by Max Henry
“Hooch! Get your ass in here!”
Shit, goddamn it. Things are about to get very real. I did the right thing, didn’t I? Yeah, sure I did. Lord, I hope I did.
“What’s goin’ on?” Hooch walks in, hesitating beside my chair with a curious frown while King shuts the door.
King gestures to his seat at the desk. “Take a load off and read what’s on that screen.”
My palms stick to the leather arms of the chair, and I peel them off as Hooch wakes the phone up and starts to read. King positions himself to the right of my seat, and places his hand on my shoulder in a reassuring, and much needed, gesture.
The loaded silence returns. I count Hooch’s breaths as he gently scrolls the page up every so often, working his way through the texts. His eyes twitch, his jaw slowly working side to side.
The messages were bad, sure, but I didn’t think they were out of the ordinary for a bunch of outlaws. I mean, the stuff Digits said? It would have just been to scare me, right?
“Where is he?” The forced calmness in Hooch’s tone has my skin flush, my heart seizing in my chest, and tears threatening to spill over.
“I don’t want to cause trouble. Just ask him to back off and we’ll leave it at that, okay?” Last thing I need is to be known as the vagrant girl who started an internal war.
“No,” Hooch states, shaking his head. “It ain’t okay.” He flicks back up the page, tapping it to stop at the point he was searching for. I cringe as he reads the message aloud. “Rule 24 of the charter states that a member only offers a ride as pillion to single women in exchange for sexual favors. You owe me, slut.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “That, my fairy friend, is bullshit. No such rule.”
I open my mouth to tell him that I didn’t believe it, that I’m not that gullible, yet he silences me with a raised finger, scrolling with his other hand to find the next message.
“You think it’s okay to lead a man on? Make me ditch Heather for you, and then freeze up? You get a patch, the only thing it’ll say is ‘Ice Queen’ given your cunt is a cold and frigid wasteland.”
“Something going on I didn’t know about when you showed up at our clubhouse?” Hooch asks.
My chin quivers, my frustration at the accusation of being so loose manifesting in my tears. “You think that low of me?”
“No. But somethin’ made him think you were keen on him.”
King squeezes my shoulder. “You think perhaps Digits has blown it out of proportion in his head, brother?”
“I’m sure he has,” Hooch answers. “But I want to know details before I go tear his fuckin’ dick off.”
“I didn’t do anything.” I bury my face in my hands, pushing the tears back with the heels of my hands. “He offered me a ride back to the clubhouse to have a shower and a hot meal, and I accepted. I was fucking starving and, as it turns out, too useless to even steal something to eat. So I jumped at the chance thinking I could just cut and run after I was done.” Moving my hands to my legs, I lift my head and plead with Hooch. “You were the reason I stayed. And you know that. You asked me to, otherwise I would have left that night.”
Digits words circle through my mind. “He used you.” As much as I want to ignore his dig at Hooch, the line stung of truth.
He did use me. He used me to clean up their grounds, and then he offered to pay me to deliver a message and let me go afterward. He had no genuine feelings toward me at the start, so why would he now? Even King admitted he’d openly use me to make Hooch better. They’re just a bunch of opportunistic assholes.
“How does this help you?” I ask, looking at both men.
“What do you mean?” King asks.
“It’s a bit far-fetched,” I scoff, “that you’d do this for a stranger, right? One of your own: an old lady, or a property girl, I could understand. But me?”
“We don’t tolerate this kind of behavior towards women, Dagne, I told you that,” King stresses.
“He needs to know he can’t get away with it,” Hooch adds.
“That’s not the only reason, though, right?” I edge out of the chair, backing away from the two of them. “You get a kickback from this, don’t you.”
Neither of them says a single thing. It’s all the reassurance I need.
“I won’t be a part of your games anymore.” I fix Hooch as he hangs his head. “I’m done being used. I’m not your pawn.”
He rises from the seat as I wrench the office door open, but he doesn’t come after me. His guilt anchors him to that throne of lies. They’re all the same, the presidents of this ill begotten club. They use and manipulate to get what they want, damn the cost.
Well, stuff them. Stuff them all. Seems no matter where I go, people are all doing the same thing: sucking the life right out of the world around them.
Including me.
THIRTY-ONE
Hooch
This is exactly what I was trying to tell her: I’m toxic to those around me. She’s better off without me if this is what I do when I’m not trying to hurt her.
“You just goin’ to sit there?” King asks, glancing between Dagne’s disappearing form and me.
“What’s the point?”
“You really got to ask me that?” He frowns, shaking his head at me. “Pull your head out of your ass, Hooch. The girl cares about you.”
“Hey,” I snap, leaning forward in his seat. “Don’t you get all high and mighty on me, asshole. You were doin’ the same fuckin’ thing as I was: using her problem as a catalyst to get to the bottom of why Digits has been acting strange.”
“Yeah, well,” he cedes, “I don’t think either of us did it consciously.”
“Regardless. She has a point.”
“So make it right.”
I tip my head to the side. “By confronting the abusive little cocksucker?”
“No, man.” He slams a hand to his forehead. “By finding a way to get the bastard to reveal his true colors that doesn’t involve her. Show her you care too by respectin’ her wishes and leavin’ her outta it.”
“I don’t trust Digits anymore,” I admit, leaning an elbow on the arm of King’s chair. “You saw the way he was baiting me in the meeting.”
“Yeah, I did.” King slips the door closed again, taking the seat Dagne vacated. “He ever been trouble before now?”
“Never.” I shake my head. “He’s Mr. Quiet and Reliable.”
“Quiet ones always are the trouble makers.”
“Ain’t that the truth?”
King scrubs a hand over his face, staring absently at the pictures on the wall. “Those messages about her drive north, did he know about your deal with her?”
“He knew I’d asked her to run a job for me, but nobody knew where she was headed. I hadn’t told anyone about finding Mel outside of Ty.”
“I wondered what it was you were asking him to do.” King gives me a knowing smile.
He’d caught me cornering one of Lincoln’s newest connections every time I’d paid this place a visit: Ty. The guy’s a whiz with information: if anyone could find her, it was him.
“What’s your thoughts on it?” I ask.
King tips his head one side to the other, as though thinking through the details. “I’m wonderin’ if he was the one who tipped our friendly sheriffs off about her drive.”
“What the hell would he have to gain from that?” I mean, it’s plausible. But without any solid evidence we’re throwing darts blindfolded and hoping they strike the bull’s eye.
“I’m not sure.” King taps his fingers on one knee. “But I think we need to find a way to trick him into lettin’ us know.”
Sounds so easy in theory, but what I’m implying can get me crucified for the same thing if I fail to prove it. Treachery doesn’t go down lightly amongst the Aces … especially from an officer.
“I’ll have a word in Murphy’s ear,” I say. “I owe the old bastard an explanation about Mom anyway.”
King chuckles. “What the hell was that, an
yway? I never met her, but damn, the stories I’ve heard over the years ain’t so flash.”
“It’s probably only the half of it, too.”
I’d love to say I have fond memories of my mom, but the truth is they’re sketchy and hard to come by as the years have worn on. Sometimes I catch myself reminiscing about something we did together when I was a kid, only to realize I’ve got fact and fiction mixed up and it wasn’t me pegging the washing out on a stool, but the boy on the fabric softener commercial that screened the night before while I was half asleep.
“She’s a hard woman, my mother. But that’s what made her such a force to reckon with in this life. She took no shit, and she didn’t tolerate any either.”
“You miss her?” King’s genuine question takes me by surprise.
Do I? “I regret the idea of her.” I miss what I could have had, but at the same time I don’t dwell on it because the likelihood of actually having the mother I daydream of is a whole other kettle of fish.
King rises from his chair and opens the door. “I need to get my ass home before I’m locked out for the night, but if you come across anything, message me, yeah?”
“Sure thing.”
He walks out, not perturbed in the slightest by leaving me sitting in his office chair. We go way back, King and I, to when he was a green prospect lusting after the life of danger his parents had sheltered him from. If there’s anybody in this world I trust, it’s him. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and if I’d really thought on it I should have dropped Mel’s details with him. Yet the idea Jessup would have got hold of the address if I’d kept it in house still has me thinking reaching out to Mom wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.
Anybody who knows our family history would have searched there last, and the feds know my family well.
I push out of the seat and head through to the common room. In part to give my peaking body a distraction, but mostly to search out Crackers. Something’s gone down since I’ve been away, and I think it’s about time I set my own fears and inadequacies aside to nut out the details. After all, isn’t that a president’s role? To iron out the kinks in the club colors? A patch isn’t gifted lightly; it brings with it respect and honor, a promise to serve and lay your life down if it means protecting the integrity of the organization we’ve sculpted over the years.
The Aces are founded on honesty and valor. This modern day trend of each man for himself is wearing thin, fast.
“Hey, Jo,” I call out. “You seen Crackers?”
“Took a bedtime buddy upstairs, I think.”
Great. Just what I need.
“Anything we can help with?” Murphy asks from his position at the bar, making love to his whiskey neat.
Digits chooses that exact moment to emerge from the garage with one of the Lincoln guys. His eyes meet mine across the room, and for a fleeting moment I consider the repercussions of smashing his face into the concrete floor until he isn’t quite so pretty anymore.
“Pres.” Murphy touches my shoulder, jolting me from the standoff.
I swing my gaze around to the older man and hang my head. “Sorry, brother.” Laying my hand over his, I nod. “You can help me with something, but I might call it a night and hit you up in the mornin’, yeah?”
“Anything you need.”
He returns to his post at the bar and I look around to find Digits gone. My head pounds, my joints feeling as though smashed glass grinds into the bone. I’m hungry, peaking for a fix, and grappling for a last hold on my sanity.
Each day I wake up thinking it couldn’t get any worse, and every night my head hits the pillow realizing I never knew the half of it.
I’m tired: physically, mentally, spiritually.
And as much as the stubborn asshole inside of me, inherited from my father, wants to fight, the man who carries him wants to lie down never to rise again.
One more day. The mantra I give myself as the sun sets to hold on a little longer. One more day. And maybe then I would have run out of excuses.
Maybe then, I won’t be missed.
Maybe then, I can cut the cord and drift free.
THIRTY-TWO
Dagne
My satchel weighs heavy in my hand as I run the strap through my closed fist. How pathetic is it that I can condense the important parts of my life down to a handful of belongings inside a twenty-dollar bag?
I had a bedroom once. Things that were mine. I could lie on the mattress with my stuffed unicorn in my arms and stare across at the second-hand poster of Disney princesses, imagining a world where no matter how you were wronged, somebody out there was waiting to save you.
Fairytales and folklore. Stories of a perfect world where forgiveness is easily given, and remorse brings the guilty to their knees in search of redemption.
Bullshit.
That’s all it is. Lies we tell ourselves to dampen the cold harsh reality of the world around us. Pain is inevitable, deceit as natural as taking your first step. People lie, and then they lie to themselves to justify the lie. It’s a cycle of false, fake, pretentious people fighting for the biggest share of the limelight.
A spotlight I’ve never had, and I don’t know if I ever want, either.
With a shake of my head, I slip the strap of the satchel over my shoulder and walk towards the door, purposefully avoiding catching a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror propped in the corner of the room. I don’t like this girl. She lets people walk all over her, so desperate to belong somewhere that she overlooks the obvious signs that those around her shouldn’t be trusted.
I really thought he was different; that somewhere underneath his harsh exterior was a genuine guy.
I guess I’m no less of a fool than I was the day I left home. What’s it going to take for me to be able to read people right? Will I ever recognize the man who’ll treat me how I deserve, or am I destined to be stuck on this merry-go-round of naivety for life?
Half the clubhouse have turned in for the night, the other half split evenly between those who are filling the halls with the lurid sounds of sex and debauchery, those who find solace in drinking away their reality, and the few who stick around to clean up after both.
I slip down the stairs, checking both ways for any sign of the two men I’m hoping to avoid. The downstairs halls are quiet, the lights in the kitchen off. A couple of the southern men still congregate at the bar, but to my relief they pay me no mind as I walk by to head for the exit.
Where will I go? I have no idea. But the fact I’m freshly showered, there’s a day’s worth of food and water in my bag, and my legs are rested from several weeks staying put, means I have time to work it out.
I make it out the external door and suck in a deep breath, relishing the comforting smell of crisp night air. It’s just me, nature, and—
“Where you goin’?”
—Dog. Damn it.
“For a walk.” I clutch my strap and head for the gates.
“Take it you’ve seen him then?” he calls after me.
Why do you do this to yourself? I spin around, feeling rude if I ignore Dog considering this has nothing to do with him.
“Hooch, or Digits?”
He shrugs. “Both, I guess. But I mostly meant Hooch.”
“Yeah, I saw him.”
He studies me a moment, his eyes hard as he leans casually against the outside of the clubhouse, having a smoke. “And you’re still going?”
“What’s one got to do with the other?” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air. Why does everyone assume I owe Hooch something? He used me. Twice. He almost used me three times. He’s the one who owes me.
Dog smirks, a look I’ve come to know means I’m about to get into trouble. “You tellin’ me you don’t care about the guy?”
“Of course I care about him,” I admit. “That’s what I don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand?”
“We’re just so different,” I say, staring at my feet. “Plus, I don’t even know
how he feels about me. I just seem to be something … convenient.”
Dog’s feet shift in my periphery, and he drops his spent cigarette to the ground. “You talked to him about this?”
My immediate instinct is to say I’ve tried, but isn’t that a lie? I’ve listened, I’ve let him in on a tiny part of who I am by telling him about my father, but have I actually sat down and talked through what we have going on? No.
“I don’t know what I’d say.”
“Try it out on me.”
“What?” I look up at the guy. “Tell you how I feel about him.”
“Yeah.” That damn troublesome smirk returns. “Practice, if you like.”
“I don’t know …”
“Go on.” He steps forward, nudging me lightly in the arm with a loose fist. “You know it’s a good idea.” He steps back, arms folded. “If you had to list one reason, one thing about the guy that you like, what would it be? And don’t give me bullshit about the beard; we get it—chicks dig beards.” He rolls his eyes. “Give me something real, sweetheart.”
What is it about Hooch that makes me drop my guard around him? I run through each of our interactions in my mind, Dog waiting patiently while I do. My hands wring the hell out of my bag strap as I focus in on the emotions he pulls out of me, and it twigs.
“I guess, when I’m around people who have it together, who’re confident in themselves, it makes me feel shitty because it highlights everything that’s wrong with me,” I say. “But when I talk with him, I … I think because he seems just as lost as I am that I can relate, you know? He makes me feel comfortable, like I’m on an even par with him. He’s not judging me, and I don’t judge him. I mean, shit, who would I be to chastise the decisions he’s made in life when I’m a walking fuck up, myself.”
“Good,” Dog coaches, winding his hand. “So he makes you feel …”
“Like I’m at home.” The realization sucker punches me in the gut.
He makes me feel secure, wanted, and like I matter. And isn’t that what scares me most? Getting attached again only to find it’s all a lie?