Fifteen Years Ago

I crane my neck and look up into the big man’s eyes. My dusty fists are raised, and my legs are shoulder width apart, knees bent. My eyes squint on their own, fighting to block out the blinding Nevada sun. I need to be ready.

This brawl wasn’t part of my plan. A face-off with the President of the Satan Saints Motorcycle Club was not my intention. I only know he’s Pres because of the patch sewn into the breast of his leather vest. And I know which club he belongs to because I’ve seen them all roll into town enough times before.

Shit. This beast of a man is sure to leave me bruised and maybe even unconscious for days, but I have no choice.

I have to fight.

My fate was sealed five minutes ago. I was sitting cross-legged on the dingy sidewalk, my back pressed against a concrete wall of a convenience store that hadn’t opened yet. One of his men accidentally kicked and crushed the thing I hold most dear to me in this world. It’s a tiny, outdated laptop, protected only by a thin canvas bag I keep slung over my shoulder. My laptop is slow as fuck, but it’s mine. My everything. It’s my only treasure, a means to escape from living on the streets, a distraction in between fighting for scraps just to survive another day.

Now it’s trashed. And the inconsiderate fuck who kicked it doesn’t even have the decency to apologize for what he did. Which is why I got to my feet and decided to take a stand, my shouting slurs and facing off with his Pres. This goon needs to take notice. I understand the game, and although I’m taking a huge risk, I’m ready to play.

Fear and anger well up in me, but I push them down and wait for the douchebag’s Pres to make his move. Two things I’ve learned from years in foster care and several more on the streets are to have a level head when I start a fight and to assess my opponent before doling out the first strike. In this case, I might need more time than usual. The man’s huge, for starters. Strong as a fucking ox. He stands there, feet planted on the hot asphalt a few feet from his bike, anchored like a fucking tree that won’t budge. And me? I’m a scrawny, wiry, malnourished, homeless teen. Anywhere I hit him is gonna hurt me more when he responds in kind.

But the time for me to back away and run is long gone. His biker goons surround me on all sides, waiting for their big boss to make a public example of me.

I take a breath and make my move, charging toward him with everything I have. If I can just get him to the ground, I’ll have a chance. At a minimum, my point will be made.

My point?

Just because I’m literally a piece of human trash living on the streets with no one in my corner, doesn’t give his men any right to treat me or my shit that way. Not without a consequence. Even if I’ll likely feel those consequences way more than the big man ever will.

But I find out real fast that I must be deluded about my slim chances. Somehow, he loops an arm under my elbow and spins me around, disabling me with brute strength when he locks my hand behind my body. I can’t move unless I hurt my arm or dislocate my shoulder to break free.

He turns me just enough so I can see his face, and his broad, heavy hand lands on my shoulder.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid?” he asks in a big rumbling voice.

I should be afraid for my life, but I’m not. “Taking a stand.”

“Why?”

“That asshole over there who works for you just broke my shit,” I shout.

“It was an accident.”

I jerk my body to one side and try to pull from his hold. “Then make him apologize. Make him fork out the cash so I can fix it.”

“Stop fidgeting around, or you’ll break your own arm.”

“Let me go, and that won’t happen.” I insist.

He gives me a rough shake to quiet my movements, quickly showing me I’m not much more than a rag doll in his grasp, a weak puppet compared to the power he has over me right now. “What do I have to do with my guy breaking your shit?”

“You’re his boss, Pres,” I say, eyeing the patch on his leather cut. “He has to do what you tell him.”

“And how exactly do you know that?”

“I know your kind,” I grumble. “You’re the head of the snake and all that crap. The only chance I have of getting justice is through you.”

The sides of his eyes crease and his lips crack, exposing the slightest smile. But he’s not smiling with me. I’m entertainment for this big old bastard. “You call swinging those weak little arms of yours getting justice?”

“It beats letting that asshole get away with it.”

In my periphery, I notice the prick who damaged my laptop taking a step forward, but the President stops him with a glance and a shake of his head.

“I don’t have time for this, but let me get this straight,” the Pres says. “My guy breaks your piece of shit toy, and you want to throw a fit with me? The man holding the power?”

I shrink to make myself small and manage to shrug out of his grasp. But I don’t back away. Instead, I lift my laptop out of my bag. Two letter keys from the keyboard fall to the ground as I open the lid, and I swear under my breath. The screen is cracked, but it lights up when I press the power button to take the processor out of snooze mode.

“This ain’t no toy,” I tell the Pres.

“Looks like it to me.”

“Yeah? Give me half an hour with a network connection or a phone line. I’ll know everything there is to know about you from only your motorcycle plate number.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“You want to take that chance? The Meadows Library on West Boston is opening in fifteen minutes. I’ll show you what I can do with this toy right here. If your clumsy goon didn’t already break it beyond repair.”

“How exactly do you get that kind of information?” he probes.

“What do I look like? DeVry College? I’m not giving away trade secrets.”

“I get it. You’re a hacker. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“Waiting for a library to open.”

“No, I mean why are you out here, living on the streets like this? Like an animal? Where are your parents?”

“I don’t got none,” I say, eyes dropping to the ground. “My mother’s dead. Never knew my old man.”

“You don’t have to be out here. There are places—”

“If you’re talking about group homes, youth shelters or foster care, then trust me, I’m much safer out here.” I don’t know why, but something in his eyes tells me I can trust him. But not just that, he has this look that makes me want to tell him everything I’ve been through. That’s never happened before. Before I realize what I’m doing, I stretch the neckline of my t-shirt and show him the cigarette burn tracks made by my last foster dad. “Unless you call taking shit like this safe.”

“Whoever did that to you ain’t a man. He’s a fucking coward.” He folds his arms for a moment as he studies me. “You know what, kid? I’ll give you a chance to show me those skills of yours. I’ve got some business to take care of in that hotel across the street. Show me what you find out about me by the time I get back, and maybe I’ll let you work for me. I might even get you a new toy.”

“Why should I trust you?” I mutter as he turns to leave.

He pivots around. “You shouldn’t. Trust is earned, kid. Plus, you just said that you know my kind,” he answers, giving me back the spiel I just gave him. He reaches his hand into his leather cut and pulls out a wad of cash. All hundred-dollar bills. I can almost smell the vaguely familiar scent of newly minted bills as he slips off the money clip and pulls four bills from the stack. He holds out the four hundred dollars—more money than I’ve had in ages.

“Keep your damn money. My ass is not for sale.”

“I’m not buying you. I’m not a sick fuck.”

“What’s it for, then?”

“Go fix your toy. Or buy a new one.”

“There’s no such thing as free money.”

“It’s not. This is the justice you asked for.”

I don’t know if this man is for real, but I can use that cash he’s offering. I grab it from his hand and shove it into my bag, scooping up the fallen letter buttons of my busted keyboard from the ground. “Okay. If you insist.”

“See you in an hour. I want to know what you can do with that piece of shit laptop and a network connection.”

“Uh… sure,” I lie. I don’t plan to be here when he gets back. “I’ll get right on that for you.”

“I hope you do.” As I turn to leave, he says, “Just remember. I’m head of the snake. I’ve got the power to change your life.”

“I’ve heard that shit before.”

“Not from me.”

“Yeah? Tell me how you’d change my life.”

“Be here when I get back. You’ll find out.”

I don’t wait for them to leave. I’m halfway down the block before he and his men cross the street. But his message plays on repeat in my head. That piercing stare kept assessing me, appraising me, searching me long after he left. And when I find his name in the DMV database I hacked in the library, something compels me to take notice.

Less than an hour later, I’m standing beside the row of Harleys and Choppers and custom bikes, squinting to block out the bright reflection of the sun on all that chrome, waiting for the man who’ll change everything.