Slash

 

I can’t believe she said yes. I can’t believe I offered to have my mother come and take care of her mother. I can’t believe I’m going to have to talk to my mother again. When I told Erin that my mom and I haven’t talked in a few weeks, I wasn’t lying. In fact, we hadn’t spoken in nearly a month. But we had talked every so often since she kicked me out of the house.

 

See, my mom didn’t believe in a life of crime. She said my daddy had been into every sort of crime known to man, and she didn’t want me to go down the same road. I swore up and down that I wasn’t going to do it – and then I got in with the Savage Hearts. I started working jobs – usually just the shit jobs I was normally working – but my mom didn’t see it that way.

 

And when I suddenly started raking in the cash, she wanted to know how I was getting it. I didn’t want to tell her that I was stripping cars or selling drugs or shaking down lowlifes for their chump change, so I lied to her and told her I was working in a body shop. She found out the truth, though, when my MC mates started dropping by the house.

 

That was enough for her. She told me I either had to drop the MC, or I had to leave. I told her I was bringing good cash into the house, and I wasn’t going to leave my brothers in the MC. That, again, was enough for her. She screamed at me to oblivion and told me I was as worthless as my old man. I didn’t want to hear that, so I left, and I never looked back.

 

The problem was that, try as I might, I couldn’t scrape the old broad from my memories. Despite our clear difference of opinion on my career choices, I loved my mom. And I wanted to be at least somewhat in her life. So, we had a bit of a truce, a relationship that basically depended on keeping secrets from each other. I didn’t ask about her life, and she didn’t ask about mine.

 

All she ever asked was if I was being safe (yes), and if I had anyone special in my life (no). Of course, those answers are about to change. If I am on Marcelo’s tail, I’m not exactly being safe – but there might indeed be someone special in my life, which would send her over the moon. But goddammit, I don’t want to call her.

 

It’s not that she’s a bad person by any means; she’s a very good person. She’s a retired nurse, for Christ’s sake; she makes a living helping people. But I just don’t want to deal with the ridiculousness of her incessant questioning of my lifestyle. I do what I do. That’s the end of the story. I don’t need her judging me for it.

 

But for Erin’s sake – and for her mom’s – I’m willing to do it.

 

I ride as far as my mom’s house. I stare at the door for what feels like an idiotically long amount of time, waiting for… something, I don’t really know what. I just want to prolong this as long as I can, I guess, so I somehow magically get her involvement without having to interact with her. But all that flies out the window when she opens the door and sees me standing there.

 

“Thomas?” she asks, seemingly shocked that I would be standing anywhere in this neighborhood, let alone at her doorstep.

 

“Hi, mom,” I say, scratching the back of my neck.

 

“What – what are you doing here?”

 

“I was… hoping we could talk,” I say, which isn’t a lie, not exactly. “Do you have a few minutes?”

 

She doesn’t say “yes” or anything, but she moves away from the door, a clear invitation into the house. I’m honestly a little surprised. The last time I was here, she sent me away for bringing a “criminal element” under her roof. I’m hoping things go at least a little bit better this time.

 

I go inside and sit on the sofa in the living room. My mother shuts the door behind me and comes to sit in a chair opposite me. We sit in awkward silence for what feels like hours but, in reality, is just a minute or two.

 

“So,” she finally says, “you’ve got something to say to me?”

 

“Mom,” I begin, “I want to talk to you about—”

 

“Still living your life of crime, I see. Thomas, I don’t know where I went wrong with you, but this is… intolerable. I brought you up better than this. I brought you up to be more than this.”

 

I hold up a hand, partly in defense, and partly to get her to shut the fuck up. “Mom, I didn’t come here to talk about how I live my life. I want to talk to you about a woman I know.”

 

“A woman?” she asks, immediately more interested. “Is this one of the biker whores you bring back to that shack you call an apartment?”

 

I shake my head. “Mom, listen to me, would ya?” I insist. “There’s this girl I’ve been… well, kinda-sorta seeing…”

 

“What the hell does ‘kinda-sorta seeing’ mean? You’ve been sleeping with her?”

 

I groan. “Mom.”

 

“Well am I wrong?” she asks, an air of superiority in her voice.

 

I look down at my boots. “No, Mom, you’re not wrong. But this girl is different. She’s not a part of the MC – the motorcycle club – or some groupie or some crap like that. She’s a nice girl.”

 

“What would a nice girl want with the likes of you?” she asks, her voice still haughty.

 

“I don’t know,” I admit, “but I know that she likes me. And she’s way overstressed. She’s trying to balance work with taking care of her mom, who’s sick and needs hospice.”

 

“And you’re here to what? Ask me for money?”

 

“What?” I ask, bewildered. “No, Mom, I’ve got money, and she never asked for any anyway. No, I’m wondering if you would consider helping her out by taking over her mom’s hospice care.”

 

“I – what?”

 

Now I had her. Something in her voice had changed. She sounded softer, more intrigued, and less angry at me over things that had happened years back. Now, suddenly, she wasn’t a dejected mother; she was a nurse again, and she was seeing her opportunity to practice what she knew.

 

“Look, Mom, I’ll level with you, okay? I like this girl. I like her a lot. And I’m not changing my life or anything, but she’s the kind of girl that could be, y’know, a long-term thing. She’s sweet, and she’s beautiful, and she needs a break. I want to take her out. But I can’t do that if she’s got to take care of her mom after working double shifts all week. So, I’m hoping you’ll do me this favor. It would give you the chance to be a nurse again…”

 

I know this will get her going. Ever since the hospital forced her into early retirement a couple of years back, my mom has been pining for a chance to use her nursing skills. She absolutely loved being a nurse, probably more than anything else in this world, up to and including me. Giving her the chance to be one again was almost certainly more than she could pass up.

 

“So, you need a babysitter for a date,” my mom says sardonically, frowning. “Thomas, I – I just don’t know if I’m comfortable doing this for you. At least, not given what you’re currently doing.”

 

“Mom, please.” I’m practically begging her at this point, hoping she can see past her anger and be the helpful, practical woman I know her to be.

 

She sits in another long silence, thinking. Finally, she closes her eyes and shakes her head, which dampens my spirits. Then, to my utter shock, she says, “What – what time would I have to be there?”

 

A few hours later, I’m sitting on my bike outside Erin’s house. My mom showed up early at four o’clock to meet Erin and her mom, which I wasn’t expecting – and which explains why I wasn’t there. Instead of Erin coming down the steps now, though, it’s my mom. She has a furious look on her face. I’m wondering if I’m late or something, so I check my watch. Nope, six o’clock on the dot.

 

“And where have you been, mister?” my mom demands.

 

“We – we said six, mom,” I say, on the defensive.

 

“I mean, what kinds of bad dealings have you gotten up to today?” When I don’t respond, she continues, “Now, you listen to me, Thomas, and you listen good. These are nice people. Erin is a very nice girl. I like her a lot. Which makes me suspicious as to why she’s interested in you. But I’ll tell you once and for all, you had better treat this young woman with the respect she deserves, or you’ll be answering to me. You got it?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, nodding in agreement.

 

Wow. I didn’t expect my mom to get so invested so quickly. I also would’ve hoped she’d see my side of things. But that never really happens. At any rate, as soon as my mother is back inside, Erin runs out, looking gorgeous in those same leather pants and a red top. She looks gorgeous.

 

We go to a little restaurant I know that’s friendly to the freaks of the world, where they don’t give a shit that I’m in leather or driving up on a motorcycle. It’s just a little diner, but it’s kind of funky, with a bunch of mismatched tables and chairs, some hanging Christmas lights, and a killer jukebox.

 

We walk in, and nobody seems to give us much notice. I like it that way. The hostess seats us at a table for two, and Erin immediately looks down at her menu.

 

“You want a drink first?” I ask her.

 

“Honestly?” She laughs. “I was thinking about getting a milkshake.”

 

“A milkshake? What? Are you five or something?”

 

“Shut up,” she says playfully. “I like milkshakes. And I don’t really drink all that much, honestly.”

 

“Well, I’m getting a beer…” I venture.

 

“You go ahead and do that then.”

 

I love the way she phrases things, so sweet, but with a little bite to it.

 

We order our drinks, and we get into some good conversation, such as whether or not the burgers here are good (they are) and what good toppings are. But I have to keep reminding myself, as social as this “date” is – and it is social – I’m hoping to get some info out of this girl. I begin veering towards the subject.

 

“So, the night we met,” I start by saying, “you told me you had met Marcelo, is that right?”

 

“The guy from the Red Club,” she recalls. “Yeah. He was nice. Why? Is he a friend of yours?”

 

“I already told you, he’s most definitely not.”

 

“Right, right. You said he was – what was the phrase? ‘Grooming’ me?”

 

“That’d be correct.”

 

“So how do you know Marcelo?”

 

“I don’t,” I say flatly.

 

“So what’s up with your interest in him?”

 

I debate how much to tell her. On the one hand, telling her everything is out of the question – she’ll start wondering what I do, and if I tell her, there could be consequences. On the other hand, I have to tell her something about Marcelo’s history, or else I could find myself without my top informant. Plus, she can probably introduce me to the friend who dated Marcelo, right?

 

So, I tell her just as much as is pertinent to the situation: “He screwed over some friends of mine. Left them high and dry.”

 

“What did he do?”

 

“I can’t really get into that,” I say icily. “What I can tell you is that Marcelo is bad news.”

 

“Well yeah.” She snorts a bit of a laugh. “I could’ve told you that. I met him while I was auctioning off my virginity.”

 

“Exactly,” I agree. “The kind of guy who’d be into that is clearly some kind of sociopath, y’know?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“So, what else do you know about him?”

 

“Not much, to be honest. He dated my friend Monica, he’s in a motorcycle gang, and he auctions off girls’ virginities. Yeah, that’s pretty much all I know. But he seemed so nice.”

 

“He has a way of doing that to people,” I tell her as I finish the last of my burger. “Listen: I’m really looking to take his ass down a peg. I can’t, though, because of some circumstances I can’t get into.”

 

“And you want my help, is that it?”

 

“How’d you know?”

 

“It’s been obvious for a while now. You clearly hate this guy Marcelo. He was kind to me, Slash. But look – I owe you one for getting my mom a new nurse. I haven’t been out like this in a while. So, the answer is yes. Yes, I am willing to help you out.”

 

“I really appreciate it,” I tell her. “Now, let’s forget some of this stuff for a while. How about we do something you want to do.”

 

“Anything?” she asks with a grin.

 

“Name it.”

 

Ten minutes later, we’re back on my bike, and she’s screaming out in joy as we careen through the streets. What she wanted wasn’t to go to a movie or dancing or anything – she just wanted the release of being on a bike. I can relate – it’s what I like best about riding, too: the freedom it gives you.

 

We ride around for almost an hour, going all over town and back again. When we finally get back to her house, it’s about ten o’clock – early, as far as I’m concerned, but clearly late for her. She’s already a little bleary-eyed.

 

“Slash,” she says as I help her off the bike, “that was fantastic. I had a really good time with you.”

 

“I had a good time, too.”

 

“Look, I’d invite you in, but…”

 

“But, your mom is there, and my mom is there. And it’d get… awkward.”

 

“Something like that,” she says sadly.

 

Then she stands on her tiptoes and kisses me. At first, it’s just a peck on the mouth, but then she pushes it further, and before I know what’s happening, we’re like two teenagers making out on her doorstep. The passion she shows me tells me she wants more, and I’m willing to give it – but then she breaks the kiss.

 

“I’ll call you,” she says. “And I’ll see if I can talk to Marcelo.”

 

“I look forward to it.”

 

As she closes the door, I have a moment to reflect. It’s the first time I can ever remember ending a date without a lay and feeling even remotely satisfied. But with Erin, something is different. I want to stay with her. I enjoy spending time with her, just talking. It’s bizarre. Now all I have to do is take Marcelo down and keep Erin from finding out about my criminal background.

 

Easy peasy.