3. Sly
The cracked leather of the chair I sit on groans as I lean back, shifting the laptop that rests on my legs.
Gunshots ring out from the speaker system of the television blaring in the living room of the Sinners Warlord’s clubhouse. Nixon and a few other members are watching an action movie together, tossing back dark amber bottles of beer as they do.
My attention span cannot accommodate the length of a movie, and my fingers twitch to do something other than lay idle.
Grabbing the computer was a mistake.
I’m not sure why I torture myself like I do, but the melancholy strain of my heart is becoming unbearable the longer I stare at it.
Another few weeks have passed, and time has only proven to hurt more.
Vincenza smiles back at me from the screen, her hair and makeup done up perfectly in a photoshopped portrait that makes her look unnatural, diminishing her true beauty in an effort to portray her as perfection.
An attempt wasted since her natural beauty is perfection.
I can’t bring myself to read more than the first couple of sentences of the article that highlights her early days as a bride-to-be. The fury of what could have been versus what happened ignites a powerful rage inside that I force down, shifting again in my seat before I slam the laptop closed.
Nixon’s gaze flies toward me at the sudden thump, his eyebrow quirking in question. Ignoring him, I turn my eyes toward the television and pretend to be engrossed in the show, all while a storm brews inside me.
The man on the screen takes down the vile-looking character with a single shot to the head.
Thoughts race through my mind faster than I can comprehend as I mutely stare at the screen. Silent questions and festering notions of how I could have been so delusional to think she’d actually fallen for me, too.
I believe what hurts the most is how wholly I gave my heart to her. How reluctant I had been because of who she was, but when I finally relented, I did so with every ounce of my being.
And if she asked, I would welcome her back with open arms.
Foolishly, but undeniably.
Because the love I feel for her is once in a lifetime, and I know my heart will never fully heal.
“Oh, shit,” King, the club”s second-in-command, grumbles from the couch. My gaze flicks in his direction, and I see him staring down at his phone, the screen”s illumination contrasting against the darkness of the room.
“What is it?” Nixon asks. Pressing pause on the remote, he leans forward against his knees, his head hanging low as he looks at King.
“Cain’s calling Church. Seems as though the sale just went through.”
“The sale of what?” an older biker by the name of Waltquestions, taking a pull from his beer.
King”s eyes cut to Walt, narrowing with annoyance. “Of the bar, dumbass. Now get up. Cain won’t like to be kept waiting.”
Standing, I let the laptop tumble to the floor without concern of it breaking—let it. Perhaps then I’ll stop torturing myself with web searches that lead to nothing but a downward spiral.
“Hey,” Nixon whines since the laptop is actually his, but I wave him off and leave the living room area, making my way to the large boardroom-style space where Church is held.
At the head of the table, Cain sits settled back in the large leather rolling chair with a file sitting in front of him. His eyes meet mine as I take the seat near him and nod in greeting.
The rest of the men file into the room, finding a place around the rectangular mahogany table. Sounds of chair legs scuffing against the floor echo against the walls, and I rub my temples as I wait for the last man to join us.
Once he’s settled, Cain clears his throat, signaling he’s about to speak.
“You all know Andromeda has been up for sale for a couple of months now. I just received an update that the deal is done and the new owner has closed. They’re getting the keys in the morning. Now, there is a clause written into the sale of the building that we have a five-year rent agreement that we’re hardly a year into. There should be no issues of us staying above the bar, but until I meet this new owner myself, anything could happen.”
He rubs a hand through his beard, scratching it before taking a paper from the file folder. He looks at it, then tosses it down. “I’m not much for legal jargon, but from what I can see in our lease agreement and the addendum that the previous owner wrote in before putting the place on the market, if the new owner breaks the agreement in any capacity, we have full repercussion to go after them for breach of contract and damages caused by displacement of the club.”
“In other words,” King cuts in, taking the conversation over. All heads snap to where he sits at the opposite end of the table. “If the new owner gives us shit, we give him hell.”
“Or we seek legal action, but sure, that too.” Heads fly back to Cain. A few men chuckle at the comment, and for the first time since joining the Sinners, I see the president”s lip lift in the faintest smirk.
Shoving the papers back into the folder, Cain leans back again, and I watch as he meets eyes with a man who sits a few seats from me.
Damon.
As the club”s enforcer, Damon is the eyes and ears of the Sinner’s Warlord and makes sure the club”s name only comes out of everyone’s mouths in a positive light.
Although I have only attended two other Church meetings, and he has only spoken at one, I quickly learned it is never good when Damon has something to say.
My focus is glued to him as he cracks his knuckles, then crosses his arms over his chest. “Northwood P.D. is accusing the Sinners of being behind a small string of robberies in their city. Three auto-shops have been broken into, the vehicles inside stripped of parts.”
Damon barely finishes his sentence before anger erupts. Fists slam on the table, and shouts ring out. A few even fly from their chairs and start yelling at each other in disbelief.
Looking at Cain, I find him calm, watching the scene unfold. Damon, King, and I do the same, where everyone else allows their emotions to control them.
After several moments of allowing the club to voice their frustrations, Cain speaks in a tone that is deadly, controlled, and final. “Enough.”
The word is audible but not loud, yet it silences the room immediately.
It is my understanding that Cain is new to his title of club presidency, and newer to the club itself. Nixon explained to me that while typically a club member is initiated into a higher ranking from within, the former president proposed Cain for his role, knowing King didn’t want the position.
It surprised several that Cain was voted into the position, although I can easily see why he was chosen, despite the doubt that sometimes flashes behind his eyes.
Cain is a good man, but I sense he has his secrets. There is a deep regret that’s settled just below the surface, and it makes me curious to learn what it is, though I know he will not divulge that information unless our friendship becomes more deep-rooted. He doesn’t seem like the over-sharing, personal information type.
“Northwood’s my hometown, and I may have moved from there, but my family hasn’t.”
Many of the men furrow their brows, wondering where Cain’s going with this, but I see his picture quite clearly. He is telling them he has connections.
It’s fascinating how many people in this room are not picking up on his subtle hints, or how Cain clearly already has a plan, or at least an idea, on how to diffuse this situation.
“So, uh?” someone from the far end of the table asks.
Exasperated and ready to hear the rest of what is to be said, I do something I have yet to do since joining Sinner’s Warlord. I interject.
“So what il nostro presidente is trying to say is the situation is already handled.”
Our eyes meet, and he slowly offers half a nod before taking over again. “My dad’s old golf buddies with the captain of the P.D. Tomorrow, a few of us will take a drive over there and get this all sorted.”
“Who you takin’?” Silas, the club’s road captain, asks.
Cain looks around at the men seated around his table. “You,” he says to Silas, then his gaze drifts as he decides. “Damon, Nix. And you too, pretty boy. Now, everyone out. We’re done for today.”
Shocked that he would want me to come along, I can’t help but to question him as everyone accepts their dismissal and stands to leave the room. “Why do you want me to go?”
It is not that I’m not interested in going, but that I find it curious he would want me to. I’m new, and I suspect he has yet to fully trust me. Perhaps that is changing.
“Are you questioning my judgment, prospect?”
“Just curious as to why you would bring a prospect.” My tone is dry but lacks any disrespect toward him.
Cain grunts, shaking his head. Standing, he picks up the file and holds it by his side. “Because unlike half the assholes in this club, you actually use that thing that your skull protects. And considering I’m not sure whether we’ll be welcomed into my hometown with open arms, I feel it’s best to have a decent crew along for the ride tomorrow. You going to prove me wrong, pretty boy?”
I rise, stepping away from my chair before I push it in. “I have no reason to make you think otherwise. However, if you do not stop referring to me as ‘pretty boy’, you will find yourself with one less brain and prospect. Is that going to be a problem, amico?”
Blowing a puff of air through his nose in a silent laugh, Cain shakes his head, his untamed hair flicking around him as he stalks past me and through the door. From over his shoulder he calls, “Better think of a better nickname then.”
A smile pulls at my lips—the first one I’ve felt in weeks—as I grip the top of the chair I still stand next to. For the first time since leaving New York and arriving in Ridgewood, a sense of belonging has settled within me.
These men may not be my friends, nor are they my family, but they are my new community. Through time, the friendships may come, but I no longer feel completely alone in this town that is slowly becoming my home.
The pain in my heart may still be a pungent feeling—an everlasting throbbing that may never cease—but another feeling is blossoming next to it. One that I was skeptical I would ever feel again.
Hope.
Hope for a life that could still be rewarding.
Hope that in the future, I may not feel so desolate.
They say time heals all wounds, but I have come to the realization that I do not want this wound to fully heal. If it does, it will be as though Vincenza was never there, and I would rather the memory of her be through the sting of remembrance than not at all.