“I just want you to be happy.”
“I’ll keep you posted on the waitress. Maybe it’ll be more than a hookup.”
“What would she have to do to capture your interest?”
Capture my interest?
Capture was the perfect choice of words. I finished my beer and gave her question some consideration, but not very much. The mere thought of being with a woman on a permanent basis made me feel constrained.
I wanted to answer her, I really did. I wanted to know myself. Hell, everyone around me was getting married, having babies, or rigging up their Ol’ Lady with a Property Of patch. I wondered if I was just wired differently, or if my lack of trust was so engrained in my being that I’d never let a woman be a part of my life.
I looked at Smokey. He sat at Sandy’s side, holding a piece of broccoli as she nibbled the head off the stalk.
Bile rose in my throat.
I looked at Eddie. “Nothing. There’s nothing she – or any woman – will be able to do to capture my interest.”
And, I truly believed each and every word.
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Seven
Joey
He’d started drinking early in the evening. Although he had yet to have a fit of anger or a bad word to say, I’d been around him long enough to know if he was drinking that sooner or later he’d do or say something.
With my covers pulled to my shoulders and my iPod providing a soft barrier of music between us, I stared up at the ceiling and wondered when I realistically might be able to live on my own.
Rent was going to cost $1,400 a month for the cheapest apartment in town. Utilities would be another $450 by my calculations. Food, fuel, and miscellaneous expenses would be another $600, bringing my total to $2,450.
I’d need to make at least $2,600 a month to survive comfortably.
In many states, riding motorcycles was a seasonal activity. In Oceanside, California, it was something a rider could enjoy year-round. Sales at the Harley dealer was an even stream of income, or at least it should be.
If I could meet my quota each month, and then sell an added $10,000 in accessories, I could make $3,000 a month.
I decided that would be my goal. If I could achieve it for three months straight, and save every penny I could, I’d be comfortable moving out.
With my decision made, I turned off my iPod and set it on the dresser.
The sound of screamo music filtered through the house.
Perfect.
He claimed listening to the vile filth calmed him. It didn’t. It seemed to transport him to a place that allowed him to escape from reality. When he returned, and eventually he always did, he was short-tempered and prone to violent outbursts.
I covered my head with my pillow and hoped that I could fall asleep.
Nervous with anticipation of what he might do, I tossed and turned while the annoying crap resonated throughout the house.
Eventually, I somehow relaxed enough that I fell asleep.
My door opening caused me to wake.
I opened my eyes and shot to a seated position. He stood just inside the room, leaning against the wall.
With a bottle of Jack Daniels clenched in his fist, he lowered his chin and fixed his drunken eyes on mine. “We need to have a talk.”
His glassy eyes and his inability to stand without the wall’s aid told me he was trashed. I knew better than to try to argue with him when he was in such a drunken state. A soft tone and a response that was supportive of his request was my only way to keep the situation from escalating.
I glanced at my clock.
1:22
“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning,” I said in a soft tone. “And, I feel sick. Can we talk tomorrow? In the morning?”
He pushed himself from the wall, and almost fell. He raised the bottle to his mouth, took a drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand.
“We need to talk now.” He took another drink. “You’re going to be twenty-one soon, and you need to be the fuck out of this house before that day comes.”
My birthday was eight weeks away. By my calculations, I needed twelve stellar weeks of sales to achieve my financial goal. Nervous of what his next step might be if he didn’t find my reply favorable, I carefully formulated my response.
“I’ll do my best. I’m making some really good sales, and I’ve met my--”
He lowered the bottle and took a few steps toward the corner of my bed. “Did I ask you for details? Fuck no I didn’t. I don’t give two fucking shits about your stupid fucking job. I want results.”
My body tensed. I glanced at the bottle of whisky, realized it was almost empty, and swallowed heavily.
For fear of not having anywhere to go after they arrived, I’d never called the police on him. After our last talk had turned violent, I swore I’d never let him harm me again. Since that night, I held the police in reserve as my only salvation.
I looked up. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He waved the bottle in my direction. “Yes, Josh, I’ll be out by my birthday, or no Josh, I won’t. Which is it?”
I wasn’t going to lie to him, even if it was to get him to go away. If I did, the backlash that followed would be brutal. As much as I knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, I had to to give a truthful response.
One I was comfortable with.
“I’ll do my best.”
He leaned forward, grabbed the comforter, and yanked the covers off me completely. “Your best sucks.”
His glassy eyes and tense muscles told me he was drunk and hoping to start a fight. I jumped off the side of the bed and scrambled toward the dresser.
I yanked my phone from my purse. Prepared to give my verbal warning for what was next, I spun around, phone in hand.
I didn’t see it but something struck me on the cheek.
Hard.
A bright flash of light followed, and I fell to the floor.
“What in the fuck do you think you’re going to do?” he growled. “Call the fucking cops? In my house?”
The punch knocked me senseless. The side of my face was throbbing, and my left eye was swelling closed with each passing second. He’d hit me in the past, but never like that. When I came to my senses, I realized I no longer had my phone, and frantically began to search the room for where it went.
His eyes found it before I did.
“Looking for this?”
He took a quick step forward, raised his foot, and stomped the heel of his boot down on my phone.
Crap.
I couldn’t decide whether to stand or to stay on the floor. With calling the police no longer an option, I decided the floor would be the least threatening position to him. It was there that I cowered in fear.
I soon found out that it wasn’t a good decision.
The toe of his boot swung into my stomach. The air shot from my lungs. I heaved to breathe, gasping to catch my breath. Now certain that he wasn’t going to stop until I was either crippled or dead, I somehow managed to rise to my feet.
He cackled a drunken laugh. “Oh, you want to fight me?”
I realized I was instinctively standing in a defensive posture.
I lowered my arms. “Please--”
“Don’t beg. You’re even uglier when you do.”
His hand landed against my swollen eye. The punch knocked me from my feet. I stumbled halfway across the room.
I tried to get up, but couldn’t. I wanted to run, somehow sneak past him, or jump out the window and run the Percy’s house. I was too weak to stand, and even if I could, I hadn’t heard his motorcycle come home yet.
There was nothing I could do.
Tears streamed down my face. I was done. Done sharing a home with him, done trying to reason with him, and done fighting him. He’d finally managed to break me.
“I’ll be…I’ll be gone,” I murmured.
“What’s that?” He chuckled. “Did you say something?”
“I’ll be gone.”
He cleared his throat. “By your birthday.”
“I’ll be gone by my…” I muttered. “I’ll be gone on my birthday.”
“Better be.”
The door closed behind him. I collapsed on the floor, covered my face with my hands. and sobbed.
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Eight
P-Nut
On my way home from the clubhouse after a late-night meeting, I rolled to a stop at the traffic light. While I tapped my fingers to a tune that no one else could hear, an SUV pulled alongside me on the left.
Then, another on my right.
I glanced at one, and then the other. They were identical in color, appearance, and stance.
Fucking feds.
My asshole puckered.
I looked at the traffic signal, pulled in the clutch lever, and prepared to run the red light. As I watched for a break in cross traffic, a third – identical – SUV swerved out of the intersection’s traffic and came to a screeching stop in front of me.
Fuck.
Twelve doors swung open, and no less than a dozen armed men jumped into the street. As soon as the heels of their boots hit the asphalt, the screaming started.
A burly bastard wearing a helmet and some ridiculous goggles over his eyes stepped in front of my bike. The barrel of his rifle was fixed on my chest the entire time.
“Don’t fucking move!” he demanded.
“Keep your hands where we can see them!” someone on my left said.
“Don’t move!” another shouted from behind me.
Dressed in military-style garb and fitted bulletproof vests, the yellow letters stitched to the front of their gear left no doubt as to who I was dealing with.
The ATF.
Fuck.
With the barrels of a dozen rifles pointed at me, my choices were few. I flipped the run switch to off and swept the kickstand down with the toe of my boot.
The last thing I was going to have happen was to see my bike tipped over when they tried to pull me off it.
“Evening, fellas,” I said with a broad grin. “Kinda late to be starting a party, isn’t it?”
The one with the goggles moved the barrel of his rifle within a few feet of my chest. “Percy L. Welsh?”
“You askin’, or tellin’?”
“Are you Percy L. Welsh?” he growled.
“If I say no, are you pricks going to get back in your cages and roll out of here?”
“With. Your. Hands. Fixed. On. The. Handlebars,” he shouted, annunciating each word. “Lift your right leg over the rear fender and stand beside your motorcycle.”
“Right leg, rear fender. Let me see what I can do.”
I stepped off the bike, locked eyes with him, and crossed my arms.
“Keep your fucking hands where I can see them!” someone shouted.
I unfolded my arms and turned my palms up.
My goggles wearing compadre spread his legs, pointed the barrel of his rifle at my chest, and cocked his head to the side.
“Search him,” he said dryly.
One of the many dip-shits behind me began to pat my body down. I was promptly relieved of my wallet, cigarettes, and knife.
“It’s him,” he said.
Mr. Goggles nodded toward my feet. “You can make this easy, or you can make it tough. Take a knee.”
I wasn’t in the mood to get tuned up by a dozen of the federal government’s finest thugs. I lowered myself to one knee, and then the other.
“Hands behind your head,” he said.
“I know the fucking drill.”
The agent at my rear handcuffed me and pulled me to my feet.
I tilted my head toward my bike. “If there’s one scratch on that motherfucker when we’re done, I guarantee you’ll wish there wasn’t.”
“You’re not in a position to be making threats.”
“It wasn’t a threat,” I said flatly. “It’s one of the realities of life.
“Load him up,” he said.
As cars slowly drove past, people gawked at the sight. Some took pictures with their phones. One man sat on the adjacent street corner with his phone pointed directly at us, undoubtedly videoing the fiasco.
“Kid in the jacket’s filming this. Better not make a mistake,” I said, my tone thick with sarcasm. “I know how you pricks tend to fuck things up. Ruby Ridge. Waco, Texas--”
“Shut the fuck up,” Mr. Goggles snapped.
Two of the agents lifted me to my feet, loaded me in the SUV on my left, and shut the door.
“What you two fuckers don’t understand is that even though I’m nuts, I’m not your stereotypical dip shit biker.”
They looked at each other, and then the one with the curly hair sat down. “You’re losing me, Percy.”
“Call me Percy again, and I’ll plaster a picture of your wife sucking my cock on that blank billboard at exit 53.” I reached for my cigarettes and quickly remembered they’d taken them from me. “Might come as a shock to you two brain surgeons, but this isn’t my first time being apprehended. I know how this shit works. I’m either under arrest, or I’m not. If I’m not, I want you to tell me.”
He tried to hide the fact that I was getting under his skin, but he didn’t succeed. He covered his ring finger with his right hand and then met my gaze. “We’re investigating the disappearance of an ATF agent. I don’t have to tell you shit.”
The ATF agent they were looking for hadn’t disappeared. I knew exactly where he was, but I wasn’t about to tell them. They’d find him one day, but only when I was ready to let them. I pushed my chair away from the table and crossed my arms. After giving him a few seconds of my best crazy-eyed stare, I leaned forward, rested my forearms on the edge of the table, and cleared my throat.
“Am I free to go?”
Without breaking my gaze or showing an ounce of emotion, he responded. “No, you’re sure as fuck not.”
“Am I under arrest?”
He looked at his partner, and then at me. “Did either of us say you were under arrest?”
“Answering a question with a question is a punk move, cop.”
“I’m not going to tell you again, I’m not a cop,” he snarled. “I’m a Special Agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.”
“So, I’m not under arrest.” I alternated glances between them, and then locked eyes with my kinky-haired friend. “In accordance with the Fifth Amendment of the US Constitution, I refuse to answer any of your questions without an attorney present, cop.”
He pushed himself away from the table. “So, it’s going to be like that?”
“Sure as fuck is,” I said dryly. “Gimme my smokes. I got shit to do.”
“Got meth to manufacture?” The second cop asked, his voice thick with conjecture. “Gas stations to rob?”
“No. I need to poke my dick down his wife’s throat.” I tilted my head toward the curly-haired cop and grinned. “Then I need to snap a few pics. We’ll take a vote at the clubhouse to see which one the fellas think will be the best for the billboard.”
Curly pivoted on the balls of his feet, spun toward me, and then shot me a glare. “I’m not married.”
“Yes, you are.” I pushed myself away from the table, stood, and nodded toward the tan line on his ring finger. “You’ve got a wife, and you’re worried I’ll find her.”
He crossed his arms. “You making threats?”
I wasn’t about to get caught up in a conspiracy charge with the feds. Backing down completely wasn’t an option, either. I shook my head. “Not a threat, cop. A prediction. She’ll like the taste of my dick more than she likes yours. Now. Gimme my fucking smokes.”
He motioned toward cop number two. “Get him out of here, Clark. I’m tired of listening to his bullshit.”
I looked at the second cop. “Yeah, Clark. Gimme me my smokes, and let me outta here.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Curly said.
“Save us both some trouble, and just give me your wif
e’s cell phone number,” I said with a laugh.
“Fuck off, Percy,” he said through his teeth.
People’s perceptions of me differed. Their opinions were based on how well they knew me, and what portion of my true self I allowed them to see. Most would agree, regardless of their depth of knowledge about me, that I was a man of my word.
And, I promised Curly that I’d poke my cock down his wife’s throat if he called me Percy again.
I turned toward him and grinned as I tried to decide who would enjoy it the most.
Me? His wife? Or the people who drove past the billboard?
I’d find out soon enough.
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Nine
Joey
When Percy moved into the neighborhood, I was thirteen. Immediately after he unloaded the last piece of furniture into the house, I introduced myself. At the time I didn’t realize it, but I later admitted that I my admiration of him was two-fold.
The first reason was that his life mirrored the one I suspected my real father had lived. Intrigued by living next door to a real-life biker, I absorbed everything about him and his way of living, all the while imagining my deceased father had lived in the same fashion.
Secondly, I detested my stepfather, but desperately needed a male role model in my life. Fate allowed Percy to step into that role when I was a teenager. I asked him questions about life, my feelings, relationships, and motorcycles. He answered them all to the best of his ability, never denying me his time.
I was young and inexperienced at everything feminine. Subsequently, my makeup skills were nil.
One day, only a few weeks after his arrival, he laughed at my makeup. He told me a girl as pretty as me didn’t need makeup. I’ never forgot that day, and I’m sure I never will. My inability to apply makeup on that day earned me a nickname.
Smudge.
Although my makeup skills improved, the nickname stuck with me.
Grateful that I eventually became accomplished in the craft, I inspected myself in the bathroom mirror at the dealership.
My eye was still slightly swollen, but the thick application of foundation and having the blush a little higher on my cheeks hid the bruise.
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