Chance! It was Chance! Oh, my God. My head spun. No!
Would Logan kill Chance?
Tick-tick-tick.
From a far corner of distant memory, I heard Lefty calling out to the guys with his signature rally cry: “Let’s do this!”
“Thanks, Dad,” I whispered, not sure if I was talking to Lefty or God.
My dad had taught me that courage isn’t an absence of fear, but a determination to act in spite of it. Either Chance would be Logan's next target or I would have to risk a bullet to warn him. I had a choice to make and doing nothing was not an option.
Like a racer off the line, I jumped up, legs driving, arms pumping, heart hammering as I sprinted into the woods, away from Logan and toward the bend in the driveway. Another shot whined past my head, blasting a nearby tree and spraying shards of bark that burned into my neck and arm.
Hungry branches reached out, clawing my clothes and ripping strands of hair as I raced on. Blood trickled into my eye and sent me crunching and crashing into a mound of debris; dry, crackling leaves and branches that popped like bullets as I fled through shadow and moonlight. I was an easy target.
“Lord!” I gasped. And the Lord heard my prayer. A cloud sailed in front of the heavenly beacon, and suddenly it was dark. God had turned off the lights.
Scrambling up the incline, torn, bleeding, hair matted with dead leaves, Chance rounded the corner as I tumbled onto the road and into his headlight shrieking and sobbing like a ghoul from Stephen King's worst nightmare. “Stop! Stop!”
Chance grabbed the brakes, swerving and skidding on the dusty road, laying the bike over as a third bullet cracked through the night air. Together, we pulled the bike upright, and I leaped on the on the back screaming “Go! Go! Go!”
Chance didn’t pause for an explanation. He just cracked the throttle, churning up a smokescreen of dust between Logan and us as we fish-tailed our way back up the road to the safety of Chance's house.
Few people would have understood why I sat, weeping for my dog. Filled with visions and memories of little Frito, I imagined Kissme being flayed or dismembered, or worse.
I wanted a gun and I wanted my dog, but Chance would not allow either. He told me to call 911 as he grabbed his 9mm handgun and his AR-15 for distance. Calm and in complete control, he took me by the arm on the way to the door. Blue-hot eyes burned into mine.
“He’d better hope the cops catch him before I do.” Spinning on his heels, Chance called Mercy. Jumping in the truck, they sped off down the road.
I called 911. Then I called Travis.
Four days later:
It was more than an invigorating smell of coffee and far beyond the intoxicating scent of his body wash. Perhaps I had simply reached a sexual level of awareness in his presence. I knew he was there before I looked up.
Travis stood in the doorway of my office, chewing gum and twirling a bullet between his thumb and forefingers in one hand, and holding a file folder in the other. One eyebrow rose in question, and his head tipped slightly forward, expecting a response.
“The lab tests are back? Ballistics?” I asked, not waiting for an answer. “You must have great connections.” Nothing important ever happens fast in Butte County.
Seeing the shell casing scared me as I recalled how close it had come to taking my life. That bullet had my name on it, but the hand of God had deflected it. This time. Guess he still has more for me to do, I thought.
Travis straightened. “The bullet is M-16, military issue,” he said. “Nevada?”
I eyed him suspiciously. “Is that a question or a location?” Beyond asking if I was okay on the night of the incident, I hadn’t seen Travis since. When I had asked where he was, Amanda looked perturbed and said he was “probably working.” I didn't need another morality lecture, so I let it go.
Chance had written the official report down at the sheriff's office. I tried being honest this time, but my memories were sketchy. I neve did get involved in Logan's business. Women were never a part of gang dealings, so staying aloof wasn't weird. It was expected.
Travis entered the room, shutting the door behind him. “Both,” he answered to the “Nevada” question, and then asked permission before sitting down to engage me at eye-level. Have we really become this formal?
“I know you're still upset over what happened and you have every right to be. We need to talk.”
I wondered which “happening” he was referring to. I swallowed, feeling my throat bob, and he almost responded with the old familiar, teasing smile that now barely touched the corners of his mouth.
“We'll start with the outdoor incident,” he said, as if reading my mind. Then, he reached over and tenderly brushed the side of my face with his fingertips,” thus tabling our intimate indoor incident for another time. “That okay?” Again, asking permission.
I nodded.
“Do you know if Logan had business ties to Nevada Chapters or the Bandido Nation?”
The question was a two-pronged fork jabbing into painful places I didn't want to revisit.
“It’s in Chance's report. I don't want to go through this again.” I said, drawing back.
Travis settled on the corner of my desk, one leg cocked lazily over the edge, just inches from my face. I watched, fascinated by the taut muscles that played against the fabric of his trousers, then snapped out of it when he tossed a copy of the report in front of me. “I read it. These are my questions, not his.”
Green eyes drew me like a moth to a flame. I shrugged in resignation. “Shoot,” I said, not caring if he took the word figuratively or literally.
“Do you know if Logan had business ties to Nevada Chapters,” he repeated.
Vivid memories reached back to Lefty's funeral and flashed before me. The motorcade had stretched from one end of the Bay Bridge to the other, Harleys riding two abreast. It seemed that every chapter from California, Nevada, Arizona and others had been present.
Travis doesn't understand Hells Angels very well, I thought. Business ties are Brotherhood ties. And Brotherhood ties are stronger than blood ties.
I pursed my lips, glancing down at the corner of a postcard that poked out from under a file and drew a breath.
“He had ties with all the chapters, including Nevada.” I said, recalling that some of the men that returned from Laughlin with Logan had worn Nevada patches.
“Can you pick out their faces?”
Yes. “I don't know. Maybe.”
“And the Bandido and Mongol that came to your home?”
I glanced at the protruding postcard again. It had arrived in the morning mail at the district attorney's office, addressed to me. I was relieved that Travis couldn't see it from where he sat.
Travis pulled a picture out of the folder and slid it toward me, covering the postcard and everything else, forcing me to look at it.
I pulled back with a gasp, unintentionally answering his question. I
t was a crime-scene photo. One of several. It showed the half-charred body of a man lying inside of a burned-out building. Some of the victim’s limbs and part of his face was missing—but I still recognized him.
The memory was crystal clear. I had passed out beers and cooked meals for the men that returned with Logan from Laughlin. The man whose body I was now looking at had been particularly scary, the way he had followed me from room to room. He rode with the Mongols, a gang with a reputation for violence and viciousness.
“What happened?” I whispered.
“The picture was taken after the bombing of the Mongol clubhouse a few years ago. How did you know him?
“Sunny?” Travis repeated with a touch.
I didn't hear him walk around the desk, but all at once Travis kneeling was next to me, stroking my hair. It was soothing, but he never let up his line of questions. “How did you know him?” he coaxed.
“He came to the cabin a couple of times,” I said in a voice so soft I wasn't sure he heard me. “The first time was right after my dad died, and then he came back later, once or twice... with a rider from Bandido Nation. Logan was showing everyone his new tattoo: The Filthy Few.”
Travis nodded and emitted a deep “Humph.” It was Logan's written declaration that he had committed murder. Travis pulled out another picture. “The other rider; was it this guy?” he pointed to a tough looking Hispanic man, the man who had choked me until I passed out.
“Yes,” I whispered. “He’s the one who tried to kill me in Oakland when I went to see my mom. Who is he?”
There was a brief knock and Paige slunk through the door. She looked smug and sleek in her skin-tight pants, wearing a top with more plunge than a fleet of septic trucks—and just as nasty. It is a little-known fact that she is the reason our office does not have a dress code. The men enjoy the view.