Monk by Ivy Black
Chapter Eight
Monk
After running a brush through my hair, I tie it back into a ponytail that falls just below my shoulders, then give my beard a quick trim. The tick-tick-tick of nails on the hardwood floor draws my attention. I turn around to find my dog Bo sitting in the bathroom doorway, his tongue flopping out of his mouth, looking at me hopefully.
“Sorry, Bo, not today,” I tell him.
He lets out a low grumbling noise, then walks back into the bedroom and jumps up on the bed, turning in a circle a few times before settling down on the comforter. I give the big Brindle Pitbull a scratch behind the ears as I walk through the bedroom. Hanging my towel on the closet door, I throw on some boxers, blue jeans, and a black t-shirt. Over that, I pull on a flannel button-up, and roll the sleeves up to the elbows. After getting my boots on, I throw on my kutte, then give Bo another scratch before walking down to the kitchen.
As I open up his can of food, I hear the thump of Bo jumping down off the bed, followed by the sound of his wild sprint to the kitchen.
“Lunch is served, man,” I say as I set the bowl of food down in front of him.
He digs in with gusto as I make sure the doggy door that leads to his run is open, then check that the rest of the doors and windows are locked before I leave the house. I catch some of my neighbors openly glaring at me—a biker isn’t exactly a welcome addition to the neighborhood. But screw ’em. I don’t really give a damn what they think about me. I’m quiet, clean, and I keep to myself.
Climbing onto my bike, I start it up, the throaty rumble of the engine echoing down the street. I give it some throttle, revving it up just to annoy my neighbors a little more. I put my helmet on, then my sunglasses, and drop my bike into gear and pull out. Ginning the engine to make it even louder, I shoot down the street, leaving the assholes and their judgmental bullshit behind me.
The streets aren’t overly busy as I wend my way through town. But then, I guess they never are. Blue Rock is a sleepy town, which is one of the things I like most about it. A quick glance at my gas gauge shows that I need to fill up, so I cut down River Street and make my way to the local Chevron. Pulling up to the pump, I cut the engine, then quickly start gassing up my bike. I notice a couple of twenty-somethings sitting on the tailgate of their truck talking and laughing with one another, both of them cutting surreptitious glances my way.
After filling my tank, I put the cap back on and head into the convenience market. I buy a couple of packs of cigarettes and a few sodas to take with me, then head back out. The two twenty-somethings are laughing, their eyes still on me, and though I can’t make out everything they’re saying, I hear the words, “loser”, and “biker trash”, and that’s enough for me.
These guys either aren’t very smart, or their parents have never told them to steer clear of the Pharaohs. Given how much the people around here like to talk about us, I’m going to assume it’s the former. Some people just seem to need to burn their hand on the stove before believing when somebody says it’s hot. Young punks like these two seem to fit that category: not old enough to have the wisdom life teaches you, and young enough to still think themselves immortal.
Stuffing my purchases into my saddlebag, I turn back and head straight over to the two men. With every step I take, the anger simmering within draws closer to the surface, a river of fiery rage flowing through my veins. They both sit up, looking startled when I stop a couple of feet away, my eyes narrowed, boring holes into them. They both swallow hard, almost in unison, their eyes flicking one way and then the other, as if they’re looking for a way out.
Dressed in designer clothes meant to look distressed—poverty chic, I’ve heard it called—with three-hundred-dollar pairs of shoes on their feet, they’re nothing more than a couple of punk rich boys. They’re the sort who think they run the world and can do whatever the fuck they want without consequence or regard for anybody else.
One’s got long, shaggy blond hair and blue eyes, while the other’s got dark hair and eyes, and both have the golden skin most surfers do. They’re tall, lean, and in decent shape, though neither one of them looks like they’ve ever been in an actual fight before. They don’t have that edge fighters have. The fear in their eyes is obvious. I can practically smell it.
“Got something you want to say?” I ask.
They cut a glance at each other and shift on the tailgate nervously. “N-no, man. We don’t have anything to say,” the blond youth says.
“No? Sure sounded like you had something you wanted to get off your fuckin’ chests a minute ago,” I sneer, leaning closer to them.
The dark-haired one jumps off the tailgate and steps over to me. He clenches his jaw, staring me in the eye, doing his best to look hard. My hands ball into fists at my sides and I clench my jaw.
“You got a problem?” I warned.
“Yeah, maybe I just don’t like guys who act tough but are giant pussies underneath it all.”
A feral expression forms on my face. “You really want to do this?”
“Do you?”
“Derrick,” the blond kid whispers. “Dude. Leave it alone.”
“You should take your boy’s advice,” I tell him.
The dark-haired kid—Derrick—flashes the blond his perfect set of teeth. “Don’t worry, dude. I got this.”
“You think so, huh?” I say with a mocking tone.
“Yeah, or maybe I just don’t like havin’ fuckin’ trash like you in my town.”
I shoot him a menacing look. “That’s cute. Hear your mommy and daddy say that at Sunday dinner, did you?”
“Man, shut the fuck up.”
“Derrick, dude—”
“I said I got this,” he snaps at his friend.
I’m doing my best to keep this from getting out of hand, but this punk isn’t making it easy. All I want is to put him in his place. Teach him to watch his mouth unless he can back his shit up. He poses like a tough guy, but underneath it all, I can see his uncertainty. He knows he’s committed himself to this path and probably doesn’t feel like he can back down now for fear of looking like the chump he is in front of his boy.
None of that does anything to quell the anger coursing through my veins at the moment. I don’t like people talking trash to begin with. But I hate it even more when it’s punks like these dudes think they’re better than me. Dudes who look down their nose at me just because I wasn’t born into the right family. Don’t live in a big house or have a lot of money. Don’t have two parents who give me every advantage like these douchebags, who’ve been handed everything in their lives on a silver fucking platter.
I’ve dealt with assclowns like them my whole life, and I can’t possibly be more sick of them. They never fail to piss me off.
“You should watch your mouth,” I tell him. “If you’re gonna talk trash about somebody who can—and will—kick your ass, you should probably wait until they’re out of earshot.”
He gives me a sour look and bows up, trying to make himself look bigger than he is. He glowers at me as if he thinks he can intimidate me or something.
“You don’t want to do this,” I tell him.
“You should get out of here, dude. This is a good town with good people. There’s no place for garbage like you in Blue Rock Bay,” he hisses.
“You’re on real thin ice here,” I tell him.
“Fuck you, trash.”
If I clench my fists any tighter, I think my knuckles might split open, and my jaw is clenched so tight, I can probably shatter stone. I hear my heartbeat thundering in my ears, and my face is so hot, I feel like it might burst into flames. I’m doing my best to hold it in, to keep myself in check, just like my anger management counselor has taught me to do.
But I feel my control starting to slip. It feels like I’m hanging onto a ledge by my fingertips—but the ledge is wet, and my arms are getting heavy. A red haze starts to creep in at the edges of my vision and my pulse is racing.
“Get out of my face,” I tell Derrick, my voice hoarse and low.
“Yeah, you know what? I don’t think you’re nearly as tough as you think you are. That’s why you haven’t thrown hands yet,” the dark-haired man says. “I think you’re all talk and this is all just this biker outlaw image. All style and no sub—”
His breath is cut off with a loud “oomph” as I drive my fist into his stomach. Derrick doubles over, clutching his stomach with both hands, making a loud, wheezing noise. The blond starts to move but freezes in his tracks when I turn and glare at him. He swallows hard, his eyes darting between me and his friend, and back again.
“Don’t you fuckin’ move or I will break your goddamn neck,” I say.
The guy obviously believes me as he scoots back to where he’s been sitting before, staring at me with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open in a perfect “O”. Turning back to Derrick, I reach down and grab a fistful of his hair and pull his head up, forcing him to look me in the eye.
“You had enough?” I ask.
His face twists into a snarl and he launches himself at me. It’s the swing of somebody who doesn’t know how to fight. It’s clumsy, throws him off balance, and easy to avoid. The combat training that I received in the military kicks in instinctively and I turn Derrick’s punch aside, using his momentum against him and sending him sprawling face first to the pavement.
He hits the ground with a thud but quickly gets back on, his feet, his face a mask of rage. Derrick lunges at me, throwing a wild haymaker that I sidestep easily. I drive a hard punch into his kidney, and he staggers, dropping to a knee with a groan. I step up behind him and deliver a kick to the ass, launching him onto his face again.
“Stay down,” I hiss.
The people at the pumps and just outside the doors of the convenience store are standing there, looking at us. I know I’ve crossed the line—yet again—and if it gets back to Prophet and the club, I’ll be in deep shit. But at the moment, I can’t bring myself to care. I’m not going to let myself be disrespected by little assholes like these. Turning away from them, I turn my back to the two punks.
Derrick has managed to turn himself over and is kneeling, his hand pressed to his kidney, his face a rictus of pain.
“Do I have your attention?” I ask.
They both nod at me reluctantly, the blond looking beyond terrified. Derrick, on the other hand, is glaring at me. When I focus in on him, I narrow my eyes and give him the hardest look. Defiance fades from Derrick’s eyes and he lowers his gaze to the ground.
“You fucking clowns need to watch your mouth. You’re not half as bad as you think you are. Shit, you’re not even a fraction as bad as you think you are. Next time you think of talking shit, you had best think twice. Do you understand me?”
They both continue looking away, looking at anything but me. Neither of them speaks. They both sit where they are in heavy silence.
“I can’t hear you?” I hiss. “I said, do you understand me?”
They both nod but can’t seem to bring themselves to actually answer me. It’s the best I’m going to get out of them, so I give them one last look.
“And stop being such little bitches,” I snap.
Walking back to my bike, I can feel all eyes on me and sense the weight of their disapproval. I shrug it all off as I saddle up and start my bike, then roar out of the gas station, willing myself to calm down before I get to the church.
