“Ucross?” Breaker growls. “Fuck, that’s one of these points!” he says, gesturing down to the map with the drop-off points marked, and he looks over at me with a curt nod. “Gather the men. We’re riding. Now.”
I nod, and I head past the scout upstairs, heart pounding. I need to find Juliette, but if the fighting is happening this close to our territory, then she could well be involved. Either way, the enforcer has to be present--it would be criminal for someone of my position not to be with them.
I send a text to Tank to go after Juliette and message me at the first word. After that, I muster the men, and within half an hour, every engine that could be spared for the Heartbreakers is rumbling outside the clubhouse.
“Listen up!” Breaker barks from his own motorcycle, riding slowly up and down the lineup of gleaming black motorcycles and Heartbreaker colors on our kuttes. “We’ve got a report from the border of our territory! Buzzsaws shot at our scouts, they shot back, and they chased them east until the Buzzsaws brought in reinforcements--and we’re gonna go show them what happens when they try to slide up into Heartbreaker country!”
A baritone cheer goes up in our army, and I give the signal to fall into formation as I ride ahead of the rest along with the other four officers.
We’re going to war.
Juliette
I feel so raw and exposed, like all the combined years of anxious nightmares about being naked and vulnerable in public have conglomerated into one big living terror. It’s strange, coming back to this town yet again. It feels like I’m always fighting to escape it and no matter what method of transportation or what kind or company I keep, this place always manages to dig in its claws and drag me right back. There are all these different little colloquialisms and sayings about this town, about how hard it is to go and stay gone. About how there’s some kind of silent curse that wraps around and holds you even when you think you’re free. No matter how you leave, by plane or car or foot-to-gravel, this town is sticky. You might think you’ve shaken it loose, you’re all clean. Home free and free from a place that begs you to call it home. But it doesn’t matter how sweet that so-called freedom tastes. Everyone comes back. For familial obligations, for nostalgia, for familiarity. And sometimes, maybe even most of the time, because the big whirling world beyond the city limits isn’t made for people like us.
It almost makes me laugh to think about how naive I was when I first left Wyoming and moved off to the big city. I was barely more than a child, though of course I didn’t see a child when I looked in the mirror. I saw a young woman who had already endured enough suffering to push my psychological age a little higher. A little older. I was coming out the other side of a dark tunnel, of that I was convinced. I had stars in my eyes and the winds of change lifting me off the ground and blowing me across state lines. But the winds of fortune didn’t blow my way. I doubt they ever will. Girls like me, we have to make our own fortune. We have to brew up our own good luck. Sometimes that means we have to grind against the grain, double back on the path we have wandered so hopelessly far along. But no matter how much time has passed and how lost I got in the meantime, I can always find my way back home. It’s in me, preprogrammed into my internal compass.
Wyoming is my due north and always has been, but these days, the compass is spinning wild. It doesn’t take a map to follow the reasons why.
I feel like my heart is being tugged in multiple directions, like the center of my universe is yo-yo’ing back and forth across state lines and across the sprawling plains of Wyoming. On the one side, there is the one person I have always run to, not even for my own comfort, just because I knew nowhere else to run. My mother. The one who raised me, who did her very best even if sometimes it probably wasn’t quite enough.
The world certainly didn’t do much to make her already-difficult job any easier. I may not be a mother myself, but I have no illusions about the complexity and weight of motherhood. Especially when money is tight and bad news seems to follow you everywhere you go. Each corner we turned, there was something new to confront. Bills to pay, services being turned off. The power going out in the middle of the night, plunging the halls of my childhood home into pure darkness and silence. I remember being terrified one of those nights in particular. I woke up in the middle of a fitful nightmare, tangled up in the sheets and sweating, only to find the house utterly still. I remember reaching for the bedside lamp and tugging vainly on the cord to turn it on. There was nothing I could do to bring back the light, no matter how many times I pulled the cord. The lightbulb didn’t respond.
Nobody was coming to fix the problem. There was no tall, dark hero on his way to bring back the light. The darkness hung around my bed like a canopy of despair. I remember so distinctly the moment of clarity that hit me, when I realized that no matter how “good” I was, how well I behaved, how much I sacrificed to make things better or easier for my family, I couldn’t fix it all. Not by myself. I had no money, no means, and no authority. That feeling of having absolutely no control over my surroundings has stayed with me even throughout the years. I suppose you could call it a compulsion. I keep trying to put things back together, but damn, they just fall apart so quickly. All I want is for all the pieces to fit like they should. Not perfect but still holding. A mosaic in every color. A hue for every pain and joy and fear and relief. Shapes to represent every looming figure in my universe.
My mother would certainly be the largest figure in the stained glass image. That’s why I had to do it. I had to betray the man who would call me wife. He asked me to trust him, and there’s a huge part of me that wants to, that already does. But I can’t just shrug off my responsibilities so easily, just because he looks better-equipped the carry the weight. That scenario isn’t fair to anybody involved, and besides, I know better than to let myself rely on anyone but me. Maybe that makes me paranoid or whatever. Oh well. I have to do this.
I have to be cautious about it, though. I know what’s at stake here. So I don’t pull right up to my mother’s house. I park a couple blocks down the street and sit there for a few moments with the engine still and my breaths coming deep and slow. I look around the painfully familiar neighborhood, scanning for signs of trouble. An overly nosy neighbor. A shifty-looking pedestrian. Kids on their bikes. But all is quiet. I can hear nothing beyond my own breaths and the faint wistful wind outside. I close my eyes for a second. I don’t even have to look to know where to go. After all, these are my old stomping grounds. I remember the lay of the land. I can keep to the bushes and the overgrown hedges as I make my way down the street. If I do it right, I can get to my house without anyone noticing me. That would be ideal. I’m already going to be in a heap of trouble with Big Daddy, but I don’t want to make it worse.
I quietly open the car door and slip out onto the street. My feet don’t make a single sound as I pad up into the grass line of the nearest yard. I’m grateful for the lack of traffic and activity on the streets of my neighborhood. It dawns on me that I’m not entirely sure what day it is. Maybe everyone is at work. Maybe everyone is sleeping in. Who knows? Either way I just don’t want to be noticed. I try to keep my head down and be as unobtrusive as possible. I have to get to my mother’s house without being detected. For all I know, Big Daddy could have eyes and ears out everywhere, trying to hunt me down already. My heart does a sad little split. It hurts to even think about him. My husband. My savior and captor at the same time. I should fear him, but the pull and ache of my soul tells me there’s more than fear making me feel sick to my stomach. I feel guilty. I feel like I’ve turned my back on someone important.
It’s hard to sort out what I am supposed to be feeling right now. My emotions are a hailstorm of chaos. And I doubt it will get any less chaotic once I get to my childhood home. But I have a duty to accomplish, damn the consequences. I move up closer and closer, feeling my heart race ever faster as my childhood home looms before me. Something about it sends a shiver down my spine. I wonder instinctively if it has something t
o do with whoever may be inside-- apart from my mother, anyway. After all, if Daddy is to be believed, then there’s someone appointed here to look over her. The one named Tank, if I recall correctly.
Whoever it is, I’m going to plow right through him. Even if he is a tank.
I slither along the side of my house. I know all the different ways, both intended and improvised, to get into this house, and it does not necessarily involve a door. I shimmy through the bushes under the window and reach out to open the back gate. It looks for all the world like it’s securely locked. I’m sure the guy stationed here thinks so. But he doesn’t know the secrets this house holds. I smile to myself as I jostle the lock just ever so particularly in that way it needs to fall open. That gives me a little rush of confidence. I’m on my own turf. As harrowing as it can be to defy Big Daddy, it does feel oddly invigorating to be back in my old stomping grounds. I slink into the backyard, keeping close to the wall as I work my way up the back patio staircase. After a childhood of walking on eggshells, I know how to keep my head down. I know how to shape my every step for minimum sound and impact. If I don’t want to be detected, I fly under the radar. It’s a skill I think every kid who grows up under some degree of fear has to cultivate in order to survive. We know how to avoid trouble… although some of us seem destined for trouble despite our best efforts.
I thought I could outrun my trouble. Put miles and years between it and me.
Valiant effort on my part, but foolish. Overly optimistic. I move slowly down along the wall, my feet padding silently across the wood planks. The sliding glass door is my new obstacle. The thick white blinds are drawn, but narrowed. Leaving thick wedges of exposed glass, a potentially clear view straight through to me, if anyone happens to be sitting in the den. That’s just a risk I have to take. I take a deep breath and dart to the door, crouching down and swiping the toe of my shoe under the scuffed-up, frayed side of the rug at the doorway, sweeping a rusty old hair pin out, stuck to some sappy pine needles. I don’t even take a beat to look up and see if anyone is watching me. It’s now or never. The adrenaline is pumping through my veins and I take my chance. I swipe the key from the ground and jam it into the door lock. I give it a frenzied twist and the old, crusty lock snaps perfectly open. I don’t pause to question what I’m doing. There isn’t time for that. I have to think on my feet. If someone happens to be in there watching my every move, waiting for me to step through the doorway and right into their grasp… then I will cross that bridge when I reach it. With my heart racing, I finagle the lock open and I pull hard on the latch. Moment of truth. The door makes a low whooshing noise as I yank it open.
Without another second of hesitation, I slip inside and close the door shut behind me, my eyes wide and gazing out through the dimly-lit den. The blinds are drawn enough to keep the room in relative darkness, even though it’s daytime. I wonder if that has something to do with the guy stationed here. Maybe he likes to maintain a base level of unease by keeping the lights low. Or maybe it’s a tactical choice, to protect my mother by giving troublemakers the impression that nobody is home. To put them off the scent. Who knows? Either way, I’m just relieved to not see anyone right away. I listen, standing stock still in the den. I close my eyes and strain to pick up any noise in the house. At first, I don’t hear anything. And then a familiar voice echoes softly through the house and I go rigid. Until it dawns on me who the voice belongs.
Alex Trebek. My mother is watching Jeopardy. I can’t help but smile. Of course, she is.
My heart lurches with affection and longing for my mother. It’s probably the tiny childhood version of myself still kicking around in the back of my mind. On top of that, there’s my duty to protect. My instinct to keep the few souls I care about safe from harm. I need to see her with my own eyes. Only then will I be able to relax. I have to know Big Daddy keeps his word. So I creep through the den and make my way up the stairs, listening to the volume of my mother’s television rise louder and louder as I approach. I pause at the mouth of the stairs, peering down the darkened hallway. I let my eyes adjust to the dimness and once I’m certain there’s nobody lurking down the hall, I start making my way down to the door I know belongs to Mom’s room. To my surprise, the door isn’t locked. In fact, it’s not even fully shut. I can see a tiny shaft of glowy television light through the doorway. My heart races even faster. Could it really be this easy? It seems impossible, or at least unlikely. Nothing about my life has been simple lately, so finding my mom unguarded and accessible without having to put up a fight or outfox some big burly guy… it feels like a trick.
But I swallow back that swell of paranoia. I dart across the hallway, inching closer to the bedroom door as my heart thuds painfully in my ribcage. I don’t quite know what to expect inside the room. That is, until I hear my mother mutter under her breath.
“Oh, that was an easy one. How’d nobody get that?”
I can barely hold back a laugh as I knock gently at the partly-opened door. My mom startles out loud. I can just picture her clasping a hand to her chest, eyes wide and hair wild at all angles. Suddenly, I want to hug her with the deepest pull of my heart. But I have to proceed with caution. The last thing I need is to give my mom a panic attack.
“Who’s there? Tank? That you?” she calls out.
“Wrong answer,” I reply, stepping into the doorway.
My heart swells when the look on her face transforms from concern to pure elation.
“Oh, my sweet girl!” she says happily. “It’s good to see your face. Come in!”
I hurry to her bedside and perch on the mattress, beaming. She looks surprisingly healthy and well-rested, the perpetual circles under her eyes slightly less shadowy than usual. The laugh lines on her face stand out more than the frown lines, maybe. In this light. For just a moment.
“How are you doing? Are you alright?” I ask her with genuine concern.
She smiles softly. “Yes, honey. I’m fine. Quite well, actually.”
“Really?” I press. I can’t help but be suspicious.
“Oh yes. My caretaker has been doing a wonderful job of keeping me, you know, alive,” she laughs. “He may look like a big, burly tough guy, but I swear he’s a real softie.”
Can she really be talking about Tank? I guess he has a different side to him than I’ve seen. I reach across the bed and put my hands over hers, looking into her eyes for any sign of deception. I want to know if she’s telling the truth or just cushioning the reality of her situation to make me feel less worried. After all, she is my mom. She wants me to be happy. She doesn’t want to weigh me down with the burden of her safety and wellbeing, although I have willingly shouldered that exact weight ever since I moved back home. It’s hard to let go of that heavy responsibility, hard to let someone else, some guy I don’t really even know, take care of arguably the most important person in my life: Mom. But I can see in her eyes that she’s genuinely okay. In fact, the only thing wrong is that she appears to be more concerned about me.
She sighs, peering into my face. “Sweet girl, I cannot even pretend to know what all is going on in your world right now. You have to forgive me if my memory is a little sparse. Sometimes it’s a little confusing…”
I nod, quick to assure her. “It’s okay. You don’t have to understand. I don’t think I could properly explain what’s been going on even if I wanted to,” I admit.
“Are you safe?” she asks.
I swallow hard and force a smile. “Yes. I’m safe.”
“Well, then, that’s the best a mother can hope for, right?” she says cheerily. Then her face falls a little. “Of course, I wish I could say the same about my other child.”
My heart stumbles over a beat. Diesel.
“Have you heard from him at all?” I ask her, trying to keep my tone casual. I don’t want to tip her off that there’s a massive war at hand.
“No. You know how he likes his freedom and his privacy. The more I reach for him, the farther he pulls away,” she lamen
ts, shaking her head. “That unexpected visit he paid us a while back was the first time I’ve seen him in months. You know the kind of gang he runs around town with. Not very nice boys.”
“That’s an understatement,” I grumble.
“It’s just… those motorcycles. I swear they addle your brain or something. I wish I knew how to bring him back,” Mom murmurs. “I try not to overthink it and get all worked up, but I have to admit I worry about him. I just know he’s fallen into some bad stuff. It’s embarrassing to say, but I’ve stopped looking for bikers in the news. I just… I don’t want to know.”
I nod slowly. “I can understand that.”
She pats my hand with her own trembling one. “You always do, darling. I can count on my sweet girl. I just wish I knew how to get your brother’s mail to him. I have a forwarding address, but that caretaker keeps telling me not to get involved. Very frustrating.”
My heart pounds. “You have a forwarding address for Diesel?” I mumble.
She cocks her head to one side. “Diesel?”
“Don’t worry about it. Uh, could you write down that address for me?” I ask innocently.
“Yes, of course,” she says, picking up her ever-present little notepad filled with checklists and reminders. She scribbles down the address, rips out the little page, and hands it to me.
I hop up, tucking the paper into my back pocket. Mom looks startled. A little disappointed, too. I can tell she was hoping for a longer visit with me. It breaks my heart to leave her, but I know the risks. I’m on the lam. I don’t have time to waste.
“You going out again?” Mom asks wearily.
“Yes. But don’t you worry about me, okay? Relax. Focus on yourself,” I urge her.
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