Chapter 20
Silas
I come out of my office to greet her right at dusk. She's wearing the new dress that Brother Owen suggested and a pair of short, white boots that she must have picked out especially for the occasion.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, and I mean it.
She looks up at me with those big eyes, her lips set in a grim, brave little smile. She's such a good soldier. She’s willing to do anything for us. Anything for me, I suddenly realize.
Remorse slices through me like a dart. Am I doing the right thing?
Yes. I'm doing the right thing. I can't let my attachment to this one person overshadow my duty to everyone.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” I tell her.
“Surprise for me?” she echoes faintly.
“Yes,” I nod. “I'll bet you've never been on a motorcycle before.”
She is stunned, and I like that. Her pink lips form a perfect little O. I'm excited to show it to her. I reach out to take her by the hand and tug her toward one of the pole barns at the back of the compound. It's where we keep the tractors we use for the big field on the south end.
“I’ve never been here before,” she breathes as I slide open the big door. It's not like the barns we gather in. This one is just for work. It's filthy in here, stinking of diesel and dry rot.
“Course you haven’t,” I answer. “This is men's work. You would never have had reason to be in here. But look at this.”
I go into the back corner, to a tarp thrown loosely over something beneath it. I reach out to grab a corner, but look back so that I can see her face when I pull the tarp down.
She doesn't disappoint. Her eyes get wider, her smile creeps into her cheeks and dimples them two, three times.
“Wow,” she breathes, slowly letting her breath fill the air. I catch a whiff of soap, that sweet, innocent smell.
“You like it?” I ask her, looking over the 1982 Indian with fondness. My dad’s bike. Well, it was his, and then it just sort of fell to me eventually. It's almost like a family member.
“Is beautiful,” she sighs. “And the other one?”
“That's mine,” Owen says, coming up behind us. He hands her a helmet.
“Put this on. It will feel kind of weird, but it's worth it. Keep you safe.”
She does it and stands there looking awkward and alien for a few seconds, grinning broadly. She seems to be just enjoying herself, like maybe she's forgotten what's about to happen.
I roll the Indian out of the barn, and she follows behind.
“Okay, I am going to get it started. And when I tell you to, you to put your left foot on this peg here, then swing your other leg around behind, you got that?”
She nods, the helmet bobbling up and down. I get the bike started and she gathers her dress up over her thighs, almost to the edge of her panties. My cock jumps in my pants, and I briefly wonder if I've got enough time to just spend one more minute with her. Just once more.
But there's no time.
After I nod to her, she climbs on the bike just like I told her, like she’s done it a hundred times.
“Okay,” I say loudly, over the noise of the muffler. “You just wrap your arms around me and hang on, okay? You just do what I do. Don't lean away from me when we turn, either. Just trust me and do what I do, okay?”
“Okay!” she yells.
“It's going to be scary. You’re gonna love it!”
Owen rides ahead of us on the dark roads, his headlight cutting out a triangular swath of the dusty, country roads. It's almost pitch black out here. Every once in a while I see movement along the ditches as raccoons and other things scurry away from all the noise we’re making.
All too soon, I can see the lights of the roadhouse up ahead. We roll in, swinging around to the back side and parking the bikes near the service door. When I cut off the engine, she climbs down, still smiling broadly. She pulls the helmet off and her hair flies up and covers her face.
“That was wonderful!” she exclaims. “My legs are still all shaky!”
Owen glances at me knowingly and jerks his chin toward the parking lot.
“There's an awful lot of cars here,” I suggest to him. “Did you have something to do with this?”
He shrugs. “I just made a few phone calls. Nothing unusual. Word gets around. You know.”
Word gets around. I turn the phrase over in my mind.
It must have gotten around quite a bit. We enter discreetly through the back door, taking the measure of the situation inside. Brother Owen goes first, with Angel discreetly sandwiched between us. I don’t want this all landing on her all at once. She's never been in a bar. She's never experienced this kind of outrageous music. She's never seen people drunk and smoking and grabbing each other's asses and all the other crap these people get down to.
And here I am, leading her right into the middle of it.
The room is large, lit in all different colors of light bulbs that try to get through the fog of cigarette smoke in vain. The music is something stupid, some angry hard rock that makes people want to move their hips and do shots of Tequila.
As we turn around the corner, an older woman behind the bar slows the motion of her hand as she's wiping up some spill. She squints at us with poison in her gaze. Maybe that’s the lady I talked to on the phone.
She looks to be about sixty years old, wearing a halter top that's slung so low that one good shrug will reveal a nipple. She's also wearing teenager jeans with sparkles on the pockets and exposing about five inches of her midriff.
An older guy in a backwards baseball cap cuts us off, planting his feet about shoulder width apart and crossing his arms. He lowers his chin and glares at Owen.
“Evening, Dustin,” Owen smirks. “How about a couple of beers? Silas, you want a beer?”
“No.”
“Get Silas a beer too,” Owen continues without looking at me.
“What about her?” Dustin asks, chuckling and jerking his stubbly chin toward my Angel. “She drink too?”
“Course not,” Owen answers.
“Better not!” Dustin laughs, tipping his head back and laughing at the ceiling, exposing his blackened molars and the furry inside of his nose.
He waves toward the bartender with two fingers up, then changes that to three fingers. She rolls her eyes and bends over, exposing the pink line of the top of her thong.
“Well, now, aren't you pretty little thing?” Dustin drawls as he rakes his eyes over Angel. She presses back, leaning into me like a baby deer or something. “You best get her onstage for people. Folks are gonna want to take a look at what they're throwing their good money at.”
“Stage?” Owen asks as the bartender shoves a beer bottle in his hand. He takes a long swig and I try to restrain my contempt for that. He shouldn't drink. Our dad was a drunk. It’s in our blood. It’s so easy to fall into that ditch, why would he risk it?
And I feel it too, that thirst. The smell of whisky and beer brings it all back. I remember what it was like. How good it felt to slake that deep, bottomless thirst. The first few drinks felt great, but only for a few minutes. After that the thirst will return, doubled in strength. You can never quite catch up, not for more than a moment. Chasing it felt like falling down a well.
“Stage? Yeah, change of plans,” Dustin shrugs, downing half the beer in one long series of gulps. “Seems like your little girl here already has some kinda fan club. You are gonna have to auction her off. I'll take 10%. And the bidders’ fees.”
“Bidders’ fee?” I repeat numbly. I just keep looking around, looking at all the men gazing at Angel with their mouths open like they've never seen anything like her. This is not what I thought was going to happen.
Dustin leads us through the crowd to the small stage in the corner, the kind where some crappy band could set up and yell out cover tunes for a few hours. A row of tables is clustered protectively in front of the stage, and a few men sit in wobbly stacking chairs. On the middle table is a pile of cash, some in rubber-banded bills, some crumpled and fluttering slightly as though licked by an invisible wind. On the top of the pile is a handgun. Vintage Colt 45, by the looks of it.
“Yeah, Artie decided to do his bidders’ fee in trade,” Dustin explains. “I don’t mind it. I’ve wanted that piece for a while. And if I’m not gonna get a piece of ass, I might as well get a piece, am I right??” He laughs with a snorting, sniggering sound. He’s pleased with himself.
“That's all the bidders’ fees? That's what you're keeping for yourself?”
Dustin shrugs. “Hey, it’s called free enterprise,” he sneers. “It's the goddamn American way. There's no way I'm ending up with any sweet little virgin pussy tonight, so I should get something, don't you think?”
I want to take her out of here. Rage is getting high in my belly, and I feel a red mist creeping around the edges my vision. More than anything, I'd like to kick Owen's teeth in. I can't believe he would allow things to happen this way.
“Get your sweet little ass on stage, sweet cheeks,” Dustin says, bending over at the waist and talking to Angel like she's four or something.
She looks up at me, so trusting, so fearful. Her hair falls around her cheeks in soft waves, lit blue by the light over her head. I hold my breath and nod to her.
With my permission, she takes a few steps forward, obviously wobbly on her feet now. On her white boots. She mounts the stage and stands in the middle, shading her eyes with one hand, blinking and teary-eyed from all the smoke in the room.
“Goddamn, Dustin,” Artie drawls, grinning wide enough to show he's only got teeth on one side. “You did good, goddamn.”
“I swear I didn't know this was going to happen,” Owen tells me, shifting to face me and pressing his shoulder against mine. “I never would've done this if I'd known. This isn’t right, Silas. It's just not right.”
“You're fucking right it isn’t,” I growl back. “What the fuck are we supposed to do now, Owen? What did you get us into?”
“Turn around, honey!” some fat guy with his shirt pulled halfway up his belly hollers at her. He strokes himself, edging his pudgy fingertips down toward the crotch of his light blue stretch pants.
“You think this is all right? Did you think any of this would make sense? Any of this would be worth her life? Seriously, Owen, I'm asking you. Is there any amount of money that would make this all right?”
Owen scrubs his hand across his face, gnawing the inside of his cheek fretfully. “Fuck, Silas, what are we going to do? This is out of control. It was gonna be a discreet transaction, he told me.”
“Does this look in any way discreet to you?” I snarl, jerking my chin toward the scrawny old geezer yelling out dollar amounts. “It’s indecent!”
“Nine thousand, two hundred!” Artie yells out. “And turn around, girly! We want to see your ass!”
“I get her ass too, right, Dustin?” The fat guy yells out. “I get the whole thing?”
“You buy it, you get to break it!” Dustin yells back, slapping his thigh like he’s said the funniest thing in the world.
“No,” Owen growls. “No, Silas. This is not all right.”
“That's what I thought,” I tell him. “I'm putting a stop to this.”
“Yeah,” he nods curtly.
I start to lead off, then double back so he understands.
“When we get out of here, Owen, don't follow us. You got that? You lead them off, take them wherever. The compound is yours. Papers are in the office somewhere. I don't give a shit. Don't follow us.”
His mouth opens as he meets my eyes. I can feel his shock, his unsaid objections. He wants to refuse, but he got us into this.
“Yeah,” he finally growls back, setting his lips in a grim line. He knows what I'm saying.
I catch Angel’s eye so she knows I'm coming. So she knows it'll be all right. Somehow she always seems to know what I'm thinking, and I know she understands it now.
With three steps to the left, I grab Dustin by the shoulder. He flinches toward me by surprise.
“Oh! Oh, fuck you, no!” he hollers.
Lifting my right heel, I bring it down hard on the outside of his knee. He goes down like a stack of canned goods, curling into a ball on the floor and yelling just like he did the last time.
The old guys jump out of their chairs, shouting and confused. I stride to the middle of the stage and grab Angel, throwing her over one shoulder. As I come back down the middle, I grab the Colt and the cash and stuff them both in my trousers.
Everybody's too surprised to do much of anything. For a bunch of hillbilly hard asses, they sure do know how to back up when a pissed-off holy man comes through the middle of their filthy hellhole of a bar.
Owen’s already got his bike running. He drops the helmet onto Angel's head and picks her up, puts her behind me. For a moment he hesitates like he wants to say something, but then he walks away.
We roar out of the parking lot, gravel spraying up behind us as Owen idles there, waiting for anybody who might want to give chase, making sure they don't catch us first.
Her arms are tight around my middle, and I feel her shaking against my back, sobbing probably, but safe.
Safe with me.