Wait: The Brazen Bulls Beginning

by Susan Fanetti

  “The Fire Rocks?” John offered.

  “My brother,” Dane said with playful solemnity, “you are not allowed input in the naming. You are a man of many talents, but this is not one of them.”

  ~oOo~

  “What do you think?” Dane looked over Brian’s shoulder as Brian considered the sketch.

  “It’s pretty good. I didn’t know Jo was such an artist.”

  “Yeah, she puts most of her creative energy into that stupid store, but she’s good at drawing and painting. You like it?”

  “I do. More flames behind the bull, though. And he should be angrier. You think?” They were the Brazen Bulls MC now—or would be when they had a patch and a clubhouse. The patch was easier than the clubhouse. That building next door hadn’t been on the market, boarded up or not, and the owner so far hadn’t been interested in discussing a sale. It also turned out that the same guy owned the empty lot on the other side of the building. Brian’s latest attempt had included an offer for that lot, too. He was starting to feel a bit woozy from the money he’d been throwing around these past few months, after decades of frugality.

  Collie had come up with the idea for the name. He’d seen some PBS show about medieval history, which had mentioned a particularly horrible method of torture called ‘the brazen bull.’ As soon as he’d explained it, everybody had known it was perfect: a bull called out to their shared rural roots, and it was an immensely powerful animal you did not want to fuck with. ‘Brazen’ meant bold, or something close enough to that.

  And then there was the brazen bull itself. They were all men who’d come through fire themselves. That there was also an implied threat in the reference, for those people who knew medieval history, was just a bonus.

  They were the Brazen Bulls MC.

  Dane laughed. “I think you’re right, but if it’s okay by you, I’m gonna tell her it’s our president who wants her to draw this over again. If she thinks it’s me nitpicking more, I’ll get a platform shoe up my ass.”

  “I’ll cover you, brother. No problem.”

  Just then, headlights swept across the front windows. They’d closed up the station, and Nando and Rad were cleaning up the bays. The lot lights were out, so they were clearly closed for business.

  Brian knew who it was—their guy who took their used oil off for disposal. Alan was supposed to come around six, but he was running late, and it was past nine.

  He went to the door to the bays. Only Nando was there. “Where’s Rad?” That kid was never where Brian expected him to be.

  “Out back, dumping the bins.”

  “Alan’s here for the oil. How many drums we got?”

  “Just the one this time, but it’s about full. It’s already capped.” Nando nodded at the oil drum sitting at the head of the change bay. He set the push broom aside and slipped his canvas work gloves back on.

  “Alright. When Rad gets back here, get it on the dolly.”

  “Dolly’s tires got shredded this afternoon, when Collie rolled that Ford over it. He’s picking up new wheels at the NAPA in the morning.”

  “Shit. Can you two carry—” Brian stopped, because his mouth couldn’t close. Nando had just picked up a drum full of used oil. By himself. And now he was walking it out the bays to the truck on the station lot. His shoulders swelled like mountains, and his biceps bulged so much Brian expected him to rip through his uniform.

  Rad came around the building, carrying the empty trash bins. He dropped them both with a clatter and ran to Nando. “Whoa, whoa! Let me help!”

  “I got it, man.” At least he sounded like it was taking maximum effort.

  He carried that fucker to the truck and set it on the side lift. Alan stood gaping just like the rest of them.

  When he was done, he came back in, pulling his gloves off, rocking his head from side to side to stretch his neck. “What?” he asked when he saw everybody gaping. “I’m strong.”

  Brian laughed. “Jesus Christ, you’re a fuckin’ ox.”

  ~oOo~

  Brian came home that night to the joyful sound of his old lady singing along with Elton John, and the potent aroma of wallpaper paste.

  Just about every night there was some kind of work-in-progress smell to greet him. Mo was substituting in three different school districts this year, as she looked for a permanent position somewhere between Bixby and Tulsa, but every day she had free she devoted to remodeling this house—and to filling up a list of projects for him to do when he wasn’t at the station.

  But working on their own home could hardly be called work, despite the effort and energy they expended. This was their home. Their real home. Maybe their forever home. Every minute they put into it, every bead of sweat, every sore muscle or cut finger, was an act of love.

  That was doubly true for Mo. She’d always enjoyed decorating, and especially liked to do it on a shoestring. Now she was learning she had a knack for actual remodeling. She was turning this worn-out old ranch house into something that looked way out of their league.

  She was putting all her energy into the kitchen first. She’d painted the appliances and the cabinetry, she’d assigned him the weekend job of ripping up the old linoleum and laying new vinyl flooring, and now she was hanging wallpaper—a riot of yellow and white daisies, to go with the yellow swag lamp she’d had him hang over the table.

  The pattern was bright and busy, and not what he would have chosen, but she’d loved it the moment she’d put her eyes on it, so he loved it, too. Besides, he could see how cheerful and pretty this kitchen would be.

  He stopped at the place where the dining room met the kitchen and watched her work for a minute. She stood on a ladder, sweeping one of those bubble-getter-outer brushes over the strip she’d obviously just put up. She had her remodeling uniform on: an old pair of bell-bottom jeans, one of his rattiest sweatshirts, and a pink bandana over her hair. Her feet were bare—which surprised him, because this November was already pretty much winter, and Mo’s feet were always cold.

  God, she was so fucking sexy. His woman. All his. Beautiful. Brilliant. Driven. Strong as fuck.

  And his.

  When Mo and Elton’s ‘Bennie and the Jets’ duet faded out and the radio moved on to commercials, he said, “Hey, beautiful.”

  She turned and grinned at him. “Hello, love! You hungry?” She came down the ladder and set the brush on the counter, where she had all her materials arranged on old newspapers. “The kitchen’s not as dire as it looks. I could push some things aside and make you a bite. Meat loaf sandwich?”

  “The kitchen looks amazing, but I don’t want you to make me supper.” He went to her and pulled her into his arms. “I want you to be supper.”

  When he tucked his face against her neck and sucked, Mo laughed and coiled her arms around him. “The paste will set. It’ll be useless.”

  “You’ve got more, right?”

  “Well, sure.”

  “Good.” He lifted her up and carried her to their bedroom.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  1976

  On a bright midday in March, one of those warms days so close to spring you could almost believe winter had truly packed up and fucked off, Mo pulled onto the new gravel lot of the building that would be the Brazen Bulls MC clubhouse and opened the hatch of her new Ford LTD station wagon. With all the remodeling they’d been doing since they’d bought the house, and a business, and now a clubhouse, all the materials and supplies she’d had to transport, and her deep distaste for driving Brian’s obstinate pickup, she’d had to move on from the Bel Air—but it was under cover in the garage. She loved that old beast and couldn’t truly part with it.

  She set the carton on top of the cooler and lifted the stack. The strident music of power tools filled the air, from inside the clubhouse. Also the heavy, thumping beat of a sledgehammer hitting wall. They were still in the demo stage.

  “Wait, Mrs. D, wait!” Rad trotted up from the back of the new gravel lot. He was covered in grimy white dust, except ar
ound the bottom of his face. The chalky bandana around his neck no doubt accounted for that. “Let me get that for ya.”

  “Thanks, love. And you truly have to start calling me Mo.” She wasn’t that much older than he was, she wasn’t even thirty yet, and it made her feel ten years older every time Rad or Ox treated her like an old lady.

  Although she supposed she was an old lady, in a different way. Their ‘president’s’ old lady. Rad and Ox were ‘prospecting’ for the Brazen Bulls MC.

  In her years with Brian, Mo had attended enough bike shows and rallies to understand the main concepts of motorcycle clubs, and she wasn’t remotely surprised that Brian and Dane and the other he-men they consorted with would find fulfillment in such a thing. They were veterans, and they’d found a way to preserve the good of their military experience and carry it into a civilian life: The brotherhood. The belonging. And the uniform to make their bond clear to the eye. This uniform brought more respect than the one they’d worn before had done.

  She’d come to understand that her man would always be reliving that war. He fought its horrors in the night, when he dreamt, and he sought its honors in the day, in the way he lived. She had married more than a man who’d gone to war. She had also married a soldier. Brian and D. He’d found a way to live in one world as both men.

  Neither Rad nor Ox had served, but they rode, and Brian and the others had offered them chances to belong—primarily, Mo suspected, to exploit the opportunity for free labor. Rad and Ox, formerly known as Conrad and Fernando, were doing most of the heavy lifting of the renovation. Certainly all the dirty work—like knocking down walls.

  The building had been four apartments, and the ‘club’ was converting it to a unified space, with rooms for partying and holding meetings, a kitchen for preparing the food for parties and meetings, and whatever else the men had in mind. Mo figured by the time she stopped thinking of words like ‘club’ and ‘clubhouse,‘ ‘president’ and ‘prospect,’ with quotation marks, she would have fully understood the Brazen Bulls.

  Not that she begrudged this club. Quite the contrary—she loved it. Her biker soldier had built with her a wonderful life and given her her dearest friend—and he had found his place among friends as well. These men and their world settled him.

  And her as well. These men treated her like their queen, as if each time she visited the station or the clubhouse was a bright spot in their day—probably because she usually brought food, and they loved her cooking. Now that the house was mainly finished, they all had a standing invitation for supper, and often one or two, or all, of them would wander twenty miles south to share a meal with her and Brian.

  All these years, she’d been cooking for two—or, too often, for one—and now she had so many people to cook for that Lenny and Brian had built a table for the dining room that, with both leaves inserted, could seat sixteen. It was only March, but Mo was already planning to host her very first Thanksgiving this year—her family, and Brian’s family, and these Brazen Bulls who had no other place to go on a holiday about family.

  For now, it was enough to make up a Saturday lunch while they were hard at work.

  She relinquished her load to Rad and closed the hatch. “Make sure you wash up before you eat, yeah?”

  “We will.” He took a whiff. “Smells great!”

  “There’s a pot of chili and a pan of cornbread in the box, and chocolate cream pie, soda, and beer in the cooler.”

  Rad’s mouth dropped open. “Goddamn, Mrs.—Mo. You’re too good to us.” He leaned over around his burden and kissed her cheek.

  She smiled and patted his arm. “Not too good, love. Just the right amount.”

  ~oOo~

  “Ugh. I’m so tired of everything being red, white, and blue,” Joanna grumbled and pushed the Uncle Sam piñata away.

  “We’re looking for Fourth of July decorations, Jojo. In the year 1976. You expected pink and green?” Mo picked up the same piñata, checked to make sure it was in good condition, and set it in their cart. There was an eagle piñata as well; she put that in the cart. There could be a lot of children at this party—the Bulls were throwing open the clubhouse doors to the whole neighborhood, in what was both a bicentennial celebration and a housewarming of sorts. Maggie and Roger were bringing their children—and Paul and Jamie were tagging along with them. Faye and Lenny had their hands full at the motel.

  “It’s not just party favors, though. All year long, my vendors have been sending me red, white, and blue stock. Most of the advertising modules are red, white, and blue. It’s nearly impossible to put together a nice store-merchandising plan without bowing to fucking Uncle Sam.”

  “Don’t be such a Scrooge.” Mo picked up a package of paper plates with shimmery foil stars in red, white, and blue. “Look how pretty! We need a hundred at least—better make it two hundred, in fact. That’s ten packages.”

  Joanna helped her gather up the plates. “Scrooge is Christmas. I like Christmas just fine.”

  “Then what’s the Independence Day version of Scrooge? Benedict Arnold. Don’t be him. Ach, but you’re in a mood today.”

  Joanna gave her a sidelong look that was so full of subtext Mo nearly grunted with the weight.

  “Jojo? What’s wrong?”

  Her friend didn’t answer right away, and Mo dropped the last package of plates and set her hand on Joanna’s. “Talk to me, love. There’s something really wrong.”

  “Not here. Let’s get this done, and we can talk at lunch.” She put on a brightly fake smile. “C’mon. I’ll stop complaining about the decorations and really help, and then we can talk. You wanted to pick up bulletin-board trims and shit for your new classroom, too, right?”

  She did, but she was no longer in the mood to shop. “Are you sure? We can buy what we’ve got and go talk. I can come back another time for the classroom stuff.”

  “No—I need to think how to talk about it first.” She took the driver’s position on the cart and pushed it forward. “Let’s spend your money while I think.”

  ~oOo~

  The waiter promised to bring their drinks out right away, with a basket of bread, and left to put their order in.

  As soon as he was far enough away, Joanna took a sip of ice water. Then, with a deep breath, she jumped in. “Okay. There’s two things. One is bad. The other might be good, or it could be the worst.”

  “Start where you’d like, love.”

  “Dane’s cheating on me.”

  Mo had been sipping her own water. Now she coughed and put the glass down. “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s not—it’s not a new thing. And I don’t mean he’s having an affair. I mean he can’t give up poking sluts on the road.”

  On the road. She meant when the men went out riding. Especially since they’d become an MC, they often spent whole days on the road. Sometimes they stayed out overnight.

  There had been a time when Mo would have considered that abandonment, but she understood Brian better—what he needed, and why he needed it, and how he could be there for her while not being in the same space with her. And she had plenty to do to fill her time without him.

  But Brian had never said a single word, not even a suggestion, about Dane being unfaithful. What if it wasn’t only Dane? Would Brian …?

  He had cheated, once. The weekend he’d wrecked his chopper in Missouri, right before he’d given her the journal. During the days and weeks after they’d come back together, while they’d talked out the things between them, and wended their way to a better understanding of what they needed of each other and where they were headed into the future, he’d told her about the night he’d spent in a little town in Missouri and the woman who’d patched up his wounds and then tried to make him feel better—and he’d explained that he was too wasted to know what was happening.

  She’d been hurt, of course. Badly. But she’d forgiven him, and she believed it was an isolated incident, and not wholly in his control. He hadn’t gone looking for it, or, as
he told it, even wanted it. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. She believed that.

  She had believed, at least.

  Now, though, her veins chilled. “How do you know?”

  “The way a woman knows. Finding lipstick on his clothes, in a shade that’s not mine. Or a perfume I don’t wear. Or his buttons done wrong when he gets home. Plus, I call him on it, and he’s a shitty fucking liar. He always caves and gives up the truth. He’s fucked around on me half a dozen times I know of, before we got married and since.”

  “Jesus, Jo. And you married him? Why?”

  Joanna struck an expression that was offended, and desolate, and sincere, all at once. “I love him. Plain and simple. He’s always sorry, and I know I’m a schmuck for it, but I believe he honestly is. It’s like he can’t control himself.”

  “Well, isn’t that convenient.”

  “Don’t judge me, Mo. Please.”

  “It’s not you I’m judging, love.” The waiter came with their drinks and bread. When he left, Mo picked up a warm roll and asked, “Why tell me now?”

  Joanna sipped at her iced tea for a long time before she answered. “I’m pregnant.”

  The roll fell from Mo’s hands. For a moment, she couldn’t look up. “Oh.”

  She and Brian hadn’t yet tried again. She’d devoted all her energies to building this Tulsa life—renovating their house, finding her new job, helping get the business and the club going—and had managed to push her worries and hopes about being a mother into a closet in her head, like Christmas decorations in July. Something beautiful and joyful, but out of its time, so set aside for a later date.

  But why could everybody else have babies, whether they wanted to or not?