The thought of my bike being in the shop was gut wrenching. “Yeah, I saw it,” I said through my teeth. “Fix ‘em.”
He stood up and took a drink of beer. “Two grand.”
“No shit? That’s a damned sight cheaper than the insurance company said.”
“I told you I’d hook you up, Brother,” he said. “Spook’s got most of the shit in his shop.”
“How long’s it gonna take?”
“Week.”
My heart sank. “A fucking week?”
“A day to take it apart. A day to strip it and sand it. A day to prep. Paint it the next day, and then put it back together.”
“A fucking week.” I shook my head. “When can he start?”
“He said any time.”
“You can ride that Sporty for a week,” Crip said, fighting to keep from laughing as he spoke.
The thought of riding a bike that was meant for someone who weighed 150 pounds and was five foot five was laughable.
And aggravating.
“My fucking knees will be up to my ears on that little fucker. I can’t stretch out on a Sporty.”
“Guess you can walk.” He chuckled a low laugh. “Or ride in a fucking cage.”
I stared blankly at my scratched up bike. My previous thoughts of fucking Tegan over an operating table faded and were replaced with ones of tying her up and making her my sexual slave.
I fixed my eyes on the shitty little bike sitting in the corner of the shop. It had been sitting there collecting dust for years. There was no doubt if I chose to ride the Sportster, the entire club would be laughing at me the entire time.
But I had no other options.
“I’ll ride the fucking Sporty,” I fumed.
But someone’s going to pay for it.
Dearly.
Chapter Forty-Two
Tegan
Marcus lived next door to me. He was a southern California native, extremely petite, and gay. He was very animated, and his personality could only be described as flamboyant. I found him as entertaining to watch as he was to listen to. We hit it off as soon as I moved into the apartment complex. Within a few months, we were best friends.
He worked as a waiter at an upscale restaurant, and spent most of his earnings on clothes. I’d never seen him wear the same outfit twice. He was dressed in brick-red skinny jeans, a blue V-neck tee that fit him as if it were custom tailored, and gray sneakers. His ensemble added some much-needed color to my otherwise dull kitchen.
Although he’d been aware of my wreck since it happened, I had just shared Pee Bee’s clubs name with him. Now sitting across from me at the kitchen table, he frantically searched the internet for any information he could find.
He swept his thumb across the screen of his phone every sixty seconds or so. After five minutes – and a wide array of facial expressions – he looked up and met my curious gaze.
His mouth flopped open. The phone slid from his hand, fell into his lap, and then bounced onto the floor.
“Oh. My. Gawwwwwd,” he said, acting like he had no idea the phone had fallen.
“What?”
“You are soooo not a girl.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Really?” His eyebrow arched. “Who meets a big bad biker that has Filthy Fuckers on his leather and doesn’t Google it? Tell me. Who?”
“My phone was turned off. I couldn’t.”
He stood up and pointed his slender finger at my purse. “You can now. You could have yesterday.”
“I guess I didn’t care. And I don’t care.”
He shot me a sideways look. “Case in point, T-girl. Case in point. You didn’t care. Girls care. They’re curious. You’re an anomaly. A glitch in the otherwise curious world of women. You’ve got a fucked up chromosome or something.”
“Whatever. Why’d you say oh my god?”
“I use it like a conjunction. Be more specific.”
“When you dropped your phone. You said oh my god, and then you dropped it.”
“Oh, then. Well…” He flopped down into his seat, leaned toward the center of the table, and looked me in the eye. “They’re trouble. Big trouble.”
“Who?”
“Them. The filthy Fuckers.”
“Why do you say that?”
He widened his eyes comically. “Let’s see. Extortion. Money laundering. Firearms. Arson. And, oh my god. Murder.”
“Murder?”
He straightened his posture, pointed his index finger at me, and then wagged it once at the instant he spoke. “Murder.”
I shrugged. “Obviously, it wasn’t him, or he’d be in prison. That’s what they do with criminals, they put them in prison.”
“You’re so optimistic it makes me sick. Not sick enough to rid myself of that chicken you just fed me, though. Oh my god. That was soooo good, by the way. Did I tell you that? If I didn’t, I’m sorry. Anyway, see how you do that? Your optimism diverts my thoughts,” he said in one breathless sentence.
“Slow down.” I said with a laugh. “You were talking about--”
“I was talking about your lack of participation in all things feminine.” He relaxed against his chair back and crossed his legs. “Any normal girl would say oh my god, who’d they murder?”
“Stop it. I’m normal.”
He looked me over, and then let out a sigh. “You stop it. You’re adorable, but that’s where the similarities between you and a woman cease to exist.”
“I have no interest in him. I’m caring for his father.”
“What if he comes home with a chainsaw and cuts off your arms?”
“He was a dick, but not that kind of dick.”
“And you know this how?”
“Women’s intuition?”
He coughed out a laugh. “If you were a woman, maybe.”
“I’m sure if one of them did something, he got locked away. If Pee Bee’s out roaming the streets, he’s not a murderer.”
“For what it’s worth, none of them are in prison. They’re suspected of those things, but none of them have been proven. Yet. Their little gang is listed on the federal OMG website. That’s where I got the information.”
“The federal government has an OMG website?” I laughed. “OMG.”
“OMG as in Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. Not the conjunction.”
“Oh.”
“That’s it?” His face contorted. “No more questions?”
“I don’t care,” I said. “His dad’s kind of funny, and it’s a great job.”
“His father probably helps hide the bodies.”
I laughed out loud. “He’s confined to a chair. He can’t even walk.”
“I bet he knows things.”
“He’s his father, I’m sure he does.”
He lowered his eyes to the table. After a few silent seconds, he let out a gasp and his eyes went wide. “Ask him.”
“Jesus. Settle down. Ask him what?”
“Ask the invalid father about the murdering son.”
“Where do you come up with this stuff?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. Are you going to ask?”
“No.”
“Don’t you have an adventurous bone in your body?”
I did. But, I gave people the benefit of the doubt. My perceptions were solely based on my experiences from what I saw or experienced first-hand, not on what others said. So far, Pee Bee had been nothing more than an asshole. Considering what I’d done to his motorcycle, I wasn’t surprised.
“I don’t care enough to ask. I’m sure I’ll find out plenty just by being there.”
He let out a dramatic sigh, and then glanced at his watch. An ear-piercing shriek shot from his mouth and he jumped up. “I’m going to be late. Bye.”
I stood. “Date?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Brian. The one with the dick like a banana.”
“I thought--”
“So did I.” He opened his arms. “But, I’m
a sucker for a dominant male.”
Brian was an old boyfriend that had been abusive to Marcus. After several months of the offensive behavior, they split up. Or so I thought.
“Be careful,” I said, hugging him as I spoke.
He kissed my cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He walked to the door, pulled it open, and looked over his shoulder. “And stop taking the hormones, or I’m going to have to find another friend.”
“Goodbye, Marcus.”
“I was kidding about the hormones.” He laughed. “Toodles, T-Girl.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Pee Bee
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. His scowl met me the instant I entered the living room.
He exhaled and sank into the recliner. “What a letdown.”
“What the fuck, Pop?”
“It’s six-forty-fucking-five in the morning.” He looked at me as if I had no business in his home. “What the fuck, me? What the fuck you. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I stopped by to check on you,” I said. “See if you needed anything.”
“Check on me?” He struggled to sit up straight. “I’m not some pre-pubescent teen that’s home alone. I’m sixty-fucking-seven years old, and if I wasn’t all bandaged up, I could still kick your ass. I don’t need checked on.”
“Well shame on me for giving a fuck,” I said as I walked across the living room floor. “I came by to see how things were going. I’ll make you some breakfast.”
“We eat at 7:30.”
His response caught me off-guard. I stopped in my tracks. “We?”
“Tegan and I. She gets here at 7:00, we eat at 7:30.”
“She eats here? With you?”
“You’re dumber than you look,” he said. “Be kind of counterproductive if she left to eat, wouldn’t it? Hell, you fired the last girl who left.”
He’d eaten breakfast alone for as long as I could remember, while he read the newspaper. Four days with Tegan surely didn’t convert what a lifetime with me was incapable of.
“You eat breakfast alone. Hell, even when mom makes you breakfast on the weekends, you eat alone.”
“You rubbed me the wrong way with all the dumb questions, so I ate alone. I didn’t like your company. At least not so early in the morning.” He wagged his eyebrows. “But, as Bob Dylan said, the times they are a changin’.”
“So, you eat with the nurse? Why? What does she--”
“That’s exactly what I was talking about. Enough already with the barrage of fuckin’ questions. Listening to you makes me itch, and I’m too bandaged up to scratch. And, what are you doing riding that mini-bike? You look like the fuckin’ circus clown that rides a tricycle in Barnum and Bailey’s traveling show. I saw you ride that little piece of shit in the driveway and about pissed myself.”
He was right, I felt like a circus clown riding it, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. I sighed and collapsed onto the edge of the couch. “Bike’s in the shop.”
“Aggravating, ain’t it?”
It was. I waved it off as if it was no big deal. “Kind of.”
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s aggravating as fuck.”
I shot him a half-assed glare. “How would you know?”
He swung his cast in my direction. “You’re stroking your beard. You do it when you’re trying to calm yourself down. I raised you, remember?”
He was right, but I didn’t let him know it.
“You look like a fucktard on that little piece of shit, Son. You really do. You’re aware of that, aren’t you? That you look really fucking ridiculous on that junk little fucker?” He started laughing. “Hell, your knees are at your ears.”
He was trying to make me mad about what Tegan did, but I wasn’t going to fall prey to his tricks.
“Fuck you, old man. It ain’t that bad. And, the little fucker’s pretty fast.”
“Be a lot faster if it didn’t have to haul your fat ass around.” He chuckled out a low laugh. “Go get on it and ride off real slow, so I can get another good laugh before I eat.”
“Fuck you.” I pushed myself up from the couch and headed for the kitchen. His early morning assault was a bit much, especially on an empty stomach. “Mom got any jalapenos left?”
“You know good and god damned well that whatever was in there the last time you were here is still in there. You’re the only one that eats those nasty fuckers.”
“I’m gonna make an omelet.”
“Don’t stink up the kitchen,” he said.
As the eggs started to change from liquid to something a little more edible, I heard the door open, and then close. I fought the urge to peek into the living room, and finished my masterpiece.
“What’s that smell?” she asked.
“He’s making a jalapeno omelet.”
“Who?”
“The circus clown. Did you see that cute little bike he’s riding? You should wait ‘till he gets ready to leave, and pull out in front of him. I’d tell you to throw your door open so we could watch him topple over the handlebars, but you don’t have one.”
“Keep it up, and I’ll make your bacon bouncy.”
“My apologies,” he said. “I don’t know what got into me.”
Tegan cleared her throat. “Let’s start over. Good morning, Bradley.”
“Morning, kid.”
“Sleep well?”
“Like a rock. How was dinner with Marcus?”
“Entertaining, thank you. Do you need anything before I start breakfast?”
“Catheter needs to be dumped afterward. It’s fine for now. Fill my water?”
She came around the corner with his cup in her hand and very little emotion on her face. Without speaking, she walked past me. I slid the omelet onto my plate and turned around. She stood at the sink rinsing his cup. Her little round ass was inviting, but not enough for me to say – or do – anything in my parent’s kitchen.
I unintentionally brushed against her as I placed the skillet in the sink. She looked up, lips pursed, and gave a shitty little closed-mouth grin.
“Mornin’,” I said.
“Good morning.” She looked in the sink, and sighed. “I’m his nurse, not your maid. Can you please rinse your dishes and put them in the dishwasher?”
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”
She filled his cup with ice, and then glanced over her shoulder. “No, I’m not.”
I grabbed a fork from the silverware drawer and shoved it in my pocket. “This isn’t your fuckin’ house.”
“No, it’s not. But, my duties include cleaning up after myself, and after your father. Not you.”
She walked past me and into the living room.
You little bitch.
Aggravated, and ready to start an argument, I took off after her as soon as I got over the initial shock of her remark. When I came around the corner, she was on her way back to the kitchen.
I paused in the doorway. “Hold on a fuckin’ minute.”
A few feet from where I was standing, she cocked her hip and forced out a sigh. “Yes?”
“Use that skillet to cook your eggs. You’re still washing only one. Problem. Solved.”
“Rinse off your skillet, dip shit,” my father barked. “I’m not eating jalapeno residue.”
I stood firm in the middle of the doorway. “She can rinse it.” I reached for my fork and started eating.
“Rinse the god damned skillet, shithead. Don’t be a complete asshole. I raised you better than that.”
Being attacked by my father was nothing new. I’d spent a lifetime trying to gain his respect. Although it was a slow process, I eventually succeeded, but not without getting a constant earful of his opinions during the process.
Having him chastise me in front of Tegan, however, was irritating.
“I’ll rinse the motherfucker after I eat.”
She motioned behind me with a nod
of her head. “Excuse me.”
With my plate in one hand, and my fork in the other, I stepped to the side. Leaving an opening between my hip and the side of the doorframe almost big enough for her to pass through, I waited for her to walk by.
She wedged herself between me and the doorway, thrusting her hip against me as she passed by. “I said excuse me.”
“Jesus. You don’t have to be a--”
I caught myself before I said it.
I didn’t bother turning around, I could feel her eyes burning holes into my back. Plate in hand, I walked to the living room, sat down, and shoveled a forkful of eggs into my mouth.
My father pressed the button on his chair’s remote control and tilted it forward. As it reached the end of its travel, he lowered his chin and locked eyes with me. “If you want to take her on a date, I’d suggest tossing that attitude,” he whispered.
I coughed, almost losing my mouthful of eggs in the process. “What? I don’t want anything to do with that little bitch. She irritates me.”
“You remind me of Tom Blakenship. In second grade he decided he liked this little blonde girl, Karen. So, he walked up to her and pushed her down while we were on recess. That was his way of telling her. You know why little kids do dumb shit like that?”
I swallowed my food. “I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
“Because they don’t know how to communicate,” he said. “You’re either a damned sight dumber than I’m giving you credit for, or you’re just plain stupid.”
“I don’t like her,” I said. “Not even a little bit.’
And, I didn’t. I just wanted to buttfuck her for what she did to my bike. And, if things went well, I’d come on her pretty little face. After the dirty Sanchez, that is.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “The last time you were here at 6:45 in the morning, you were in tenth fuckin’ grade. You telling me you rode that little turd of a scooter over here from Oceanside to check on me? What’d it take you, an hour to get here?”
I finished my omelet and then looked at him. “Forty minutes. I told you the little fucker was fast.”
Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set Page 21