Heavy by Cate C. Wells

6

HEAVY

Dina will be fine on her own for a while. She ain’t goin’ anywhere. She’s committed to her little revenge fantasy, and judging from her expression in the lobby, she’s not gonna be keen on exploring.

I head back downstairs. I’ll check in with Forty, play a few spins of roulette. Can’t say I’m feeling lucky, but I needed to get out of that room. It was getting too close in there. The air was gettin’ to me.

Dina does not have the scent of a woman. Women smell like hairspray and perfume and fancy coffee, and if they’ve gotten a little ripe, they smell like pussy and sweat. I love how women smell. But Dina—

Best I can describe is she smells like outside. Wind. Sunshine. Musk. Like an early morning ride in spring, the dew and the chill and the bracing scent that gives you that rising, expansive feeling in your belly, the one you get when you’re all alone and the world is new. That illusion.

She’s not much to look at. Tiny titties. No meat. Her hair’s a pretty enough color, but it’s too short. Her lips don’t pout. Her legs are slender. Nice. But they don’t draw the eye.

I like tits and ass and swagger. I like a woman to toss her hair like a stripper. Long fingernails, tight skirts, everything hanging out. I like the shit that got the girls in trouble back in high school. Bellies, boobs, and butts. I’m a simple man. I appreciate simple things.

Dina ain’t simple. She’s not sexy. There’s no logical explanation for why it takes the entire elevator ride for my dick to deflate.

I don’t think about women. Unless, like Nevaeh Ellis, they’re a problem. And I sure as shit don’t ponder how Nevaeh smells. Probably like Jager bombs and bad decisions. Which reminds me. I dial Forty as I make my way across the vast lobby to the casino.

“Any news?” I ask when he answers. He’s panting hard.

“None.”

“You running a marathon?” He’s really out of breath.

“Naw. Choppin’ down a fence.”

I do a little math. “At one o’clock in the morning?”

“I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ else.”

Fair enough. “Maybe we need to go back to the drawing board. Come at Knocker from a different angle.”

There’s the crack of splitting wood. “I don’t know. Since we’ve been beating the bushes for the Raiders, they’ve been quiet. It’s a decent stop gap until we have a next move.”

“How’s Patonquin?”

“Fine. Charge ran up there earlier to check on things. No problems except the usual.”

“Cost overruns, lazy sons of bitches, and shoddy materials?”

“Check, check, and check.”

“I love construction.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ on demo work.” There’s another crack. “So you’re in Vegas?”

“Yeah. Harper caught you up to speed?”

“She did. Me and Pig Iron. You’re fuckin’ insane, man.”

“You think I should have called chaos?” That’s our code for an execution, a double tap to the back of the head. Chaos was a dude we caught spying for the Raiders way back in the day. As I recall, we buried him under a blue spruce.

“Hell, no!” His voice raises, incredulous. “What’s wrong with you? Give her back to Wall. Have him handle his damn sister. Chaos? Jesus Christ.”

I agree with him, but I argue—as a thought experiment. “She’s a liability.”

“The lifestyle is a liability. We don’t do that kind of shit.”

“She knows everything.”

“You think she’s gonna put a needle in her own brother’s arm? And that she’d come to us beforehand? Give us a heads up? It don’t make no sense, man. She’s got some kind of issues, right?”

“Autistic.” Probably Aspergers if that were still a diagnosis.

“Okay, autistic. And she’s what? Early twenties? Some kind of hacker genius who lives in her parent’s basement? And calling chaos is your first inclination? You’ve got to see how that’s all kinds of fucked up.”

“She’s a time bomb. If she’s nuts enough to come to us with this revenge scheme, she’s nuts enough to turn state’s evidence.”

“She’s Wall’s sister. She is us. And what’s her motivation for destroying her big brother’s MC? She sounds like she’s in trouble, and she doesn’t know where else to turn.”

There’s a rawness in his voice. A rasp. Pain. I know Forty Nowicki like I know my shadow. His dad was my dad’s VP, just like he’s mine. My mama let him suck at her tit when his mom got too wasted. We learned everything together—crashing bikes, flaming out with older chicks, puking our guts out before we learned to put liquor before beer.

I know Forty Nowicki, and he might be talking about Dina, but he’s thinking about Nevaeh Ellis. That bitch is poison. She acts all flighty. Vulnerable. But the instant she doesn’t get her way, she burns everything down and strolls away. We watched her do it when Forty left for basic training. If he lets her in, she’ll do it again. A twist is a twist.

I can hear the thwack of ax on wood through the phone, and Forty’s ragged breath. “What did Nevaeh do now, brother?”

“Nothing. She’s fine.” There’s a loud crack, a sharp grunt, and then Forty mutters, “Fuck. Splinter.”

“I can always have Harper and Annie run her off again.”

“You do that, I’ll kill you.” His voice is a snarl—as serious as I’ve ever heard him. He’s a goner. She’s got her claws in him again but good. Last time, there almost weren’t pieces to pick up. How can he be so blind?

“It’s your call, brother.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“And Dina Wall is mine.”

There’s a pregnant pause. That didn’t come out how I meant it.

“I mean I will handle this situation as I see fit. Harper thinks getting hitched will give us enough cover until we can get some leverage on the girl.”

Forty snorts. “It’s like that game, ain’t it? Kiss, kill, or marry.”

“It’s not a game.”

There’s another long silence. “No. It ain’t. You hurt John Wall’s baby sister, you’ll destroy this club. You can’t take the easy way out anymore.” He lets out a wry laugh. “You’re in deep shit, my brother.”

“I can handle Dina Wall, and she’s gonna deliver Wade and Anderson to us trussed up like Christmas turkeys.”

“No doubt.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

“How much trouble can one woman be?”

He laughs. “You just might find out.” There’s a thunk.

“I’ll let you get back to your home improvements.”

“I’ll call if there’s news. Congrats on the shotgun wedding. Give my regards to the old lady.”

I pity him for a minute, outside his own house in the middle of the night, taking his frustrations out on a fence, run ragged by a woman.

Until I sit down at the roulette table and yawn.

* * *

After a few spins,I check my messages—the Ukrainians want a meet and our guy in the Renelli organization is picking up a disturbance in the force. We’re good with our Italian neighbors, but instability in Pyle would bring federal attention to our neck of the woods, and that we do not need. I’ll call him back tomorrow. After the wedding.

Never thought I’d live to think those words.

I’m heading toward the slot machines when a gruff and boozy holler rings out.

“Mr. President!”

Oh, hell no. It’s not possible.

And then a cigarette-ravaged voice begins to bellow the wedding march. “Duh duh duh-duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh.” Somewhere along the line it turns into “Pomp and Circumstance.”

I turn.

Rolling towards me is a motley crew of old timers in varying degrees of drunkenness, whooping loud enough to echo off the gilded vault ceiling.

Grinder’s the singer. Boots is the one calling my name. They’ve recruited a prospect—Bush—to push his wheelchair. Gus follows along, bashful, the most dignified of this merry band of idiots.

Excepting the prospect, they’ve got more gray hair, gin blossoms, and paunch between them than a pack of mall Santas, and to a man, they’re righteously drunk. How the hell did TSA let them on a flight?

I stroll to meet them before security gets called. They’re wearing their cuts, and even pushing seventy, they got the look of men who never did learn to act right.

There’s a general back clapping and hooting before they simmer down enough to let me get a word in edgewise.

“What are doin’ here, my brothers?” I direct the question to Boots. Oddly enough, he’s most likely the brains of this particular operation.

“You think we’d let you get hitched without a proper bachelor party? Never let it be said that the president and CEO of the Steel Bones Motorcycle Club bought the cow, and he didn’t go down smellin’ of pussy and tequila!”

“Pus-sy!” the prospect echoes, cupping his hands around his mouth. Guess he’s the hype man.

“How did you, uh, know I was here?”

“Deb.”

Deb was not looped in, but I should have known. Two men can keep a secret if one is dead, and I don’t think even that holds true for an MC. The airline charges probably triggered a credit card alert. Deb would’ve gone to Pig Iron. As an officer, he knows the basics. He would’ve told her to keep it on the down low, but Deb does what she wants.

That means it’s a matter of time before Wall knows that I have his sister. Hopefully, he’ll hesitate before trying to kill his brother-in-law.

In the meantime, I ain’t got nothing to do until the ceremony booked for tomorrow afternoon. And someone did say pussy and tequila.

“So, bachelor party, eh?”

The cacophony that four old men can make in a space the size of the Cow Palace is quite remarkable. Grinder passes me a flask as we roll Boots toward the exit. They’ve got a white stretch limo waiting.

“We didn’t have time to pick up women,” Grinder apologizes.

Boots waves him off. “We’ll get ‘em where we’re going.”

“Where’re we goin’?” Bush’s eyes are shining. I don’t know if the kid’s left Pennsylvania before. My guess would be no. He’s related to Big George somehow, and his people are townies from way back.

“I don’t know, man. Wherever the president wants. What do you say, Heavy?” Boots swings his stumps into a seat, swatting as Bush tries to help. “What’s that famous place called?”

Boots looks to Gus. Gus shrugs.

“The Peppermint Pig? The Happy Hippopotamus?” Boots screws up his wrinkled moon face, thinkin’ hard. “You know, it’s a name for when a chick’s face is too busted to bang?”

“Double-bagger?” Gus suggests.

“Cleveland Brown?” Bush tosses over his shoulder as he scavenges in the bar and then flips us all a miniature.

“Ain’t no chick with a face too busted to bang,” Grinder opines. Bush scoffs at that as he fusses with his shiny boy band hair, and Grinder takes umbrage.

“You ain’t gonna be a hot shot forever, young blood. The time will come that you look like Gus here. He was pretty, too, back in the day. Bitches lined up for miles.”

Guy flashes a wan smile. He’s always been a melancholy dude, as long as I can remember. His skin’s sallow, and he’s got a gut and rubbery arms, but you can tell that back in the day, he would have pulled the pussy. He’s got the cut jaw and the imposing frame. Life broke him back before I was born.

“What happened, Gus?” the prospect asks.

Gus sniffs and snags the cigarette from behind his ear. “Heroin,” he says. “And then the hepatitis.”

“Shit.” Bush drags out the word.

“You’ve been sober, what, twenty years now?” Grinder says.

“Almost.” Gus nods. He flicks his Bic and the limo fills with the scent of Marlboro Reds, the smell of my childhood. I relax against the plush upholstery and down my tiny vodka.

“Prospect.” I snap. He tosses me another nip.

Gus recently reconnected with the kid he had back when he was using. The guy’s my age. Adam Wade. Des Wade’s cousin. By adoption, not blood. Still, quite the coincidence. It’s a small world.

You’d think having his son back in his life would give Gus a reason to smile, but he’s even more down in the mouth. Maybe it’s easier to live without than with the reminder of all you lost.

No matter that the guy was raised with a silver spoon, blood tells. No sooner than Adam Wade came around, he was brawling in the parking lot of The White Van and banging a sweetbutt, my girl Jo-Beth. They’re shacked up now. I wish them well.

When I’ve got the itch, I ain’t particular about which club whore rides my dick, but somehow Jo-Beth and I always ended up playing cards instead of fucking. She’s got an uncommonly sharp mind for a woman who’s paid the bills on her knees. Adam Wade better watch himself. Jo-Beth’s a survivor. No matter what position she’s in, she’ll come out on top.

What would Jo-Beth think of Dina Wall? On the surface, they’re nothing alike, but there’s a practicality to the both of them. A defensive stance that suggests the world’s been against them since day one. I suppose, in a way, it has.

What’s Dina doing now, all by herself in the suite? She’ll be fine. She has her phone. She probably needs some peace and quiet.

Is she in bed with her top off still? Maybe she’s playing with those little titties with the sweet berry nipples, sliding her fingers under the waistband of those sweatpants to rub her stiff, pouty clit. Maybe when I get back, the room will reek like a woman’s cum.

I cough to clear my throat and shift in the seat, yanking at my britches. I’m hard enough to pound nails. It doesn’t make sense. She’s skinny. And kind of cantankerous. She don’t scream “sex.” More like “feed me a damn sandwich.”

I’d like to feed her. Stuff her with steak and potatoes until she’s got a food baby in that smooth tummy, pop that belly button, and then lay her on the bed, kneel beside her, and jack my seed into her pretty bow mouth, watching her lick every last drop with her pointy pink tongue.

She’d be into it. Like back at the clubhouse. Totally lost in her own experience. Using me for my body.

For having such a distinctive physicality, that’s not what people use me for. Protection. A livelihood. Power. Status. Making the hard calls, doing the hard shit. The rush of sidling up next to a killer. I’m everything to everyone. There’s something to be said for being Dina Wall’s cheap thrill.

I snort and sigh, and then I roll down the window. Gus flashes me a guilty look and exhales in the direction of the cracked moonroof.

Bush refreshes our drinks, and I polish off a whiskey as Boots and Grinder argue about where we’re going. Boots is stuck on remembering the names of The Spearmint Rhino and Coyote Ugly. I’m not gonna help. It’s too damn funny listening to him.

“Dude,” Boots calls up to the driver. “What’s the strip joint named after an animal?”

“The Bald Beaver?”

“No. Bigger critter. Like you’d see on one of them safaris.”

“The Pink Elephant?”

“No. Smaller. I think.” Boots’ wrinkled face squishes as he ponders the relative size of an elephant and a rhinoceros.

“Is it a land animal or a water animal?” The driver’s holding his cell to his mouth like he’s about to ask Siri.

“If I knew that, man, I wouldn’t be asking.”

I’ve got to remember to tip the man well.

All of a sudden, Grinder is struck by inspiration. “Oh! I know the place. Driver, you heard of the Velvet Box?”

“Sure, man, sure. That’s a classic.” He turns his blinker on and pulls into the turn lane.

“Oh, that joint was the best,” Grinder crows. “The choicest pussy. High class. We found it when we came though in ’75? ‘76?”

“The place we saw Mitch Ryder passed out in a corner booth?” Boots’ voice rises in excitement. “That was ’76. On the way to Sturgis.”

“Who’s Mitch Ryder?” Bush asks.

“Boy, you don’t even know,” Boots cackles.

Sorry to say, I don’t either.

I shoot another miniature. Scotch. I’m finally feeling the warmth in my gut. It’s been a hot minute since I tied one on. I stretch my legs down the center aisle, relaxing. How long has it been since I relaxed? Longer than a hot minute.

“How is Nevada on the way to South Dakota?” I ask.

Boots’ forehead creases. “Could have been on the way back from Sturgis. I don’t know. It was the seventies.”

I don’t bother pointing out that neither makes any geographical sense. With Boots, reality has a more impressionistic quality.

“Was that where we found Charge’s mom?” Grinder muses.

“No, we picked her up by the side of Route 66. Outside Barstow.” Boots is certain about this. “And that was in ’93. Or ’95?”

“Fine woman.” Grinder raises his miniature.

“The best.” Boots clinks his bottle.

“Where did she end up?” I ask more out of habit than expectation that I’ll get a straight answer. I’ve been after this story for years.

Charge has never cared, but there’s something in me that abhors a mystery. The old timers will spin tales for as long as someone’s listening, but they’re always vague as hell about the woman who gave birth to Charge and left him with a one-legged vet who made his money selling weed and tackle.

I’m expecting the run around I always get, but Boots and Grinder must be more wasted than they appear because they exchange a glance. Grinder drops his empty miniature to the ground and takes out a fifth of SoCo he had stashed somewhere under his cut. He takes a long swig and exhales long and gustily.

“Berkeley, wasn’t it?” He looks to Boots.

“I don’t know, man. She was all over for a while, but she did eventually go back to where she came from.”

“What did she say she does?” Grinder asks.

“Professor.” Boots almost looks proud.

“Charge’s mom is a professor at Berkeley?” I’d think they were bullshitting me, but there’s no way Grinder or Boots would’ve heard of Berkeley otherwise.

“Yeah. She’s done well for herself.” Boots grins. “She got a husband, and kids, and grandkids and all that.”

“You talk to her?” I had no idea. No one did. Except, I guess, the other old timers.

“She disappeared for a while, but for some time now, she’s been calling every so often. Around Christmas. Charge’s birthday.”

“You never said.” Charge would have mentioned it. As far as he knew, she was in the wind.

“She didn’t want me to say nothin’. I think she’s comin’ around, though. She’s been talkin’ about flying out for a weekend.”

“Yeah?” Grinder grins. “Tell her to leave the husband at home.”

Both men cackle, and then they grow quiet, dopy smiles lingering on their wrinkled faces.

“Most beautiful woman I ever seen,” Grinder sighs. “Before or since.”

“Amen.” Boots nods.

“Why did she leave?” I ask.

The smiles fade. “Well, she didn’t want to see him every day, right?” Boots says as if this makes sense.

“Who? Charge?”

“Yeah. She didn’t want him. But you know, she was Catholic, and she was only, what, sixteen?” Boots looks to Grinder. He nods.

“You knocked up a sixteen-year-old?” Times were different, and the club was all about the free love, but my dad wouldn’t have countenanced that shit. Not for a minute.

“Nah. She came knocked up. That’s why she was on the road.” Boots’ mouth turns down at the corners. “They did a number on her.”

“Who did?”

“You tell it, Grinder.” The wrinkles on Boots’ forehead deepen, a rare look of sadness blanking the sparkle in his rheumy eyes.

Grinder hacks, clearing his throat. Bush leans forward. “She came from money, right? She wasn’t a hippie or nothin’. She came from Yorba Linda.”

“Nixon was from Yorba Linda,” Gus pipes up. He’d been quiet, but he’s riveted, too.

“She went to some prep school with a bunch of other rich kids. At some party, she drank too much. Passed out. She woke up with an asshole holding her down.” Grinder’s grizzled jaw is clenched.

The truth settles on my chest. Another weight to carry. “Charge doesn’t need to know that.”

“I didn’t think he did,” Boots says. “It’s why I never told him. But now—I don’t know. Jimmy came about in much the same way.”

Jimmy is his old lady’s son. Charge is set to adopt him. Harper’s handling the paperwork, and it’s almost a done deal. On occasion, Charge brings up hiring an investigator. Find the degenerates who hurt Kayla. I put him off. Convince him there’s no way to track down the perps so many years after the fact. I ask him if this is what Kayla wants, or if it’s him—his pride talking.

He drops it. But to be honest, I have a decent shot of finding the men. This happened in Gracy’s Corner, seven or eight years ago. People don’t move around in our neck of the woods. And people talk. The kind of bastards who’d hurt a girl her age? They end up with records. They’re probably in the system by now. A good PI could run ‘em down.

But then I’d have to let Charge kill Jimmy’s father.

It’s so easy to justify. The man’s a rapist, not a father. And that’s the truth. Maybe that’s how Jimmy would see it if he ever found out. Maybe Charge’s conscience would never feel the slightest twinge, and Kayla would finally get closure.

Or maybe that’s the kind of poison that eats away the edges of people, rots relationships from the inside.

Of course, I could find the man and kill him. Never let Charge know. Add the bastard to my burden. No vengeance for Charge. No closure for Kayla. Just another tree on a mountain top. The air in the world would be a little clearer.

And if every time I look at Jimmy, in the back of my mind, a voice whispers, “I killed your father,” it’ll just be another voice in the chorus.

I don’t regret a single life I’ve taken. I don’t feel guilt. I have always done what has to be done, no more, no less.

But more and more these days, I am tired. So I put Charge off. I let one of the hard things remain undone.

I focus back on the conversation. “I thought she was a wild child. Banged her way through the whole club.” When the old timers get to waxing reminiscent, that’s the story they tell.

“She did.” Grinder nods. “I think she was tryin’ to wash the taste of that asshole out of her mouth. Or forget. Women don’t ever act the way you expect they would. They got their own reasons. If you’re gettin’ married, best remember that.”

“Ernestine never fails to put your ass out when you wander away from the ranch.”

Grinder puts up his hands and smirks. “My mistake, Mr. President. You’re the expert on old ladies.”

They all bust out laughing. Even the prospect. I lift a shoulder, happy I can amuse them.

Soon enough, the atmosphere goes somber again. There’s a silence filled with the thick scent of cigarettes and spirits, and then Boots speaks up.

“She was gonna take care of it. I drove her to the clinic up in Pyle. We sat in the truck a long time, her fiddlin’ with that crucifix she wore. I told her if she didn’t want to do it, she could leave the baby with me. Kids runnin’ everywhere back in those days. What’s one more, you know?”

“So she just left the baby with you?”

“Ayup.” Boots smiles, remembering. “He was easy. And when I had the inclination to go for a ride, there was always a sweetbutt who’d watch him for some bud.”

“It’s a miracle he survived to adulthood.” I remember my mom—before she got sick—always chasing Charge into the shower or feeding him. She called him the feral child.

“He had his brothers. He was fine.” Boots slaps my knee, gently, and leaves his gnarled hand there a moment. “You know you can set the weight down, boy. You got brothers, too. You ain’t alone. You never been.”

His smile is crooked and gap-toothed, and there’s that odd light in his eyes again. “You got all these plots and machinations. All these high falutin’ ideas about vengeance and justice. That ain’t it, boy.”

“Then what is?”

“Pussy, beer, and the open road.”

There’s a murmuring of assent like in church.

“Don’t make shit complicated.” The limo rolls to a stop, and Boots gives my leg a final squeeze. “Seize the day.”

“Carpe diem?” I open the door before the driver alights and unfold my legs. They’re killing me.

“Gesundheit.” Boots winks and tips back a bottle.

“Gentlemen,” the driver announces. “The Velvet Box!”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later,after wrestling the wheelchair out of the trunk, searching the seat cracks for Gus’ lighter, and listening to Grinder have a conversation with Ernestine at top volume about where he left the registration to the Buick, we stride into the hottest night spot in Vegas—in 1976.

First impression is that it smells like boiled eggs.

Bush breaks the silence. “Where’s the pussy?”

It’s obvious that at one time, the flocked wallpaper was crimson, as were the leather booths. Now, everything’s a faded liver brown. There’s a parquet dance floor—empty and sagging toward the middle—and the mirror behind the bar is smoky with age.

There are a few dudes scattered around drinking alone and an older couple at a table, ignoring each other, noses in their phones. Elvis is playing on the grainy sound system. “Love Me Tender.”

No one looked up when we entered. Not even the bartender. He’s slowly wiping down the counter with shaky hands, hunched over, vacant eyes downcast.

“Is that Mitch Ryder?” I jerk my chin at the portly man slumped on his side, passed out in the corner booth.

No one bothers to tell me to fuck off. The dejection, the faded splendor, the crestfallen expressions of my brothers—it shouldn’t make my lips twitch, but I’m swallowing down the chuckle.

This is probably the farthest afield Boots has gone since he lost his second leg to the diabetes. And lord knows Ernestine keeps Grinder on a tight leash when she lets him come home. Bush finally crosses the state line, and this is where he ends up. Poor bastard.

I clap the prospect on the back. He doesn’t have time to brace himself, so he staggers a step before he catches himself.

“I’ll call the limo,” I say. “We’ll go to the Spearmint Rhino.”

“The what? No.” Boots shakes his head. “I don’t want to drive around all night.”

“I ain’t standin’ around with my dick in my hand for another hour while y’all try to figure out that wheelchair,” Grinder declares.

If they’d let me do it, it wouldn’t take a second, but they’d rather make the prospect do it.

Gus just grunts and shuffles off for the bar. I guess we’re hanging out at the Velvet Box.

Four rounds of shots later, we cram ourselves into a round corner booth opposite the big fella passed out and slowly but inexorably sliding under the table. There’s a bottle of tequila between us, and the bartender has instructions to bring whiskey once we’ve gotten to the bottom. At the rate we’re goin’, he may as well be heading over now.

“Twenty bucks he hits the ground in twenty minutes.” Grinder gestures at our unconscious compatriot.

“I’ll take that action.” Boots casts up his eyes in concentration. “I say fifteen.”

“I say ‘til closing,” Gus says. When there’s a general scoffing, he adds, “Lot of mass on that dude. Object at rest tends to stay at rest.”

“Two hours.” I split the difference. Gus has a point, but the slow slippage suggests gravity’s working against the man.

We’re all silent for a while, contemplating our bets. I let the ease sink into my bones. The old timers make good company. They ain’t tryin’ to impress me like the young bloods, and we ain’t got business like I do with Forty and the others in the inner circle. Nothing to talk about but glory days, football, and bullshit.

A rare peacefulness settles in my chest along with the burn of the liquor.

“So why you gettin’ married?” Grinder finally asks as if the question has only just occurred to him. “You knock her up?”

“Who you marryin’ anyway?” Boots adds. The floodgates open. “And where’d you meet a woman?”

“There're women everywhere,” I point out. “Half the population.”

“You ain’t never even had an old lady.” Grinder shakes his head. “And you gettin’ married? That’s a step not to be taken lightly.”

“Are you and Ernestine married?” I’m realizing I have no idea. I don’t remember a wedding, but it could’ve been before I was born. Neither wear a ring, but with the number of times she’s put him out, that might be out of convenience. There are tons of pictures hanging in Ernestine’s house. None that I recall with her in a white dress, but that doesn’t mean anything. Biker weddings don’t tend to be traditional.

Grinder’s mouth turns down. “Common law. Yeah.”

“You mean you and Ernestine ain’t married?” This seems to be news to Boots, too.

“I said common law, didn’t I? We file our taxes as married.” Grinder goes to pour himself another shot, but he fumbles, and tequila sloshes onto the table. “And we’re gettin’ off topic. This is about Heavy.”

“So who is she? Danielle finally wear you down?” Boots asks.

Danielle’s been trying her hand since high school. I indulge her when I’ve got the urge, but I never let her think it’s anything it’s not.

“No. You don’t know her.”

“She knocked up then?” Grinder grimaces in sympathy.

“No. It’s, uh—” How do I explain this? We’re brothers, but I didn’t bust my ass for the past decade making us legitimate to implicate the old timers in murder and conspiracy. “It’s a marriage of convenience.”

“Oh, son.” Grinder shakes his head. “Marriage ain’t convenient.”

“What’s that mean? Sweetbutts ain’t cleanin’ your place like you want? Get a house mouse.” Boots elbows the prospect—who’s all ears—to pour him another shot.

“Like you got Shirlene?” Grinder snorts.

Boots’ face blazes red. “If Twitch was alive, he’d crack your skull with that bottle and piss in the hole.”

Grinder raises his hands. “If Twitch was alive, he’d crack your skull for letting his old lady do your washing.”

“You cain’t tell that woman what she can and cannot do.” Boots’ fingers are shaking.

It’s known he has a thing for Shirlene, but he’d never disrespect a brother like that, especially since despite the years, the loss of Twitch still lingers over every ride, every picnic, every church meeting. Twitch was truly a great man. Served his country. Worked his fingers to the bone. Rode until the cancer broke him. They don’t make his kind no more.

Since he passed, Shirlene watches out for the older brothers. Boots ain’t got a chance in hell. That woman’s heart was buried with her old man. She’s passing time, waiting for him.

I can see it with my eyes—you’d have to be blind and incapable of feeling not to—but I cannot fathom that devotion. Not sure there’s any other word for it.

I’m devoted to this club. My brothers. Family. The people who rely on me to make it right.

But a woman?

My mother was a fine old lady. She had dinner on the table by six every night—and for some reason, two o’clock on Sundays—and she kept us kids clean and clothed. She turned a blind eye to my dad’s indiscretions, and when we were real young, she cut loose at the clubhouse on occasion.

She was the daughter of a deacon, and she kept a foot in both worlds. Ignored Dad’s ranting and snuck all three of us to St. Alban’s to be baptized and had “Slip” tattooed over her heart.

She was a good woman, but I’ve never wanted what they had. Muffled tears behind a locked bathroom door. Sharp words when Dad stumbled in late at night. Bacon and fresh squeezed orange juice in the morning. Dad, red-eyed and reeking of beer and piss, puking in the upstairs bathroom from the smell. And then the hell when she got sick, and he gave up, and then they were both gone.

“So why you marrying this mystery woman?” Grinder asks, breaking the broody silence we’d lapsed into.

“Her name’s Dina. She’s Wall’s little sister.”

“The one that just got lost?”

“She wasn’t lost.”

“She ends up with you in Vegas, she got lost.” Grinder snickers. “Wall know you’re marrying his sister?”

“Not yet.”

“So’s this your way of saving yourself a beating for fuckin’ his little sister?” Boots lifts a bushy gray eyebrow. “Plan’s doomed to fail. You’re in for an ass kickin’.”

“Heavy could take Wall any day,” Gus says. “No doubt.”

“Now I don’t know about that.” Grinder leans back and surveys me like I’m cattle stock. “Wall’s got more muscle mass.”

Gus scoffs. “Definition ain’t mass. Heavy has the weight and height advantage.”

Grinder rolls his eyes. “Two inches. Not enough to matter.”

“That what Ernestine says?” Boot quips and Bush chokes on his drink. Grinder slaps the side of the prospect’s head.

“All I’m sayin’ is that motivation counts. And our illustrious president has apparently lured Wall’s innocent little sister into the lifestyle. Got her to run away from home. Done dirty things to her.” Grinder folds his arms decisively and rests them on his gut. “He’s gettin’ his ass kicked, and in my opinion, so be it.”

“She’s of legal age,” I point out.

“She was still livin’ at home. If you did my Jennifer like that, I’d kill you,” Grinder declares.

I don’t point out that his granddaughter’s been begging rides off the younger brothers since she was in junior high. Both kinds. No one would take her up on the offer, but that doesn’t stop her from putting it out there.

“Dina is twenty-four.” I catch the bartender’s eye and raise a brow. We’ve polished off the bottle. Bush’s squinting in the hole, looking for the worm. “No worm in tequila,” I tell him. “That’s cheap Mezcal.”

Dude’s face falls.

“If she’s twenty-four, why you marrying her?” Grinder’s like a dog with a bone now.

“He knocked her up,” Gus says.

“I didn’t knock her up.”

Grinder ignores me completely. “She probably made him swear to keep it secret ‘til they was hitched. Wall’s people are church folk.”

There are so many holes in the theory, but it’ll do. I blank my face. “No comment.”

“That’s it! He knocked her up!” My brothers hoot and holler and bang the table. “Barkeep! A round on the house! To the next generation!” Howls echo off the stained ceiling.

Across the way, the portly gentleman startles awake and crashes to the floor, knocking the table sideways.

“Forty-two minutes. I’m closest. Pay up.” Grinder holds out his palm.

Boots left his wallet in Petty’s Mill, Bush has no cash, and Gus has a five with a rip down the middle. I pass Grinder a hundred. He snaps it and holds it up to the light. It’s worth the extra not to hear him bitch for the rest of the night.

“We’re high rollin’ now, ain’t we?” he crows.

“We are.” The bartender shuffles over with another bottle, and I settle in, resting my arms along the back of the booth.

For the next few hours until close, my brothers reminisce about the old times, way back when they were boys and the steel mill was still open, the blast furnace coating the town with red dust. They talk about the war—which means Vietnam for Boots and Grinder, Desert Storm for Gus—and the club before the blown job, running cigarettes into New York, breaking kneecaps for the Renellis when they needed extra men.

Funny tales of fuck ups and near misses that have Bush wheezing, tears streaking down his cheeks. And then, as they always do, the stories turn dark, the losses tallied, the opposite of counting coup. The mill closing. The men done in by drink and bad luck. Crashes, cancer, incarceration, mesothelioma.

And then we get to the blown job. Our original sin.

Heads hang. Shake. Through all of it that came before, brotherhood was inviolable. Until the night the cops pulled a truck over on the shoulder of Route 29.

And then comes the heroic song. The old king’s son returns from afar, bringing light back to the kingdom. A knight sacrifices everything for his princess. Lost loves are found. The enemy is rendered toothless. Prosperity reigns.

We are in the happy ever after.

I am victorious. I’ve saved my brothers. The arduous journey is at an end. I should exhale and enjoy the spoils.

But instead I scour the internet and pin clippings to my wall, tied together with the web of red yarn.

I should be at peace, but I am weary. And alone.

And drunk as fuck.

When the lights come up, I stagger to my feet, grateful to see the driver making his way over. I don’t know if I can make it to the limo under my own steam, and if I fall on an old timer, I’ll kill him.

I sling an arm over Bush on one side and the driver on the other and force my legs to take my weight.

I puke before I get in the back while Boots hollers, “What’s open after hours? I wanna see some titties!”

“I wanna go home,” I slur. “Dina—” Then my head hits the minibar, and I black out.

When I wake up, it’s daylight and Bush is tripping over my prone form as he piles into the backseat reeking of women’s perfume and weed. I’m half on a seat, half in the limo’s narrow aisle. My face is plastered to cold white leather.

“What time is it?” I rasp. My mouth tastes like a dirty sponge.

“Time to get hitched!” Boots caws from the front. “Drive on, my dude!” He slaps the dashboard, and I belch pure tequila and stomach acid.

When she gets a gander at us, Dina’s gonna run for the hills.

That’d be for the best.

This whole thing is insane.

Bright sunlight streams through the moonroof. I screw my eyes shut and pass out again as the limo pulls onto the Strip.