Hard Rider

A few minutes later, Dutch and I were sitting face-to-face, each equipped with a shot of whiskey and a beer. Dirk was nearby, but not close enough to hear anything. Dutch sipped his whiskey slow, and I downed mine in a shot. I needed it to get through whatever this shit was. Him drinking slow was new to me, too; like his thin cheeks, the grey of his beard, his red eyes, his wrinkles. He never used to balk at a stiff drink. He never used to take anything slow.

“So,” he said. “This your place?”

“Well, not my place,” I said. “I'm kind of the manager. Mostly serve cocktails, but also look after the girls. Make sure things run smooth.”

“So you're a cocktail waitress,” he said.

“Only in title,” I shot back, going on the defensive. “Make more money than being on salary, otherwise I'd have a fancy nametag sayin' manager and everything.”

Shit; being with Dutch was making my old accent roar to life. I'd tried to lose it. It wasn't a pretty southern accent, nothing you'd hear at a fancy dress ball. It was raw, harsh, almost violent.

“I ain't judging,” Dutch said over another sip of whiskey. “Just tryin' to get a feel for where you're at.”

“Why?” I didn't want to dance around the issue. If he wanted to play catch up and talk about the old times, he could do it over lunch, when I wasn't working.

“'Cause I got a proposition for you,” he said. “I think it would be mutually beneficial.”

I'd already said no in my head. I was done with the Crusaders. There was no going back. But I let him keep talking, and that was my second mistake.

“I expect you remember Cross DuFrane?”

Oh shit. Dutch had dug way down into his asshole and pulled out the one name that could make me choke on my beer. Of course I remembered Cross. You don't forget your first; love, fuck, whatever. And Cross was my first everything. It took me years to get over that boy.

But I was over him. Ten years after leaving him at that bus stop, I was over him. Hell, I'd gotten married in between then and now. Granted, that marriage was a mess and more trouble than it was worth, but still. I didn't think of Cross that often. And when I did, I didn't feel a thing. Except, hearing his name from Dutch's lips...

Well, maybe the shot and the beer weren't such good ideas after all.

“Yeah,” I said. “I remember.”

“I know you were sweet on him. Real sweet. But ten years, you know, that's a long time. People change. You've moved on, ain't you?”

I nodded. Yes, I'd moved on. So? I suddenly felt fear creeping down my spine. Was Dutch here to tell me Cross was dead? Had he travelled ten hours and tracked me down just to tell me my one-time boyfriend had bought it, just like my father?

“Cross has changed, too,” Dutch said, and now he leaned in closer, his eyes darkening. “But not in any ways I'd call good. I made a mistake. Made him my Sergeant-at-Arms. I think it's been gettin' to his head, him being so young. Always had a bit of the rebel in him, anyhow.”

“What's this all got to do with me, Dutch?”

“I need someone to get close to him. Don't gotta do nothin' untoward, you understand. But close enough to know what's goin' on in his head. Because I think it's no good. I think he's plannin' something very stupid. It won't end well for him. I need someone who can stop him before he gets started. Someone who can let me in on his secrets. You understand where I'm goin', Bex?”

“You want a spy. You want me to go back to Cutter, get back with Cross, and be your spy. I'm not dumb, Dutch. I understand perfectly well. But it ain't gonna happen. For three good reasons. One, I'm never going back to Cutter. Two, I don't want nothing to do with Cross. Three, I don't play secret agent. Sorry you wasted a trip. Could have called and...”

“Bex, Bex, Bex,” Dutch said, smiling as he leaned back, shaking his head, almost like he pitied me. “Princess, you're right on some accounts, dead wrong on others. I'm willin' to make it worth your while. In money...and in services.”

“Services?” I asked, intrigued despite myself. But then I shook my head; no. I couldn't let this ridiculous conversation go any further. “Sorry, Dutch. Really, truly. Listen, stick around, enjoy the girls, drinks on the house, alright?”

I tried to stand up. His hand shot out, grabbed my wrist, pulled me back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dirk stiffen, almost rise.

“Fifty grand,” Dutch said. “Fifty grand, cash. Half now, half later.”

Shit. I sat down on my own. Fifty grand? That could buy me a plot of land and a nice trailer. It could buy me a car that had four working windows and an air conditioner. It could pay off my credit cards. In Helena, fifty grand could get you a whole fucking lot. Fifty grand...well, all I could think was, hot damn.

“And,” Dutch went on, smiling like he was about to hit the bullseye. “I'll get rid of your ex-husband.”

He didn't need to hold my wrist to keep me at that table anymore. He had me, hook, line, and sinker.

“He's still my husband, technically,” I said, staring into his old, cold, black eyes. It was crazy; one minute, I was the Bex Carter I'd always been. In the next, I couldn't even recognize myself. The change was instantaneous. And I knew I wouldn't like this new Bex Carter. I knew I wouldn't be proud of her, of anything she did. I knew I'd regret it. I knew I could never go back.

But that didn't stop me from staying at that table and hashing out the details. It didn't stop me from shaking hands with the devil. And that was my third mistake. I wish I could tell you it was my last, but that would be a lie. There were more mistakes to come, but none as bad as that one. No, it's true what they say; third time's the charm.

Bex

It had been ten years since I rode a Greyhound bus. My mother took me to Helena, and I never left. Not even when she died, leaving me with nothing but ashes and a house full of dirty needles. What had been a problem before my father died became a full-on addiction after. She didn't live to see me turn twenty. We didn't even own the house. I still paid rent there.

With fifty grand, I could probably buy it.

Or something better.

I had to keep thinking that way, because if I thought of anything else, I'd get sick to my stomach again. It had nothing to do with motion sickness, even though the bus smelled like piss and my seatmate smelled even worse. Being over Cross didn't mean I could live easily with betraying him. Even if he was different. Even if he was planning some mutiny on the club. Love demands loyalty, even when it's ten years gone.

But I couldn't turn Dutch down. The money meant too much. I'd been treated like trash my whole life. Growing up in the club, we did more than alright

, had the club's dirty businesses to support us. But it wasn't our money. It was never our money. I grew up with the rest of the club kids, running haywire through our side of the city. Never crossing those invisible lines that separated the have's and the have not's. In school, everyone knew the club kids from the normies. Club kids were trash. Even fitted out in new clothes and the season's hot sneakers, we were trash.

And then, of course, I lost all that when my old man bit it, taking a bullet to the heart when a deal went south. We could have stayed, Mama and I, and they would have taken care of us. Mama would probably even have found a new husband. But she didn't want that. She wanted out. Heartbroken, she refused it all, and took me from the rolling Ozarks to the swamps of Arkansas. The club sent money, I believe, but I never saw it. It all went straight into her veins. From the time I was 16 on, I was dirt poor and trash. Double whammy.

The revolving door of debt, the EBT cards, the forms and waiting in line at the welfare office, the stink of poverty all around me. The roof leaking. The basement caving in. The water turned off. The things people thought: if you worked harder, if you got a better job, if you weren't so lazy. America's the land of opportunity, right? But not to me. I had to drop out of school in my senior year. I never learned to use Powerpoint. My resume was a joke. I couldn't afford a nice outfit to interview in, and I didn't have the time or energy to interview anywhere, anyway.

Excuses, excuses, I know, I know. But almost as soon as I was no longer responsible for taking care of Mama, I became responsible for taking care of a husband. Jase had a good job when I met him, working construction. He was a forklift operator. Bonafide. Bringing home enough money to cover his rent and some of mine. And he was sweet, ready to spoil me – what passed for spoiling, anyway. Taking me to dinner at Chili's, bringing me groceries from the nice grocery store instead of the Wal-Mart, leaving a pretty dress in the closet for me to find before a date. Why wouldn't I marry him?