“HEY, REAPER, YOU ABOUT done with that oil change, man? The dude is back early and was wondering if by chance his bike was ready?” I was wiping my greasy hands on a rag and looked over at Gunny when he spoke as he walked into the shop.
“Yeah, bro, I actually finished it a few minutes ago. I was just cleaning everything up. I’ll bring it around for him.” I hopped on the customer’s bike, starting it up and pulling it out of the garage. Damn, summers were hot here. Sometimes I wondered if I was crazy or if it was really hotter here in northern Iowa than back home in Tennessee.
Shit.
As I parked it up front, the guy came out of the office with a smile. He loved his Indian and he had been bringing it to us for all his maintenance for years, according to the guys. It was a sweet ride, but I was partial to my baby. Nothing could beat a Harley in my opinion. We shook hands and he drove off. Another satisfied customer, I thought to myself.
Fuck, it had been a long day. I leaned back, stretching my back. My left leg was a little achy today after all the crouching I’d done. The garage the club owned and ran was one of our “legitimate” businesses, and we were always busy with bikes this time of year. During the winter, we worked on more cars and trucks, but work stayed steady. I was ready to wrap shit up and head over to the Oasis for a cold beer and maybe a game of pool. I headed to the next bay to see if Mason, more commonly called Hollywood now, was ready to go.
“Hey fucker! Get your slow ass moving! I’m ready for a fucking beer. I’m heading to the Oasis. Not in the mood to drink at the club. Gretchen won’t quit fucking with me, and I just don’t want to deal with her shit.” I kicked his feet as he lay under a Camaro on a creeper. He rolled out from under it with his trademark grin in place. He was still such a pretty boy, even covered in grease. I shook my head and laughed when he jumped up and went to the sink to wash his hands.
“Reaper, dude, you are the one who messed up there. She thinks she’s special to you and is telling people it’s only a matter of time before she’s your old lady. You should have never gone back for seconds, man. You went and got her hopes up since you never mess with the same broad twice.” He laughed at me as he watched me through the mirror while he washed his hands, arms, and face and dried off.
“Man, fuck you, Hollywood. I was fucking drunk and she crawled into bed with me. I couldn’t have told you who the fuck she was that night. Stupid bitch wants to be sneaky, then she deserves to be disappointed. I don’t want a fucking old lady, and if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be a club whore who’s fucked every brother in the club at least fifty times each. Nasty bitch. I’m just glad I was in control of my faculties enough to use a condom, or the next thing she’d be saying is she’s pregnant.” I got on my bike and started it up, waiting for Hollywood. He got on his bike, and we headed downtown to the Oasis.
We pulled up in front of the Oasis and backed our bikes up next to the other three already parked there. Looked like some of the brothers beat us here. Of course Pops was here. Wondered if Mama Jean had made up some of her homemade pretzel bites…. Mama Jean and Pops had owned and been running the Oasis for the last thirty years or more. Pops was one of the original members of the Demented Sons MC, and he was head over heels for Mama. They never had any kids, and she took all of us boys from the club in as her “boys,” as she called us. I tried to pretend I hated her calling us boys, but truth be told she was a great person and it felt good to have someone who was like a mother to me. I missed my mother every fucking day, even though it had been almost nine years since she died thanks to a drunk driver. If he hadn’t killed himself in the accident that day, I would have put a fucking bullet in his skull. Piece of shit asshole. I fucking hated drunk drivers as much as I hated hadjis, and as much as the Prez hated hard drugs, since his little brother OD’d on meth seven years ago.
I walked in through the old door that had to have been original to the old building. The bar was dim and smelled like smoke, beer, and a little like old musty building, but it was all part of the appeal. The exposed brick walls gave it a warm almost prohibition-era feel. The pool tables in the back were already in use. Smoke and Pops were in the middle of a game on one and some young preppy college pukes on the other. Hollywood and I walked over to the beat-up bar and each pulled up a creaking barstool to wait for the college fucks to finish their game.
Mama Jean ambled up and placed a cold Corona, complete with a lime sticking out the top, in front of me and a Bud Light in front of Hollywood. Yeah, she knew us all well. I grabbed the Corona with a smile for Mama Jean, shoved the lime inside and took a deep drink. I set my beer back down on a little cardboard coaster that had seen better days.
“So how’s life treatin’ you, Mama?”
She smiled at the drawl I could never really shake and leaned across the bar to give me a rough kiss on the cheek. Mama was a big busted woman who, despite her nearly sixty or so years, still had coal-black hair. I had a sneaking suspicion it was from a bottle, but I sure as shit wasn’t busting her out. She had deep lines on her face that spoke of the many years on the back of Pops’s bike and the cigarettes that also gave her that raspy voice she still had even though she quit the smokes a few years ago.
“Shitty, thanks for asking, Reaper. My back is killing me and my feet are gonna fall off one of these days. I been after Pops to sell this joint so we can travel more before we’re too damn old to do it. It’s just this old place has been the only baby we ever had. I would have to find just the right people to take over. It would break my heart to see it close down.” She scowled and I laughed at her. I knew she wouldn’t let this place go no matter how much shit she talked. She loved it, and she loved us coming in here to see her.
Hollywood started batting his eyes in a crazy-ass imitation of a little kid and begging Mama Jean for some of her pretzels and beer cheese dip. She swatted at his arm and laughed when he told her how beautiful she was and how she made the best beer cheese dip in the world.
“Cripes, kid, you don’t need to lay it on so thick. You know Mama will hook you up, but don’t think you’re getting them for free just ’cause you’re good at baffling me with bullshit.” She sauntered to the back to get the pretzels, laughing the whole way.
After she brought them out and we sat drinking our beer, I reached over and grabbed one of his pretzels, dipping it in the cheese before he could pull it away.
“Hey, you shit, order your own!” Hollywood dragged the plate over to the side out of my reach. He continued shoving pretzel bites in his face as I smirked and finished my beer. Mama walked up, setting a plate of them in front of me, telling me they were “on the house” for me as she gave a sidelong look at Hollywood and tried to hold back a smile.
“What? That’s not fair! Why is he so special?” Hollywood pouted like a two-year-old, and I couldn’t help but laugh at him. I held up my empty bottle and asked Mama for another. She set another one in front of me and we enjoyed the rest of our pretzel bites before getting up to grab the pool table the preppy fucks had vacated. I tossed a generous tip on the bar for Mama along with the money for my beer.
As Hollywood racked ’em up for the game, I picked out a pool cue, chalking the tip and blowing off the excess, creating a brief green cloud. The game was close, and he only kicked my ass because I sank the fucking cue ball with the eight ball when I saw a tanned, blonde-haired chick walk in the bar. When she turned around, she looked at me with her big brown eyes, and I resumed breathing. Fuckin’ A. Why did I think it was her? Why did I care? But I knew the answer. It was the same reason I only fucked women from behind. Because it was easier to pretend they were her if I couldn’t see their faces. Because she was still under my skin after three fucking years.
“I gotta run, man.” I put the pool stick up and hugged Hollywood, patting the patch on his cut firmly even as he razzed me for being a fucking pussy and leaving because I lost. Motherfucking little shit. “Shut the fuck up, bro, respect your elders. I need a ride to clear my head. You can join me if you want.”
“Aww, fuck you, bro, you’re only a year older than me. And yeah, I’m game. I’m always up for a little wind therapy. Let me settle up with Mama.” He walked over to the bar, taking the opportunity to flirt with blondie and her friend. Typical Hollywood. I looked the other way and walked outside to wait on him, trying to think of anything but how she had felt underneath me… riding me… snuggled up against my cock with her back pressed to my chest and my hand tucked around her tit. Jesus. What the fuck was wrong with me? She was probably married by now and hadn’t given me a second damn thought. She probably didn’t even remember what the fuck I looked like. She sure as shit deserved better than me anyway.
I told myself these things, but since coming back up here to Iowa, at least once a week, I talked myself out of riding down to her old house to see if by chance she was still there. Besides, what would I say when I knocked on the door? ‘Oh, hey. Is there a great looking blonde here with amazing sky blue eyes, legs that go on forever, and the perkiest tits this side of the Appalachians?’ Yeah, that would work. They would probably call the cops on me. That would piss Snow off. What I needed to do was quit thinking every fucking blonde I saw was her.
That’s what I needed to do.
We raced down the road, handlebar to handlebar, as the sun began to set in the sky behind us. My hair blew in the wind, flipping wildly, as our bikes continued to eat up the miles on the asphalt. There was absolutely nothing like the freedom of the wind whipping against my clothes and plastering my cut to my chest. It was so easy to think and clear my mind. I could breathe. I could outrun my demons. At least temporarily.
As darkness descended, I figured we better turn back. I just rode without any idea of exactly how far we had gone. I pulled over at a gas station to fill up and take a piss. As Hollywood pulled up to the pump opposite me and got off his bike, he looked at me without saying a word before opening the cover to his gas tank and reaching for the gas pump to fill up.
“So, you wanna tell me what’s on your mind?” Hollywood asked as he returned the nozzle to the pump. He walked over toward me, slapping me on the back as he stopped next to me and looked me dead in the eyes. This was a man who had been through the depths of hell in Afghanistan with me more times than I could count. The same man who dragged me from the edge of oblivion, rescuing me from myself and bringing me back with him to what I now I considered my family. He knew me better than anyone, and he knew I was a fucking mess right now, but I didn’t have the words to tell him what was eating me up inside. I didn’t know how to explain that I was fucking obsessed with someone I would never have. Someone I didn’t fucking deserve. Someone I couldn’t get out of my fucking skull no matter how much I drank, no matter how many whores I fucked, no matter how many miles I rode.
“No.” I didn’t meet his eyes.
“Well excuse the fuck out of me.”
“It’s nothing I can talk about right now, bro. Just fucking drop it, okay? I just need to sort through some shit, that’s all.” I walked off into the shitty little gas station to piss and grab a Gatorade. The cool AC in the store hit me at the same time as the smell of burnt grease assaulted my nostrils. Shit, did they ever change the grease in their shitty-ass fryers? Damn. I took a quick pit stop in the men’s room to piss, washed my hands—yeah, thanks, Momma, for drilling hygiene into my damn head—and walked over to the cooler and grabbed a blue Gatorade. No clue what fucking flavor it was and didn’t care.
Fuck it.
I placed it on the counter and pulled out some cash, peeling off enough to pay for the bottle and telling the pimple-faced cashier to ring up Hollywood’s too and I would get it. After dropping the change in my pocket, I pushed open the door, going back out in the heat and across the lot to the pump with Hollywood on my heels.
I sat on my bike as I cracked open the bottle and began drinking the cold liquid. It felt good running across my tongue and I held the side of the bottle to my forehead. Condensation formed quickly on the cold bottle in this heat; it ran down my face before dripping to the ground.
“You know we have church tomorrow, right? And then the get-together down at the Oasis for Mama Jean’s birthday?” He took a long guzzle of his Gatorade. “Man, that shit hits the spot! Thanks, bro.”
“Yeah, no problem,” I drawled, “and no, I didn’t forget. We have that run to Des Moines we need to iron out. About that delivery for the South Dakota chapter around the end of the month, right? That’s gonna have to be a quick run, and we’re gonna need most of the brothers in on this to flank the truck and drive look out. We don’t need to be fucking around down in Des Moines too long. The cops are dicks there and have a grudge against bikers. I don’t want them harassing us and snooping through the trucks before we can get them dropped off.”
“Snow knows all this, and that’s part of what I think he wants to go over tomorrow night. Man, I’m glad Snow did away with this kinda shit, but even the occasional guns for other chapters is starting to make me nervous. Fucking ATF is really tightening shit down. This isn’t some biker TV show. It’s getting harder to fly under the fucking radar. It’s too easy to go legit these days. Don’t know why they want to fuck with that shit. Quick money, I guess.” He tossed his empty bottle in the trash and sat on his bike. “You ready?”
“Yeah, let’s hit the road.” I tossed my bottle in the trash as I lifted my kickstand and started my bike. We pulled out together as one, but I purposely roared ahead to fuck with him, and he downshifted to catch up, flipping me off with a smile when he caught up to me again.
By the time we pulled up to the clubhouse, it was well after eleven. We walked in to Metallica blasting on the old jukebox Gunny had picked up at an estate sale. I fucking loved that thing. I saw Butch and Gunny sitting in the corner sectional getting lap dances from two of the club’s strippers from our strip club and some other skanky-looking chick I didn’t recognize, and briefly wondered where they dragged her up from. They could keep her. One of the prospects, Soap, stood close by watching over the room.
The club whores must be “servicing” because I didn’t see them around. The whores were just that, whores. They lived at the clubhouse voluntarily and were free to leave when they wanted. They serviced the brothers when they wanted it and in return they had a place to stay, three hots and a cot, basically, and the protection of the club.
It smelled like cigarette smoke and ass… and what the fuck had I stepped in? Jesus, I was gonna have to get after the prospects to clean this shithole up tomorrow. As I walked past the bar toward the hall leading to small rooms set up for the brothers to crash in if they got too drunk or if it had just been a long night, I felt tits press to my back and saw a set of bright red manicured nails reach around and run across my abs. Fuck. I didn’t even have to turn around.
“I’m not in the mood, Gretchen. I told you I don’t need your fucking services. Go hit up Hollywood or Butch.” I pulled her arms off me, trying to walk away, but she grabbed my hand, placing it on her mound, clearly defined in her tight spandex boy shorts. She rubbed her fake tits on my arm as I jerked my hand from her crotch.
“Come on, Reaper, baby, I’ve missed you. You know it was good between us. No one has ever made me come like you do… Your cock is the only one that can satisfy me now. The rest of them are just bumbling boys compared to you in bed. Don’t make me go to bed alone and unsatisfied, baby.” She batted her brown eyes and flipped her bleached-blonde hair over her shoulder.
“Gretchen, there is no ‘us.’ There will never be an ‘us.’ I’ve tried to be nice, but you’re too fucking stupid to get it. Fuck. Off. Go blow someone else’s cock. I’m not your ‘baby’ and I’m not interested!” Stupid fucking bitch. Did I have to draw her a fucking picture? I jolted away and stomped off as she stood glaring daggers into my back, I’m sure. I didn’t give a flying fuck.
I entered my room, locking the door. This was my sanctuary and my home for the time being. I hung my cut over the back of the old office chair and sat on the bed to remove my boots. I tossed them over by the closet one at a time and hung my head, resting my elbows on my knees. I ran my hands through my hair. It still felt strange to have hair. I had grown it out after getting out of the Army because I was too fucking lazy and drunk to go get a haircut. After I hooked up with the club, I thought I would grow it out long, but I could never hack it getting longer than my hairline at the back of my neck. So I kept the sides and back buzzed short, and the center at the top was long and slicked back. I scratched my short beard. Time to trim this up. It was too fucking hot for a full beard in the summer, so I kept it clipped short and trimmed up, but I rarely shaved clean. Fucking Army made me do that for too long.
I flipped on my iPod, blaring STP’s “Creep.” Yeah, that was my song. It sucked to feel like you were half the man you used to be. I grabbed my hair on the top of my head in both fists, closing my eyes tight, trying to push the demons back.
As Shinedown’s “Cut the Cord” began to play, I ran both hands down my face and rose, padding barefoot to the bathroom to take a shower before bed. I loved that the clubhouse used to be a warehouse with this back area where the executive offices were located, so we each had a bathroom with a shower. One day I’d get a place of my own, but part of me was afraid to be alone. A lot of the reason was fear that the fucking memories would take over and I would start to slip away again. As long as there was enough to keep my mind and body busy, I could mostly forget.
I reached over my shoulders, grabbing my black tee shirt at the back and pulling it over my head. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and trailed a finger over the scar on the left side of my face before glancing at the scars on my torso and left arm that I had covered with tats. Most of them had healed well, and the one on my face was a thin, but jagged, white line now, though it was a constant reminder of all the fucking scars I carried both inside and out. A reminder of how damaged I really was.