Aimee
Very briefly, just out of the corner of my eye, I see it coming—the swift motion of a bat gearing up for a big hit. I know the motion well. My dad was a baseball fanatic. He kept a wooden bat signed by Johnny Bench, his all-time favorite player, on the mantle in our living room. As a kid, he tried his hardest to impart his love of the game on me, enrolling me in league games and batting clinics, even though I showed zero aptitude for it. Point is, I knew what it looked like to take a big swing.
And in the brief moment, I know what’s on its way with the force of several tons of pressure.
I close my eyes, holding tight onto Breaker’s arm as I pull him down towards the ground. He was in that blind spot, unable to see the man coming straight towards us from the patio area of the hotel. Breaker doesn’t go down easily, and it’s too late to get the message. Still, I scream, hoping he’ll understand.
My mind shuts down for a moment. Everything goes blank. There’s no noise, just a desperate ringing in my ears, a sound that has followed me around my entire life—even off the island.
When I open my eyes, I am surprised that I am not bleeding or looking for a pretty white light to follow. What I do feel is the cold ground under me, the brush of the fresh cut grass on my arms, and the sounds of men shouting at one another.
“Get him off Breaker! Pull him down! The kid’s insane!”
Two men hover over me, with one pointing at the chaotic mass of two men fighting one another. Breaker obviously has an advantage. He towers over Wesley by at least half a foot, and their sheer masses cannot be compared. It’s like David and Goliath, only without the slingshot.
The fire from the small pit glows against Breaker’s back as he leans down to strike Wesley on the face again. He opens the still fresh wounds from earlier. Blood and plasma fly through the air with the motion of his arms. The kid underneath him has barely enough time to breathe through the visibly broken nose and the jaw that seems to hang awkwardly around his mouth now, but he stays on his feet, clawing at Breaker with everything that he’s got.
I’m screaming again. I don’t even recognize that I’m doing it at first until one of the men near me turns around and stares me down until I’m quiet again. I don’t know who I am shouting for or why. Neither guy really deserves to win here. Wesley should know better than to take on a beast like Breaker, but I could tell earlier, when I first met him, that he had that spark about him that wouldn’t take no for an answer. And, on the other hand, Breaker should knock this shit off. The kid is harmless, and who is he to take ownership over me outside what Biggs has forced him to do?
Still, when I scream, Breaker turns. It’s only for a moment. It’s a look that clearly tells me that this is my fault and my doing. I’m going to hear and pay for it later. That thought—of Breaker having any control over me—sends shivers down my legs until I start to run. In a full sprint, I head back towards my motel room, passing Biggs on the way.
“What the fuck are you doing, little girl?” he shouts at me. “Where is your keeper?”
I don’t answer him, but it ultimately doesn’t matter. A moment later, his attention diverts to the melee, and by the time I come up with a witty retort, he’s already too far gone for me to even bother trying to say anything.
I slide the key into the motel room door, watching impatiently as the red button stays on. Concentrate, Aimee, I tell myself. I tense and relax my hands before trying the key again. This time, it opens, and I fly into the room with only my hands on the queen size bed to stop me from falling to the ground.
In the dark of the room, I feel around for the phone I spotted earlier. Unlike last time, the Gravediggers hadn’t had time to disconnect my only way of communicating with anyone outside the burner phone (which was programmed to only call Breaker, Biggs, and a few other guys I have not met yet). I find the phone sitting on the bedside table. A red button flashes, but I’m just too desperate to call out to care what the light means.
I stand over the keypad, slowly putting in the number I have memorized off by heart. It’s been three years since I’ve called Eva. I hold my breath as the phone rings on the other line. I count each turn.
1… 2… 3… 4… 5…
Her overly bright and cheerful voice soon picks up. “Hey there! You’ve reached Eva Palakikio Ionesco. I can’t come to the phone right now. I’m probably out surfing or swimming, but feel free to leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you when I’m on dry land. Aloha!”
I pause as I listen to the beep urging me to talk. I wonder if she will know it is me from the way I am breathing or how my lips sort of buzz as I fight to push myself to say something, anything.
What can I say right now? How can I tell the truth when the truth is as terrible as the lie? I’m not sure how I would even begin to explain that I’ve been kidnapped by a motorcycle club for stealing their shit. And there isn’t any way I can tell her that I’ve been lost and running from our family for years. I don’t even know how to start making amends or if I even want to. All I want is to sit and talk.
All this flashes through my mind as I consider all my options. Finally, after a few seconds of awkward silence, I say the only thing I can think to say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I hang up, hands shaking, face stained with tears I forgot I could create. I brush them away as I look over my shoulder towards the door still thrown open from when I barged in here without a plan. I can still hear the guys screaming at one another, but by the shadows of the few overhead lights, it’s clear that most of them are heading back to their rooms to sleep it off.
There’s no sign of Breaker, though. Next door, I hear Biggs’ door slam shut. He turns on his television; blasting some movie channel. The TV and his drunken murmurs fill the silence of my room and the passageway outside.
I walk towards the door, looking out at the courtyard again. From here, I can see Breaker bent over low on the bench with a few guys handing him what looks like paper towels.
I approach him nice and slow, unsure of what to say. That look from earlier—the look that promised to take punishment into his own hands—still lingers in my mind as I tap him on the shoulder.
The man that turns around is a beaten and battered version of the person I’ve been riding with. The crook of his nose is pushed out slightly, and his cheek has a long cut from a ring or zipper. It oozes out onto the paper towel he holds to the skin. His lip is busted open as well, and fresh scratch marks from Wesley climb up his bare back, popping up like ivy on an old home.
I can’t help blurting out, “What the hell? What—”
“Don’t you look at me like that, Aimee,” Breaker seethes as he spits a bloody mixture onto the ground. “It’s not that bad. I’ve certainly had to deal with worse.” He points to a long scar under his arm, along the side of his torso. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it before. The jagged lines, the marks of a stitch, make it clear that he was stabbed and that the knife was dragged along his side for him to bleed out.
He’s right; he’s had it worse.
I turn my head, unable to take it. I was never one for blood. My sister was the healer of the family. She was good with cuts from surfing or bruises from when I would ride my scooter around our neighborhood. Me, on the other hand, I’d faint if someone pricked a finger in front of me.
Breaker was a manifestation of my worst nightmare.
He senses my hesitation, which makes him laugh a little. “Oh good,” he says, with a cruel smile. “You’re going to be fun tonight if you can’t even look at me.”
I turn just quick enough to see him eyeing his friend Henry. He smiles again before shaking his head. “I guess I should make it official. I already told Biggs and some of the boys the news.”
“What?” I ask, confused at his sudden change. “What are you talking about? Make what official?”
But Breaker doesn’t care to answer me. He stands up slowly, using one of his guys to support him, and then heads off towards another group of younger riders fussing over someone in the center. The men part as he approaches, bowing their heads in reverence. They back off enough so that I get a good glimpse of Wesley—or what’s left of him.
He, like Breaker, sits with his hands in hands in his lap; crimson stained sheets of paper towel stuck on his face and arms. But there is a clear difference in the carnage. Wesley looks like he has been put in the dryer, spun on high, and taken out before the cycle finishes. His entire white t-shirt has been turned rust red with rings around the places where Breaker must have really taken out the most damage. There are even boot marks from where Breaker stomped on his chest and kicked at his side. Wesley cradles those spots with his arms wrapped in a bear hug around himself.
He barely registers a look when Breaker approaches. He turns his head slightly looking off towards the fire still burning in the pit. Breaker clears his throat first in an attempt to get some recognition, but there’s nothing.
In a booming voice, he has no choice but to go on, “Whatever is going on between us, it ends now. We’re brothers and brothers don’t kill each other over some pussy. I’m calling a truce, Wesley.”
Wesley doesn’t answer. He glances up towards one of the other men near him and nods, urging him to step in as a second.
“Breaker, man, Wesley does…”
Breaker cuts the strawman off, placing a hand up to his face as he takes another step closer to Wesley. He leans down and taunts, “I didn’t know Wesley was too chicken shit to answer for himself. A real man wouldn’t be a little bitch about this and just shake the other’s hand.” He stretches out a hand full of bloody, cut knuckles, but Wesley doesn’t take it.
This time, Breaker kneels slightly as he whispers in towards Wesley, in a voice so stern and forceful you could feel it rolling out of his mouth like thunder in the night, “You will take my hand, and you will call a truce. I rank over you by so many positions. I could get your patch tonight if I wanted to. So if you want to stay a Gravedigger and keep this brotherhood, you’ll stop fucking with me and agree to some peace. Do you hear me?”
Slowly, Wesley unwraps the arm around his side, wipes it on the black slacks, and then gives it to Breaker. They don’t bob their hands or pull each other in like I’ve seen them do in other situations requiring handshakes. Neither moves, but it’s done for now. The tension between the two groups of men seems to dissipate with their words.
Breaker goes to turn back towards the motel rooms when Henry catches him by his shoulder. He whispers something into his ear and gestures towards the group. Breaker takes a glimpse at me with those brown eyes firing in the glow of the night. Henry pats him on the shoulder and pulls away. Breaker seems impossibly taller; his chest is wider, and his jaw higher. Whatever he said, Henry just unleashed some new version of him, and his stare is directed straight at me.
“There’s something else I need to say here and now while I’ve got a group present.”
Breaker leans over and pulls me in by my hips. I fall into him, landing with my arms outstretched around his chest and hips. But he doesn’t push me away; instead, he holds me tighter as he announces, “I’m making it official. This girl, Aimee, she’s my woman.”
My mind goes blank. Did he just… claim me?
I stand away from him, but my feet are fixed in my place. He clears his throat as he continues on, completely ignoring my shocked glare. “For those of you that don’t know, that means you are not allowed to mess with her, touch her, or proposition her without my permission. And I give none of you permission. I expect you all to stick to the brotherhood, or you know what comes to you.”
“What about Biggs?” someone in the crowd speaks up. I too have the same question. “What does he say about you making that girl your old lady when rumor is she’s a whore and a thief?”
Well, the guy got the first part wrong. I have yet to spread my legs for any of these backwater men, and I have zero plans to do so, despite all my tequila-induced flirting.
“Biggs has given his blessing. And he and Henry will be the ones making sure that the deed is done.”
My stomach drops. The deed? From what little I know about motorcycle clubs, I do know a few things about old ladies. For one, they are usually treated like cattle. A guy claims one, brings her into the club, and then pimps her out when he’s tired of her. She stays in the circle long enough to be used and abused. Sometimes, when they’re older, they get cut loose, but for the most part, they spend their lives as slaves to whatever the new club leadership wants from them.
In other cases, these women live somewhat healthy lives. They get married, they have kids, and they defend their men. I’ve met some of these girls out on the road. They’re usually at the bar cleaning up after some fight or hosting some charity event for clean groups. They’re the lucky ones, even if they’re being held hostage.
But when Breaker says the word, “deed,” it reminds me of what a woman, clearly a club girl, once told me while sharing shots at a dive bar in California. Club men claim their women by dominating them. They go by the rule that whoever fucks them first, keeps them first.
While the Gravediggers may be unique in some ways, I can’t imagine they are in this way.
I swallow hard as I look up towards Breaker. He avoids my eyes, but he walks straight towards my motel room. He pauses in the doorway before gesturing towards me and Henry, who stands behind me with a smug smile.
My bare feet tread softly on the ground, dragging along the way. I’ve never felt so much doom and uncertainty in my life. The contents of my stomach, mostly booze, do somersaults and wild backflips as I think about what is going to happen in that bedroom. I’m about to be claimed by the one man who I would rather run from and the one motorcycle club who wants to hold me hostage.