I was in agony.
Confiding to the men in the MC about my crippling pain would be met with scrutiny. It always was. Their expectation of me always having the answers allowed them to chastise me to no end when I didn’t. This time, I didn’t have the answer. I didn’t know that there was one. Not a clear one, anyway.
Braxton and Hap were both smart-asses, but they’d become family. Their opinions differed greatly, but the advice they gave was heartfelt and solid.
I poured another glass nearly full. After handing Braxton the bottle, I took a healthy drink. “About ten years ago, we were headed to Oceanside, to an all-day biker rally. At the time, my hair was buzz-cut, like Hap’s. I knew once we got there, I’d have my helmet off all day, and I was afraid my scalp would get sunburned. So, I went to the mall to get a hat. The girl who helped me was cute. Really cute. Her skin was white, like she’d never been in the sun whatsoever. On her left wrist, she had one tattoo, a bright pink peony.”
I took another drink of the scotch, laughing to myself at my recollection of meeting her. She was energetic, quirky, and unpredictable. Keeping her focused on any one subject for longer than a few seconds was impossible. In fact, through the course of buying the hat, she changed the topic of our conversation no less than a dozen times.
While she spoke, she danced—because she couldn’t help it. Without provocation, she offered interesting tidbits about herself.
The crust of her sandwiches was eaten last and she preferred pimento spread over sliced cheeses. She feared lunchmeats and anyone who refused to make eye contact with her but didn’t fear death. Siracha was her condiment of choice, and she used it on everything from soup to nuts. She dreamed of one day being a race car driver and loved to walk along the beach, preferring to do so with someone who enjoyed it as much as she did.
We talked for twenty minutes straight, laughing as much as we spoke. I later found out the tattoo covered scars that were left from the self-inflicted wounds of her past. Sadly, there were other scars that were much deeper than the few covered by the tattoo.
“She’s the one that picked out the frowny-faced hat for me,” I said. “She said it was appropriate because it would always remind me of how she felt when she was alone. So, the entire time I was talking to her, all I could think is damn, it’s a shame she can’t go with me. I considered asking her out but felt that anyone as attractive and entertaining as she was had to be in a relationship. I decided to save myself the disappointment and bought the hat without asking her on a date. On my way out of the store, there was this blood-curdling scream from behind me. I turned around just in time to see her collapse on the floor—”
“Jesus,” Braxton said, interrupting me. “What was wrong with her?”
“A flare up from recurring stomach ulcers,” I said. “In agony, she groaned that out while her co-worker helped her to her feet. I ended up leaving for the rally while she was headed to the emergency room.”
“Damn,” he said. “Continue.”
“While I was in the parking lot putting the hat in the saddlebag, I couldn’t get her off my mind. How we didn’t even know each other, yet she made me laugh so hard my ribs hurt. Her quirky way of just blurting out whatever she was thinking. While I was wishing we would have exchanged phone numbers, this Honda Civic came speeding through the parking lot, right at me. It left four black marks across the asphalt and screeched to a sideways stop, missing me by a matter of inches. I jumped to the side and glared at the idiot driving.” I took a quick sip of scotch. “Guess what?”
Braxton grinned. “It was her?”
“It sure was,” I said with a light laugh. “She jumped out of the car, laughing so hard I thought she was crying. She didn’t have stomach ulcers. She couldn’t imagine staying at work while I was going to the rally, and a trip to the hospital was the only thing that she could think of to get off work without losing her job. She all but begged me to take her to the rally.”
“Did you take her?”
I grinned. “I did.”
He poured another glass of whisky. “Continue.”
“We had a great time,” I said. “Everyone liked her. We left the rally at about midnight and stayed out until the sun came up. Spent most of the night walking along on the beach by La Jolla, talking.”
“Sounds like a real firecracker,” Braxton said. “Where is she now?”
“She uhhm.” I downed what was left of my scotch, wincing as the whisky burned my throat. I lowered the glass and drew a deep breath before continuing. “She killed herself when she got home.”
Braxton swallowed heavily and handed me the bottle.
“Jesus, Kid,” Hap said from behind me. “I’m sorry.”
I poured another glass of whiskey and nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”
217
Reggie
It was just before midnight on Sunday. Armed with a container of nail polish remover, two bottles of wine, a barbeque igniter, a bag of Doritos, and a boatload of desire to settle a score, Mel and I were in my backyard.
Illuminated by the two motion sensing lights that were mounted over my back door, we prepared fill the night sky with smoky proof of my hatred for Jared, his choices of attire, and his preferences in household furnishings.
Mel took a drink of wine from the bottle while assessing the situation. “I think we need to cut the cushions first. That’s what they do in the movies.”
I looked at her with uncertain eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“In the movies,” she explained. “They always pull out a pocket knife and cut the seat cushions of the car they’re burning before they light it on fire. I think we need to expose the poofy stuff inside the cushions.” She took another drink. “Maybe it burns better.”
Even though I was drunk, it made perfect sense. I doubted the pleather would burst into flames as freely as the inner fabric. In fact, the more I thought about it, I doubted the green vinyl would burn no matter how much nail polish remover I poured on it.
Mel was right. Cutting the cushions was the way to go, no doubt.
It didn’t surprise me that I hadn’t covered all the bases in planning the couch-burning exercise. I was still mentally recovering from Tito’s untimely departure less than twenty-four hours prior. The night went into my mental diary as being my first—and I hoped last—sexual denial.
“I think you’re right,” I said, reaching for the bottle of wine. “I see one problem, though. A big one.”
She took another drink and then handed me the bottle. “What?”
“We don’t have a pocket knife.”
Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Fuuuuck.”
I took a few drinks of wine while staring at the faux leather cushions. Copping a squat on the contemporary piece of green shit while wearing shorts was like sitting on a three-foot by three-foot piece of upside-down duct tape. I couldn’t begin to count the amount of times I had to peel my legs from the surface of the cushions.
All to please the man who rewarded me by fucking a familiar stripper in the front seat of his car.
“Can I have the bottle back,” Mel asked. “I need another drink.”
I handed her the bottle. Before she raised it to her lips, the yard went pitch-black.
I waved my arms like I was trying to get the attention of Adam Levine from the back row of a Maroon 5 concert. After a few seconds of frantic thrashing on my part, the lights clicked on, illuminating the stockpile of items we were determined to reduce to ashes.
My gaze fell to my bare feet.
While staring at the filthy gunboats, I rubbed my temples with the tips of my fingers. After a moment, it came to me.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “Problem solved.”
Seemingly unaffected by my proclamation, Mel looked at me like she was lost. “Huh?”
“Steak knife,” I blurted.
“Oh.” She took a casual drink of wine. “Damn. Never thought of that.”
“Be righ
t back,” I said.
I ran into the house and returned in an instant with two steak knives. I handed one to Mel. “I know you hated this thing just as much as I did.”
With the bottle of wine in one hand and the knife in the other, she leaned over the couch. “Fuck yes, I did.”
Ripping and tearing at the hideous fabric like the continuation of our lives depended solely on reducing the lime-green piece of shit to a pile of rubble, we carved the back of the three-thousand-dollar couch to nothing more than a wooden frame. Thoroughly satisfied at our deconstruction skills, we then sliced the cushions into unrecognizable mounds of green and white fluff.
Gasping to catch my breath, I took a step back and admired our handiwork.
“Holy…shit,” I said, huffing to catch my breath. “That was fun.”
“Hand me that shirt,” Mel said, gesturing to the few articles of clothing that lay in a pile beside the lamp. “The pink Polo. I hated him even more every time he wore it. Asshole reminded me of Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles.”
I tossed her the shirt.
She sawed the edge of the knife against the fabric. In a few seconds, the shirt fell to the ground. In her hand, only the collar remained. “He won’t be able to pop this collar again.”
I laughed at the sight. “Nope.”
I picked up the pair of Gucci loafers. I’d bought them for his birthday with money I’d made from working overtime for two months. “These furry little fuckers made me mad every time I saw them. He had to have these fuckers. Had to fucking have them. What kind of a man wears fur-lined shoes, anyway?”
She took a swig of wine. “I bet that biker doesn’t.”
I was pretty sure Tito didn’t have any fur-lined loafers. I was also pretty sure I’d never been kissed the way he kissed me. At least I’d never had a kiss make me weak in the knees the way his did.
I tossed the shoes aside. “Let’s not talk about him.”
“Still mad?”
“Yeah. He’s…” I let out a sigh of frustration. “I don’t know. Different.”
“Different good, or different bad?”
“The good kind of different. He was intelligent. Actually, very intelligent.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“Because, he knew things a normal biker—a normal person—doesn’t know. I think I could actually enjoy hanging out with him.”
She scrunched her nose at the remark. “Like buddies?”
“No. I don’t know,” I stammered. “He’s just. He’s kind of cool.”
She took another drink. “Sucks that you guys didn’t bone, though.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a plan to fix that.”
“What are you going to do?”
I’d put considerable thought into the matter and decided neither alcohol nor motorcycles could play a part in our next evening together. I was going to be sober, safe, and sexually available.
I picked up the bottle of nail polish remover and the barbeque striker. “I think I’m going to invite him over for dinner.” I doused the destroyed couch cushions in nail polish remover and tossed the bottle onto the top of the rubble. “That way I don’t have to ride on that two-wheeled death trap again.”
I lit the striker. With slight reluctance, I leaned toward the couch. Halfway there with the tip of the flame, everything went black.
“Fucking lights,” I complained, leaning closer to the couch.
It burst into flames with a dull roar, illuminating the entire back of the yard.
“Jesus!” Mel shouted. “That’s not what I expected.”
I was equally shocked. Three-foot-high flames flickered above the surface of the couch. “Kinda burst into flames, huh?”
“Don’t even need those stupid lights now,” she said.
I reached for the loafers and threw them on top of the burning couch. “Nope.”
Mel tossed the Polo shirt remnants into the fire. “What about the lamp?”
“Let’s wait until it’s going really good, and we’ll toss it on there,” I said. “It’s metal and glass, so it’s not going to do much until that fire’s really going good.”
“Sweet fire, though,” Mel noted.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”
I didn’t make threats I didn’t intent on keeping. I meant what I said when I asked Jared to remove whatever he wanted to keep from my home. Nonetheless, seeing his remaining belongings burning beneath the midnight sky was troubling.
I didn’t regret forcing him to leave. Regardless of who I was in a relationship with, sex with a stripper who doubled as a friend was a hard limit. Sad that he wasn’t the man I expected him to be, I stared at the flames with a bitter taste in my mouth.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asked.
“Just sad.”
“About what? The biker?”
“No.” I picked up a pair of wool slacks and tossed them into the flames. “About this. Just that he wasn’t who I thought he was.”
“Jesus, Reg,” Mel complained. “Please tell me that—”
“Oh, I don’t regret it,” I said. “It’s not that. I’m just pissed that I wasted four years of my life with him. I mean, shit. I’m thirty-two. I guess I’m glad he did it now, compared to ten years down the road, or something like that.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
“It’s the only way I can look at it.”
She took a drink of the wine, slopping it down the front of her shirt in the process. She looked at the bottle like something was wrong with it and then wiped her mouth with her forearm. “I can’t believe he fucked a nasty-ass stripper.”
“Me, neither.”
“I’m glad he did, though.”
“Why?”
“Because. Now, he’s gone. For good.” Still clutching the steak knife in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other, she began to dance a drunken version of the Mashed Potato, singing her version of Jared’s farewell song.
“Jared fucked a stripper and now he’s gone. Jared fucked a stripper and now he’s gone,” she sang, twisting her feet and wagging her knees in the process.
Drunk, and without a real reason not to, I joined in the fun. “Jared fucked a stripper and now he’s—”
“Suspect’s got a knife!” A deep voice shouted from the distant darkness. “Drop the fucking knife, lady!”
After nearly pissing myself, I stopped in my tracks. I peered beyond the flames, toward the voice.
“SDPD,” the shadowy figure shouted. “Lady. Drop. The. Fucking. Knife.”
I glanced at Mel. Frozen in place, she was standing beside the burning couch with a bottle of wine in one hand and a steak knife in the other.
“Drop the fucking knife, Mel!” I shouted.
She dropped the wine and the knife at the same time.
“Ohmygodwhatsgoingon?” she blurted.
“You! On the other side! Show me your hands!” the officer bellowed.
I raised my hands and cleared my throat. “My name’s Regina Gottschalk,” I shouted. “I’m the daughter of Ted Gottschalk.”
“I don’t give a fuck who you are,” he said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Your Tank’s daughter?” a voice asked from the other side of the house. “Tank Gottschalk?”
“That’s me,” I said into the darkness.
“Lower your weapon,” cop number two said to cop number one.
The flames provided a reasonable amount of light where we were standing but did little to illuminate the home or the approaching officers, who were now fifty feet away by my guess.
“Wave your arms!” I said to the two police men. “The porch lights will come on.”
Two seconds later, the lights came on, blasting the yard with light. I watched in drunken embarrassment as two uniformed police officers hesitantly walked in our direction, one from each side of the house.
The first officer looked at the burning sofa, and then at each of us. “What the fuck’s going on
here?”
“Burning some stuff,” I said. “Stuff we…I’m sorry…stuff ‘I’ don’t need.”
“Just decided to burn a few things on a Sunday night?” he asked.
Now that their guns were in their holsters, my level of courage had returned to normal. I nodded. “That’s right.”
“It’s not evidence, is it?”
“Sure,” I said. “Evidence that my ex has zero taste in clothes and furniture.”
“The Airborne Toxic Control Measure prohibits burning of household items, ma’am,” officer number two declared. “For future reference.”
“I’ll make note of that,” I said.
Officer number one stepped between us and the burning sofa. He looked at Mel—who still had her hands sky-high—and then at me. “Do either of you have any ID?”
I was barefoot, covered in soot, and wearing cut-off sweats and a wife beater. My hair was in a messy bun, and I hadn’t showered since just before going on the date with Tito. I looked like I lived under a bridge.
“Not on my person,” I said. “It’s in the house, somewhere. I’m sorry about the airborne toxic thing, but is this really necessary?”
“What’s Tank’s favorite kind of wine?” officer number two asked.
“He doesn’t drink wine,” I said. “At all. Ever.”
Convinced that I was who I said I was, he nodded toward the flaming sofa. “Do you have a way to put out this fire?”
The flames were higher than the roof of my house. Extinguishing it without a fire truck, hose, and ten eager firemen would be impossible.
“I suppose I can come up with something,” I said, lying through my teeth.
“Get it put out and go to bed.” He glanced at cop number one and tilted his head toward the house. “C’mon Bradley.”
Bradley shot him a glare of opposition. “You’re not going to check their ID’s?”
“You want to piss off Tank?” cop number two asked. “Go right ahead. Harass his daughter. You’ll be writing parking tickets next week.”
“I don’t know who Tank is.”
“Believe me,” cop number one said. “You don’t want to.” He glanced at each of us. “Have a nice night, ladies. Be sure and extinguish this fire.”
Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set Page 114