Diesel Page 2

  I play along, promising to call her. “Next year, your birthday will be better, Mom. I know it.”

  “Blanche, you’re all I need. No matter what happens with, well, you know… Whatever happens, I’ll always be proud of you and all that you’ve accomplished. Now it’s time for us to move on with our lives and learn how to live again.” She kisses me on the cheek and then sees me to the front door.

  Outside, I walk towards my car, refusing to look back. Now that I am out in the open air, away from the stuffiness, the unreasonableness, I can breathe again. Thoughts zing through my head as I try to work this all out.

  I get in my old beater car and roll the windows down. It’s 2:00 pm – there’s enough time to make it to the bus station in the city. It will be a long drive, but I can make it before the evening buses take off.

  I check the back seat for my gym bag – there are a few changes of clothes in there, which will be enough to get me through. A bus trip to California from Illinois should only take two or three days, and I can make do. I know that if I look back now, if I head to my house and try to reason with myself more, I will never pull the trigger. I will forget about my brother and what he has done for me. I will push aside our memories and go on with my life. Maybe I’d be happy if I chose the latter… Maybe I’d have regrets…

  But I am done with “what ifs”. This is one chance I don’t want to pass up.

  This is not what my parents want. This isn’t what I want either, but I’m going to California. I am going to trace the address on the envelope and find Tyler. No matter where he is, no matter who he is with, no matter what he has done – I am going to bring him back home to our family where he belongs.

  I start the car and the music on the radio blasts in my ears. The noise begins to drown out the nagging thoughts in my head that urge me to change my mind. My brother’s life is in danger, and I know nothing of his world. I could be walking into my death, but none of that matters now.

  Chapter Two

  Diesel

  “Diesel, man! Come on in there! Hurry the fuck up! I’ve got to go!” A fist pounds heavily on the wooden door, shaking the entire bathroom. But to be completely honest, I don’t give a flying fuck. This is my goddamn time, and I’m not about to give it up to some little pissant who has the bladder of a chipmunk.

  So, I growl out a quick, “Fuck off, rookie!” at the baby-faced little bitch I know is hovering on the other side of the door, dancing around like he’s got ants in his pants.

  He groans and bangs on the door again, but I don’t give a shit. Instead, I remove my towel and turn on the shower’s faucet. Warm steam begins to rise, turning the bathroom into a hazy mist. Damn. I’ve been dreaming about this shower since my night shift started. I’m not some kind of girly-guy who gives a rat’s ass about staying all fresh and clean, but I have to admit, there is nothing better than a long, hot shower after a night on the road.

  The dirt and grime from the road washes off me and pools around my feet, sending brown and gray streaks towards the drain as I wipe myself down with my bare hand. The water beats on my back in a rhythmic fashion, giving me a halfway decent massage. It’s been ages since I’ve gotten one of those – if you can call the ones I get massages.

  They rub you down, sure, but it’s more like strippers with lotion, lathering you up on a thin, padded table, than it is a muscle relaxer – unless you’re talking about the one muscle that counts. The boss, Knux, brings a few ladies from the local parlor in every month or so, when our quotas are up, and they get the job of “relaxing the boys” done.

  Since the incident, though, the massages and the women have all but faded away.

  The last month or so has been nonstop work – cleaning up the general mess. But that’s how an MC always is, and I knew what I signed up for when I pledged to the Bonebags. My daddy was in this line of work when I was a kid. And, of course, he didn’t live long enough to retire from it.

  I watched him be loyal to his brothers, even at the worst of times, and my mom ended up spending all her time pulling shifts at the bars to make ends meet. She begged him to quit, pleaded with him to do something that would get him more money and be less dangerous. But Daddy understood the rules: when you join an MC, you don’t just disappear when the going gets tough; you stay until you’re good and dead, or until the club’s got no use for you anymore.

  Right now, the club has all kinds of uses for a man like me. My size alone has gotten me to some high places within the biker scene. Most of the men in my club are kids, like Tyler. They’re small, shrimpy guys – babies, really – working on their first tattoos and often riding their first bikes. Like idiots, they don’t bulk up or practice their street senses. Most of them haven’t ever been in combat – certainly not like I have.

  Me, on the other hand, I’m the hulking badass. I’m the kind of guy Knux likes to keep around to intimidate the other MCs in the area. The men around here have known my reputation from when I was a snot-nosed kid hanging around the bars and clubs. They remember the time I took an old man out in one punch before I even turned fifteen. And they’re still talking about the day I got my first bike and ran it off the highway, chasing down some punk bitches who dared to call me out.

  My reputation has gotten me pretty far with the Bonebags. It’s taken me past the newbie phase, like all those other little shits, to being a patch-wearing member in half the time it normally takes your average peon.

  Last year, Knux gave me the promotion I deserved. Instead of running routes at all hours of the night, having to swing back and forth between places and wearing myself ragged, I got to assign them as head chief. It’s my job to keep the operations and sales running. I’m the one responsible for knowing which package is going out, who’s getting each delivery, which biker does the drop-off runs and the cash-outs, and where the cops we haven’t paid off are patrolling. It’s logistics, but it gets me out of the house and onto the streets.

  At least, that’s what it’s supposed to be.

  Lately, this job, my dream gig, has become something more like a nightmare. These long hours, taking over for little boys who don’t show up for their shifts or call off last minute, have taken a toll on me. The Bonebags have been diminishing in number since the incident. Men – if you can call them that – have started deserting, going off to other clubs or skirting their duties.

  Just last night, I pulled two of the lousy motherfuckers from their cushy homes and set them straight with a few thumps to the jaw and some kneecaps to the ribcage. They won’t be fit to ride for a few days, maybe a week, but they sure as shit got the message.

  It never stops – this goddamn job of mine. Even now, as I stand virtually motionless in the shower, letting the water flush over me and thinking about all the shit I’ve got to handle, I’m on duty for my club. Any moment, that burner phone of mine might ring, and I’ll be expected to be out on the streets in fifteen minutes or less, cruising as fast as I can to handle whatever disaster Knux has gotten us into.

  I’m the fixer, the punisher, the architect – the demigod. And, eventually, all that shit on your shoulders catches up to you.

  I heave a huge sigh and turn the water off. Honestly, there’s no use getting too clean when I’m supposed to be up and at it in about six hours. I step out of the warm, steam-filled bathroom. My hand wipes a smear of fog off of the long mirror hanging over the sink.

  I check the stubble growing around my neck and jaw – gotta get that shit taken care of today, or it’ll end up looking like Knux’s: a disgusting, smoke-filled chin-length beard, with long, stringy, greasy hair. Or, in other words, tired, wasted, and haggard.

  As I’m pulling out the razor from the drawer, I hear a voice: “Hello? Hello? Is there anyone in there?” followed by a small knock on the front door of the apartment.

  “Tyler!” I shout towards my missing-in-action roommate. “Get the goddamn door!”

  I repeat this twice – till I’m shouting over the person on the other side of the front do
or. There’s no answer. The jackass probably disappeared when he realized I wasn’t going to get out of the shower anytime soon for him.

  “Dammit,” I mutter.

  I grab the first towel I see and tie it tightly around my waist. I couldn’t care less about modesty. The only people who know I live here, above the club’s bar, is the landlord, Tyler, and the Bonebags’ leadership circle. It’s a secret I insist upon. The last thing I want is trouble following me home at night or some drunk-ass newb thinking he can take me on in my own place.

  The less the regular riders know about me, the better it is for everyone.

  “Hello? Tyler? Are you there?” The voice is louder now, and there’s no doubt in my mind the owner – whoever it is – heard me shouting for Tyler moments earlier. “Please open the door. I know I shouldn’t be here, but I…”

  It dawns on me that it’s not one of the leaders or the landlord dropping in to make a surprise visit for the rent. It’s not even one of the boys trying to get me to go back out on my shift or grab a drink before tonight’s meeting. It’s a chick – a fucking chick. Who the hell does Tyler think he is breaking our deal by telling our location to some street-chick he’s banging on the side?

  I barge out of the bathroom and across the hallway towards the front door. I’m leaving behind a trail of wet, soapy water, but it doesn’t faze me even a little bit. If Tyler’s going to insist on breaking our house rules, I am going to have a little bit of fun with this shit.

  Without hesitation, I fling the door open, and bark out, “What the hell do you—”

  A small woman, slender but not too skinny, stands in front of me. With her long, blonde hair and pink lips, she looks as if she’s straight out of a classical painting of some angel. Her eyes cast down, tracing me from my dripping feet, up over the towel, and to my soaking hair. She backs away, no doubt realizing that she’s not messing with some kid.

  I’m no Tyler, that’s for sure.

  I take a breath, adjusting my stance in the situation. This chick doesn’t look like she’s just come off the street. She doesn’t even look Californian, with her daisy duke jean shorts and button-down top. Her skin’s missing the janky tattoos and marks from needles. Her jasmine-scented perfume is nothing like the cheap, grocery store brands the rest of the girls wear. She looks fresh, untainted.

  How in the world did Tyler manage to catch this bit of tail?

  “What do you want?” I ask, just a bit sweeter.

  I’m a beast, but I ain’t about to scare off some poor broad who showed up on the wrong doorstep. Or maybe it’s the right doorstep – if she’s as naive as she looks. If I play it right, it could certainly be the right one – for us both, in fact.

  “I’m Bla—” Her voice catches in her throat as she stares me up and down, but she recovers quickly. “Blanche. I’m Blanche”

  “Diesel – but you probably knew that.”

  I have a reputation, especially among the club’s collection of old ladies and chicks. While she may be new, she has probably heard my name come up in conversations. Yet, to my surprise, Blanche doesn’t acknowledge the name at all.

  “I’m looking for Tyler, Tyler Dover. Do you know him? Is he here in this building?” She peers over my shoulder and through my legs as if to get a glimpse inside.

  She’s not gonna see a thing though. The place is immaculate. I like it that way. There’s little better to me than seeing everything in its right place and nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Lady, I’ll give you a piece of advice for free: people ‘round here don’t like others knocking on their doors asking around for others. You probably should turn around and head home to wherever you came from.”

  I try to shut the door, but Blanche is too fast for me. Out of nowhere, her foot catches the bottom edge of the door.

  Her face turns a dark pink as she repeats herself. “I’m looking for Tyler Dover. Tyler Dover. He’s a few inches taller than me with dark hair – or, or maybe he’s shaved it now, I’m not sure. I’ve got a picture if you give me a sec—”

  “I don’t need to see it. I don’t narc on some guy’s whereabouts. It’s my code.”

  “Your code?” Blanche cocks her head to the side like a confused little puppy dog, “You’re telling me you won’t help me because of some stupid honor system you’ve got?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a bit like that, I suppose.”

  It’s more like a blood oath and sworn loyalty with the consequences of death. But she doesn’t need to know the rest.

  “Fine. I’ll scream his name until my voice dries out if it means finding him. And I don’t care one bit about other people being upset about it. I’m not going anywhere until I find him.” Blanche takes a deep breath and then opens her mouth to scream, “TYLER! TYLER! IT’S ME! IT’S BLANCHE! WHERE ARE YOU?”

  I grab her by the arm. “You really don’t want to be doing that!” I snap. “Are you fucking crazy, lady?”

  “It’s Blanche. Not ‘lady’. Blanche. And you are?”

  It feels like I’m walking into a trick, but I answer her anyways: “The name’s Diesel. Same as it was a few minutes ago.”

  It appears to dawn on her that I already said that, and then my name actually seems to click with her. “Diesel? Like a truck?” Blanche smiles a bit before adding, “I don’t believe you. That’s a pretty terrible nickname.”

  “It’s not a nickname. My daddy worked on big rigs when I was born. He made my mom give me this name. And if I were you, I would shut the hell up about it. I’ll only warn you once.”

  I don’t take kindly to anyone messing with me, let alone messing with my name. I took too much shit in grade school with kids who would call me ‘Big Rig’ or ‘Motorhead’. I certainly don’t need to take crap from some school marm blondie who can’t even understand what danger is hanging around these parts.

  “Fine, okay, ‘Diesel’,” she says, stifling a chuckle. “Now, do you know Tyler or not? I don’t want to have to scream again.”

  “I told you that I don’t know him.” Of course, I’m lying through my goddamn teeth. Before I tell her the truth, I’m getting her story out of her. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “Why do you care – if you don’t know him?” Feisty. I can work with feisty.

  This gal may look like an angel or some Wisconsin milk girl, with that porcelain complexion and blushing cheeks, but she’s got some guts on her. Most girls would cower from me, move on before I could get another word in, but she’s rooted to the spot. Her hands ball up in tiny little fists at her sides, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder with a quick whip of her head.

  I step out of the apartment, letting the screen door slam behind me. Blanche stands as still as can be as I lean down towards her. A drop of water falls from my hair and onto her ample chest. I can nearly smell the sweet, flowery scent of the shampoo she used not that long ago. I inhale slowly, loudly, making it clear what I’m doing.

  “So what’s the deal here then?” I ask, my voice getting rather suggestive. “You looking for him for some quick action? I can provide that in his place, and a hell of a lot better than he can. You wouldn’t be the first little girl to look for someone else and end up with me. I promise you that you won’t regret the trade...”

  Her cheeks turn an even deeper shade of pink as she exclaims, “What? Oh, my God, ew! No. I’m not here to sleep with…” She gags before she continues insisting, in a raised voice, that she’s oh-so-definitely not here to sleep with Tyler.

  It’s a damn shame.

  I edge away from Blanche, choosing to tower over her this time. I’m over a foot taller than her, which forces her to stare straight at the jet-black tattoos covering my chest and arms.

  “If you’re not here for a fuck, then I’m guessing you’re some baby mama looking for some money or something.” I chuckle to myself as I add, “Lady, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “What?” she asks, her face contorting to something else, something I can’t read.
>
  “The asshole you’re looking for – he’s broke. He doesn’t have a dime to his name. The bastard owes me at least $500 in back rent, and he’s not about to get it to me anytime soon.”

  Partial lie, partial truth. He owes me way more than $500 for rent, and the bastard better be getting it to me quick. Our little arrangement isn’t exactly appealing to all parties involved, and I don’t know, frankly, how long I can hold out on Tyler.

  Blanche takes a step towards me, close enough so that I feel her warm breath on the hairs on my arm and shoulder. “I thought you didn’t know him? Yet now he owes you rent?”

  “I don’t take kindly to someone coming around here, knocking at my door unannounced, especially no farm girl wannabe who doesn’t even know where the person she’s looking for is living.” I pause before adding, “Plus, I wanted to mess with you. It was too easy to do.”