Page 33

Samantha

He sits next to me at the bar, looking like Travis Bickle, except the sides of his skull aren’t shaved entirely bald — there’s an entire cavalcade of artwork shaved within the short stubble of hair. A lightning bolt, a heart, a skull. His mohawk is better, too. A little straighter, and a little sharper, like an ill-considered touch could cause some sliced fingers. He has earbuds in, but that doesn’t stop him from talking, even though I haven’t asked him any questions. I’m just sitting at the bar counter with a plate of dinner in front of me — an untouched burger, a delicious side salad, and a small cup of soup — along with a glass of wine and a volcano of problems erupting in my head.

I don’t know his name, but I do know that it’s late, I’m tired, and I am burned out from worry.

“I don’t really like jazz,” he says. “If that fucking weird bee with Jerry Seinfeld’s voice asked me, I’d smash it, even considering how much good bees do for the planet.”

I say nothing, because I don’t know if he’s talking to me, because he’s armed — there’s a gun clearly visible on a shoulder holster inside his cut — and because I’m not in any frame of mind to engage with someone who might be murderously insane. My thoughts keep drifting to two things: the still-unused cellphone inside that paper bag I’ve hidden in Diesel’s apartment, and worrying about how Diesel’s mission will go and whether he’ll be safe. I’ve hardly seen him all day except for flashes at a distance. And every time I’ve looked at him, he’s had such a focused, determined expression on his face that it hasn’t felt right to even call out to him, even though my heart is sick with worry.

The mohawk’d man next to me keeps on talking. Maybe he’s not actually talking to me. Maybe he’s talking to himself. It wouldn’t surprise me.

“Punk music — all the way back to progenitors, like the Kingsmen and other garage rock acts, up through the classic 1970s acts, fun diversions like the Queercore and Riot Grrl acts of the 1990s, and modern stuff, yes, even Green Day — is my jam. Sometimes I’ll dive into other genres, even technical death metal, where it’s all masturbatory solos and precision rhythm, and I once listed to something called a Mauler and really liked it.”

“It’s not ‘Mauler,’ honey. It’s Mahler. Mahler is a composer,” Molly says as she passes by with a few drinks to deliver to Claire and Alessia. “So he’s not a thing , he’s a person. And he died over a hundred years ago.”

“That explains it. I thought it was a band named Mauler, and was disappointed at first, until I really got into it. But jazz never did it for me. Still doesn’t, mostly. Then Valeria hooked me up with this audiobook about Miles Davis, and fuck, man, I owe that guy so much I want to kiss him.”

He stops talking and looks right at me, and I have the distinct fear that, if I don’t say something, I might die. That feeling is further backed up when, out of the corner of my eye, I see Molly make a distinct ‘go ahead’ gesture.

“Are you talking to me?”

“I am, now.”

“What do you owe him?”

“He started it all.”

“Started what?”

“I wouldn’t have the music I love without this weird, heroin-addicted, kind-of-terrible, and yet incredibly gifted, jazz guy. I owe the music I love to jazz. And I don’t know how I feel about that,” he says. He has his gun out, now, and he’s staring deep into the dark gunmetal like he might find the answer to his feelings within its inky depths.

My eyes go back to Molly, but she just shrugs and rolls her eyes, so my fear of being shot to death by a guy who likes Miles Davis and looks like Travis Bickle goes from extreme to medium.

“How did he start it?”

“Punk music came from rock music, but rock music came from jazz, mainly because certain bands co-opted it, but that’s a whole other discussion. Weird, boop-boop jazz music is where it all comes from. And a lot of that is because of Miles Davis. I wouldn’t have The Clash, or Rancid, or even fucking Green Day without Miles fucking Davis. So, in a way, I love him.”

Then he stops and cocks his head. Maybe he has more to say, but at that moment, the roar of approaching motorcycles fills my ears and sends my heart into my throat.

“Oh fuck, that’s him,” I say, leaping out of my chair. “Diesel.”

I make it five steps toward the door when Molly calls out above the roar.

“Sit your ass back down, Samantha.”

“Why?”

“They’ve been hunting. You know what hunters look like after a serious hunt?” Mohawk says.

“If you don’t want to change how you see your man this early in your relationship, or whatever the hell it is you two have going on—” Molly says.

“It’s a relationship,” I say, surprising myself at both how definitively I say it, and how little I hesitate.

“Then sit your ass down.”

Shouting erupts from outside, sending my heart from my throat to somewhere just outside my mouth. My terror pounds like a jackhammer in my ears as I bolt for the door, ignoring Molly's warnings. I burst outside, the cool night air hitting my flushed face. My eyes dart frantically as I search for Diesel among the sea of leather and chrome.

Then I see them.

Mayhem, Chains, Bishop, and Bones emerge from the darkness, their faces grim and splattered with what I pray isn't blood. Between them, they drag a limp figure, beaten beyond recognition. My stomach lurches at the sight, bile rising in my throat.

Where's Diesel? Is that body him?

Panic claws at my chest as I scan the group again. Then I spot him bringing up the rear, his expression dark and dangerous. Relief floods through me, chased by a wave of nausea as I take in the full scene.

I stumble forward, desperate to reach him, to make sense of this nightmare that unfolds before me — blood, angry faces, dark eyes. And that body. It looks like whoever it is is still alive, just badly hurt, and they’re taking him prisoner. But before I can get close, Diesel's there, blocking my path. His eyes lock onto mine, intense and unreadable.

"Samantha, go back inside," he says, his voice low and commanding.

"But—" I protest.

"Now," he growls. “Don’t hesitate. Don’t test me. Just get back inside. Now.”

I freeze, torn between my need to understand and the primal fear his tone ignites in me. This isn't the Diesel I know. This is someone else entirely. And as I watch him turn away and follow the others — and that body — to a back door leading into the clubhouse, fascination and fear overwhelm me.

“Who is that man? What are you going to do to him?” I call out. “Is he even alive?”

Diesel whirls on me. “An enemy with information. As for anything else, it’s none of your business. Get back inside.”

I stand my ground. I tremble with a mix of fear and righteous anger.

"No, Diesel. I'm not going anywhere until you explain what's going on. This... this is wrong. No matter who that man is or what he's done."

Diesel's eyes flash dangerously. "You don't understand what's at stake here. This isn't some game. We're at war."

"War?" I spit the word out. "Is that what you call kidnapping and torture now? Because that's exactly what this looks like to me."

He takes a step closer, looming over me. "That man is one of Moretti's. He has information we need — information that could save lives. Our lives. Your life. Maybe even your brother’s. Unless you want to put them all in even deeper risk? Is that what you want?"

I shake my head. "There are lines you don't cross, Diesel. Even in war. This... this is barbaric."

"Barbaric? You want to know what's barbaric? Barbaric is what Moretti and his men do to innocent people every day. The lives they destroy. The families they tear apart. The people they pump full of their fucking drugs. That's barbaric."

"And this makes you any better?" I challenge, gesturing towards the clubhouse where they've taken the man. "Stooping to their level?"

Diesel's jaw clenches. "We do what we have to do to protect our own. To win this fight. You can't understand because you've never been in a war. Maybe when you experience some more of the fucking real world, beyond the idyllic fucking heaven in Boise, then you’ll understand. But until then, keep your mouth shut and get the hell back inside.”

He turns again, striding quickly to rejoin his brothers, who already have the door open and are hauling the beaten man inside.

I stumble back inside. My mind reels. The warmth of the bar feels suffocating now, the familiar faces blurring as I push past them. I can't bear their concerned looks or probing questions. I need to be alone.

I find myself in Diesel's room — our room — and slam the door behind me. The sound echoes in the silence and matches the thundering of my heart. I pace, my thoughts a chaotic whirlwind. How can Diesel be capable of such brutality? It sickens me. It sickens me that this seems so normal to them, so necessary. How could anyone want this?

And yet, a small voice whispers, isn't this the world I chose to be a part of?

My brother's face flashes in my mind; Jake's out there, caught up with Moretti, possibly in as much danger as the man I just saw beaten and dragged away. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut: there are no good guys in this war. Just different shades of darkness.

I sink onto the bed. My hands shake and tears rise at the corners of my eyes. I can't just sit here while people I care about are in danger. I have to do something. My eyes fall on the dresser where I've hidden the burner phone Molly gave me.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I retrieve the phone and dial my brother's number.

Each ring seems to last an eternity. My breath sits frozen in my throat while I pray for my brother to answer; I hope he will, even though he’s never been the type to answer an unknown number. Or even answer the phone at all.

There’s a click. His voice.

“Hello? Who is this?”

I wait for a second while my words cower in my throat.

This is wrong. This is betraying Diesel’s trust. I need to hang up this phone right now.

“Jake, it’s Samantha. I have something really important I need to tell you.”