Random & Rare
Page 17
It didn’t matter how much I fought, how I planned, maneuvered.
Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. Never has. Never will.
Burning rubber, exhaust, and the stench of copper filled my lungs.
“Dig? Ah, no! No! Fuck! Fuck!” Boner’s ragged voice dragged me back to the parking lot of a bar in a corner of Fort Worth, Texas.
Sirens blared. Red and blue lights flashed across Wreck’s ashen still face, across my bloodied hands.
Battered hands soaked in blood.
Soaked.
No. No escape. Not ever.
My lips brushed Wreck’s cool forehead, and a choked wail heaved from my chest as I rocked him, rocked him to and fro.
To and fro.
To and fro.
I would never make that scheduled phone call to Grace the following day. In fact, I didn’t say another word until we got back to Meager, over two days and a thousand miles later.
The ride back to South Dakota was a deafening blur. I kept my aching eyes trained on the road, on the van in front of me that carried Wreck’s precious 1969 Panhead back home. We’d had to leave his body behind in Texas until the authorities would release it and we could get him home.
Grace lunged at me the second I got off my bike at two in the morning at the clubhouse, but I had nothing to give her. She only kept her hand on my back as we all trudged inside. I sent her to my room and stayed up all night in the lounge with a bottle of Jack in one hand and Pearl Jam’s “Once” on endless repeat on the stereo.
The next day, Grace, Boner, and I all stared at the phone sitting on the bar as if we were willingly waiting for a grenade to explode any second.
Grace touched my arm. “Baby, are you sure you don’t want me to talk to him?”
I shook my head, my hands scrubbing down my face. I lit another cigarette.
I had put in a call to the Army about talking to Miller. Told them why. The kid was on some sort of special assignment though. They got back to me and set up this call. I glanced at my watch. He would be phoning in one minute, thirty seconds.
“Dig—”
“Grace, stop! I have to do this.”
She bit her bottom lip and settled back on her stool. Boner only stared at me, his hand gripping Wreck’s colors, which lay across the bar in between us.
The phone rang. The three of us jerked to life like puppets being wrenched by our strings. I squashed the cigarette in the ashtray, took in a shallow breath, and picked up the fucking phone.
“Private Flies as Eagles speaking.”
“Miller?”
Boner’s head sank over his hands. Grace fingered the frayed stitches of Wreck’s Road Captain rocker.
My brain and mouth managed to coordinate an explanation for his brother’s death. No, wait, there was no explanation. Bar. Fight. Punches. Knife. Dead.
Miller sucked in a deep gust of air over the telephone. A horrible silence filled the five-thousand-three-hundred-something miles between us.
“I’m so sorry, man. So very sorry. We’re all destroyed here. They already told me they can’t release you. They got you in deep over there, and…”
Only silence from Miller. I clutched the phone even tighter, but my hand still shook. My arm shook. My body shook.
“Mill?” my voice cracked. “He died like he’d lived. We’re gonna give him a good send-off, man. Just what he deserved. Better.”
Horrible silence.
“He was our rock.”
Wreck’s colors blended into one watery swirl before me. Grace murmured somewhere in the distance. The phone was peeled from my cold grip. Two rough hands went around my wrists and held them there.
“Hello?” Grace gripped the phone. “Hello? This is Grace Quillen. I…oh, damn it.” The cordless phone clacked on the bar. “He hung up,” she whispered.
I wrenched my hands out of Boner’s grip and lit another cigarette. “Get me a fucking drink, would you?”
Boner turned and grabbed a bottle of something. Anything. What did it matter? I swallowed deep, and it burned down my throat like sweet acid on fire.
A large platter of pizza slices was shoved on the bar right by my arm. My pulse skidded.
“I thought you guys would like something to eat.” Somebody’s new bitch smiled at us, rubbing her hands together.
The splayed pile of red-and-yellow triangles stared at me. That foul taste seared my mouth, the greasy odor infiltrating everything. Oregano, salty-sweet tomato, chalky mozzarella.
My lips curled, my burning stomach heaved. A lead weight pulled me down, dragging my flesh with it.
Grace swooped in. “No! No! Take it away!”
I jerked up and sent it flying through the air, crashing on the floor. Melted cheese and greasy splotches of red splattered everywhere around the girl, on the girl, the broken pieces of the platter at her feet.
“Oh my God!” Her whiny voice cut the air.
“Clean this shit up! Now!” Boner shouted.
“He doesn’t like pizza?” she shrieked. “Who the hell doesn’t like pizza?”
“Dig, you okay? Honey?”
“Get the fuck out! Get out!” I yelled. I yelled at the bitch with the pizza. I yelled at myself. I yelled at Wreck. I yelled at Miller across the endless miles of land and ocean separating us.
Miller.
Those mournful dark eyes stared at me.
I failed you.
Mom.
Eve.
Dad.
Wreck. I had failed to keep one of the finest men I had ever known, my mentor, safe on my watch.
I had failed my brother.
“Dig?” Grace’s hands swept up my arms.
I stared at her. Her hazel eyes wide open. Deep lines I had never noticed before now etched her skin, altering her face.
I wouldn’t let this touch her. It just couldn’t. I would surely die if it did. Fuck, I would end it myself.
I held her gaze, focusing on her eyes, as her fingertips stroked my arm. I swallowed.
“What the hell’s going on?” Alicia screeched from across the room.
My glare shut her up. Her eyes widened, and her body froze in place—a body swollen with her unborn child. She was five months more pregnant than Grace.
Grace would look like that soon, wouldn’t she?
Budding, round. Full.
Full of sweet expectations. Full of useless dreams.
Full of our kid.
Vulnerable.
I peeled Grace’s hands off my cold skin.
Her eyes filled with tears. “It doesn’t have to be like this. Honey, please let me help you. Please, please let me help you.” Her voice hitched, and she threw herself at me, her hands flying around my neck, her wet face sliding against mine. “Don’t shut me out now. I miss him, too. I’m hurting, too. Dig, please. Please!”
I shoved her off and inhaled the pizza-saturated air. I gagged, vomit rising in my throat. God, it reeked.
It all fucking reeked.
“No.”
“Don’t do this!” She was crying, shaking.
Crying for us, crying for Wreck, for Miller, for me.
For our kid.
She should be crying.
“Hey.” Boner’s eyes pierced mine like daggers, his hand gripping my shoulder.
I shoved past him and charged outside. As I got on my bike, my gaze automatically lifted to the shed as it had done thousands of times before, thousands of times a day for eons.
Wreck’s Repair.
The hanging rusty sign creaked and groaned in the cold wind over the padlocked metal doors.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I turned the ignition over.
Another haunted fucking house.
It was a classic funeral.
The long procession of motorcycles. Clubs from all over the west and Midwest came to pay their respects. We took turns at the shovel. We filled in the grave.
I emptied out my insides in that pit of dirt over his box.
I didn’t hear
from Miller again. None of us did.
“You sure you’re okay? This is so fucking horrible. But it ain’t nothing new, is it?” Butler rested a hand on my shoulder. The send-off party at the club had finally wound down.
My gaze fell on our old ladies hugging in the yard. Caitlyn smiled as she rubbed Grace’s belly.
“She’s so excited about your baby,” said Butler. He rubbed a hand down his middle, letting out a gust of air. “We’ve been trying, but it ain’t happened so far. Caitlyn wants us to go get tested, but I ain’t jacking off in no cup in a doctor’s office.”
My gaze met his. Crystal-clear aqua, so different from mine. Uncluttered.
Butler shifted his weight. “Hey, look, why don’t the two of you come up to Hound, get away from here? We can head up to Caitlyn’s brother’s cabin in our trucks. He’s fixed it up pretty sweet since the last time you came up, all the creature comforts. It’ll be good.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
“All right.” His mouth screwed up tightly. “Darlin’, let’s roll!”
Caitlyn waved a hand at him, her pretty face breaking into a grin. She and Grace hugged tight, saying their good-byes.
“Gimme a call, all right?” Butler and I embraced, and he thumped me on my back. He turned and mounted his bike.
“Bye, Dig. Take care of my girl.” Caitlyn smiled up at me, adjusting her leather jacket. All those fucking silver hoops on her ears and in her one eyebrow glinted in the sun. She got her lid on and swung herself on the back of the Harley, her spike-heeled boots settling on the pegs.
Butler’s pipes roared. He raised his chin at me, and they spun off the property.
That night, like every night since we’d come back from Texas, I gripped Grace from behind, raised her hips, and thrust my cock into her. I didn’t want to look into her eyes. I didn’t want her to look into mine. I didn’t want her to hold on to me. I only wanted her to take me in, to endure my self-punishment. And she did, my one hand sinking in between her legs, her breaths coming hard and fast. Her sharp moans pleaded with me, her insides pulsed against me, trying to milk me of my bile. After, she nestled back against me, wrapped my arms around her body, and fell sleep. The illusion of comfort was good enough for her. I rested my head against hers on the pillow, the thick waves of her hair in between us, and I counted the hours, the minutes until morning.
For morning would surely come. It always did.
“THIS MUST BE SPECIAL. I don’t get a call from my favorite One-Eyed Jack very often. It’s been years in fact.”
“Yeah, it’s a special occasion.” I hung my helmet on a handlebar and removed the bandana from my head, shaking out my hair.
Loud laughter jerked our attention to the front door of the burger joint where we stood in the parking lot. A family of four ambled out the door into the sun-filled lot in eastern Montana. I rolled my stiff shoulders as they stared at us as if we were the new acquisitions at the zoo—vintage Harleys, dirt-covered leathers, thick boots, dark sunglasses, wild hair. The little boy, his mouth hanging open, waved at me, and I wiggled a finger at him. The teenage daughter’s eyes widened, her pace slowing. The mother pulled on their arms and led them to their Ford Explorer where the dad slammed his door shut and started the engine.
“Let’s hear it,” said Vig.
I ran my fingers through my damp hair. “I think we share some common ground, Vig. Funny, isn’t it? You want play out there in the big wide world with new playmates, but Cowboy wants to be an isolationist. I don’t want play out there, but Mick wants to.”
Vig chuckled. “Let’s you and me switch colors and call it a day, huh?”
We laughed.
Vig shrugged. “Hey, we all got different ideas about what works for our clubs.” He wiped the edge of his mouth with the back of his hand and crumpled the foil wrapper from the burger he’d eaten while waiting for me.
I wrinkled my nose at the stench of pickles and onions. “Different ideas is one thing. Different vision is another. You and I have different visions, Vig, but in a fucked-up way, we’re the same. We each want what we think is best for our clubs. Those things just happen to be different.”
“I agree with you. For once. I’ve been out west cultivating a few opportunities for the Seeds. But in order to follow through on them, I gotta build things up. I’m not interested in keeping things backwoods anymore.”
“That’s where you and I differ.”
He laughed. “You like backwoods, don’t you?”
“Low-key has its merits.”
He laughed. “Mick sure don’t see it that way.”
I eyed him. “No, he doesn’t. He wants a bite of the drug-cartel action that’s sweeping the edges of our states. I think that’s quicksand. It’s shit you can’t get out of once you start. There might be money in it, but these people are a twisted side of fucked up, and I don’t want to introduce that sort of hell into our area or deal with it for-fucking-ever. Those contracts are signed in blood.”
“Ah, it’s all relative in the end, Diggy. Only a matter of time before they sweep the entire U. S. of A. It’s time to play ball.”
“Not playing ball, man. What I want to do is solidify what we got. A few different clubs working together to forge our own network. We’ll own our own territories, but coordinate production and sales and distribution and be a stronger force together rather than separate.”
“How long do you think that’s going to last, Dig? Things are good now, but then again, every Tom, Dick, and Granny are producing their own meth out in their cornfields or in the back of their pickups and selling. You think the Feds aren’t going to cop on to everybody going from pharmacy to pharmacy to stock up on material?”
“Of course they will. Everything’s going to be computerized soon enough, and then they’ll even know what brand of toilet paper we’re buying and when. But when that happens, we’ll be ready.”
“When that happens, the Mexicanos are gonna move right on in. Then you’ll see what’s gonna happen to our cash flow.”
“That’s what I mean, Vig. The time to forge alliances between us is now.”
Vig leaned over and spit to the side of his bike. “So, this is all sweet to hear and warms my insides to no fucking end, but why did you want to meet me? I haven’t been home in months. You’re lucky you caught me on my way in. Glad I invested in a cell phone.”
“I think I can help you out with your vision thing.”
“Oh yeah? Okay, I’ll bite.”
“Cowboy’s tired and old and not in line with your progressive, forward way of thinking, right? You’ve mentioned that once or twice over the years. Yet he’s still holding on.”
A crooked grin split Vig’s features. “Idiot had to have a knee replacement last year after a bike accident. Stubborn bastard hasn’t kept up with his physical therapy. Ain’t no way that fat fuck is gonna be walking let alone riding the way he should be anytime soon.”
No riding equaled no club membership. Definitely no presidency.
Vig’s eyes gleamed at me. Yeah, he could taste the presidency, could already feel the hard length of the gavel in his grip.
“Your boys eager for change, too?” I asked. “What would you say if I told you, Mr. Vice President, that your prez has a new idea in store for his club?”
A shadow crossed Vig’s face as he raised his chin at me. “How do you know my prez’s new ideas?”
“You wanna hear it or what?”
“I’m listening.”
“Joining forces with the Jacks. He and Mick have been meeting up north. Creeper’s been playing go-between.”
Butler had been keeping me informed of the goings-on for a long time now. Things had heated up the last few months though, and I’d gotten my details from Hobbit. Secret meets, secret payouts between the alleged competitors. Mick and Cowboy, the illicit besties.
Vig stared at me, his bulky body perfectly still. “No.”
“Yes. You’ve been gone a good long while, haven’t you?”
I lit a cigarette. “Great timing on Cowboy’s part, sending you Nomad while he got down to other tricks you wouldn’t like. Maybe he was hoping you wouldn’t survive your Russian vacation?”
Vig’s face contorted. “What the fuck?” He hissed in air.
I ran my fingers down the worn leather of my saddle as I exhaled a stream of smoke. “Mick wants the Seeds for a bigger, better One-Eyed Jacks future. He’s playing nice with Cowboy till he gets what he wants, and then all bets are off. Like one of those nasty corporate takeovers on Wall Street. That’s my little theory at least.”
Vig tore his gaze away from mine and rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Motherfucker.”
“You want the presidency of your club, don’t you?”
His eyes burned a hole through mine. “Fuck yes,” he rasped.
“And I want my club left in peace.”
“You don’t want nothing more?”
“I got plenty for now, Vig. What I want is for my club to be left alone from those big corporate organizations you seem to favor and do its thing, first and foremost.”
“Why tell me? If this all goes down the way you say and Mick patches us in, you would have it all.”
“That’s the difference between you and me, I guess. I don’t want it all.”
Vig crossed his arms and took in a deep breath. “Where’s this leading?”
“There’s a meet coming up between Cowboy and Mick. I might be willing to give you the info on the when and where. You could swoop in and catch your prez and Mick sucking on each other. Play it up, piss off your brothers, gather support for your cause. Have a little coup d’état while you’re at it.”
He made a face. “A what?”
“A takeover, man. It’s all in how you play the big drama, your big reveal. Play it any way you like, but bottom line, we ruin it. For both of them. Then you and I clean house.”
Vig’s eyes narrowed, his lips rolled.
“You have the support to make it worth the effort? You been gone a while.”
“Fuck yeah. I got my boys.”