Josh

 

 

Opal was founded by uber-Christians over a hundred-and-seventy years ago. It turned into an important outpost in the Nevada desert, a place for travelers to stop and rest. Restock. Regroup after the savage trek across the country. Opal, small as it was, started booming almost immediately. But the founders had a stipulation about staying there – the town was dry, and it always would be.

That prohibition law has been challenged every few years since the seventies, but any measures to end it are always voted down. The older generation isn’t big on change. Or booze. Or fun. It’s a little like Footloose but with a shittier soundtrack.

It’s also a rough gig for a biker gang. Without beer, weed, and women, where would they be? Unemployed, probably, but The Devil’s Due are smarter than that. Instead of running to the biggest city in the area and competing with other gangs for territory and product, they bought property on the edge of town, outside the reach of the antiquated laws in Opal, and built themselves a bar. The only bar in a fifty-mile radius. They can’t sell bottles, there are no to-go orders, but with a college in town and alcoholism as the official Opal pastime, they do alright. Better than.

The exterior is black corrugated metal, the windows and door trimmed with shining stainless steel. A red neon sign hangs high over the entry, shouting, ‘1903’. Harlow explained to me once that it’s the year Harley Davidson was founded. Most people in town just refer to the place as The Three.

I scan the parking lot outside. It’s empty except for a few bikes lined up neatly in a row. At this hour the place will only have members of the club inside. No civilians.

“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask Harlow as she reaches for the handle on the heavy steel door.

“Yeah, of course. You’re cool. I can vouch for you.” She pauses, smiling at me playfully. “You are cool, aren’t you, Josh?”

I grin. “Me? I’m arctic, baby.”

Harlow laughs as she yanks the door open. I lean in to grab the outer edge, taking on the brunt of the weight to hold it for her. I’m close; too close for comfort. So close I can smell her perfume and her shampoo. Her deodorant, her detergent, and that something else. That singular something that’s animal in both of us; the scent in her and the man in me who can smell it. Call it pheromones or hormones or whatever you want, but it’s the smell of Harlow. The scent under all that other store-bought, manufactured shit trying to get in the way. It’s her skin and her breath. Her warmth and the beat of her heart. It makes the hair on my arms rise up, like I’m standing in the middle of an electrical storm.

Am I pissed at her for fucking me and leaving me three years ago? Easy answer is yes, but easy isn’t everything. It’s been a long time. I had a lot of questions for a lot of years, but I’m out of them now. I’m over them. I’m surprised and kind of relieved to find I can stand here next to her, talking and laughing, and I don’t feel completely gutted by her. Two years ago, I would have been a wreck. But tonight, I’m exactly what I promised her I would be – arctic.

Numb.

It’s warm inside, a big contrast to the September chill rolling in outside. I doubt they’d turn the heaters on this time of year, so odds are the warmth is left over from a night of business lingering in the air with the scent of cigarettes, sweat, and Schlitz’s. The only lights in the place are the neons burning from every wall, the old ones giving off a constant, faint hum. Though I can barely hear it over the laughter at the other end of the room.

I don’t care who you are or how badass you imagine yourself to be – when you walk uninvited into a biker bar in the middle of the night and spot a mass of leather, tattoos, and cold, hard steel looming in front of you, your butt will pucker. Just a little bit. Just enough for your sphincter to send a clear message – be on your best fuckin’ behavior.

“Boys! Refreshments have arrived!” Harlow calls to them triumphantly, her arms raised over her head. Her shirt rising up almost to her rib cage.

I’m not the only one who sees it. Almost every eye in the place rakes her over at least once, smiles of appreciation for either the snacks or her abs. Probably both. Either way, the men look hungry.

Then they see me, lurking in the shadows behind her.

Now they look angry.

A guy with a shaved head and arms bigger than my legs stands up, nodding at me with narrowed eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”

I stop dead in my tracks.

“Don’t worry. He’s with me,” Harlow promises calmly. She waves to me, calling me forward. “Guys, this is Josh. We grew up together. He was my neighbor back in the day.”

“What’s he doing here, Harley? Club’s closed.”

“He carried your shit for me, Hyde, but I can tell him to go if you’re going to be a dick about it. He’ll take your peanut butter with him.”

The guy’s face softens immediately, a wicked grin appearing under his heavy beard. “If he’s got my PB, he can stay all night.”

Harlow chuckles as she takes my backpack from me. She walks it to the bar, carelessly dumping its contents on the dark oak surface. The men at the table stand in unison, hurrying over to snag what they want.

One guy hangs back, slouching casually in his chair. He’s a shadow in motion; deeply tan skin, black hair, and even darker eyes. Penetrating, watchful eyes. The cut of his jaw is the stuff they write chick flicks about. The kind that gets a gorgeous girl like Harlow to ride the back of his bike, leaving everyone and everything else behind.

He waves to me with two fingers. “S’up, Stratford.”

“Hey, Devo,” I reply with a jut of my chin, my hands sliding slowly into my pockets. My fingers knotting into fists. “How are you doin’?”

“I’m losing my shirt,” he jokes, holding up his hand of cards.

I chuckle sympathetically. “That’s rough, man.”

“You want us to deal you in?”

“Nah, thanks. I don’t have a shirt to spare.”

“Now that’s rough. College must clean you out, huh?”

“It’s not cheap,” I agree vaguely.

One of the guys at the bar turns toward me. He’s about my size, maybe a little bigger. He has short blond hair, blue eyes, a day’s worth of scruff on his face, and a mouth full of Funions. “You go to the college?” he asks, his voice hinting at a southern accent.

“This is my third year, yeah.”

“You don’t look like a college kid.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I laugh.

The guy grins his approval. He wipes his hand on his jeans before offering it to me. “Raw. Nice to meet you, man.”

“Josh.” I shake his hand. His grip is strong, his palm surprisingly soft for a guy with sleeves tattooed on both arms and FUCK across his knuckles. “Is Raw short for something?”

“Raleigh, North Carolina. It’s where I’m from.”

“You’re a southern boy.”

He grins crookedly. “Only when I need to be.”

I don’t know exactly what that means, but I’ve got a pretty good idea. I’m sure a lot of girls in this town do too.

Raw gestures over his shoulder to Devo. “Looks like you already know Devo.”

“We went to high school together. He was a senior when me and Harlow were sophomores.”

“Is that when he started banging her or did he wait until she was legal?”

“You break every law in the state for a girl like Harley,” Devo answers absently.

“And commit a few federal offenses while you’re at it.” Raw points to the bar where the rest of the guys are drinking and eating. “That clean cut motherfucker over there is Skeeze.”

A guy about Devo’s age with a bag of M&Ms in his hand nods to me. “S’up.”

“What’s up.”

“Don’t be fooled, brother,” Raw warns me. “He looks normal but it’s bullshit. Dude’s a pervert.”

“Fuck you, Raw!” he shouts indignantly.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Skeeze?”

Skeeze pelts Raw in the back of the head with a red candy shell. Raw laughs, rubbing his skull.

“If you like a girl, don’t leave her alone with Skeeze,” Harlow adds. She comes out from behind the bar to stand next to Devo. “You’ll never see her again.”

“Is he gonna kill her?”

Harlow smiles. “We’ll never know.”

Devo chuckles quietly, running his hand up and down the back of her leg. His fingers are long, reaching around to the inside of her thigh, brushing against her crotch with every stroke. It bothers me more than it should. I have to tell myself to look away, and when I do, I see that no one else is bothered by it at all. Even Harlow looks unaffected.

“If you’re all done flirting with the new guy, can we get back to playing poker?” a man asks from behind the bar.

He’s tall. Freaky tall. Six-six at least. He’s built like a mountain, his eyes set small and hard in his face. Tattoos reach up his neck out of his shirt, stopping just shy of his jaw line. His head is bald, his mouth a frown framed by an impressive beard.

I’m not a small guy. I lift six days a week and I’d say I’m just as cut as pretty much everyone else in this room, but if I met this dude in a dark alley, I’d shit myself and pray for Jesus to take the fuckin’ wheel to get me out of there.

Raw waves to him, pacifying the beast. “Yeah, Kill, we can play.”

I’m definitely not asking where that nickname came from.

The guys gather around the table again. I brace myself, waiting for Harlow to kiss Devo before she heads back to the bar, but he gives her a solid grope on the ass before sending her on her way.

Turns out, that’s not much better than watching them kiss. It’s worse in a lot of ways.

I follow Harlow to the bar, taking a seat across the oak from her.

“You want a beer?” she asks me briskly, falling into bartender mode. She moves fluidly around the narrow space, grabbing glasses and bottles, seemingly at random.

“Nah, I’m good.”

Harlow pauses with a bottle in each hand. Her eyes looking at me from under her thick, darkened lashes. “You know where you are, right?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Then you better have a drink.”

“I told you, I’m not much of a drinker.”

“Yeah, well, they are,” she cautions me, jutting her chin toward the table behind me. She takes one of the glasses and positions it under the tap for an IPA I’ve never heard of. It fills quickly with golden liquid and bubbling foam. “Nurse it while you’re here because if you don’t drink that, they’ll suck you into tequila in about ten minutes.”

I take the glass she offers me. My fingers accidentally touch hers, sending a slow burn like whiskey down into my gut. I’m immediately buzzing from it, drunk before the alcohol touches my lips.

When it comes to booze and Harlow, I’m a fuckin’ lightweight.

“Who are the rest of the guys?” I ask, taking a sip of the beer. I’m surprised by how good it is. How smooth. She gave me the good stuff.

Harlow glances behind me, her hands already busy fixing another drink. “The one with peanut butter, that’s Hyde. As in Dr. Jekyll and. He’s cool for the most part, but he’s got a temper on him. Totally flips his shit. Goes dead eyed and everything. You don’t want to be on the receiving end when he flips the switch.”

“What about Kill? Does he have a switch I should watch out for?”

She smiles down at the blue potion she’s concocting. It looks like an AMF; a whole lot of everything. “It’s a nickname, but not for the reason you’d think. It’s short for Killian. His dad was Irish.”

“Are you sure his dad wasn’t a Titan?”

“Easy, Professor. Not all of us are studying Greek mythology this semester.”

“And you still knew what I was talking about.”

“Well, I’m smart as shit,” she replies sarcastically.

“I’ve always thought so.”

She chuckles silently, her chest rising and falling with the sharp breath. It draws me in in ways it shouldn’t, especially with Devo and his boys sitting a few feet away. Still, I can’t take my eyes off her. I never could. Not from her body that makes me thank every god there is that I’m a man. Not from her face that reminds me of the kid with dirt under her nails and sunlight in her hair. Definitely not from the girl I swore I’d protect with every breath I had until the day I died.

Harlow’s dad never hit her. That wasn’t his style. But he beat her down just the same. He tried to break her. Tried to tell her she was nothing. Her mom walked away when she was a baby and he wanted to make sure Harlow never did the same, so he spent years telling her how ugly, stupid, and insignificant she was. He shut her up in unlocked closets and told her she couldn’t leave, his hold on her reality so strong, she believed it. She’d sit for hours inside those cramped, black rooms, waiting to be released from a prison that existed only in her mind. She was a bird without a cage held in by imaginary bars, her power stripped from her inside and out.

I’ve always wanted a shot at her dad. I’d gladly go to jail for the chance to beat that fucker blind because that’s what he did to her; he blinded her. He made her believe she’s nothing when any fool can take one look at her, hold one conversation with her, and he’d know in an instant that Harlow is absolutely everything.

I take another sip of my beer, scanning the dark corners of the room. They’re empty. “Where’s the old guy? The leader?”

“President,” Harlow corrects mechanically. “He’s home with his wife.”

“You mean he’s home with his old lady.”

She smiles, glaring at me over the bar. “Well, don’t you just know everything?”

“That’s it. That’s all I know and I got that from watching an episode of Law and Order.”

“Quite the rounded education you’re getting, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I’m paying for.”

She hesitates, stretching a rag between her hands until it creaks in protest. “How’s that going? Really?”

“How’s what going?”

“Two pair, bitches!” Raw shouts loudly.

I look in the mirror behind Harlow to find him standing triumphantly, his arms over his head. The other men groan as they throw their cards on the table in disgust.

I watch until Raw has taken his winnings. He sits down, happily counting his chips piled high in front him like a wall.

“You know what,” Harlow insists quietly.

I can feel her watching me. Waiting for me.

I sigh, thinking about lying to her. It makes me sick, but I’ve gotten good at it. I do it a lot, with everyone. But this is Harlow. I won’t lie to her. Not to her and not to Pops because they’re the only people on this wrecking ball of a planet that don’t lie to me. About anything.

“It’s not great,” I admit, my voice low. Muted. “Things are tight.”

“How tight?”

“Like a goddamn noose on my neck.”

Her face doesn’t change. She doesn’t give me a pitying look or offer condolences. She only nods, her mouth a grim line. “Between school and the house and the home for Pops…”

“There’s nothing left. Not a dime.”

“How are you getting by?”

I lift my glass, hiding behind it. I won’t lie to her, but I won’t bleed in front of her either. “I’ve got ways. Odd jobs.”

“If you ever need any—”

“What is this?” I ask her, lifting my beer. “It’s good. I’ve never had it before.”

She frowns as she rocks back on her heels, appraising me. “It’s a microbrew.”

“Local?”

“About a hundred yards from here, so, yeah, pretty local.”

“You guys make it here at the club?”

“Skeeze does. He has a vat and everything out back. He loves this shit.”

I squint at the handle she pulled it from. “What’s it called?”

“Tillicum Ale.” Harlow grabs a napkin and a pen, scrawling the name across it in her tight, stunted handwriting. “It’s a spot in Oregon he came across on a run two years ago. He wouldn’t stop saying the name after he got back. He was obsessed, and I’ll give you three guesses why.”

She slices the word into three pieces with quick, harsh lines. What’s left makes Skeeze’s love affair with the name obvious.

“Till I cum,” I read aloud, snickering. “Seriously? That’s what he named his beer?”

Harlow smiles, wadding up the napkin and tossing it in the bin behind her. “That’s Skeeze.”

“His marketing choices are shit, but his beer is good.”

“Yeah. It’s Bear’s favorite.”

“Bear’s the President, right?”

“You mean ‘the old guy’?”

I smile. “Don’t tell him I called him an old man.”

“Why not? You scared?”

“Terrified,” I exaggerate.

“You shouldn’t be. He’s a Teddy.”

“Yeah, to you, probably.”

Harlow shrugs, a smug grin on her lips. “Actually, yeah. He’s always been sweet to me.”

“Only an idiot wouldn’t be.” I down the last of my beer as the guys break out into another roar of anger. Raw has taken another hand. “I gotta get going. Thanks for the beer.”

I go to pull my wallet out of my pocket, but Harlow catches my eye sharply. “Don’t insult me. It’s on the house.”

“I’m not paying for the beer. I’m tipping my bartender.”

“Josh.”

“Harlow.”

“No.”

I slide a five across the bar, my eyes holding hers. Asking her to take the money and let me keep my balls and just a small slice of my pride. “Yes.”

Her lips form that line again – the hard one. The one you don’t mess with.

Finally, her long, slender fingers take hold of the edge of the worn out bill. She tugs it free of my hand in one swift yank before folding it into a square. A square that she slides inside her bra, tucked in tight against her breast.

“Fine,” she concedes casually. “Have it your way, Stratford.”

If I had things my way, I’d have her up against that mirror right now. I’d have that shirt off her body, her bra off her chest, and that five fluttering to the ground as I take her mouth with mine. I’d be between those long legs. I’d have my fingers in her hair. I’d have her moans on my tongue and they’d taste like candy. Like cinnamon.

But as it is, Devo has her locked down tight, I’m in a room full of men who’d kill me before I got a kiss, and I have a hard-on that I have no business sporting.

I haven’t seen Harlow in years, but it feels just like old times; wanting what I can’t have.

I grab my backpack off the bar, slinging it over my shoulder as I surreptitiously adjust my pants to cover my bulge. I cast a grin to Harlow as I knock my knuckles on the bar. “Good to see you. Thanks for the drink and the walk.”

“Yeah, you too. Come by some night and get a real drink from me, okay?”

“Sure. Yeah.” I raise my arm high, waving to the guys at the table. “Thanks for letting me come by!”

“Anytime, brother!” Raw calls back.

The other guys mutter under their breath, their eyes on their cards.

Everyone but Devo. He watches me walk away without a word.