Chapter 1 #2
“Ahh. I see the difference there. No one wants to see a flaccid penis.”
Rolo chuckles, so what I said must be funny. “Only our own, Mal, only our own.”
“Noted. No public flaccid penises. What’s got you so messed up? It’s like two in the morning,” I ask after a beat of silence that starts to make my skin itch. Rolo shrugs, taking a long pull of his beer. “You’re usually snuggled up with your wifey before now.”
“Couldn’t sleep. I don’t know, it’s been . . . peaceful? It’s been almost a year since all the constant bullshit with the Widowmakers, and then the fallout with what they were connected to.”
“Yeah, but that’s a good thing. We had a decade of peace before all that shit went down. It’s time to relax and live how we used to, without having to constantly look over our shoulders.”
“You don’t feel it? Like something’s on the horizon? Something bad?”
I open my mouth to say the first thing that comes to my head but decide against it.
Instead, I cock my head to the side and study his face.
Maybe it’s a midlife crisis? Maybe he’s feeling his morality catching up with him?
Deciding I need some backup, I pull out my phone from the loose pocket of my sweats.
Me: SOS Biker Besties!
Wrath: Are you fucking with me right now?
Me: Don’t pretend you’re asleep, we all know you don’t have such a habit
Sin: This had better be important, Mal. Bristol and I are trying to sleep
Me: It is! Rolo seems off?
Wrath: Is that a question or is it a fact?
Me: I dunno. He’s drinking by himself at the bar. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know what to do.
Rolo eyes me suspiciously, glancing down at my phone.
I squint at him, turning my body in the opposite direction so he can’t see what I’m doing.
Nosey fucker. I bounce my knee, looking down at the group chat between Chaos, Sin, Wrath, and me.
I created it after things started to go to shit with the Widowmakers last year.
Figured it was time we had one place to get all the information out.
Chaos: Tell him I said to go back to Morgan and get some sleep
Sin: Same
I turn back to face Rolo, his head hung low, his fingers swiping the wet droplets off the beer bottle before they can reach the bar top.
“You think maybe you should go talk with Morgan? I’m sure she’ll make you feel better.”
“Yeah, Mal, you’re right. Morgan makes everything better.”
Relieved, I relax slightly, taking a big gulp of my sweet soda. We sit in silence for a few passing moments, my eyes darting around the room, wondering why this big oof isn’t getting up to go be with his old lady.
“I really think everything is gonna be fine, Rolo,” I say, unsure how to really comfort him.
I grew up in a house with abusive drug addicts.
Can’t even call them parents, because they never did any actual parenting.
Sperm donor and incubator, I guess I could call them.
I was abused all of my childhood, until one day, it stopped.
But the neglect, the lack of human contact, touch, and communication, I know it did a number on me. Even if I struggle to see how much.
It’s times like these where it makes my skin crawl; my mind is telling me my patch brother needs something from me, but I don’t know what that is. Comfort? Advice? I don’t know how to do any of that. So, I give him my company. Like he’s done so many times for me before.
Hell’s Heathens Motorcycle Club is filled with a bunch of outcasts, men who’ve had the world turn its back on them, the abused, the broken. But we all have one thing in common, we put our family—our club—above all else.
Footsteps gently clap against the concrete floor from behind us.
Rolo seems lost in his thoughts, so I turn around to greet her.
I learned at a young age to pay attention to footfalls.
Everyone has their own unique way of walking, their strides, their gait, the force with which they land each step.
I know it’s Morgan before I meet her concerned eyes.
She’s been at the clubhouse longer than I have.
Story goes, she showed up one day for a party with some friends, met Rolo, and never left.
She was the first old lady who wanted to be at the clubhouse full time and not in one of the houses on the property.
By the time I came here, she was already the mother hen to all the patch bunnies, on top of taking care of the house and helping our cook and doctor with things they needed. She has a heart of pure gold.
Morgan narrows her eyes at me, nodding toward Rolo, silently asking a question I don’t have the answer to. I shrug, dropping my elbow into Rolo’s side to get his attention. He sits up straighter, turning in his seat, his face lighting up as he sees Morgan.
I want that.
Within the last two years, one of our road sergeants, Rogue, our club president, Chaos, and our vice president, Sin, have all found their queens.
Now I want one. I don’t even care if it’s a woman or a man.
My sexuality has never had limits or constraints, and I’ve never really defined myself with a label.
Mostly because I don’t understand them. All I know is I like it all, and my head and my dick are in agreement.
My insides churn at the thought of finding someone for myself. As much as I envy what they have, I know in my core it won’t happen. I’m too fucked up in the head for anyone to accept that. Who wants a deranged, sexual deviant, murderer for their man?
Rolo opens his arms, Morgan walking between his legs and wrapping her arms around his neck. Knowing he’s in good hands, I polish off my Shirley Temple and toss the can into the bin.
They don’t seem to notice as I creep over to the door that leads back downstairs, having learned a long time ago to keep my footfalls silent and stealthy.