Needing Me, Wanting You

by C. M. Stunich

  I touch my fingers to my cheeks.

  “Because other than a silly story about Angelina and Cape in the bedroom, that's all I've heard.” I raise my hands up when Darren glances over his shoulder, a smile begging to cut across his lips. It's almost painful to watch him fight it. “And nobody wants to hear about that.” I drop my fingers, press my nails into the rough leather of my pants. Night's coming quick, but it's still fairly warm out here, like the air is blushing. A slight heat to touch the cheeks. I smile at my brother and fantasize about changing out of these pants and into a pair of cotton shorts and a tank. Heaven.

  “I'm not sure what you've heard, but I wanted to clarify things with you first.” I relax into the chair and check out the men that are with my brother today. I know all three of them and they've all got old ladies. I relax a little more. Generally, when there are single guys around, I feel like I'm in the spotlight, like they're all checking me out and trying to decide who I belong to. Right now, I belong to myself. Or if you want to get technical, my brother. It's his name that's on the back of my jacket. I don't want to get pressured into anything. When I decide to give my heart away, I want to make that choice. Even though I'm scared of it, even though I don't know if I'm ready, it has to be mine.

  “Okay. Shoot,” I tell him as a motorcycle zips by. All the guys turn to look, scoping out the blur of color with critical eyes. As soon as it's out of earshot, they relax a bit.

  “We're not trying to start trouble. You know I don't start trouble.” I nod my head, drop my chin into my hand and lean on the arm of the chair. The chair that I took because it used to be on the porch of our family home, because I knew my sister was snooping around when I wasn't there, looking for anything of mom's she could find. She'd already snagged a bird house, dug up some of our mother's marigolds, and snatched the welcome mat. The chair was next, I knew it was. Instead of leaving her this as a consolation prize, I removed it from her life completely. It wasn't good enough for me to simply move it inside the house; I had to take it away entirely.

  I swallow back the pain and the frustration. It's not all bad. Life isn't all bad. I force my mind back to the present and watch the muscles in my brother's jaw twitch.

  “And this isn't a war on women, you know that.” Darren turns to look at me fully then, showing me with his eyes what he won't say with his mouth. He loves me, and he'd do anything for me. Except break the rules. Anything except that. “I don't agree with what Bested by Crows did. Not Broken Dallas either. But I also don't like to be disrespected.”

  My smile gets softer, less jovial. I knew it.

  “It's okay, Tax. You don't have to tell me that. I know. And I understand.”

  I watch as he stands up and moves over to me, switching his empty beer bottle from one hand to the other.

  “We're not going to hurt anybody, just pay a visit. I should be back by tomorrow evening. Are you going to hang out here or head home?” I shrug, and I have to lick my lips again to keep from asking: can I come with? I don't need to see anybody from Triple M in real life. It would only fuel my weird obsession. Instead, I move my gaze to a woman with three little kids trailing behind her, her arms full of brown grocery bags. Maybe they were triplets? A surprise pregnancy and an even more surprising birth. Her lover passed away in an accident, so she has to raise the children all on her own – while working a nine to five.

  I shiver again and Darren gives me a strange look.

  “Thanks for coming to me though, Tax. I know you're just doing what you have to do.” My brother gives me yet another tight-lipped smile, and in his gaze, I see something he doesn't want anyone else to see. Darren cares what I think about him, doesn't want me to look at him with anything but respect and love. He's extra careful about what he does.

  “You're a good woman, Emilie,” he says, bending down for one more kiss on the cheek. When he turns on his heel and leaves the porch, I have to dig my nails into my palms to keep from following after him, from asking what happens when he gets back. Are we going to talk about me? Are we ever going to talk about me?

  I rise to my feet and stretch my arms above my head, moving over to the railing on the porch and leaning over it just in time to catch a fresh breeze. It rolls off the ocean and teases my nose with salt.

  In my head, I start to imagine what it would be like to follow it.

  Beck

  Chapter 4

  I wake up the next morning madder than a wet hen.

  Melissa left me high and dry last night, and I didn't find a damn soul to share my bed with. I knew it. I really do hate the damn beach.

  “Toast and fuckin' jam?” I laugh, slapping Gaine in the back of head. “What happened to waking up to a nice cold one?” My friend swipes some dark hair from his face as he glares up at me. Around the edges of his mouth, a smile flits, just waitin' for a word from his sweetheart. I move my gaze over to Mireya and her dark hair, her perfect body, bronzed skin. Damn, boy, you hit the motherloving jackpot. If I had to be chained to one woman for the rest of my life, I'd hope she was as hot as Mireya Sawyer.

  “Listen, you dick,” she says, a slight accent clinging to her lips. “This is as close to a honeymoon as I'm ever going to get, so fuck off and leave us alone.” I chuckle as I take a sip of my beer. Mireya rolls her pretty eyes and flips me the bird, returning to her picture perfect little breakfast. This hotel we're staying in is too fancy for my likin'. There were a dozen or more miniature soaps on my bathroom counter this morning, all of 'em in fuckin' French. Boy, I am out of my element here. Gimme a quick spray down and a ride through the countryside and I'm a happy, happy man. But toast and jam? I don't fucking think so.

  “Y'all used to be fun. Been married a couple o' days, and you're already gettin' complacent. I might have to whoop your asses into shape.” I take another swig of beer and watch as Gaine bites down hard on a piece of toast, smiling as he does it, giving me a look that speaks volumes. He's happy. Fucking happy. I look back at Mireya and then over at Austin and Amy's table. They're all grinning like fools, oblivious to the facts o' life. Oh well. That's why I'm here.

  Even if it kills me, I will defend my stupid ass friends to the death. That's a mistake I've learned hard and well before. That whole saying, you don't really miss it until it's gone. That's truer than a politician's lie. If I lost even a single one of these fuckwads, I'd be a broken man.

  “Enjoy your married bliss while it lasts. 'Fore you know it, the two of you will be sexless old biddies, spending your evenings watching the Travel Channel.” I slap Gaine in the back and cause him to choke on his fucking tea, laughing my way over to Kimmi's table and plopping down in the empty seat across from her. She doesn't look at me, just keeps her eyes glued to Austin's table. Amy and Christy are sitting next to each other, giggling and perusing a travel guide. It's such a domestic scene, I choke on my beer and have to shake my head to clear it. Peace. I'm almost allergic to it at this point in my life. I grew up with a militaristic daddy, rules instead of hugs, and a mother who acted more like a soldier. Then I joined the military, got discharged, ended up in an MC with more rules than the Marine Corps, and eventually found my way to Triple M. I'm not used to quiet in-betweens, no sir.

  But I sure can make jokes about 'em.

  “Staring at her tits or her soul, Reynolds? You look like a Goddamn stalker.”

  “Screw you, Beck,” Kimmi says, drawing her green eyes back to mine and raising her beer up. We clink brown glass and drink deep. No omelets or French toast for me and my last, single friend. “What's on your agenda today? Didn't seem like you had much going on last night.” I lean back in my chair and match her smile, tooth for tooth.

  “Oh, please, Reynolds. When I walked by your room last night, I heard the porn blasting at full volume. Don't pretend your bed was any warmer than mine.” Kimmi just sighs and shakes her head, but she doesn't deny my accusations. No point in trying. I know that woman like I know the back of my hand. With a smirk, I set my drink down and run my hands over the front of m
y leather vest. There's a girl across the room with a book in hand. And on the cover? A biker, baby. Got this one in the bag. I scoot my chair back and watch Kimmi glare at me.

  “Already tried the bitch. Straight as an arrow.”

  “Your loss, my gain, sugar pie,” I tell her as I stand up and start across the restaurant. The sun is out in force today, sending soldiers of light across the light blue carpeting, the antiqued wooden tables. The dining room is filled with Triple M'ers, but it's quiet in here, calm. Some of it's got to do with the fight with Bested by Crows. There's a subdued quality in the air, and some sorrow, too. Our wounded are well taken care of, though, and we didn't lose a damn man. Not a single fucking one. How's that for bitchin'? Beck Evans knows how to take care of his soldiers.

  My fingers itch for a cigarette as I pause next to the table with the curvy brunette.

  It takes her a minute to glance up at me, a red straw locked between her teeth as her eyes grudgingly separate from the black text. When she sees me standing there, her eyes go wide as saucers.

  I lean forward, putting one hand on the table and my lips just inches from her face.

  “You got the time, sweetheart?” I ask as she blinks at me and drops her book to the tabletop. I try not to laugh as the girl fumbles around in her purse, drawing out a cellphone and swallowing a half-dozen times before she actually does get the time out.

  “Twelve … thirty?” she questions as I stand back up, adjusting my red T-shirt and my jeans. I'm not a fancy guy. This is all I wear: my club's colors, a shirt, and jeans. Same pair of boots, day in and day out. And my ink, of course. That's as close to jewelry or decoration as I'll ever fucking get. Bookworm Lady sets her sights on my knuckles, on the word Hopeless spread across my hands.

  “You got time for a date?” I ask, rubbing at my chin and missing the goatee. First time in three years I've had a bare face like this. Sure, I got stubble, but it just ain't the same. I'm thirty fucking years old, but this girl don't look like she cares. All she sees are my muscles, my jacket, probably can imagine my bike. I ride a Suzuki Savage – I know, I know, I'm a fucking idiot – so it's not like I got a lot to offer. I used to ride a Harley, an FXDG Disc Glide. It was from 1984. What a fucking dream, man. But I lost that when I left my previous MC to join Triple M. I don't regret it though. And this girl here? She don't give a shit neither. She wants to fuck me as much as I want to fuck her. Then we'll be going our separate ways, and all will be right with the world.

  I hold out my hand as she swallows again, setting her book down on the table.

  “I'm not really into bikers,” she says, and my smile twitches. “My friend lent me this book. I don't really read much either.”

  Kimmi starts laughing from way off in the distance, and man, you could hear crickets chirping.

  “Please don't rob me,” the girl says as I groan and drop my head back. She clamors to her feet and slaps a twenty down on the table before booking it the hell out of there like she grew up in fucking Crazy Town. Kimmi's laughter is damn near deafening now.

  Instead of gettin' pissed about it, I stick a cigarette in my mouth and book it for the back door, pushing through into the sunshine with a slurry of curses. I really, really hate the beach. This shit is bull. Haven't had this much trouble finding a lady friend since I outgrew the overalls my daddy used to make me wear to school. Shoot, son. Now what?

  I head down the street, no particular destination in mind, chuckling as I shake my head at the ridiculousness that is my life.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” I whisper, letting my cig hang between my lips as I open my arms to the sky and pause next to a travel agency. Even this building is pimped out, covered in pink paint and metal butterflies. Fuck this little fairytale town. I glance down at the brochures fluttering in the wind and reach out to grab one, fingering the shiny paper with rough hands. I ain't about to take no guided tour, but the park it's advertising looks like a nice place for an afternoon. Thing is, do I dare to take a moment to myself? Nah, nah. Watch this: second I let my guard down, the shit will rain from the sky. But what I can do is ride around this one horse town and check things out.

  I fold the paper up and stick it in my back pocket, turning on my heel and moving down the sidewalk towards the row of gleaming bikes parked out front of our hotel. If you've ever ridden a motorcycle, you understand the pull. I've heard a lot of ignorant folks beg the questions: why ride a bike when you could have a car? Why ride around with the rain in your face and the sun on your skin?

  My question to them would be: why the fuck not?

  There is nothing in this world that comes close to wrapping your legs around that metal, to taking off into the sunset and wondering where the hell you're going to end up for the night. Feeling the wind in your hair, it's as close to flying as the human race will ever come. Airplanes? What a Goddamn joke. If you can't feel the wind, you're not really living.

  I finish my cigarette, stab it out in an ashtray on a nearby garbage can, and move over to my little Savage 650. It's a 2002, but I've taken good care of it, so it still looks brand new. My silver and black baby, my home on wheels, my fucking everything. I rub my hand over the seat and pause with a grin on my face. If I can't have a woman underneath me, I can have this beauty. S'almost as good anyhow.

  I mount the love of my life, enjoying the heated feel of the metal, letting the energy of the sun run through my veins as I start the engine. The sound of my bike is almost enough to give me a Goddamn hard-on. Amen, Jesus, Mother and Mary. I whip out of the parking space with the sexy screech of rubber on cement and start down the main road, flying past the colorful buildings and the palm trees.

  I have no frigging clue where I'm going, but it don't matter much. Part of the fun of the road is not knowing where your ass is headed. I spent my whole life knowing where I was going, and things didn't turn out right then neither. So why wait in misery?

  I take the turn near the beach and go right, heading towards the major highway. I figure if I take this route, ain't nobody going to be able to sneak up on my ass. Besides, it doesn't matter what direction I'm heading or where my final destination is, the wind can still kiss my sunburnt face. The sun can still greet me with bright eyes and a smile. And my bike will still feel like Heaven incarnate.

  I take a slow, lazy tour of the town. Granted, there ain't much to see off the main road. Just houses, houses, houses. I don't regret my ride though. Haven't ever regretted a ride. Especially not the one that lead me to Triple M. I used to think of them in a completely different light. I bought into the shit, drank the Kool-Aid, and all that. I was Sergeant at arms for my previous MC. It was my job to keep the guys in line, make sure they followed the rules. If somebody had asked me ten years ago if I'd retire my patch and join a troupe of bank robbing outcasts, I'd have laughed in their faces. Yet, here I am. Baking in the Southern sun and wishing like hell for some of my grandma's catfish. Strange, ain't it? You can take the man out of the South, but you can't take the South out of the man.

  I continue to the edge of town, where the exit meets the main road, and then I circle back. I make sure to take my time, to troll the road that meets the beach, to trace the small side roads that pepper the city. No matter where we're at, I do my best to get a lay of the land. Gaine and Austin seem to be operating under some belief that I am a freak of nature, unbeatable, invincible, capable of taking down any enemy. But that ain't true. I'm just a paranoid man with experience, a man who still has the will to keep trying.

  I circle the town a few times, repeating every street on my route at least twice. If shit does go down, which it always does, I gotta make sure I'm prepared for it. Ain't nobody else going to be. They've all got other things to worry about. I won't lie either; I like defending my family. Get a huge kick out of that shit.

  “And what the hell have we got here?” I ask myself as I pause on a small side street, killing my engine and taking note of the white and blue patches that are approaching on the highway. What the fuck is this?
/>   Tease

  Chapter 5

  I wake up the next morning with a start.

  My heart is pounding again, drawing out a rhythm in my chest that I've never heard before, a song that's never been played. I place my hand against the bare skin above my breasts, listening to the thump, thump, thump of my heart. I had that dream again, the one where I was soaring above the earth, swimming through the stars. At the last second, the very moment before I woke up, I saw the arm of the tree and went towards it. But I didn't make it. For the third night in a row, I didn't make it.

  I push myself out of bed, letting my feet hit the cool wood floor as I take in my surroundings. I'm not at the clubhouse anymore, but at home. In the house my parents left to my brother, the place he never stays but where I've always lived. My older sister, Lizzie, used to live here, too, but not anymore. She chose to leave this life far behind, scarcely sparing a glance behind her. I both understand and despise my sister's rabid fervency. She wanted a chance to be free, to be able to expand and excel in all categories – not just where my brother said she could. And I could join her at any moment.

  I run my hands down my face and yawn.

  I never would leave the club. I don't know that I'm even capable of surviving without them. All I have to do is try and imagine what life I might lead. I can't even put together a fantasy that makes sense. It's not the same as when I dream about strangers. This, this is my life, and it's neither a nightmare nor a dream but something in-between.

  I shake off the cobwebs of sleep and climb into the shower, rinsing away the last remnants of my dream. My mother used to tell me that dreams meant something, that they always had something to teach us. My dad never believed her, my brother either. So neither did I. Maybe that's why my dad was always disappointed in me? When there's a decision to be made or a stance to be taken, I always go the easy route. I look up to those two men, so whatever they say, I say. Once again, not something I'm proud of. It's just a fact of my life.