Page 25

Diesel

Something’s changed.

It hits me the second we get back to the apartment and I step through the door and realize the place doesn’t feel so cramped anymore. It doesn’t feel like a prison cell where I’m holding my breath, waiting for violence to erupt between the MC and Victor Moretti’s gang.

Warily, because deep inside me there’s a voice that says that this can’t be right, I step through the door, expecting that same old sensation of frustration, anger, self-loathing, to surface with a vengeance, but for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe. Breathe without the weight of another person sitting on my chest. My lungs fill, my heart beats, and when I exhale, I look to my left and see Samantha standing there, and I fucking smile.

Because she’s smiling, too.

This place isn’t our prison anymore.

We’ve changed it.

And, while there’s a part of me that would rather be at the clubhouse, preparing, strategizing, cleaning weapons and listening to Havoc and Mayhem discuss whether now might be the perfect opportunity for them to unleash a new weapon they’ve been building — a weapon that Chains, Bones, Goldie, Ranger, Bishop, Hammer, Tractor, Rabid, and every other living, breathing, brain-functioning member of the club will call an abomination and a crime against humanity, something that even Victor Moretti’s men don’t deserve to suffer the consequences of — being here with Samantha doesn’t feel like punishment. It doesn’t feel like the distant-second choice.

It feels right.

I take her by the hand. When I squeeze it, I don’t feel that equal squeeze of guilt around my heart that serves as a reminder of Brandy’s death and my failure as her protector. I just feel warmth and a squeeze in return.

“This place doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”

“No, it doesn’t. It almost feels… cozy,” Samantha says. Her eyes drift around the small studio, scanning, searching. “It needs redecorating, though. Badly.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “It does?”

She sweeps her hand around the room. “The only decorations on the walls are some pieces of art — and I’m being really kind using that word — that look like they were taken from the lobby of a Motel Six that’s been abandoned since the 1970s. The bed is severe, and may be something that they got secondhand from a prison. And there’s not enough light.”

“And you call that cozy?”

“I’m looking at the potential. Past the doom and gloom of the room. You have to do that in life, and not just with ugly safehouses… or safe studio apartments, rather. Even though that phrase doesn’t have the same ring to it.” Releasing my hand, she steps further into the apartment and does a slow circle. I watch her, half checking out her luscious body, half just watching her , as she sees the room for what it could be, instead of the dank, dark closet that smells like sex and bourbon, which it is. “How much do you think they’ll let us do to this place?”

I shrug. “It’s a dive they keep around to stick people they want to keep out of the way. As long as we keep a low profile while doing what we need to do, I doubt they’ll care.”

“How low of profile?” She says. “I haven’t forgotten about Moretti, but I also haven’t forgotten about what we just did, either, which definitely wasn’t very low profile.” She smiles again. “And I regret nothing, for the record. It was the best motorcycle ride I’ve ever been on.”

“One of my favorites, too,” I say. I pause, frowning, and a twinge hits my heart as memories of the times Brandy and I used to ride this very motorcycle go through my head. “But taking a motorcycle ride to the middle of the woods and fucking in a clearing where there’s no one around is one thing. Shopping for new cabinets in Home Depot and setting up furniture deliveries to this address is a whole other thing entirely.”

“OK, fine.” Her hands move to her hips, and she tilts her head to the side, thinking. Then she snaps her fingers. “I have a plan.”

“A plan?” I say. There’s no way I can hide the doubt in my voice. Yes, I want to make her comfortable. Yes, I want to make this tiny bolthole of an apartment into something more. But I don’t want to put her life at risk for new curtains and a few stand lamps.

“We have to make a stop or two along the way, but there will be no way Moretti or any of the men he has chasing us — if they’re even in town yet — will be able to figure us out. I promise.” She pauses, and must still see the doubt on my face. Unlike anyone else I’ve met, she’s able to see right through me and read the words written on my heart. “Do you trust me?”

I don’t hesitate; she’s proven herself. “I do.”

The moment those words leave my lips, she springs into action, heading for the door and grabbing my hand along the way to lead me to my bike. “I saw a place on the way here. I’ll direct you.”

Under her direction, with a few false turns along the way, we wind up at a car rental company, then, more than a few dollars lighter to keep our names off any rental logs, she slips into the passenger seat beside me and taps me on the leg before leaning across the bench seat to give me a kiss that makes my heart hum louder than the truck’s engine. She holds the kiss, her hands sliding up and down my chest, gripping, teasing, tempting, enough that I’m about to reach for the keys, shut off the truck, and take her right in the parking lot, when she pulls back and looks deep into my eyes. There’s a smile on her face, but a hesitation in her eyes that makes my doubt resurface.

“What is it?” I say.

“We have one more place to go, I think, before we can get the stuff we need to make that apartment not-so-miserable. I asked you before if you trusted me, and you said yes, but we’re coming up to the part that I don’t think you’re going to like. So, I’m going to ask you again: do you trust me?”

Maybe I hesitate a second.

Maybe.

Because the way she says it reminds me exactly of the way one of my old COs would say ‘ This mission isn’t that dangerous ’ right before sending us into the fucking mouth of hell.

Still, I answer.

“I do.”

* * * * *

My eyes drift down for a second, then retreat in revulsion. “Fuck me.”

“It’s not that bad,” she says.

I look to my right, look at her, shake my head, and then look back at myself in the rearview mirror of the electric truck we rented — some terrible fucking vehicle with metal paneling and the shape of a robot’s penis — and feel something that might be shame fill my chest; the man staring back at me in the mirror of this godforsaken vehicle is a man without a soul, without pride.

“What the fuck did you do to me?”

“I told you to trust me.”

“I did, and look where it got me.”

“It got you a disguise that no one would ever expect to see you in. Victor Moretti himself could be the greeter standing in the hardware store’s entrance and he wouldn’t even recognize you.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?”

“Don’t you want to live with me in a tiny, crappy studio apartment that doesn’t suck? Don’t you want me to be a little happier at being kidnapped and imprisoned by you and your motorcycle club? Those clothes we bought you at the department store and renting this truck are the cost of happiness.”

“Maybe. Yes,” I say, knowing full fucking well that I do, that I both want her to be happy and for our hideout not to suck more than a black hole, but still feeling an ounce of regret.

“Besides, I think the whole khaki pants and polo shirt look is good on you. That hat, too. It’s nice. It brings out your eyes.”

I’ve never had someone lie so boldly to my face before.

“I look like the fucking sad sack who lives out his midlife crisis on the golf course.”

She rolls her eyes, but, tellingly, doesn’t say I don’t. “Let’s just go inside and get what we need.”

I step out of the godforsaken electric truck, my eyes darting left and right, searching for any sign of Moretti's men. But the parking lot is quiet, filled only with the cars of unsuspecting customers going about their daily business, oblivious to the danger that could be lurking.

Samantha walks around from the passenger side and I can't help but notice how she somehow makes the ridiculous golfing outfit look good; the pale pink polo shirt hugs her curves in all the right places, and the white shorts show off her tanned, toned legs. She catches me staring and smirks.

"See something you like?" She says.

"You make that getup look a hell of a lot better than I do."

She laughs and links her arm through mine.

"It won’t be so bad. Come on, we’ll be in and out before anyone can question your manhood.”

We head into the hardware store, Samantha leading me by the arm while I tug at the collar of the ridiculous polo shirt, trying my best to look casual and not like I want to murder the smug bastard looking back at me from every reflective surface. It's a futile effort — I feel like an asshole in sheep’s clothing.

As we step inside, the cool air conditioning hits us and I breathe a small sigh of relief. At least in here, I can try to blend in with the other customers and not feel so exposed. There are several other civilians in here wearing nearly the same clothes I am, which takes the sting off my outfit, as long as I ignore the fact that they look like raging assholes, too and they might take my appearance as an invitation to come talk to me about bullshit like Mondays, light beer, or golf.

"Alright," Samantha says, grabbing a cart. "I'll take the left side of the store, over by the paint and decorations. You take the right. Look for anything that could make the apartment feel more homey — lights, especially. Simple standing lamps, at least three, and get bulbs with warm lighting. Let’s meet back here in fifteen minutes, OK?”

I nod tersely and head off to the right, keeping my head down and my eyes peeled for any sign of trouble. The hardware store is big, with tall shelves packed with everything from power tools to plumbing supplies. I weave my way through the aisles, trying to look like I belong here, like I'm just another middle-aged douchebag picking out light fixtures for his sad man cave. But inside, every muscle is tense, every nerve on high alert. Moretti's men could be anywhere. They could already be here, watching us, laughing at me, waiting for the right moment to strike. I have to stay sharp, stay focused. Can't let my guard down for a second. Can’t die wearing clothes that make me look like I spend my weekends sadly sipping beer and jacking off in between rounds of video game golf.

I maneuver my cart into the lighting section. The fluorescent overhead lights glint off the shiny floor, and I scan the aisle before ducking into it to quickly find the lamps Samantha described and toss a few in my cart, along with some warm white bulbs.

As I'm examining a brushed nickel floor lamp, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I straighten and glance around. Nothing stands out of the ordinary — just a few middle-aged men arguing over ceiling fans and a bored-looking employee stocking shelves — but I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching me.

I move further down the aisle, pretending to look at lampshades while surreptitiously checking the security mirrors near the ceiling. That's when I see him — a man in a black leather jacket, his face obscured by a baseball cap, lurking at the end of the aisle. He’s there only for a second, nothing more than a shadow that disappears the second I turn around to face him.

Skin tingling, muscles tense, I leave the aisle and head toward the paint section, where Samantha should be. We’ve been found. It was a mistake to come here.

A mistake to wear these clothes.

Fuck these clothes.

And now I have to find Samantha and get her the fuck out of here in that goddamn electric monstrosity of a truck before Moretti’s men get the jump on us.

Halfway to my destination, I’m brought to a stop as Samantha and her cart suddenly come out of an aisle. Her face is white, her cheeks flush, her forehead damp with sweat.

“Diesel, there’s a man following me. And he has a gun.”