Chapter 3 #2
I shrug, lifting both my hands in the air. “I don’t know,” I say. “Isn’t that what they do?”
She makes a soft sound as she tears open the diapers.
I busy myself taking a bunch of things out of the bags and stacking them neatly on the coffee table.
I focus on unwrapping a cheap burner phone I got her, just so she has something to call her family or friends.
That feels like a bigger conversation, though, so I take the phone out of the packaging and program in my number.
As I work, I can make out Claire cooing quietly to her daughter, and I hear little noises as she puts the diaper on.
Aurora must grab for the towel on her mom’s head because I hear a quick intake of breath like Claire is in pain, but then she whispers, “My sweet angel. You’re playing with your mama? ”
I thought babies screamed and made all kinds of noises, but these two are so, so quiet.
Even Aurora’s wriggling and sounds while she gets her diaper changed seem too small, too still.
A knife twists deep in my chest, and I wonder…
Was I like that? Was I trained to stay quiet from my earliest days?
Have they spent their entire lifetime like I did, trying to fade away?
Something breaks open in me at the thought, and I have to shatter the silence. I’m not that kid anymore. And I get to make noise. “You need to eat,” I bark, maybe a little too loudly. “I know a great diner.”
“I’m done changing her,” she says. “You can turn around now.”
When I do, I see that Claire’s hair is wet and falling over her shoulders. Aurora is holding the towel that was once on her mama’s hair in her hands. She’s drooling and looking at me with wide, bright, beautiful eyes. Innocent eyes. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“What do you want?” I blurt out.
Claire blinks and bounces lightly on her toes, holding her daughter close. Claire looks so thin and vulnerable, fragile and delicate. The black eye looks even more violent somehow.
“Anything is okay,” she says.
I shake my head, emotions churning inside me.
Anger—at what she’s been through. Fury—that her baby has been through this with her.
And rage—all shades of the same color, but each one darker than the next.
The uncontrollable side of me, the side I suppress, is raging up like a Florida storm.
I’ve got to focus. Food. Not fists. Not fury. Dinner.
“Claire,” I say firmly, dragging my emotions down to a manageable level. “I’m going to go to a diner and get you a nice meal. They have burgers, roast beef, turkey, salads. You a vegan or anything?”
She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “No.”
“You like fries? Soup? What do you want?”
She looks scared again. “I don’t have…” She glances down at all the bags. “I don’t have money for all this,” she says quietly. “For this stuff. For dinner. I have nothing, Savage.”
I nod. “I know that. And until you do, I’m taking care of everything. I have money, Claire. And I’m happy to spend it on baby food and diapers and dinner. So, I’ve just got to know what I’m ordering for you.”
She sucks her lower lip into her mouth and cocks her chin at me. “Why?” she asks, her voice a raspy whisper. “Why are you doing this? Because if you…if you expect me… I’m not that.” She stands a little straighter, her voice rising. “Anthony was my boyfriend. I wasn’t—”
I hold up a hand to silence her, but then I realize she might think I’m threatening her. I shove my hands into my pockets. “I don’t care if you’re a sex worker, a girlfriend, whatever. No woman, and I mean no woman, deserves to be hurt by anyone, especially not someone she loves.”
I realize I’m fisting my hands in my pockets so hard, I’m straining the denim. I try to relax. Think calmer thoughts.
“Someday, we’ll talk. But not today. All you need to know right now is I’m helping you because once there was a woman I could not help.
I tried.” I blink hard and squint against a firestorm of memories.
“But I couldn’t. I’m helping you now. No questions asked.
No debt owed. I have money saved, and I’ll help you get on your feet.
And I won’t expect a goddamn thing in return.
You hear me? No one will lay a hand on you for any reason, in any way, while you’re under my protection. Are we clear on that?”
She studies my face for a moment, and before dropping down on the bed, her shoulders sag. “I don’t understand.”
I take the burner phone and toss it onto the bed next to her.
“That’s for you,” I tell her. “You’re not a prisoner here.
You’ve got people to call, make the call.
You want to leave, the door’s wide open.
But if you don’t, you stay here while you figure out your next move.
” I point to the phone. “I programmed in my number and Phantom’s.
He runs this place, so if I’m not available, there are other people who will step in. ”
She looks at the phone, then at me. The look of doubt on her face is so obvious and clear, I want to reassure her, but I know I can’t. She’s going to have to learn to trust me. And that shit’s going to take time.
“Thank you,” she finally says, her voice a meek whimper.
I turn to go, but then I remember. Food. “I’m going to the diner, so tell me what you like or you’ll be stuck eating whatever I get.”
“Could I have a burger?” I can hardly hear her, but I strain my ears. “And maybe a Coke?”
“Fuck…ahhhh, yes. Heck yes. Definitely a Coke and a burger.” I don’t know what babies understand, but the hardest part of all this is going to be watching my language.
I turn to leave but then realize I didn’t ask the most important question.
“Claire,” I say, one hand on the doorframe.
“You want regular or sweet potato fries?”
“Prospect, on your feet.” I point at one of the new guys slouched down on a sectional playing video games. “We’re making a run.”
The other prospects turn and look at us, a little curious and a lot jealous.
The new guy, whose club name is Tank, hoists himself up from the couch. “You got it, boss.”
Almost a year ago, we turned over all the prospects we had when one of them named Dylan got himself mixed up in drugs and some drama with Phantom’s ex.
Since then, we’ve recruited a bunch of new guys.
Some of them, I think, are going to make it.
Some won’t. Tank’s the one I trust the most, and as always, he doesn’t ask questions.
Tank’s name is fitting. The guy is huge. Shorter than me but wide in every way. He ambles over and tugs a black bandana over his buzz cut. “Who’s drivin’, boss?”
“Me.” I grab a set of keys to a pickup truck from the lockbox on the wall, and we head out to the lot.
I call in an order and add Tank’s usual to it. We make the first few minutes of the ride in silence, but eventually, Tank’s asking the questions that I am sure are on everyone’s minds.
“Lady and a baby, huh?” He stares out the window into the darkness.
I grunt, but then chuckle. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.” I do, actually, but I’m not about to share that with anyone, let alone a prospect.
Tank’s quiet, tapping his fingers lightly on the door, his meaty hand partly out the window. He nods, lost in thought or just respecting the fact that we don’t have the kind of relationship that invites him in.
“With an eye like that…” he says quietly. “I hope that I would step in and be a hero like that for someone. I don’t know if I would’ve gotten involved.”
I suppose this should be a teachable moment.
A moment where I share the club values with this prospect.
Tell him what kind of man I am and what kind of person I’d expect him to be.
But I’m not that guy. Not anymore. I spent years following orders.
Knowing my place. Helping new recruits not get their asses kicked and sometimes doing the ass-kicking.
Now, I’m no role model. I’m no leader. I’m just doing what I can to get by without blowing up any more land mines in the landscape of my life.
“We never know who we are until life forces our hand,” I say.
He nods because I know he gets it. We all do. I don’t have pretty promises or an inspirational slogan. All I’ve got is the truth. We don’t know who we are until we do.
We pull up to the diner parking lot. Tank knows the drill. I hand him a hundred-dollar bill, and he hops out and runs inside while I idle in the lot.
As I wait, I look through the rolled-down passenger window at the activity inside. There are waitresses and busboys. Families at tables and people sitting solo at the long counter. Tank props one ass cheek on a stool at the counter while an older woman with thick white hair gives him a warm grin.
He makes small talk with her, and she stuffs extra condiments and napkins into the bag. She looks happy and healthy, at least from this distance. It’s as close as I ever allow myself to get to her.
I blink at the sight and look away as Tank heads back through the lot carrying a big plastic bag with the name Savage written in black marker. He sets the bag in the back, then climbs into the front.
“She said I have to stop overtipping her,” Tank chuckles. “Threw in a year’s supply of napkins and shit.”
The scents of my food, Claire’s, and Tank’s turkey dinner fill the truck as I head back toward the compound. “As long as she took it.”
That’s all that matters.
After everything I did to her, it’s the least I can do.