by J. C. Allen
If he’s not careful, he’s gonna get that and then some.
I guessed that he saw was an intrigued audience, because the rush of Saviors coming out did not give him hesitation. He had no reason to suspect that I worked there, even less reason to suspect that I ran the place, and practically no reason to suspect that the men who’d stepped out were, in fact, members of a club and not just greasy mechanics looking for a parking lot fight to distract them.
Then, perhaps deciding it might earn him a bit of street cred to be seen pummeling a douchebag biker on his own turf, he threw his door open and stepped out. I did my best not to laugh at this sight. Here was a man wearing clothes that clearly painted him as an office drone—the “worst” case was someone who trained martial arts on the weekends but wouldn’t know what would happen if a dog came running at him down the street.
The only question, really, was just how much trouble we’d have to go through in getting rid of this guy.
“Can I help you, sir?” I asked, throwing him my “I am the manager”-grin. I wanted to give him every chance to escape, because even though I wanted entertainment, I also knew that creating a scene was only worth the ego trip of the young or the stupid—and I was neither, at least not in the mental sense.
“Help you into a hospital gurney, you road hog; you fucking asshole road hog!” he snarled.
My laughter didn’t help matters.
“Do people still say ‘road hog?’” I asked, finally glancing back at the other Saviors.
At least one thing was clear. This guy was most certainly not a member of the Falcons. This was actually a relief, even though I wanted nothing more than all of their members’ ashes thrown into the ocean or shuttled into space where I’d never have to deal with them again. It meant I didn’t have to worry about posturing or future retaliation that would engulf the city.
I could send a quick message to this egotistical, hardheaded dick and move on.
As the backing vocals from the other Saviors came to join my own song of hysterical laughter at “road hog,” the Taurus driver finally paused. I could almost see the moment of realization dawning on him. I wished now mind-reading technology existed, because I wanted to see how close he was coming to a nervous breakdown.
Though he still had no reason to suspect my role with them or the true nature of our business, the fact that the three were more than just curious onlookers but, in fact, at least close buddies of mine represented a sizable deterrent in his decision to move forward with his road rage.
However, let it never be said of the nature of man that he’s willing to admit fault and commit to an unprovoked retreat. In some ways, I suppose I could say it was a credit to him that the presence of my men behind me didn’t stop him.
I suppose I could have, but I didn’t, because like I said, only the young and the stupid did that. He wasn’t young—the stress lines over his head gave him away—but he sure as hell was pretty stupid.
Just how stupid, we’d find out soon.
He took another step towards me.
OK, pretty damn stupid.
I snapped my fingers, and three similar steps brought the other Saviors that much closer to him.
That, it appeared, was provocation enough to at least motivate him to retract his own step.
OK, pretty damn stupid, but not the most stupid I’ve ever seen.
My men, however, did not mirror his actions. In fact, they did the opposite, moving in closer.
“What is this?” he demanded, glaring. “Can’t fight your own battles?”
Like a cornered dog, however, his bark was becoming more and more nervous and withdrawn, more like lashes than an omnipresent deterrent. I could see how this would play out in such predictable fashion that I could write the script myself.
I’d call him out. He’d back off. I’d let him know what was really going to happen. He’d make some smartass remark, but it would mean nothing, and then he’d drive off in a huff, speeding so fast and with such aggression that even I would consider it dangerous.
Well, let’s play the part. Aaaaaand…
Action.
“Oh? Were we fighting?” I asked, playing for innocence.
My men stared back at him, seeming more interested in how he’d answer than I was.
“Well…” he began, his voice breaking and trailing off as he tried to decide how to respond.
Perfect. All is going according to script.
“Because, I mean, if we must,” I went on, throwing my leg around and dismounting my chopper. I held out my hands, weighing them on either side. It was theatrical, but then again, like I said, I was going for a certain effect here. “I suppose I’m all for it. I just gotta know if your car’s insured or not. It’s important to set the ground rules, ya know.”
The man stared at me, confused, then finally glanced back at his Taurus. It’s dawning on him! Oh, how good. He’s a quick learner. Good man.
“What? My car? Why should it matter if my car’s insured or not?”
I shrugged and pointed back with a hitchhiker’s thumb towards the shop. Now was the time to make clear what would happen if he fucked with us. On cue…
“We’re a mechanic shop,” I explained, making sure he absorbed the full meaning of “we.” “So, after I break your face through the windshield of your Ford there, we’re probably going to be the ones saddled with the repairs. Now, if this were a hospital, I might have a reason to care about you and whether you, personally, are insured, but this is not a hospital. Oh, no, no bud, we’re the furthest thing from a hospital. There’s no instruments of healing here. Only lots and lots of greased, blunt tools and lubed-up motorcycle chains. We’re better equipped to take dents out of things than to rebuild a human skull, I’m afraid.”
I gave another shrug, an almost apologetic one, and took a step towards the man. Now was the moment of truth, the one-liner that would get quoted by movie goers for generations to come.
“So,” I said in a chipper, salesman-like tone. “I’ll ask you one last time. Is your car insured… or not?”
“You…” the man locked his knees, and I guessed that was his way of making sure they wouldn’t buckle beneath him. Because just about everything else was about to collapse. “You’re a fucking asshole! That’s what you are!”
And there’s the smartass remark that foretells of a hasty exit.
“I’ve been called far worse by far better,” I shot back with a smile. If only you knew what far better looked like. You’re just a fat fuck in an office job. You better know better know. “Now. In case it wasn’t clear. Get the fuck off my lot.”
The man stared at us, but his right foot had already moved back. I wasn’t even sure if he was conscious of it, but he would be soon enough.
He gave us the middle finger one last time, drawing howling, mocking laughter back, before he revved out of the parking spots, nearly hitting a car driving by. He gave us one last finger before departing.
“Think that asshole will show his way around here?” one of the men said.
I shrugged.
“Ain’t matter too much to me,” I said. “He’s gonna go tell his wife whom he doesn’t care about that he stared us down today, and his wife’s gonna say ‘that’s nice, dear’ and his life is going to continue to suck. It works.”
“Hey! Derek! Get yer ass in here before ya melt into a puddle of blood, ya fool!”
Oh, Rooster. Good to see you too.
It was only then, too, that I realized that, by getting in the spirit to fight, I hadn’t lost my mind to the PTSD vision that my mind sure seemed to get a kick out of visiting.
I circled around to the back, smart enough to know not to carry our true business out for the public eye to see. Sure as balls would sweat today, Matty was waiting for me, his arms crossed, a “I know I’m grinning but I’m not gonna admit to it” smile on his face.
“Hear yer feeling particularly confrontational today, Derek,” Matty was chiding before I even had one foot all the
way through the door to the back. Oh, hi, Dad, nice to see you too.
“Hear you’re feeling particularly gay today, Rooster,” I shot back.
I was expecting a punch to the face for that, but Matty only laughed. Then again, I supposed I was the only person here who could get away with saying that.
“How would that be different than any other day?” he challenged.
“You know,” I said with a groan, pausing to wipe some sweat from my forehead.
And, if I was being honest, trying to find a comeback against something so bluntly true that I had nothing to combat it with.
“Some days I just do not get you.”
“And ya should consider it a great favor to always have someone like me to keep ya on yer toes.”
I stared at him.
He stared right back at me.
Then, seeming to see something beyond the surface appearance that I supposed I was wearing—that all of us wore, day-by-day, and just prayed others wouldn’t see past—Matty’s lip did a funny curl. Damnit. He saw me smiling before
Roost’s wasn’t quite a smile—not that committed, not yet, anyway—but it was more than a grin; more knowing and way, way more conceited than anything I had produced. While most of me was struggling to figure out the “what” and the “why” behind that look, another part cringed and wordlessly began wondering if it was possible to mentally will one’s balls to go blue. That thought process, alien and bizarre as it was, got the rest of my brain steering in the direction of what that small part of me already knew.
Call it a sixth sense. Call it his gaydar picking up the presence of sexual activity. Call it Rooster knowing me better than anyone else alive.
Matty could see that I’d gotten laid.
“I don’t want to hear it, Roost!” I said sharply, mentally crossing my fingers that he—for the first time in… well, ever—would actually listen.
I don’t know why the fuck I thought such a thing. Roost was too much of a shit-talker to ever give me the benefit of the doubt.
He didn’t.
“Ya get her name,” he said in a tone that practically dripped with coy venom, “or did ya just pay some hooker to let you call her ‘Maggie?’”
Oh. No. Roost. You fucking prick. Why the fuck… After yesterday, no less.
I’d beat you to death if you weren’t Roost.
As it was, I stared at him again, strongly calculating the likelihood that I could take a swing at him and not wind up in traction as a result. I had youth. I had status.
But let’s be real, neither of those would have prevented Roost from taking a shot right back at me. And in all honesty, he had just about everything else in his favor—skill, size, strategy, and so on.
I begrudgingly. decided that the odds were not in my favor. Almost every scenario I played out in my head ended with him taking the hit as though it were coming from a cushy feathered pillow, saying, “Now I’m gonna fuck ya up,” and then doing just that.
I wound up sighing in resignation to a fight that never even got to exist.
“I want to hit you so badly for that.”
“Ye’re free to try,” Matty said without a shred of insincerity or condescending irony.
At that moment, I realized that he’d likely let me land a hit and do nothing in retaliation. Perhaps he realized how badly he had fucked up. Perhaps he realized I wasn’t going to actually do it, what with today having been a relatively good day. Or, perhaps, he was just a little nuts like we all were.
After a long, awkward, silent moment, I decided that was exponentially worse than any of the other scenarios that ended with me in traction.
“I’d rather hit myself before I tried on you, actually,” I confessed.
Seeming entertained by this, Matty smirked, chuckled, and nodded—a gesture that more said “good call” than it did “that’s funny, boss”—before his body language shifted entirely. It was a “blink and you missed it”-sort of shift; one moment his entire body was like his grin, big and friendly and confident, and the next it was all sadness and…
Pity.
Fuck! I sighed and shook my head. God damn you, Matty! Can’t you just, for once, not be so… you? Can’t you just pick either being the father figure who knows when to shut up or the hardass who knows with a smirk he can take over at any time?
Why you gotta be like this, damnit?
I knew better than to ask it aloud—How in the hell would he even answer a question like that?—and caught myself avoiding eye contact for such a prolonged period of time that it made it even more awkward in its sheer obviousness. Around us, workers glanced at us, used to our conversations but also a little more on edge because of what had happened the prior day.
Alright, I can’t stay mad at you forever, Roost. I guess I’ll give you what you want.
I finally looked up at him.
“Stephanie,” I said. “Her name was Stephanie. Stephanie Warner, if memory serves me right. And no, before you ask, I’ll tell you. She wasn’t a hooker. She farted like a Clydesdale. She was uncomfortably nice to me. I want nothing more to do with her. And I regret it already.”
“Which part do ya regret?” he asked, the “tone” of his body language changing for the better only slightly as he did.
I groaned and shrugged. I wasn’t really sure I was ready to get so personal as to say “the part where I was a giant dickhead to someone who didn’t deserve it,” but I also knew Roost knew me too well to fall for a lie of any kind.
“I don’t know; all of it, I guess!” I said louder than I’d meant to.
A few Saviors in the distance paused in their work to look over in our direction, and I gave them my most authoritative glare. They got back to work. It was easy to shut them up—much easier than Roost, at least. Then again, who isn’t?
“It was just sex, Roost. Just… movement and heavy breathing. Drunken movement and alcohol-tinged heavy breathing. I…”
I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. So much for not being personal. So much for keeping it quiet. So much for… any of that.
“I wish it could’ve been more—I wish you could have been right about this much.”
Roost’s eyebrows lurched up, somewhat in surprise, but mostly in a “told ya so, ya prick” way. Well, if the seal was already broken, I might as well have kept going.
“I wish that I’d feel… I don’t know. I just know I did not like myself this morning—but I didn’t feel any different for it. I might as well have run up and down the stairs of my building and then jerked off in the bathroom while forcing myself to lock eyes with my reflection in the bathroom. The whole thing felt… forced and graded.”
I left unsaid that she had done a lot of good for me, but I was pretty sure that much was visible and obvious.
Matty’s grin made another appearance, but it wasn’t as enthusiastic as before.
“So what was yer grade then?” he jabbed.
“Fucking hell, Matty…” I grumbled, palming my face and praying for a sudden Falcon attack on the shop… or the end of the world. Anything to end the moment and the dreadful conversation taking place in it.
“That bad, huh?” he added.
No, not really. Honestly, no.
But as far as this goes… if it gets Roost to stop pushing into my life like this, then yes.
“No complaints from her—none spoken, at least,” I told him, then, shrugging, added, “I almost had to fake it, though. Made me mad that girls can end a fuck by screaming and moaning and crying out, ‘Yup! I came! Good job, champ!’ They get away with faking it, but us guys gotta have the warm, syrupy evidence to show for it.”
“Makin’ me regret missin’ breakfast, Chase,” Matty said with a laugh.
I rolled my eyes. We were gonna play that game again now, huh?
“You asking me to jizz on your pancakes now, Roost? Something like that would cost you a day’s wages,” I joked. “Or maybe a few jobs.”
“Like I’d stoop so low as to take my nour
ishment from ya,” he joked back. “So ya regret it ‘cause the sex wasn’t great? Thought ya said she was nice, though. Wasn’t that enough to make up fer it?”
Well, damn. I guess I can’t dodge it like I’d hoped. Roost is too good.
Thanks, Roost… thanks a lot.
Thanks a fucking lot!
“Fuck, man!” I groaned, “Haven’t you been listening? There was nothing wrong with the sex! Not if it was anybody but me having it! Anybody else would’ve thought it was great, fantastic even! The girl was all for it at the bar, and from there all the way to my place it was clear-as-fucking-day for anyone looking that she was all-in. I could’ve asked for anything and you just knew, you just fucking knew, that she’d be down for all of it and more! And then she went at it like she was the one being tested.”
I found myself experiencing something strange.
Emotion.
I had managed to forget much of this in my drunken stupor and the awkwardness of the morning, but now this was starting to come back in full force, and it was not being kind to me.
Not in the fucking slightest.
“I swear to Christ, Rooster, it was like she was trying out for the goddam Olympics or something. Twisting and bending and throwing herself around like she was expecting a gold medal. You could put a springboard and some parallel bars around the bed and have been certain that judges were sitting in the corner ready to score her performance. Any other guy would’ve busted in seconds under all that attention and effort, but me… I almost had to fake it just to get it to end. I had let myself get into such a drunken stupor…”
I sighed.
“Look, I’m not gonna bullshit you. I was about to say I was so drunk I couldn’t come. But that’s a lie. It’s…”
“Well, if ya don’t mind me askin’, how’d you finally… y’know?”
I wiped my face, not wanting him to see that I was nearly crying by that point. This part… this was the most fucked up part.
The part I’d glossed over when I thought about it.
But now, I wasn’t just thinking about what I was thinking in that moment.
I was thinking about all of the toasts I had given that morning, not just with the gin, but with the water.