“There’s probably six black Heritages for sale outside. I bet there’s at least a few thousand of them on the freeway at any given moment. And, you know what?” I shook my head. “They all look the same. I’m glad I don’t ride one of them. Hell, I’d come out of the bar and probably get on the wrong one. Can’t tell ‘em apart if they’re not modified. Is yours black?”
“Sure is.”
I raised my eyebrows and dropped my gaze to the floor.
He reached for his wallet. “Take American Express?”
I looked up. “Does a shark shit in the ocean?”
He chuckled. “You’re one hell of a sales–what do I call you? Sales girl? Woman? Lady? Person?”
“Call me Joey,” I said.
He handed me his credit card. “Well, Joey. Ring up the 42” ones before I change my mind. I’ll pick ‘em up tomorrow when I get the emblems.”
I rang up the sale, handed him the receipt, and smiled. “With the emblems, apes, whitewalls, and those fishtails, you’ll have the gangster Harley thing going on. For what it’s worth, that’s my favorite look for a Harley. When you get a wild hair, you should take a look at the Shotgun Shock. One shock sets ride height, and the other is used for dampening. You can raise and lower it to whatever height you want with the flip of a switch. The air compressor mounts under the frame, right by the transmission. They’re made in the USA, right here in California.”
“It’s already on the list,” he said.
“Bring it by when you get the pipes on it,” I said with a smile. “I’d like to see it.”
“I’ll do that.” He gave a nod, dragged his hand along the length of his beard, and then turned away.
As he walked toward the door, Blane looked at me and shook his head. “I hate you.”
I shot him a playful glare. “You bought a Harley, and you think that makes you a biker. I love Harleys, and most of the people that ride them.”
He rolled his eyes. “You make sales because you’re a girl.”
“I made that sale because I knew what he wanted. I knew what he wanted because after another guy wanted it a few weeks ago, I went home and researched the Panhead model. You can talk shit all you want, but you had no idea what he was after.”
He gave me a dismissive look. “You made the sale because you’ve got tits.”
“Yeah, that guy walked right up to me, looked at my tits, and then talked to you. Guys don’t want to deal with a girl when it comes to their Harley. You’ve got muscles, a tattoo, and a dick. You fit right in.”
“You don’t even ride,” he said. “I don’t know why you work here. You don’t fit in.”
“You ride a Sportster.” I forced a dry laugh “That’s a girl bike.”
“Bullshit. Sportsters are fast as fuck.”
“A 1200 can be. You’re on an old 883. It’s a turd,” I said. “They’re for girls and wannabes.”
“You calling me a wannabe?”
“Assuming you’ve got a dick, that was the only other option, right?”
“At least I ride,” he scoffed.
“I might not ride, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy riding on the back of one. Rode on the back of a 1%er’s bike the other day.”
“Bullshit.”
I shrugged. “Baddest club in SoCal.”
“Hells Angels?”
I shook my head.
“Mongols?”
“Nunya.”
His brow wrinkled. “Nunyas? Never heard of ‘em.”
“No,” I said with a laugh. “Nunya. Nun ya business.”
He rolled his eyes, extended his forearm, and admired his six-week-old Budweiser tattoo. It was well-made, but I found it ridiculous that he’d have it tattooed on his forearm.
“What are you going to do when you discover you like PBR more than Budweiser?” I asked. “Get the PBR logo on your other arm?”
“Budweiser is the only beer as far as I’m concerned.”
“Tried them all, have you?”
He rubbed his thumb along the center of the tattoo, stretching it out of proportion as he looked at it. “Don’t need to. King. Of. Beers. Enough said.”
I glanced at the ridiculous bowtie-like banner, coughed a light laugh, and turned toward the sales floor.
I found tattoos fascinating – if they were the right tattoos on the right person. Percy’s tattoos were interesting, and he had no product branding on him, at least not that I could see. I wondered what percentage of tattooed men had beer – or other similar product tattoos – and if I was out of line in my thoughts.
After searching my memory for anyone else with a beer tattoo and coming up with nothing, I decided Blane’s tattoo was, in fact, ridiculous.
“You know, I really like Noxzema Skin Cream, but I’m not going to get their logo tattooed on me.”
“Must not like it as much as I like Budweiser.”
“I guess it’d either be that, or I have more common sense than you.” I shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Definitely not the common sense thing,” he said flatly.
“Yeah” I slumped my shoulders and gazed down at the floor. “You’re probably right. Girls have smaller brains than men. It stands to reason that we’d have less common sense.”
He looked up from admiring his King of Beers tattoo. “Seriously?”
I gazed beyond him, and blinked a few times, and then met his wondrous gaze. “It’s true, I read a study. Girl’s brains weigh, on average, 25% less than a man’s. It’s sad.”
His eyes slowly widened. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
I was hanging shit on him, and he was too dumb to figure it out. It was no wonder I wasn’t attracted to guys anywhere close to my age. Although they were technically men, they were really nothing more than boys who could legally vote and buy cigarettes.
I desperately needed a real man in my life.
But. I had no idea where I was going to find one.
Chapter Four
P-Nut
Wearing a two-button blazer, a navy skirt, and navy heels, my mother looked like she could be headed to a business meeting. She hadn’t worked a day in her life, and even if she had, she was well into the age of retirement. She was dressed no differently than she’d dressed her entire life, and neither her age nor her deteriorating mental state prevented her from continuing that tradition.
She sat in her recliner with her eyes glued to the most recent episode of Lauren Lake’s Paternity Court. It was one of the many shows she insisted upon watching daily, and her doing so seemed to keep her mind occupied.
I carried the tomato soup and grilled cheese into the living room and set it on the tray beside her. “Time for lunch.”
“It seems like I just had breakfast.”
“You eat lunch with Lauren,” I said.
“I know that,” she snapped. “It seems like I just had breakfast. This day has just flown by.”
It saddened me to see her in her current state. In so many ways she was still the mother that raised me, and in others, she was slowly becoming less and less like her former self.
She glanced at the tray and then at the television. “Tomato?”
“Tomato soup and grilled cheese.”
With her eyes fixed on the show, she swiveled the tray over her lap. “My favorite.”
During the week, she ate the same thing every day for lunch. Each day, she acted like it was a huge surprise. On the weekends, a woman stopped in to help out. Oddly enough, on those days, she was openminded enough to eat anything she was given.
“That’s why I made it, ma. I know how much you like it.”
“I haven’t seen your brothers for days,” she said. “I wonder what they’ve gotten themselves into?”
My three brothers lived a few thousand miles away, and hadn’t seen her in years. Too busy was the standard response, but I don’t care anymore seemed to be closer to the truth.
I was born when my mother was 42, and although I wasn’t a mistake, the pregnancy that precede
d her menopause wasn’t planned, either. I often wondered if it was the difference in age that kept me close to home, or if it was the fact that I simply cared more than they did about the welfare of my family.
In my eyes, nothing was more sacred than family. Be it my birth family or my MC brethren, my heart – and my life – was devoted to their safety and wellbeing. Most of them, anyway.
As I wandered around the room, moving things back to where they belonged, I let out a sigh. “Hard saying.”
She dipped the corner of the sandwich into the soup, held it in place, and stared at the television. Lauren asked the bailiff to produce the DNA tests for the two parties. As the bailiff turned away to retrieve the files, the show broke to a commercial.
She lifted the sandwich and bit off the corner. “I think he’s the father.”
I switched the couch cushions to their correct places, and then sat on the loveseat across from her. “We’ll find out in a minute.”
“He’s got those eyes.” She wagged the index finger of her free hand toward the television. “Lying eyes.”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” I said. “I’ll trust your opinion.”
She turned her focus to her lunch. “Your father didn’t make it home last night. I thought his shift ended yesterday?”
My father, a former pilot for American Airlines, had been dead for ten years. Some days it seemed she realized he was gone, and on others, she clearly didn’t.
I gazed at the photo of him that sat on the mantle. “I’m not sure when his shift ends.”
She took another bite of the sandwich. “Maybe it’s tonight.”
The television switched from a commercial to the show. The judge studied the DNA evidence, lowered the folder, and peered over the top of it.
“In the case of James versus Walters, the test by DNA Systems supports that you, Mister Walters, are the baby’s father.”
“I knew it,” my mother said. “The eyes don’t lie.”
“They sure don’t,” I said.
She poked the remaining piece of the sandwich half into her mouth, chewed it, and wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “When will you have time to clean the birds out of the yard?”
My eyes moved to the window. “I’ll get them when I leave.”
When I arrived, she insisted that there were dead blackbirds in her yard, but the lawn, as always, was spotless. The meticulous landscape was a tradition that began as a result of my father’s hard work, and was undoubtedly one of his life’s pleasures. I maintained the shrubbery, trees, and the lawn no differently than he had, primarily because I knew he’d appreciate it.
She looked up from her bowl of soup. “When are you going to give love another try?”
I flipped through the magazines that were sitting on the end table. “Leave it alone, ma.”
She lowered her spoon and gave me a look. “You’re still riding that thing, and you’re not married. When a man becomes an adult, he finds a job and a woman, and then he gets married. It’s been that way since the beginning of time. You’re out of school and you’ve got a job. What’s the next step?”
“Just like I said. Leave it alone, ma.”
She set the spoon beside her bowl, crossed her arms, and let out a sigh. “I will not.”
“I haven’t found anyone.”
“Are you looking?”
If fucking women qualified as looking, I would be on a full-fledged mission. But, it didn’t, and I wasn’t.
I was the MC’s stray sheepdog, the silent protector who constantly kept the wolves away from the flock of sheep. I didn’t trust many men, and the only woman I trusted was sitting across from me. The thought of having a woman in my life on a permanent basis made my skin crawl.
With her arms still crossed and her eyes fixed on me, she cleared her throat. “Percy. I asked you a question.”
I looked up. “I’m nosing around.”
“Nosing around?”
“Uh huh.”
“You need to go to church. The nice girls are in church,” she said. “If you’re nosing around, I’m sure it isn’t in the right places.”
My single status wasn’t a result of where I looked, because I was always on the prowl. The reason I wasn’t in a relationship was because I chose not to be. The decision was a conscious one, and one that I was sure was necessary for me to continue living the life I chose to live.
A life where I could silently lurk in the shadows, provide assistance as I felt was necessary, and measure my means of success by the lack of problems that existed in my life.
All concerns in my life were nipped in the bud, and never lasted much longer than it took me to identify them. Adding a woman to the mix would undoubtedly guarantee problems would linger like a dark cloud over my very existence.
If I thought for one minute that a woman existed who would put up with my way of living, never complain about my involvement with the club, satisfy my sexual desires, and be trustworthy, I’d be a fool not to accept her into my life.
But. No such woman existed, and I was sure of it.
“I’ll have a look next time I go to church,” I said.
“Thank you.”
It wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t been to church in twelve years, and had no plans on attending service anytime soon. If I did, I’d peruse the congregation for a mate, and provide my mother with the outcome.
I stood. “I better get to work.”
“Still working at the pier?”
“Yeah, ma. Still at the pier.”
I hadn’t worked at the pier since I was eighteen. I bought and sold collectible baseball cards for a living.
Confused about some things, and still sharply recalling others, there seemed to be no clear rule as to what caused the mix-ups. Not knowing where her mind might take her saddened me.
She turned toward the window, gazed out into the yard, and then looked at me. “Don’t forget to pick up those dead birds.”
“I’ll get ‘em on the way out, ma.”
She lifted her chin. “Give your mother a kiss.”
“I love you, ma.” I kissed her cheek. “Eat the other half of your sandwich before the cheese gets hard.”
“I’m going to tear it up and put it in my soup.”
“Sounds good.” I straightened my posture and looked her over. “I’ll stop back in tonight.”
She waved a dismissive hand toward me. “You don’t have to drive all the way up here from Oceanside. If you want to, I won’t argue, though.”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
“When you see your brothers, remind them what a trouble it was for me to give birth to them. Maybe you’ll guilt them into coming to see me.”
“I’ll let them know,” I said.
I turned toward the door. I knew regardless of what I said to them, they probably wouldn’t return unless it was for her funeral.
And my hope was that day was a long, long way down life’s road.
Chapter Five
Joey
I got out of the shower, dried off, and then rubbed lotion along the length of my right leg. After grabbing the bottle of Bio Oil from the vanity, I spread the substance on my left leg from mid-calf up to where my scarring stopped – at the bottom of my butt cheek.
I gazed in the mirror. The skin covering my leg appeared thin and almost translucent in some places, and a discolored milky pink in others. The front of my thigh was smooth and without many irregularities – other than the fact it was covered with skin that looked like mesh. On each side of my leg, for the entire length, there were unsightly places where the lesser scarred skin didn’t merge so well with the edges of the large skin graft.
It seemed the only person who could stand to look at it was me. Even after more than a decade, I found it difficult to accept what I was left with was as good as it could be.
I didn’t wallow in self-guilt or sorrow. I realized I was far more fortunate than many other burn victims, and that my degree of being flawed was minimalistic
when compared to losing a limb.
Knowing this didn’t prevent me from wishing things were different.
Most days I was comfortable with who I was. Like anyone, though, it would be very comforting to have others accept me.
I had yet to encounter anyone who was able to do so. Most who saw my leg perceived it as grotesque. I wasn’t invited to pool parties or to the beach, nor did I attend any functions that required me to wear a dress.
The women, at least initially, were sympathetic and kind. Behind my back, they talked about me as if I were carrying a terrible disease.
The men, on the other hand, were much different. In school, when a boy asked me on a date, I hoped things would be different. It was almost as if they’d asked me out to simply see if the damage was as bad as they had been led to believe.
By the end of school, I felt like a circus attraction, and that the few dates I had gone on were merely requested to allow the boy to see if he could stand the sight of my damaged flesh.
Starting my sophomore year, I made myself as unattractive as possible in my appearance. It all but eliminated being approached by the opposite sex. The pain I felt when they eventually rejected me vanished.
I pulled on my panties, and then my jeans. At that moment, standing shirtless in front of the mirror, I was normal. If I could somehow eliminate my unsightly leg, I felt everything about my life that I didn’t like – except for my stepfather – would vanish along with it.
I knew, however, the only thing that could make it go away was to cover it up. Sooner or later, however, it had to be uncovered. Nothing can stay covered up forever.
While I dried my hair, the sound of his motorcycle’s exhaust shook the bathroom’s windows. I turned off the drier, ran to the bedroom window, and pushed the blinds to the side. Sitting in the driveway with a smirk on his face, he twisted the throttle a few times before shutting off the magnificent machine.
Be it that he was marking his territory, reminding everyone that he was a rebel, or that he simply enjoyed hearing his machine’s unique voice, it was something he did each time he returned from a ride. I guessed it was similar to flipping the neighborhood the middle finger.