Chapter 11
CARMEN
I’ve lost count now of how many times I’ve ridden on the back of a Harley.
I clutch onto Vex as we drive through the desert. I’m half-glad Carter put a stop to things before they got too out of hand. Preschool will be finishing soon. I have Otis to pick up.
But first I need to sort out the problem between my legs. The one Carter and his friends weren’t kind enough to resolve before sending me away.
Before I have time to think about being annoyed with Carter, Vex is slamming on the brakes and bringing the bike to a screeching halt.
Did he change his mind?
“Duck!”
I ignore his command until I realize that debris is flying everywhere. We come to a complete stop, the force of gravity throwing me into Vex’s back.
There are worse people I could be pressed up against.
I open my mouth to speak but my jaw ends up hanging open.
The car whooshing past us must be going at least two hundred miles an hour.
It cuts through the desert in the same direction we just came from, leaving clouds of dust in its wake.
I squint through the hazy atmosphere to try and follow it, but the vehicle has already disappeared into a dramatic cloud of smoke.
I may not be able to see it anymore, but I can still hear the engine.
Vex watches with me, his eyes set ahead.
“Did you forget to tell me about the Grand Prix?” I say.
“Cars don’t come out here,” Vex says. “And if they do, they go slow because of the uneven terrain.”
Don’t I know about the uneven terrain? I’ve been out of my seat more than I’ve been in it. Vex has been rushing against the speed of light to get me home.
Until now.
Now the rush continues. The only difference this time is that we’re going in the opposite direction.
I wrap my arms around as much of Vex as possible, holding on as we race back through the desert.
“What are you doing?” I yell in his ear.
“Going back.”
I’m all for doing a U-turn and heading back to the clubhouse to resume what we didn’t finish, but I draw the line when death is involved.
I have a two-year-old son waiting for me at home who finishes preschool in precisely two hours. I can’t afford to get wrapped up in stupid motorcycle drama.
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“When an unregistered black car is heading toward the clubhouse, things aren’t fine. I need to check it out first.”
Maybe this is what Carter meant when he said the clubhouse is no place for a girl.
But I’m not a fucking girl.
I’m a woman who can handle her shit.
“Looks like you killed the wrong person.”
“This isn’t funny, Carmen.”
“Who did you kill?”
“Nobody important.”
I seize up. The fact that he’s not joking just reiterates what sort of place this is.
And I slept with him.
They murder people and commit all kinds of felonies, and I enjoyed my time in bed with them so much that I wanted to go in for another round.
The wind howls, my hair going crazy.
We make it back to the clubhouse quickly. While I’m taming my hair, I watch Vex dart into the garage to question other patched members about whether they saw anything. Most shake their heads.
The wind blows a segment of their conversation my way. “You brought this on yourself for being such a man whore.”
Brilliant.
Vex returns to the Harley and lets out a groan.
“Man whore, huh?” I say. “What was that all about? Should I be concerned?”
“Probably, yeah.”
Neither confirmed or denied.
“Now what?” I ask him.
“Now, we take extra precautions.”
“Why, because someone else decided to enter your part of the desert? Maybe put up a sign next time if you don’t want anyone venturing into your neck of the woods.”
Getting under Vex’s skin is more amusing than I thought.
At the end of the day, while these men are machines under the sheets, on the streets they care about nobody but themselves.
They’re territorial for no reason. It also sounds like they all have problems. They should see a licensed shrink for therapy instead of using gun violence to try and make themselves feel better.
“Stay here,” Vex orders.
“Don’t blame me if I’m not here when you come back,” I yell atop the wind as he disappears into the clubhouse.
Typical. An obnoxious black car is among us and now I’m out in the desert alone. If I knew I was going to be waiting out in the sun, I’d have purchased some sunscreen back at the supermarket.
I slip my phone from my pants pocket and look at the time. Best to give Sadie a ring. I bring the device to my ear and hope that my girl will pull through.
“Hello?”
“Sadie, are you able to pick Otis up from preschool today? I got caught up with some…things…and I’m not gonna be back until later. How does a hundred bucks an hour sound?”
“It sounds perfect, but it also sounds like too much. Are you okay?”
Burning alive in the Nevadan desert, waiting for one of the bikers who purchased me at an auction to give me a lift home.
“Yeah, I’m perfect,” I say in the most cheery voice possible. “Everything’s fine.”
“Okay,” Sadie says. “See you tonight.”
That’s one thing off my chest. I let out a relieved sigh and pocket my phone, only to see the holy trinity staring down at me from the veranda.
“Everything okay?” Skipper asks.
Why do they look so suspicious?
“Um, yes?” It comes out as a question. “Are you guys?”
“Did you tell anyone about us?” Vex asks.
“No.”
“Because you can’t,” Carter says.
There goes my freedom of speech.
“Technically, I can, unless you make me sign a nondisclosure in my own blood.”
Why is Vex raising an eyebrow like that could actually be a good idea?
Carter shakes his head and looks back at me. “That won’t be necessary. Your word is fine.” After staring at me for another beat, he steps down from the veranda and offers me a hand. “Come back inside.”
“How many times a day do you bikers contradict yourself? I’m not welcome here, remember?”
“We need eyes on the black car first. Only then, we’ll release you.”
“You’re making it sound like I’m your prisoner.”
“Whatever gets the juices flowing,” Skipper says. “We just need to eliminate the threat. Believe it or not, we don’t want anything happening to you.”
“How endearing.”
“You’re a beautiful girl,” Carter blurts out. “You’re lucky that Conrad O’Neill didn’t kidnap you in the parking lot when he approached you. You’d be worth something to quite a few men.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “And what am I worth to you?”
This is classic male behavior. Everybody wants the shiny toy, so they want it too.
Carter only outbidded the Irish at the auction because he saw that I was desirable to others. If nobody had put a bid on me, I can guarantee I wouldn’t be out in the desert getting sun damage.
In a way, I ought to thank Conrad O’Neill and his boys. If they didn’t see me as a valuable, shiny toy, I wouldn’t be sweating buckets in this season’s Isabel Marant.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since being here, it’s this—motorcycle clubs are masculinity on steroids. If you cram a hundred or so males with high testosterone levels into one small shack, you get chaos.
But I must admit, I like the chaos. My life has been the opposite for far too long. Pushing strollers through parks and attending mother-baby groups are fun for a time, but when I’m doing these activities, I see no men.
Zero.
And now all of a sudden, I find myself at the other end of the spectrum.
I’m nothing more than a shiny toy to the bikers, but who am I to judge? It’s not like they’re anything more than a good time.
“Who do you think was driving the vehicle?” I ask.
“That’s what we’re trying to work out,” Vex says.
Carter takes another step down from the veranda. “It’s probably nothing, but we have to tread with caution. We don’t want you getting hurt.”
Translation: they don’t want me crossing paths with the driver of the black car in case it reaches the wrong ears.
I can sulk and keep hitching my arms further up my chest, but it’s not gonna change anything. As long as I get back by tonight, everything will be fine. Sadie is taking care of Otis.
“Okay.” I advance toward the veranda and keep my arms crossed as I pass Carter. “But I’m in need of a drink. An alcoholic one, preferably.”
I plonk back down onto the barstool like it’s déjà vu all over again.
The bikers move through the clubhouse, discussing the wild turn of events with their friends. Everything here is taken so seriously. Men take anxious sips of beer with tense jaws and rigid body language.
Seeing men three times my size look frightened isn’t helping matters.
I dim the tight feeling in my chest with more sips of my drink until I’m requesting a refill at the bar from a tall man who goes by the name Ash.
But the sips soon turn into big gulps. My mind starts to create new branches, brainstorming new ways that all of this could get back to Otis.
How I’m no better than my own mother.
How, no matter how hard I try to be a better parent than she was, the apple will never fall far from the tree.
It’s 4:40 p.m. when I make it back from school. As usual, the curtains are still drawn, the windows closed, trapping in the potent smells of warm alcohol and nicotine.
I take the half-full bottle of vodka from the windowsill and throw the rest of the contents down the sink. The stuff has been marinating all day in the sun.
But that won’t stop my mom from finishing it.
I dump my school bag on the kitchen table amidst other bottles of liquor, trashing them in the recycling one by one.
On my way to Mom’s room, I almost fall on my ass, tripping on her shoes abandoned in the middle of the hallway.
I’d be in a rush to get my heels off too if I was dancing in eight-inch stilettos until sunrise.
I open her door and find her sleeping with a man in her bed. A new one.
The only thing she recycles is her empty bottles of vodka. You’ll never see her recycling men.
“Why should I, when I can have a new one every night?” is her argument.