Nothing.
I pressed my finger against the electric window button.
More nothing.
The mass of stationary vehicles ahead were forced to share the one thing with me I had grown to hate about the nation’s most heavily populated state.
Traffic jams.
I’d been sitting in the same spot for no less than half an hour, and the late afternoon sun had turned the interior of my car into a sauna. I pushed my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose, pressed the side of my face against the window glass, and gazed through the corner of the windshield.
A winding six-vehicle-wide line of bumper-to-bumper traffic for as far as I could see gave no indication of what the problem was, or when it might end.
It was quite possible that paying my cell phone bill would have to wait one more day.
My gaze fell to my lap. My glistening legs stood as a reminder of the scorching temperature inside my thirty-year-old Toyota. As I choked on a shallow breath of the thick air, the roar of a passing motorcycle startled me. I looked up in enough time to catch a glimpse of the black blur; a biker splitting lanes between me and the car to my left. Envious of his ability to thread his way between two fixed lanes of traffic, I let out a sigh as one of his brethren sped past.
In perfect timing, they continued to shoot by me, each one of them wearing a leather vest fitted with a patch that named their motorcycle club. Their speed, however, prevented me from reading it.
I watched in awe as one after another flew by, their handlebars clearing the cars that sat on either side of them by nothing more than inches as they rushed through the long line of traffic that had me trapped.
And then, silence.
Intrigued and overheated, I pulled lightly on the door handle while pressing my shoulder against the glass – the gentle persuasion that was typically required to open it. The door sprung free, and I all but flopped out onto the freeway. The slight ocean breeze offered a welcome relief, and although the outside temperature was more than 90 degrees, it felt like a blast of Artic air.
My eyes fluttered as the moisture began to evaporate from my sweat-soaked shirt.
Refreshed, but still frustrated, I leaned against the open door and gazed along the endless line of traffic. Hoping to see something in the distance that would give a hint as to when the traffic might clear, I fixed my eyes on the most distant car and hoped for it to move.
Another dose of nothing.
I closed my eyes and forced out a sigh.
The sound of screeching tires startled me out of my light slumber. My eyes shot open. I spun around just in time to see a motorcycle heading straight for me. Scared for my life, I jerked myself inside and reached for the door handle, but it was too late.
The motorcycle slammed into my car’s open door and ripped it from my grasp.
You’ve got to be kidding me…
Wide-eyed, I watched as the force of the impact tore the door completely from the hinges.
Squealing tires, tumbling steel, and breaking glass meshed into one awful sound. In absolute shock – and horrified by what was unfolding before my very eyes – I gawked as the door toppled against the side of the van parked in front of me. In what appeared to be an intentional maneuver, the motorcyclist laid the motorcycle down, and then gracefully slid alongside it feet-first.
The motorcycle came to an abrupt stop against the back bumper of a truck two vehicles ahead of the van. The motorcyclist slid another thirty feet or so, and then slowly rose to his feet.
Thank. God.
Grateful that he was alive, I pulled the emergency brake handle, shut off the vehicle, and swallowed heavily. Without a second’s thought, I stepped through the unobstructed opening and began to walk toward the downed motorcycle and its colossal – and very pissed off – owner.
The behemoth of a man took several long-legged strides in my direction, spouting out cuss words with each step. As he reached the back of the truck, he pulled off his helmet and then gazed down at his damaged motorcycle. With shoulder-length hair, an unruly beard, and tanned muscular arms that were covered in tattoos, he defined intimidating.
After getting an eyeful of his smashed bike, he looked up and fixed his eyes on me. Blood dripped from the knuckles of his left hand, and his arm was covered in abrasions from his wrist to his shoulder.
He picked a few rocks from his wound, and then met my gaze. His eyes thinned. “You dumb bitch! What in the fuck were you thinking?”
Being called a bitch wasn’t something I ever allowed, but considering the circumstances, I decided to offer no objection. It wasn’t easy, but it was the right thing to do.
Just this once.
I stopped and raised my hands in apology. “I’m so sorry.”
He crouched down, lifted the motorcycle upright, and then shook his head. “Sorry?”
I’d never seen anyone as massive as he was, and although my focus should have been his well-being – and how I was going to pay for repairing the damage – it wasn’t. Partially mesmerized by his sheer size, and more so by his threatening looks, I gawked at him like an awe-struck schoolgirl who had been asked on a date by the quarterback of the football team.
I gave my response in the form of a nod.
“That’s it?” he fumed. Wrinkles formed on his brow.
“You’re fuckin’ sorry?” he hissed. “That’s it?”
I pushed my hands into my pockets and twisted my hips back and forth nervously. “I thought all of you guys had passed.”
He looked me up and down. “Well, all of us guys hadn’t passed. Obviously.”
I took a breath, met his narrow gaze, and sighed. “Look. I just. I’m really, really sorry. My air-conditioner is broken, and I was just wanting to see if traffic had maybe--”
He brushed his right hand along the bloody flesh of his left bicep, and then looked at his palm. The muscles in his jaw went tight and he shot me a glare.
“Your fuckin’ air conditioner’s broken?” he spit the words from his mouth as if their taste was repulsive.
An inaudible uh huh escaped my lips.
He wiped his hand against the thigh of his jeans, leaving a bloody smear on the otherwise clean denim. “This was a $40,000 bike. Your broken air-conditioner is the least of your worries, now. I hope you’ve got good insurance.”
I hadn’t paid my premium in months. Six weeks out of college, I was working a part-time nursing job that barely paid the rent, let alone afforded me any such luxuries as auto insurance, air-conditioning repairs, or sometimes, even food.
I knew lane splitting was allowed, but wasn’t sure about the laws in respect to collisions. Nonetheless, I felt the need to correct him before he got any wild ideas of attempting to call my non-existent insurance company.
“Uhhm. You hit me,” I said unconvincingly.
His hands shot into the air. The abrupt motion caused his long hair to fall, partially hiding his contorted face. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” he howled. “This state allows lane-splitting when done in a safe and prudent fuckin’ manner. It’s your fuckin’ responsibility to watch what the fuck you’re doing. Slinging your fuckin’ door open ain’t on the list.”
List?
“What list?”
He brushed his hair away from his eyes. “The responsible fuckin’ behavior list.”
Despite the countless f-bombs, he sounded sure of himself.
Suddenly, I felt small.
Microscopic, really.
“Uhhm. I’ve...” I stammered.
He continued his evil-eyed stare.
I forced a smile. “Sure, I’ve got you covered.”
He glanced at his knuckles, looked at his battered motorcycle, and then reached for the row of switches mounted on the handlebars. After a few attempts, the engine started. He then straddled the seat and turned on the stereo.
And old-school rap song began to play over the speakers.
The small gathering of people stared with open mouths as he revved the engine. App
earing to be mere seconds from his departure, he cocked his head to the side and shouted over the rumbling exhaust.
“I’m gonna be late for a fuckin’ meeting. Give me your number, we’ll settle this up later.”
I took a few steps toward him.
He pulled his helmet over his long hair and glanced at his knuckles again. Undoubtedly expecting my telephone number, he looked up and shook his head. He was disgusted with me, and I felt terrible.
I didn’t respond. At least for that moment in time, I couldn’t.
Somehow his eyes commanded every ounce of my attention, and I wasn’t a person who typically cared about someone’s eyes. Muscles had always been my weakness, and although he was built like a professional football player, it seemed his mysterious gaze had me not caring in the least. After spending a moment trying to decide if his eyes were green or brown, I gave up and offered him all I could afford to give.
“I’m a nurse,” I explained. “At least let me take a look at your--”
He barked out a laugh. “I don’t need you to take a look at any fuckin’ thing.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans, mumbled something, and pulled out his phone. “What’s your fuckin’ number?”
With my eyes still locked on his, I recited my phone number. “6-1-9-4-4-7-1-0-2-0.”
He broke my gaze, tapped his finger against the screen, and then looked up. “Name?”
Hazel. His eyes were hazel. My mouth curled into a smile. “Tegan.”
“What?”
“Tegan,” I shouted. “T-E-G-A-N.”
“Tegan.” He nodded and then put on his sunglasses. “What’s your last name?”
“Rassini. R-A-S-S-I-N-I.”
He pulled his motorcycle forward a few feet, positioned it between the vehicles, and then glanced over his shoulder. “You better answer the fuckin’ phone when I call.”
“I will,” I said, although at that particular moment, I couldn’t receive a call if I wanted to.
As he rode away, I made note of the patch embroidered on the back of his vest.
Filthy Fuckers MC.
It didn’t sound like the name of a motorcycle club I wanted to piss off.
But it was far too late to prevent that from happening. I was sure of it.
I stared beyond the two-dozen onlookers who had gathered, and, as he sped off, hoped I got my phone bill paid before he tried to call me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Pee Bee
“That’s not an answer, it’s an excuse,” I fumed. “He said he was on the floor for almost a fuckin’ hour.”
“That’s an exaggeration.” She sighed and then looked at me. “I stepped out here for no more than a minute to answer a phone call, just like I said. That’s it. When I went back inside, he was out of his wheelchair.”
My father’s nurse and I were on the front porch in a heated argument. He said she had left him unattended for an hour, and she was denying it. I knew better than to question him about his claim; he was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them.
“So, my Pop’s a liar?”
She flipped her hair over her shoulder and shot me a look. “I didn’t say that.”
“You sure as fuck did. He said an hour, you said a minute. One of you is full of shit.”
I’d hired her because she was supposed to be caring and capable. Now, however, she was the woman who had abused my father, and that was all.
She lowered her head for a few seconds, and then looked up. “Listen, I’m not going to stand here and let you talk to me like I’m some--”
“Like you’re some what?” I folded my arms in front of my chest and let out a breath. “An incompetent bitch?”
Her face contorted. “I can’t believe you just called me a bitch.”
“I can’t believe you let him lay on the floor for a fuckin’ hour,” I snapped back. “You’re fired.”
She’d been my father’s caregiver for two weeks, and I had nothing but complaints from him since day one. Her failure to tend to his needs had been a topic of discussion since she’d arrived, and leaving him on the floor beside his wheelchair for an hour was the final straw.
“Good luck getting someone to watch that old prick,” she snarled as she turned away. “He’s a fucking asshole. All he does is cuss and bitch.”
“If you weren’t a woman, I’d beat--”
She spun around. “And if you didn’t owe me a week’s wages, I’d kick your big dumb ass in the nuts.”
I grabbed my wallet, pulled out $1,500, and tossed it into the air. “Beat feet, bitch.”
As the bills fluttered over the edge of the porch, she scrambled to pick them up before they blew away.
I turned toward the door, yanked it open, and stomped inside.
My father lowered his Kindle and looked up. With one arm in a sling, the other in a cast, and one of his legs fixed straight with a knee brace, he looked like sheer hell.
“You send her ass down the highway?” he asked.
I sat down on the couch beside him. “Sure did.”
He shook his head and then started reading again. “She couldn’t cook a piece of bacon to save her fuckin’ soul. And, all she did was yack on her phone. Facebook, Twitter. Boyfriends.”
His lack of mobility hadn’t affected his attentive nature, that was for sure. I looked him over. On the surface, he seemed as healthy as he’d always been, but I realized he wasn’t. The fact that I had no one to watch him began to sink in. Although I knew I’d made the right decision in firing his nurse, I began to fill with worry.
“She said it was nothing but a minute while she answered a phone call. I got sick of listening to her lying ass.”
He didn’t bother looking up.
“You sure you’re alright?” I asked.
He reached for his 32-ounce tumbler of water, lifted it to his mouth with a shaking hand, and took a long drink.
“Alright? I’ve got a broken wrist, blown-out knee, broken ankle, and a dislocated shoulder. I can’t stand, I can’t fuckin’ walk, I can barely sit, and I’ve got to have someone else wipe my fuckin’ ass. Hell, I can barely hold up this fuckin’ Kindle without collapsing from the pain, but I’m doing it because this book is too god damned good to stop reading.” He let out a light laugh. “I’ve been better, Son.”
He may have been in bad physical shape, but his attitude hadn’t been damaged one bit.
“I meant from laying on the floor for an hour,” I said. “Nothing else is bothering you, is it?”
“Now that she’s gone?” He set the water aside and reached for his Kindle. “Nope.”
“I’ll stay here ‘till mom gets off, but I’m gonna have to find someone else to take over.”
“Well, I didn’t think you were going to be my new nurse.” He cleared his throat, but kept his eyes fixed on his Kindle. “Instead of getting another off that fuckin’ Craigslist, why don’t you call one of those placement services? They send out a nurse, and if I don’t like her, you can just send her back and get another.”
I’d investigated a few such professional services, but the cost was twice what I’d been paying. The only other choice was to send him to a nursing home, and that wasn’t an option.
“I’ll look into it.”
He laid the Kindle in his lap and looked up. “While she’s here, maybe you can have her take a look at that arm of yours. You look like you got shot at and missed and shit on and hit.”
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t. I looked like I’d been in a fight with a Grizzly bear and lost.
“Looks like a four-foot long chunk of hamburger. One of these days you’re gonna get killed.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, Pop. Dumb bitch opened her door while me and the fellas were flying up the 5.”
“That’s been my point since you started riding, dipshit. This traffic isn’t safe for anything short of a fuckin’ tank, let alone a bunch of half-drunken bikers on motorcycles. Whole world’s full of idiots, and most of �
��em live in this state. You need to park that son-of-a-bitch before you go and get your dumb self killed.”
“I ain’t parking it.”
“Alright, then.” His eyes fell to his e-reader. “I’ll get my nurse to push me to your funeral.”
I stood. “I’m gonna make a sandwich. You need anything?”
He nodded. “If you’ve got a minute.”
“Whatever you need, Pop.”
He exhaled, and then looked up. His slight smile slowly diminished, leaving him with a face filled with nothing but need. “I hate to be a burden.”
I met his gaze. “Just tell me what you need.”
“I need my nuts scratched,” he said stone-faced.
I let out a sigh and flipped him the bird as I turned toward the kitchen. “Asshole.”
He chuckled. “I wear it like a badge of honor.”
He was brash and had an abrasive personality, but being exposed to it since childhood allowed me to dismiss damned near everything that spilled from his lips as being nothing more than him masking his true feelings.
He had a great heart, but wasn’t one to allow his emotions to come to the surface. His attitude, however, was impossible to conceal. In recent years we’d become as close as any father and son could be, and although he wasn’t one to ever discuss how he felt, I knew he loved me as much as anyone could.
When I was almost finished making the perfect sandwich, I heard a dull thud. I scrambled to the living room and found him on the floor, halfway between his recliner and the wheelchair.
I bent down and slipped my arm under his shoulder. “God damn it, Pop. What were you doing?”
“A man’s gotta piss from time to time,” he growled. “And having someone get my cock out is pretty fucking demeaning.”
“I just asked you if you needed anything.” I carefully lifted him into his wheelchair. “Not five fuckin’ minutes ago.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “Dig in that pocket of yours and pull me out a handful of dignity, would you?”
Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set Page 18