Logan
The bar is called The Devil, with a faded picture of a demon on the wooden banner, neon letters proclaiming T e D il to the Californian twilight. Metal music plays from inside and if I look down the street I can see the ocean, just about, a tiny blue pinprick nestled in between two buildings. I used to love the sea when I was a kid, when the Demon Riders were based on the land-side of LA and Mom’d bring me and her friends’ kids down here, and we’d splash around like we were children and not outlaws-in-waiting. It’s probably bad for me to reminisce about a time when I didn’t have any responsibility, when pretty soon I’m going to have all the responsibility, so I go inside.
I nod to the bouncer, a man I recognize from a bar on the other side of town, and who probably recognizes me as a bastard who gets shitfaced when he’s tired of dealing with his problems. I’ve got my leather folded up in my hand. I don’t want to be a Demon Rider right now, just a man in a T-shirt. I walk across the dance floor, where around fifty or so people mosh and rage to the band, a guy with dyed green hair trying to scream over the drummer. It sounds like shit, but it’s better than listening to my own thoughts. That’s one of the reasons I come to clubs like these. The music is bad but that can be a good thing, because bad music means I don’t have to live in my head.
I go to the bar and take a corner seat where I can see the TV and the stage. The TV is playing football, which I’ve never cared much about, so I idly watch the stage instead. I order a bottle of whisky and a glass and drink slowly and with determination. I’m getting drunk. That’s my mission.
I’m three drinks deep when some punk woman spots me across the bar. Women are always drawn to me, have been ever since I was a teenager. My nickname was Pretty Boy for a while in high school (which Mom made me finish because she said I wouldn’t be a grunter like the rest of the MC). Maybe it’s my longish sand-blond hair or my blue eyes, or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve never tried too hard with women. They seem to like that.
She’s okay-looking, with pink hair and dark-rimmed eyes, but she has that slightly desperate look about her that is turning me off more and more lately. I haven’t been with a club girl in months because of that look. It’s a look that says they’ll do anything for you, do any damn thing you please, but it will mean nothing to them. They’ll do it because they’ve always done it, because they don’t know how else to make a man like them. Maybe I’m getting too sensitive. Maybe a man who’s killed and beaten and robbed and fought shouldn’t care about shit like this. But I can’t help it. Even men like me have feelings. That’s the truth we can never admit.
I sip my drink as she comes over, walking unsteadily and nervously, looking at me shyly under her pink fringe. It’s a look meant to entice me in, and it would have once upon a time. It was right around the time Dad got really sick that I stopped being enticed by these women. I don’t know what that says about me. The screamer on stage finishes up, thanking the crowd, and the band starts to get ready for the next performer.
The woman leans against the bar directly next to me, waiting for me to initiate something. It would be so easy to get this woman into bed. It’d be the easiest, cheapest thing in the world. And then, the morning after, both of us’d feel dirty and pointless, two pieces of flesh slapping against each other. That’s it, I reckon; looking at her, I can’t distinguish her from any of the other dozen punky women I’ve fucked in my life. When I don’t say anything, she turns her head.
“Hey,” she says.
I sip my whisky.
“I said hey.”
“Hi.” I take another sip.
“So …” She trails off, waiting for me to fill the gap. I don’t.
“Are you having a good night?” she asks.
“It’s pretty good.”
“Isn’t this music just so lame?”
“It’s pretty lame,” I agree.
She spreads her arms as if saying, “I’m standing right here, ready to be fucked, and you won’t even talk to me?”
I see it in her eyes: the need to exert some kind of influence over me. It’s her identity. That’s the sick part, the fucked-up part I usually ignore. They get something out of it, too. They get plenty of pleasure. I always treat my women right. But after Dad, and all this talk of family, and everything … I don’t know what’s going on inside of me. I have to admit that. What I know for sure, though, is that I don’t want this woman.
“Um.” She hesitates. “Did you have a good day?”
I smile, a smile of derision I quickly kill unless she misinterprets it. It’s clear she’s never had to initiate things before.
I look past her at the stage as the next act walks on. I feel like the barstool drops out from underneath me. The whisky sits on my tongue before I remember to swallow. The chatter of the woman and the general chatter around us dies down to a whisper, and this woman’s footsteps become louder, the loudest sound of all. She’s hot, with her neck tattoo I can’t quite make out from here and a smudge on her hand I can only assume is a tattoo, her leather jacket and her black skinny jeans. But it’s not just that she’s hot. It’s the way she carries herself, confident but not aggressive, self-assured but not arrogant.
She leans into the microphone, and her voice is like heaven: raspy, mid-pitched, not girlish but not mannish. She sounds like a real goddamn lady. “My name is Cora Ash, and this is ‘Sayings of the Low One’.”
She turns to the band, nods, says something to the drummer—don’t be so loud, I’m guessing—and then launches into the song. She sings about how a person has to be strong but must also bridle their strength, how a person must remember that the end of the world is always around the corner, how a person must be brave and never show fear. I watch, captivated, feeling like something truly new is happening inside of me.
Then the punk woman pokes her head up. “Hello?” she snaps. “I said, did you like the band?”
The contrast of the woman on stage—Cora Ash—with this hungry-for-attention punk is so drastic, it’s difficult to believe that they’re the same species. She moves around the stage as she sings, but not madly or frantically, though her singing is metal through and through. She moves around the stage like a water snake, fluid movement after fluid movement, drawing my eyes to her legs and her arms and her ass when she turns just right. I’ve never been so enthralled by a woman in all my life; I never dreamed it was possible, even.
“Have I done something to offend you?” the punk asks, her voice full of outrage.
“What?” I say, barely aware of her. Cora Ash launches into the chorus, her rasp the buffer against the sweetness of her voice, the two combining into a firm, elongated note.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“I don’t know you, sweetheart,” I say. “And I’m enjoying the show.”
“You’re dribbling all over that skinny bitch? Look at her. She’s a freak. She moves around like a freak.”
She moves like something unearthly, I want to say. But I don’t. Outlaws and bikers don’t say things like that.
The song enters its second half, Cora Ash spinning around the stage, her jagged brown hair whipping around her, singing of people whose names I don’t recognize. They sound like old names, the kind I’d hear in history and forget by math. The crowd doesn’t seem as stunned as me, just moshing and headbanging when they should be standing in awe, dumbstruck.
“You’ve blown it with me,” the punk says. “I just want you to know that. You’ve really blown it!”
I don’t take my eyes off Cora as the song comes to an end. She moves to the edge of the stage with the grace of a ballerina and the ferocity of a tigress. I’ve never seen those two aspects brought together. She looks fierce and delicate at the same time, somebody I want to protect and run from. She bangs her head, screaming the last part of the song so that her rasping voice echoes around the room. When the song ends, she leaps back and punches the air, making a war-like whooping sound. It’s the same kind of sound I’ve heard from outlaws after some killing, but it isn’t manly at all.
She launches into another song and all I think is: I need to speak to this woman. If it kills me, I need to speak with her. I take a sip of whisky and then turn when I notice a pink blob moving up and down. It’s the punk. She’s still there, ranting.
I tune into her. “… what you’re missing. You really don’t. I’m a bad bitch and you want that—who even is she?”
“Look,” I say. “I don’t mean any offense, but I don’t want you, and I reckon you’ve had too much to drink, otherwise you wouldn’t be embarrassing yourself like this. Walk away, please.”
“Wow!” she barks. “You don’t have to be so rude! You’ve just proved how rude you are!”
I nod, offer a smile, and then turn back to Cora Ash as the punk retreats. I was planning on getting shitfaced and passing out, but I have different plans now. I watch Cora, and I order a glass of water, and then another. I’m not sure what’s going to happen tonight, but whatever it is I want to be sober for it.
Usually I have to force my mind away from Dad. He’s always there, right at the back of my mind, niggling. But right now, staring at Cora as she sings about a dragon called Fafnir, I don’t have to try. She steals my attention and holds it captive. She has me like nobody ever has.
Then she looks up, and I’m sure her eyes settle on me for a moment. Right across the room, everything freezing, just me and her staring at each other, me thinking about what it’d be like to see those eyes go wide with lust, to watch an orgasm ripple through that graceful, strong body.