As if sensing something is wrong, Judge’s head swivels toward me and every one of the Death Lords snap to attention. I raise my palm to tell them I’m okay and I’ve still got it under control. He’s saying this shit to get a rise out of me, maybe charge me with assault of an officer. I don’t do anything now but there’ll come a time of reckoning because no one says shit about Chelsea and gets away with it. I know better than to say that sentiment out loud because Schmidt and his crew are just waiting for me to fuck up. They’ll be waiting a long time because I’m willing to swallow a lot of anger to keep her happy.
“You outta get a girl of your own so you don’t have to sniff another woman’s panty drawer.” I keep walking.
“Maybe your sister will sleep with me to keep you out of prison.”
I stop in front of the door and wait for the receptionist to let me through. The door buzzes and I push it open but before I let the door close, I use the noise to cover my threat. “Sleep with one eye open, Paulson. That way you can see me coming before I cut off your dick and shove it down your throat.”
9
WRECKER
Judge holds out my cut and I swing my arms through it.
“Is that wise?” Amelia asks. The clear implication is that she doesn’t think it’s smart.
“It’s who I am,” I answer.
“Let’s move out,” Judge calls behind us.
Outside, I see my hog. “Nice,” I grin.
“Thought you might like a ride this morning.” BangBang hands me a heavy down coat and leather gloves.
“You thought right.” I don the outerwear. In the saddlebag of my bike are a pair of sunglasses and my helmet. Fully tricked out, I swing a leg over the seat.
“Meet me at the clubhouse when you’re done,” Judge orders. I give him a nod to let him know that I heard him. “And don’t be gone long. Chelsea’ll worry.”
Not likely.
I’m at the apartment five minutes later and Chelsea is halfway down the stairs by the time my front tire hits the driveway. She flies down the last few stairs and launches herself into my arms. The helmet prevents anything more than a quick peck and I shove it off impatiently. The mint of her toothpaste tingles against my tongue as I delve deep.
Her moan is full of relief and happiness and all of it is conveyed in the fevered movement of her lips against mine. Need for her transforms into a steady burn that I suspect will never be fully extinguished.
I need Chels more than I need the road, the cut, or the Club. I can’t live without her. Waking up to her every morning and falling asleep in her arms every night is all I want to do for the rest of my days. The way she clutches me to her says she feels the same.
Our kiss is less passion and more relief and gratitude that we’re together again.
“Everything go okay?” she asks, drawing back. I reach for her helmet and pull it over her head before answering.
“Yeah. They have some fake statements saying I was in the vicinity but that’s it.”
“Shot with a 22? Such a small barrel. Like a girl’s gun.”
“It was probably hers. Someone surprised her. She got out the gun and the intruder took it from her. Happens all the time.”
She swings her leg over the bitch seat and settles in close. Eating up the pavement with my brothers on a sweet summer day is about as close to heaven as I can imagine, but I can’t say it’s better than having Chelsea riding bitch and her soft tits pressing into my back and her hands hooked into my belt, sometimes dipping lower.
She makes the endless winter feel as good as a week in the tropics.
“All right then. I’m not going to worry.”
Neither of us believe that but it sounds good. I roll the bike backward and then gun the engine. It’s so cold that if we didn’t have helmets on, our saliva would freeze in our mouth. But I need to feel the bite of the wind after the long hours in jail. Chelsea tucks her face into the hollow of my spine and we roar out of town. I head west, past the town limits and into the county where friendlies will allow us to pass through without hassle. All the browns and greens of the rural land is covered in a pristine blanket of white. The branches of the pine trees dip low with the weight of the deep winter snow. Running parallel with the ditch a couple of snowmobile tracks weave around each other.
And the air is crisp and clean. I flip up my visor and breathe in the cold, cleansing air until the stench of jail and Schmidt and our troubles is wiped away.
“What’d she say?” Judge asks when I arrive at the clubhouse.
“Chelsea?”
He frowns. “No. Your attorney. What did Amelia Harris say?”
“Keep my nose clean.” I toss my jacket and gloves onto an empty sofa and then climb onto a bar stool. Our Vice President, Flint, slides a beer down the counter.
“Did you do it?” Dad asks the one question that Amelia won’t. She doesn't want to know. She assumes that all her clients are innocent. You could carry out a hit in front of her and she’d still defend you. I asked her why and she told me a story about an old man who spent twenty years on a rape charge only to be exonerated by DNA evidence after the OJ Simpson trial. Apparently that old man was her uncle. He killed himself after he was freed and she devotes her life to seeing that no innocent man goes to prison on her watch.
But Judge wants to know the truth so that he can protect the club.
“No. I don’t know who the fuck the Trainor woman is. I haven’t been out to the golf course since this summer when I delivered a couple golf carts that we fixed. I don’t know whose truck they saw.”
“Fine.” The matter is closed. “How’s Chelsea taking it?”
“Not well,” I admit. “She wants to run.”
“Run where?”
I shake my head. “I don't know. Wisconsin? Canada? Somewhere far away from here where no one knows us. Where no one knows I have a record.”
Judge scrubs a hand down his face in frustration. “I get that she's scared, but she isn't the only one who was without you for three years. I don’t want you running off somewhere I can’t see the two of you.”
“We’re not leaving,” I tell him but there isn’t a lot of confidence behind my statement because if Chels decided to leave, I’d go with her.
“It’ll all work out.” Now Judge is being the unconvincing one.
“Innocent people are sent to prison every day. I'm a convenient scapegoat. If they can't find the real killer, then a felon with a record is better than nothing.”
“There is no evidence,” he argues.
“There's my record. That's all they need.” I finish off the beer but it sits wrong in my gut. I can’t sit around arguing with the old man about what may happen. He lets me go without an argument.
I bike
to the shop where I stick my head underneath the hood of a 1966 Cadillac. There, I’m able to lose myself in work until my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten all day.
Good food smell hits me when I walk in the door, something spicy.
“What's for dinner, babe?” I toe off my boots and hang my jacket up on the hook. The place looks clean and neat, a far cry from the mess the police left.
“I’m making tamales. There was a new recipe I found on the internet. Thought we needed something different.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come and help you put the apartment back together.”
She turns her face up for a kiss. “Figured you needed some time to yourself. Besides, Abel helped. He seems nice.”
“Guess so.” Nice isn’t the first adjective I’d use to describe Abel. Hard. Capable. Dedicated. Nice? Maybe around the women. It sits heavy on me that I wasn’t here to help her clean up.
The tamales were good and Chelsea kept up a stream of unimportant chatter as if tonight was no different than any other night. As if the knock on the door hadn't happened at two in the morning and I wasn't dragged to jail. As if our new apartment hadn't been picked up and shaken like a goddamn snow globe.
"The tamales are good."
"I agree!" She smiles and forks another portion into her mouth. "Super easy recipe, too. I'm going to try another one next week."
I set my own fork down as gently as possible and lean across the table. “What's going on Chels? Yesterday you were telling me that you didn’t want to be here. That you wanted to go where no one knew us and we could start over. I get arrested for something I didn’t do because Schmidthead has a hate boner for all of us and you’re sitting here like nothing’s happened.”
This time her smile is grim but more real. “I love you Grant. I love Judge. I know I get upset about the Club sometimes but that’s because it’s a convenient target. You protected a member of the Club and everyone around here knows you killed in self-defense.” I open my mouth to tell her that my hands aren’t all that clean but she waves her palm at me. A clear sign that I’m supposed to shut up. “I also don’t care if a thousand Mrs. Trainors call me names in the grocery store. What really gets my goat is the idea of Schmidthead, an asshole who probably hasn’t given a woman an orgasm since the beginning of time, gets to dictate where we live. No. I’m not running away. Besides, I have a plan.”