Bonemangler

CHAPTER 1

Polly

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I pulled up to the gated community where I used to live.

Don’t be silly, I reminded myself.

Laurie wasn’t even going to be that far away.

Only a few hours by plane. Less than a day to drive it.

And this was a college he absolutely loved, with a fabulous art program.

He was a good kid, a great kid, and he was going to love college.

It was just that I was 42 years old and had no idea what to do with my life now.

For the last 18 years I had been a stay-at-home mom, Boy Scout troop leader, Head of the PTA, and driver for the softball team.

My ex-husband Peregrine and I had split last year. There had been someone at his law firm. He hadn’t actually cheated. Because he’d dumped me expeditiously, as soon as he didn’t need me anymore.

It was fine. He had been a lame husband anyway.

I loved being a mom, but. . .what did I do now? What do you do when your kids are out of the house and you no longer have a husband?

Go back to school? Increase my hours at the greasy diner I worked at to pay for my apartment rent? Pick up a hobby? Go on Hinge?

I pulled down the mirror to look at myself before getting out. If I’d known Perry was having a whole get-together I wouldn’t have come over like this.

Messy brown curls, cut to my chin, silver-gray hairs threaded through them. Hazel eyes. Smudged glasses. I really needed to make a hair appointment, but I’d been too busy helping Laurie get ready for college.

Too busy for a lot of things.

I pulled my increasingly tight T-shirt down over my tits as I got out, and realized the fabric was still wet from crying.

Now this was going to be extremely annoying, because Perry was a real drag. But if I wanted my ex-husband to let me use our old minivan, I’d have to.

My car was making a weird rattling sound, and I didn’t know how much longer I was going to be able to drive it.

Maybe this time my ex would be reasonable?

My flip-flops sounding loud on the driveway, I walked up to what had once been my dream house. But now I could see where his new wife Bridget had bulldozed over my flower and vegetable gardens in favor of concrete slabs that were for, well, I wasn’t really sure what they were for.

Maybe they were just for removing any trace of me from the house.

I didn’t make it very far before Perry opened the door, his nose firmly up in the air, those outsized nostrils flaring as if he scented weakness.

“Polly, what are you doing here?” my ex asked. “I’m having a little wine soiree. Were you able to convince our son to switch his major yet?”

Perry was wearing a pure cashmere turtleneck sweater, his brown hair swept back in a silken wave, and he raised his glass of wine at me.

“A 1997 California Cabernet, and it is really delivering on the opulence I desire in a vintage glass, so please make this quick. I would invite you in but jeans shorts? You are a mother.”

My cheeks burned with embarrassment as everyone outdoors at the party naturally twisted around to see what I was wearing.

“Whatever, Perry. I just want to talk to you about the car,” I hissed. “And you know Laurie wants to be an art teacher. You need to stop trying to convince him to become a corporate lawyer just because you are.”

Perry sniffed. “An art teacher. What a bunch of nonsense.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “What car?”

“Well, mine is on its last legs, and I thought maybe—that minivan I used to drive—I could use it. I know you aren’t driving it!”

“Well, I’m not driving it,” Perry retorted, adjusting his gold-framed glasses on his nose, “but Bridget needs a backup car. For when she takes the dogs to the park.”

“So that car is for the dogs’ use?” I repeated blankly.

That minivan had my history in it. It was my car that I’d driven Laurie back and forth in to school every day, then to softball practice or to play games with his friends. I’d been the one to clean up the fossilized chicken nuggets from under the seat and the stinky teenage boy socks.

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “Bridget and I are married now. What’s mine is hers. If you didn’t like our divorce agreement, you should have said something last year.”

The objections felt stuck in my throat, buried too deep to drag out.

Last year I hadn’t had any money of my own.

Fighting my high-powered lawyer husband had seemed absurd, an impossibility. And I had wanted to be out, to be done with him.

“Is there a problem?” I heard the high, nasally twang of his new wife, and Bridget came into view, her long sleek blonde hair swinging almost down to her waist and her perky trim figure in a strapless minidress.

“There’s no problem,” I said brightly. “I want to use that minivan. I used it a lot when we were married and my car is about to die.”

Bridget looked highly offended at the reminder that Perry and I had been married. “If you want to change the divorce decree, you’ll have to get a lawyer.”

“Seriously?” I asked. “I know the two of you aren’t using it.”

“What did you do with all that child support I paid you?” Perry asked firmly.

“You mean the $400 a month?” I asked. “I put it toward apartment rent and food for our child.”

“Well, Polly, he was in school by then. You should have gotten a job.”

“I did,” I said, but Perry only sneered.

“Well, I guess you should have made better life choices. Then maybe you’d have a job that made some money. Now, if you’ll excuse us, our party guests await.”

I wasn’t normally an angry person, but I felt pissed off as hell. It took three turns of my key for my car to start. What was I supposed to do when it died? I didn’t have enough money for a new car.

Perry assured me for years that I’d never need to work, had scoffed at the very idea of me ever needing to work. As a result, I’d entered the workforce 18 years after college with very few options.

But it was true I did need a new job. Something paying way more than the greasy spoon diner.

I let myself in to my crummy apartment, which I had done my best to make cheerful. It would be cheaper to downsize into a one-bedroom, but what about when Laurie came home?

He was such a good boy and had never once complained that my place had only a fraction of the space his dad’s did.

I shoved a pile of unopened mail aside and started the coffee maker.

What skills did I have? My house had always been the one Laurie’s friends wanted to hang out at, and it had been fun to make them massive snack platters and try out new recipes. That was the kind of thing I was good at. Making Halloween costumes and decorating for school dances.

But I didn’t think those were very marketable skills. Maybe I should take my Aunt Bonnie’s offer to come live with her. But I’d feel horrible, like I was sponging off her.

As the coffee percolated, my eyes turned idly to the mail, and the words JOB OPENINGS caught my eye.

Hmm, interesting.

Who even advertised in the newspaper anymore?

“Job opening at The Legends Motorcycle Club. Needs a woman’s touch. Bed provided. Occasional hard labor, but plenty of free time. Lots of fresh air. Inquire in person at the Shop.”

What kind of job had “occasional” hard labor but lots of fresh air?

Fresh air, I liked that. And I could provide a woman’s touch? That was maybe the one thing I was good at. Cute crafts and snacks and warm tea? That must be what that meant.

But going to the Shop?

It was a massive, industrial-looking motorcycle garage outside town, located at the end of a strip mall filled with liquor stores, dive bars, and smoke shops.

That place was kind of scary.

But this job offer must be legit, right? Otherwise it wouldn’t be in the paper.

It was kind of vague, though. Like what exactly was it? Housekeeper? Cook? Gardening? There was a lot of good soil over there. Maybe administrative work?

The Shop was the absolute last place a 42-year-old mother probably ought to be applying, but something about the ad intrigued me.

What was all the mystery about? What was this job?

I decided to apply the next day, dressing in my nicest pearl gray suit jacket, white blouse, and skirt, all of it just a little tight over my tits, belly, and ass, but too late to do anything about that now.

I didn’t know much about motorcycles, besides the fact that they were very noisy, and I walked past the open bay of the garage with some trepidation.

It looked full of large men working on large bikes, all of them wearing black leather vests with different patches on them that I was too far away to read. They were all absolutely filthy, and the scent of motor oil and cigarettes hung low in the air.

Now with a little bottle of Dawn I could make some of those dirty engine-looking pieces shine, it was just that everyone was too busy.

Feeling like maybe I really could help around here, I walked into the office with a bounce in my step.

There was a husky man around 25 at the front desk, with a full ginger beard and long hair in a braid.

“I’m here to apply for the job?” I said, smiling at him.

“Which job?

“The—er, assistant job? I’m not sure. It wasn’t very clear. The one that needed a woman’s touch?”

His bearded face split into a grin.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Mac. And you are--?”

“Polly Pepper. I like that you have some cilantro in a vase. You don’t see that very often. It’s a nice smell.”

The young man’s bushy eyebrows went up.

“Hell, I thought that was lavender or some shit.”

“It’s good,” I beamed, gently touching one of the stems, all gathered together in an old mug that served as a vase. “Cilantro is great for spaghetti. Or salsa. Or just for making the waiting room smell good.”

He looked me up and down, but not in a weird way.

“You’re pretty nice, lady. You’re the first one that’s noticed that, at any rate. So let’s see if we can convince the boss to hire you. I think you might be good for him.”

“Wait—your boss doesn’t know about the ad--?”

Mac got up and knocked at a nearby office door.

“Bonemangler! Someone to see you!”

The Bonemangler? What kind of name was that?

Then all of a sudden another customer came in behind me, with one of the mechanics from the garage. The mechanic was in his early 60s, strong arms pushing his wheelchair, while the customer looked like a body builder.

The customer was complaining angrily about the cost of one of the repairs, and just as he drew even with me, he taunted,

“I’m not paying this shit, so chase me down for it, I dare you!”

He was so enraged he was spittling in the air, and I didn’t think this nice motorcycle place deserved to get defrauded, so I plucked his wallet out and set it neatly on the counter.

The mechanic pointed at him and spun his chair so it was in front of the exit.

“You must be from out of town. Nobody leaves here without paying.”

For a second there was no sound except for the customer’s heavy breathing, and the clink and clank of tools working in the shop beyond.

Then the doorway darkened and I looked up to see him.

The Mangler was a giant, a massive bison-shaped man, with slicked-back dark hair, a grizzled brown-and-gray beard, oversized hawk’s nose, dark eyes, and a lined harsh face.

He was stupendously, breathtakingly ugly, but in a very interesting way. I had never seen a face like that in my life.

“You planning to skip out on the bill?” this man growled, and his voice was so low and deep I felt a shiver go up my spine.