They were just pulling out of the station when Jason received a text message. They sat, their bikes throbbing, as he pulled his phone from his pocket and pecked away at it a moment.

 

“Change of plans, boys,” he announced. “We’ve been invited to a party.”

 

“Fuckin’ a,” Rick howled, punching at the air with his right fist. “Twelve hours riding a hog, then another four hours riding some new bitches. It doesn’t get much better than that!”

 

Scott sighed but said nothing. He had been looking forward to burgers, beer, bath, and bed, in that order, but now he was going to be forced to enjoy the subtle charms of a biker party. “What kind of party? And where?”

 

Jason was typing furiously at his phone. “Bonfire party. I’m looking up the address now,” he muttered as he swiped and poked at his phone. “Jesus Christ. This is in the middle of town! How the fuck can you have a bonfire party in the middle of town?”

 

Scott held his hand out and Jason passed him the phone. The little red pin was across town, but still very much in the city proper. “Are you sure this is right?”

 

Jason looked at him a moment. “Of course it’s right. How hard can it be? Key the address into Google, the map does the rest.”

 

“I fucking love Detroit!” Rick roared into the night. “Where else can you have a fucking bonfire in the middle of town? These people know how to party!”

 

Scott sighed again and passed the phone back. “Fuck. I fucking hate Detroit already, and I just got here.”

 

Jason and Rick laughed. “Come on! Think of it as a neighborhood renovation project. After we burn down a few buildings, property values will probably go up,” Rick grinned.

 

Despite himself, Scott laughed. “Okay, fine. I’m all about doing my civic duty.”

 

Jason flashed a grin, tucked the phone into his crotch for easy retrieval, and pulled out of the station, heading back the way they came.

 

***

 

As Scott expected, the party turned out to be about as apocalyptic as it got. All they needed were mutants and zombies. Unlike most bonfire parties, held on beaches or at the riverside, this particular party was between abandoned buildings that had once been an old Packard manufacturing plant. The ominous buildings surrounded them as they chugged slowly through the ruins, following the glow and the sounds of merry-making.

 

“Mother fuck,” he muttered to himself as they rolled to a stop. The place gave him the creeps, the destruction and decay pressing in all around them. Why in God’s name would anyone choose to live here?

 

As they switched off their bikes, the men and women turned to face them, the bonfire now the only light, burning brightly in a hollowed out car, its metal skeleton glowing cherry red with the flames that licked up and out of the broken windows.

 

As they dismounted, they were met by both old friends and unfamiliar faces, and were quickly ushered to one of the abandoned buildings. Inside, a group of shaven headed tattooed men screamed into microphones and flung their guitars around in one corner while a wall of silver kegs occupied the other. The music was an explosion of sound, tearing through Scott’s head and reverberating up his legs and into his stomach. It certainly wasn’t Alan Jackson.

 

Homesick. That’s what I am. It was as if he had landed on another planet, a cold, grey, world, struggling for life, but poisoned by its own undercurrents of rage and desperation. That’s what it was, desperation. He thought again of that fat black cat and his stupid bookshelf.

 

They made their introductions to the leadership of the Angels, Val welcoming them with a hearty greeting. They were presented with a beer and Jason took up station beside Val, silently claiming his spot as heir apparent. Scott began to slowly pull back, inching toward the door, trying to distance himself from the noise that passed as music and the press of bodies.

 

“What’s your name again?” asked a woman’s voice in his ear.

 

He turned to see a girl at his elbow, looking up at him through obviously very drunk eyes. If they could’ve pointed in other directions they would’ve. She was pretty, her face surrounded by mint green hair shaved bald on one side. The dimples on her smooth cheeks were both pierced, the fake gems glittering in the light from the bare, generator driven, bulbs hanging overhead. Bare bulbs. Always with the bare bulbs.

 

“What?” Although he had heard her, he was too lazy and uninterested to respond. She had that look, though, that he tended to inspire in women and a certain type of men, the look of hunger.

 

“I said, ‘what’s your name?’” She stood on her tiptoes and yelled in his ear. That was totally unnecessary and the blast of her voice in his head annoyed him, causing him to look around for a lifeline. Rick. Perfect.

 

Rick caught his eye across the crowd and with a ridiculous display of head nodding indicated his interest in the zombie princess beside him. It was just the easy out he needed. Without responding, Scott tucked his arm around the waist of the minty girl beside him and started walking her across the room. He’d seen Rick try this move once already tonight and the result was firm slap in the face. As usual, the girl beside him giggled and wrapped her arm around Scott in turn, ready to give herself to him entirely. Rick looked like he was salivating, one step away from plucking at his goatee lecherously. Scott almost felt sorry for the girl. Almost.

 

“This is my friend Rick,” he said, almost pushing her into his arms. “Rick, this is Minty.” The girl looked back at Scott as he stepped away. She looked disappointed, and he almost felt badly for so unceremoniously dumping her off, but, in all honesty, the chances of her remembering any of this tomorrow were pretty slim.

 

“Hey, Rick!” she slurred, drawing out the first word. In what was a pathetic attempt to show Scott what he was missing, she threw her arms around Rick and slammed her mouth against his. Rick, always the gentleman, flashed Scott a double thumbs up before giving her as good as he got.

 

“How do you like that fucking Prada power?” Scott asked no one as he turned and strode toward the door to get out of what he was certain was one of the rings of hell.

 

Once outside, he immediately began to search for some quiet corner so he pull himself together. Every place he saw, every promising concrete nook or overhang, seemed to be already filled with huddled bodies, sending up columns of sweet-smelling smoke, passing around vials and needles, or engaged in rhythmic movements of hips or heads.

 

Maybe I should just jump back on my bike and get the fuck out of here. I could take off into the night and never to be seen or heard from again. I could start a new life. I could ride home, grab that fucking cat, and ride until I’m somewhere where houses are repaired and grass actually grows. Standing between the towering monuments to failure, the light from the burning car on one side of him and the thump of tuneless music on the other, he was frightened by the idea that he just might. He looked to where his bike was parked and waited. He had felt this urge before, and he knew he would change his mind. He just needed to give himself a few more minutes and that urge to run would pass. It always did. Scowling, he stared at his bike, fighting the urge to ride away forever, waiting for a reason to stay.