Where Souls Spoil (10 page)

Chapter 12

Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.

David Ogden Stiers

“THAT’S IT,” RUBY says, barging into my room as she so often does. Quickly, I shut my laptop and smile. I’ve been curled up on my full-sized bed for the last hour checking out the local college’s upcoming fall course schedule. I haven’t said anything to Ruby or Jim about it yet, but if I want the chance to go, I’m going to have to do it soon.

“What’s wrong?” I shove the computer off my lap and stand up, adjusting my tank top and jean shorts. Jim swears the house has air conditioning, but in this early-July, record-setting heat wave, I’m calling bullshit.

Inviting herself in, Ruby puts her hands on her hips and surveys the space. It’s a little barren, I’ll admit. When I got here two months ago, all the room had was a tall, wooden dresser, and a used full-size mattress set that sat on the floor. Ruby immediately apologized for not getting me a new one, saying she hadn’t had time to go find one. I was close to taking her up on the offer of buying me a new bed until she mentioned it was Ryan’s old mattress from before he moved out. That’s when I decided to keep it and just get a good frame for it.

The room says little about me. I haven’t accumulated much since arriving in Fort Bragg. The walls are empty, and I’m using Ryan’s old bed set. My closet has enough clothes and shoes in it, and I have quality beauty products now. But as far as putting my stamp on the place, I just haven’t felt like I should, even though Ruby’s been mentioning that we need to fix it up for weeks now. I think she’s finally reached her breaking point with me avoiding the topic.

“This room,” she says, pursing her lips.  “We have a ton of shit to get for the party tonight. But before that, we’re fixing up this room.”

“Okay,” I say quietly as I fiddle with my belt loop. Her expression softens as she points at my bed and nods. She moves to sit on the edge of the bed and I follow. Taking my hand she looks into my eyes and lets out a heavy sigh.

“Why don’t you want to fix up your room?”

I squirm under the attention. I’ve been avoiding this conversation the past few weeks. Knowing it was coming, I did what I could to prepare an explanation that would make sense.

“What’s going to happen to me?” I whisper. I’ve been holding that question in for two months now. Ever since I woke up that morning in a haze to Gloria ushering me off into my new life. So loaded with the potential to break me, I don’t want the answer. Not really, anyway. But Ruby needs to know why I’m so hesitant to settle in and make my mark on this place.

“You’re going to live happily ever after,” she quips. But I shake it off, unimpressed with her response.

“What’s going to happen when my father’s family finds me? What’s going to happen when he has his men shoot up your house just like Jim and the guys did his?”

“Mike knows exactly where you are. We weren’t quiet about our presence, if you remember.” She always refers to my father as Mike for some reason. Even my mother called him Carlo, which is my father’s middle and preferred name. She takes my face in her hands and, with teary eyes, says, “There are four roads in and out of this town. We’re isolated. The club has friends in all of the surrounding precincts. When I tell you that you’re safe, I mean that bastard is going to have to go through me and the entire fucking club, across three thousand miles, and through a bullet to his chest to get to you.”

With that declaration, I burst into tears. Nobody, not even Gloria, has ever promised to protect me like Ruby just did. My body sinks into hers as she wraps her arms around me while I cry. Eventually, I pull myself together and wipe away my tears.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

“You were born, baby,” she says, placing a kiss on my forehead.

AN HOUR LATER and we’re heading into town. Our first stop is the club house/garage so Ruby can get money from Jim for the party supplies. I’ve only been by the clubhouse twice and inside once. It smelled awful, and every surface I touched was sticky. I choose to pretend I sat and put my hands in spilled beer, rather than what Ian alluded to, which is just nasty. At exactly the moment I reacted to Ian’s comment, Ryan stepped out of a back room, zipping up his fly. He barely looked my way as he steered down a hallway and out of sight. It was the only time I’ve seen him since I arrived in Fort Bragg.

Ruby steers her red Chevy Suburban onto Main Street from Oak and quickly maneuvers into the left lane, where she turns into the Forsaken Custom Cycle parking lot. The shop is on the corner of Main and Alder. Behind the Forsaken property line is a few hundred feet of dirt and rock before the ground drops down into the ocean. I’ve never gotten close enough to see for sure, but it has to be at least a twenty foot drop down into the water. The dirt lot between the water and the club’s land is property of the federal government, as it once served as a military post.

The lot is deep, with the shop set back from the road. Behind the ample lot is the fenced-off clubhouse. There doesn’t seem to be much business on a daily basis, but according to Ruby, it’s a hobby business anyway. Whatever that means.

She parks the SUV and we both climb out. She shoots me a questioning smile. I just shrug. After putting my hand in the questionable substance and then seeing Ryan’s cold indifference toward me, I basically vowed never to return. But after our talk, I figure I ought to make an attempt to get to know these people a little better. I’m going to be around for a long time, and it’s probably a good idea to try to make this place my home.

The office to the shop is locked up, and a sign hanging on the inside of the glass door reads GONE DRINKING. BE BACK WHEN SOBER. I snort while pointing at the sign. “So they’re closing up for good, then?”

Ruby snickers and leads us past the closed garage bays. The very last bay, just before the gate to the clubhouse, is open; sure enough, the guys are sitting around drinking. Not a single one of them has a useful tool in hand. Jim leans over a red tool chest on wheels, his elbows resting on top as he takes a pull from his beer bottle. Duke is parked in a black metal folding chair with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. Sitting on the cement, Ian picks away at his nails. Not a single one of them notice us until Ruby clears her throat.

Jim looks up immediately, a smile spreading across his entire face. I stand aside awkwardly as he stalks toward Ruby and wraps her in his arms. Choosing to skip out on the front-row action of seeing them make out like a pair of teenagers, I walk up to Duke and give the leg of his chair a kick.

“How goes it, Princess?”

“It goes,” I say. Duke and I have formed a strange relationship over the last two months. He is—in his own words—kind of a dick. But he’s also not that bad when the mood strikes him. We’ve moved past our rocky first meeting into what I would almost call a camaraderie. Mostly, I strike up conversations with Duke because he’s easy to talk to. There’s no awkward avoidance like there is with Ian. And aside from the prospects, who rarely ever talk but to repeat orders and ask for direction, Duke is kind of my only friend around this place. Now that I think about it, that’s really depressing.

“What brings you to town?”

“Sherwood Road,” I say, unable to stop myself from smiling. Duke raises his head and grins like a maniac.

“You’re turning into such a smart ass.”

“You give good lessons.”

“That’s not the only thing I give good,” he says, his smile turning lascivious. My eyes are wide, my jaw slack, and I think I’m brighter than a cherry tomato. My heart thrums in my gut as my eyes fall on the one person I hadn’t expected to see here—Ryan. He’s been so absent, I could swear it was on purpose. I have had to remind myself that I don’t know his routine and if this is normal for him. I could be making a mountain out of a molehill, except that Ruby’s asked Jim where he’s been a few times.

Ryan watches me from the shadows. His presence both infuriates and flusters me. We’ve spent, essentially, no time together. I’ve clocked more hours hanging out with Duke. And yet I can’t seem to let this thing go. A few weeks back, after I’d caught myself moving around in bed, trying to figure out which side Ryan slept on, I tried to diagnose myself. Recalling all of my conversations with my former therapist, I’m pretty sure the only reason I’m obsessing over him is to avoid what’s really been going on. Being in a new town, especially one that’s so different from Brooklyn, and having no life, is weighing on me. I thought I was bored in my father’s house. At least there I had responsibilities. Jim’s big request from me is that I lighten up, and Ruby’s is that I let her in emotionally. Neither of them wants the kitchen cleaned, which would be a heck of a lot easier than dealing with this emotional crap.

“Is that so?” I ask Duke, seeing Ryan’s expression darken as my suggestive comment is realized. Duke is in the middle of taking a sip of his beer when he realizes the opening I’ve given him and he nearly spits it out in response. From behind me, Ruby and Jim laugh quietly. Ian, as per usual, doesn’t react. The rest may be amused, but this is for Ryan’s benefit.

I place my hand on Duke’s shoulder and ask, “Anything special you want tonight?” Tension grows as Ryan’s eyes bore into mine. Duke sits up a little straighter and more interested than he was before. I can’t see Ruby and Jim from where I stand, but maybe that’s a good thing.

“Whiskey,” Duke says. “The good kind.” I pat his shoulder and lift my hand, letting the tips of my fingers drag across the leather of his vest.

“I hate cheap whiskey,” I remark, knowing full well Ryan is catching the subvert message. “It always disappoints.” With that, I turn around, and Ruby and I leave to run our errands. She hasn’t told me where we’re going next, just that she’s going to buy me a few things for my room. I protest, telling her I’d rather she not spend her money on me. I offer to pay for my own stuff, but she won’t hear of it.

We spend the afternoon avoiding the Fourth of July festivities, but it’s not easy. She drags me in and out of at least a dozen stores. We pick up mineral makeup from a local makeup artist/chemist who started his own line in town, then we head over and find some throw pillows and a desk for my room. Ruby shoots off a text to Jim, who promises one of the prospects—Tall or Squat—will pick the desk up for us. I still can’t remember either of their names since Ian thought it would be funny to tell them they can’t tell me their names, so now I’m left to my own devices to identify them.

“Can we just stop for a coffee?” I ask, eyeing the sign for the coffee shop up ahead. My arms ache under the weight of the shopping bags we’ve accumulated in the last two hours. It’s been years since I’ve been out shopping for this long, in so many stores, all in one trip.

“I think that’s a good idea,” she agrees. We walk the fifty or so feet to Universal Ground. The door chimes when I open it. Immediately, the scent of brewing coffee wafts across my face, promising an afternoon pick-me-up. The coffee shop is narrow, but deep. The walls are lined with photographs of bikers and their friends at various town events and celebrations; most of them wear black leather vests. I may not get out much, but I know enough to know that the club is special to the town, even if some residents won’t admit it. My father made our neighborhood in Brooklyn, but the club makes this entire town. Its impact is evident in the way the locals regard the men as they pass through on their bikes.

Behind the counter, a young woman scribbles in a notebook, her long blonde hair resting on the wooden surface. Ruby catches sight of her and stops in her tracks. Looking from the woman to Ruby, I stay silent, unsure what to say. She wears a spaghetti-strap tank top that’s practically skin tight, showing off her numerous tattoos. The woman looks up, revealing black-painted eyes and bright red lips. Her makeup is heavier than I normally find attractive, but she wears it well.

“Can I get you something?” she asks, her tone laced with irritation. I take a step forward to order, but Ruby stays still. It takes her another moment, but then she composes herself and steps up to the counter.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Ruby says, clearing her throat. She leans over the counter, back to being the confident woman I’ve grown to love. Whatever startled her about this woman’s presence has since evaporated. The woman doesn’t respond.

“Okay, if that’s how you want to play it, Nic.” Ruby squares her shoulders and looks over the menu hanging above the espresso machine against the back wall and orders. I follow suit with an iced vanilla latte. Ruby pays for our drinks, and we grab a table in the back corner while waiting for our order to be called up.

“Who is that?” I ask, careful to control my volume.

“That’s Nic. She’s what the club calls a lost girl.” I tilt my head sideways, not understanding. “She doesn’t have an old man.”

“Okay,” I say, trying to string the clues together, to no avail. She blows out a breath and levels me with a flat stare. “She seems pissed.”

“Her dad hung around the club before he went to prison. Her mom hooked up with some of the guys before she split, leaving Nic with her younger brother. She’s pissed all right.”

“Wow. That sucks,” I say. “But why is she called a lost girl?”

“When a woman hooks up with a member, but isn’t his Old Lady, she’s a lost girl.” Nic nods her head at me, supplying our coffees at the pick-up station. I quickly grab the drinks, giving Nic a grateful smile, and plop back down in my seat, now totally engaged in this conversation.