Joey

It had been a week since Josh got his education. With Percy in Vista looking at a baseball card collection, I’d taken it upon myself to cook dinner.

I couldn’t decide whether to set the table or not, and then chose against it. I didn’t want him to think I perceived the meal as romantic, or that I looked at him that way. I simply wanted to show my gratitude for what he’d done for me, and cooking for him was the only thing I could think of.

As soon as I pulled the bread from the oven, I heard his motorcycle coming down the block.

While I adjusted my placement of the food I’d prepared, the front door opened.

He stepped inside, tilted his head back, and inhaled a long breath through his nose.

“God damn,” he said.

Good god damn, or bad god damn?

“What?”

“Something smells good as fuck. Did you order Italian? I’m starved.”

“I uhhm. I cooked Italian.”

“With what?” His brow wrinkled. “There’s nothing here to cook.”

“I bought some stuff.”

“You bought stuff and cooked dinner?”

I did a half-assed curtsy. “I did.”

He looked at the food I’d placed on the countertop. “What is it?”

“Lasagna, homemade bread, a tomato and mozzarella salad, and some sautéed broccoli.”

“Is it ready to eat?”

“Yes, it is.”

He rubbed his hands together. “What are we waiting for?”

Having him express such excitement over a meal was fantastic. Even if he hated my cooking, his eagerness to at least try it was reward enough.

I opened the cupboard and handed him a plate. “Here.”

“You first.”

I grabbed another plate and filled it. He followed right behind me.

I set the plate down at the table and glanced over my shoulder. “What would you like to drink?”

“Beer’s fine with me.”

I poured myself a glass of water, and grabbed him a beer. When I returned to the table, he was sitting across from me with a plate filled to the point it was spilling over the sides.

Wow.

I smiled and handed him the bottle of beer. “Long day?”

“Ran all over southern California. Chula Vista, San Diego, then Vista. Shit, rode about 200 miles, splitting traffic the whole way.”

“Does that make you nervous?”

“Does now.”

“Since when?”

“Since one of the fellas was going 80 down the 5, and some chick flung her door open and crashed his bagger.”

“Oh my God,” I gasped. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. And guess what else?”

“What?”

“He’s marrying the chick that wrecked him. Long story. I’ll tell you later.” He looked at his plate and then at me. “Can we eat?”

“Oh. Sure. Sorry.”

He cut the corner off his lasagna and lifted the fork to his mouth. I looked at my plate, hoping to seem uninterested in his expression, although nothing at that moment was more important than his opinion about what I had prepared.

“Dear fucking God,” he gasped.

I looked up. “Too hot?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.” He swallowed. “This shit’s the fucking bomb.”

“You like it?”

“Best fucking lasagna I ever ate.” He cut off another huge bite. “Better than my mother’s, but don’t tell her that.”

I grinned. “I won’t.”

He pointed his fork toward a tomato. “What’s in this salad?”

“Mozzarella cheese, tomatoes, basil, balsamic vinegar--”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It’s not.”

He pierced a mozzarella ball and a tomato in one stab, lifted them to his mouth, and took a bite. “Jesus fuck.”

“Bad?”

He swallowed what was in his mouth and then shook his head. “Why are you working at the Harley dealer? You ought to have a fucking restaurant.”

His compliments filled me with pride.

“Thank you.”

He reached for a piece of the bread and chuckled. “Probably made the bread, too, huh?”

“Actually, I did. It sucks kneading it by hand, but I didn’t get all that stuff from the house when I left.”

“What stuff?”

“My mom’s cooking stuff. Sorry, my cooking stuff.”

“I’ll get it,” he said.

He took a bite of the bread, looked at the uneaten portion he held, and then stuffed it into his mouth. “You can sure cook, Smudge.”

“Thank you.”

It was awfully nice to have someone appreciate what I’d done. I didn’t have self-esteem issues – other than my leg – but receiving praise was something I sure enjoyed.

“You mother died when you were what? Ten?”

I shrugged. “Nine.”

“Who taught you to cook?”

“Same person that taught me about Harleys.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“I taught myself,” I said. “I use the internet.”

“Well, you’re a damned good cook.”

“Thank you. Again.”

He shoveled more lasagna into his mouth and then looked at me. “What about your pop?”

“My dad?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“What about him?”

He took a bite of lasagna. “How old were you when. You know. When he passed. You’ve never said much about him.”

“I was really young when he died.”

“I was just wondering. You’ve told me a lot about your mom,” he said. “But you’ve never really said much about your pop.”

I never talked to anyone about my father. Having a high degree of admiration for a man I never knew seemed silly to me. Nonetheless, I clung to the stories my mother told as if they were my own.

“I never really knew him. Not that I remember anyway.”

“Your mom never told you anything about him?”

“Oh. She said a lot. She loved him. Not like Josh. She really loved him. He was like you.”

His brow furrowed. “Like me?”

“Uh huh.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was a biker. He’s the real reason I like Harleys and stuff.”

He laughed. “I thought I was the reason.”

“I mean. You are. Kind of. But I think hearing the stories my mom told about my dad started it all. I grew up admiring him, and heck, I never really knew him.”

“That’s cool. What did you admire about him? What’d your mom tell you?”

“he was the most kind, caring, loving man on earth. Yet. He didn’t take crap from anyone. My mom said no matter where they went, she felt safe. She said no one ever messed with her, or gave her a cross look, they knew better. He had a moral code that he lived by. He didn’t lie, his word was as good as gold, and he’d stand up for anyone that couldn’t stand up for themselves.”

“Sounds like a good man.”

“He was,” I said, my voice thick with pride. “He died trying to protect one of his brothers.”

“You’ve got an uncle?”

“No. Not that kind of brother. One of his brothers in the club.”

He grinned. “He rode in an MC?”

“Yeah. One of the big ones.”

“Which one?”

“I can’t remember the name of it, but it was one of the big ones.”

“I’ll be damned. Last name was McGovern?”

“No. That’s Josh’s last name. He adopted me, so I’ve got his name. I want to change it back to my old name. When I can afford it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a weird one. Don’t laugh.”

“Okay.”

“Schreiber.”

His head cocked to the side. “Spell it.”

“S. C. H. R. E. I. B. E. R.”

His mouth fell open. “Did your pop die about ’98 or ’99? In a bar in SD?”

A chill ran along my spine. A barely audible uh huh passed my lips.

His eyes shot wide. “Billy The Snake Schreiber?”

Snake was what they called him. It was his road name. My fork hit the plate with a clank! “Oh my God. You know him?”

“Know of him. Hell, everyone does. Man’s a god damned legend. He rode with the red and white. Holy fucking shit, you’re The Snake’s daughter?”

I realized I was standing. Initially filled with excitement, I was now slightly confused. “Red and White?”

He nodded. “Hells Angels.”

“That’s the one,” I screeched. “Hells Angels.”

Now, he was standing.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said excitedly. “That’s crazy. He was the president’s right hand man. He was the club enforcer, and the second in command. They were in a bar in San Diego, and an Outlaw pulled a knife on the president. Snake stepped in to protect him. He saved the president, even took the knife from the guy. Later that night, one of them came in and cracked him with a pool cue. It was that fight that started a war between those two clubs. Still going on today.”

“Oh wow.”

“Your Ol’ Man is a legend, Smudge.”

My eyes started to well with tears at the thought of him being the man I always believed he was.

I fought against the tears. “That’s nice to hear. Do you. Do you uhhm. Do you know any other stories about him?”

“I don’t,” he said. “But I know a man who will.”

“Can I meet him some day?”

“Depending on what he’s doing, you might be able to meet him tonight.”

“Holy cow. Really?”

He raised his index finger. After pulling his phone from his vest, he made a call.

“Nothing much. Hey, I got one for ya. You’ll never guess who I’m having dinner with. No. No. Just hold on.”

He looked at me, smiled, and then began to pace the floor. “Billy The Snake Schreiber’s daughter. Yep. Nope. Twenty-one. Hey, brother. Can you do me a solid? Yeah. She wants to know if you’ve got any stories to tell her about her Ol’ Man.”

He glanced at me and gave the thumbs up. “Right now, if you’re not busy. Oh, one other thing. You eat yet?”

He gave me another thumbs up. “Come hungry. See you in a few.”

“Well,” he said. “We better eat while we can. When Bama gets here, he’ll eat whatever’s left.”

My heart was racing. I was way too excited to eat, but I sat down nonetheless. Attempting to hide my excitement, and probably failing miserably, I looked up from picking at my food.

“So, he knew him? This Bama guy? Like knew him?”

“Bama’s been with the red and white for 30 years. Yeah, he knew your Ol’ Man.”

My mouth curled into a smile.

While Percy ate, I poked and picked at my food. I was far too nervous – and way too excited – to eat. After a few minutes, I realized I was simply staring at the wall behind Percy. When he stood from his seat, I came out of my daze.

“Thank you for calling him,” I said.

“Least I could do. Thanks for cooking dinner.”

“Least I could do,” I said mockingly.

“I’m going to get another plate before he gets here.”

“There’s plenty,” I said with a smile. “Help yourself.”

As he filled his plate, he went on and on about how it was the best Italian food he’d ever eaten. According to him, he’d eaten Italian food from one end of the United States to the other.

All the emotion I was feeling came to a head. A lone tear welled in the corner of my eye, and then escaped.

I wiped it from my cheek and smiled as Percy turned around.

In a matter of days, I’d gone from being beaten by my stepfather to being praised by my best friend.

My life had never been so good.