Chaos: Contemporary Biker Romance (2 page)

"You will kill me. I have no reason to put it down," Logan said. Then he pointed the pistol straight at Andre, resolute.

Andre looked to his brother, shaking his head. "This guy must really have a death wish."

"I'm just trying to protect myself," Logan said. "Go ahead. Kill me. I know that's what will happen." He raised up the gun at the two men, ready to fire, but Andre knocked the pistol out of his hand. Just like that, Logan's chances of surviving fell to nothing. Andre raised the pistol to Logan's temple, then pulled the trigger. But the gun jammed, leaving Logan kneeling away from the man, curled up against the rusted green dumpster, his eyes scrunched as he waited for the explosive blow to his brain from the bullet lodged in the gun. Andre pulled the trigger again, and the gun jammed once more. And again, a soft click-click-click with no explosion, no death, no blood or brains sprayed on the green metal.

"Fuck," Andre said. "Guess we'll have to do it the hard way." He pulled out a blackjack and laid into Logan's face, beating his from top to bottom. Logan screamed and tried to crawl away, but Kleiser pulled him back just as Logan's fingers reached the divot filled with water in the center of the concrete alley floor. They continued beating him, before Boston touched Andre on the shoulder, signaling him to stop.

"Enough, for now, I have a better idea." They stopped and retreated behind Boston's back, as he looked down at the battered boy. He looked him over, at the frayed clothes, the broken nose, and fractured cheekbone, and the shattered, twisted fingers Logan held up in pain. "You said our man Andre here insulted you because he fucked your girl?" Logan seemed far away, in terrible pain, but he managed to nod his head to agree, knowing what would happen should he ignore Boston. "And who's to say she's your girl?" Logan could barely muster a response. Boston looked up at Andre, who's expression admitted guilt. "That's not cool. Not cool at all." Logan spit the blood forming in his mouth out. "I should not have let this happen. I should have asked him about the true story. This is disgusting," Boston said, looking over at his boys. There was a curious lack of moral outrage in Boston's eyes, as he stared down at the innocent boy he allowed his friends to batter and bruise to an inch with Logan's life. "But nobody insults my boys. Nobody. Do you understand?"

"Yes..." Logan said, afraid to look Boston in the eye.

"We could all stop now and go our separate ways, but I want to teach you a lesson, for what you did. Andre is guilty, but so are you. By tomorrow, you will meet me here with a new girl for Andre, so you two fools can stop fighting over the same one. If you don't meet me here at noon, I'll find you, and trust me, you won't survive what I have in store for you." And with that, Boston stood up, then motioned Andre and Kleiser to leave. Boston stayed there, standing over Logan for several moments, and Logan wondered if the guy might have felt bad for him and for what let his boys do. Maybe he was trying to make sure Logan could, at least, stand up to go home. Or maybe he wanted to leave his calling card in the form of another broken bone--a splintered rib maybe, or a broken toe. In the distance, Logan heard two motorcycles start up and speed away, down Ferguson street. Boston turned to get on his own bike but stopped. He walked back over to Logan and kicked the dumpster as hard as he could, leaving a massive dent from his steel-toe boot. "Tomorrow, kid," Boston said, "that will be your head."

3 - SAVING LOGAN

Dr. Millie Farris looked at the employee of the month photo her boss nailed on the wall at Children's Hospital. Her picture--the awkward smile and confusing camera position--reminded her of the ones the local supermarket used for missing persons. She stepped back, her hands on her wide hips, observing the sixteen rows of photos that tessellated the hallway. Millie spent the last ten years of her life putting her brother and herself through college, then worked nights at the nearby gas station to pay for her medical school. Doctor of the month was an honor, but she wondered if there was another way to advertise her dorky prize than the lame pictures on the wall. The years of schooling and backbreaking word afforded her at least a modicum of respect. That was not so much to ask.

"Doctor?"

Millie turned around as her head nurse raced through the other end of the hallway, her Hispanic hips bouncing behind her. She passed Millie on the way and said, "Room 211." Millie trotted down the hallway, using her tiny but swift feet to speed next to her nurse, then turned ahead of her and pushed open the heavy metal door with all her weight. Four other nurses crowded around the bed, as a boy screamed through their shouting voices. A pool of blood dripped ballooned over the sheets, leaving a damp red blotch on the sheets. Millie shouted at her nurses over the commotion.

"Move aside! I'm coming through. What do we have here?"

"Some kid, caught in a fight. He won't tell us who did it."

"Why?" Millie asked.

"Too afraid. He's bleeding bad. Somebody beat the fuck out of him, broke his cheekbone and several fingers. Probably isn't finished with him." The nurse looked at Millie over her face mask, then looked down at the boy on the bed. The look said everything to Millie, and her heart sank. She rammed the other nurses aside with her shoulder to see who it was lying on the gurney. Looking down at the mess before her, Millie's brother Logan sat before her, pooled in blood and pain. He mustered a smile.

"Hi, Sis."

"Logan! What happened here," she said, her voice shaking, as she grabbed his hand. "Don't tell me you did it again."

"Think about it," he said, thrusting his head back against the pillow, his eyes squinted in pain. "Sis," he said through gritted teeth, "…help me." Millie looked at her brother's face, the lacerations on his brow, the crooked fingers on his other hand, and she jumped into action. She ripped open his shirt to wrap the wounds around his ribs while the other nurses set up his I.V. "I know you don't want to hear it at a time like this, but you were right. I'm not as tough as I thought," he said.

"That's not such a bad thing," she said, working like an automated maid from the future, balloting around the other people in the room who all tried to repair him before it was too late. "You're my little brother. I'm used to getting you out of trouble." Millie tried to make light of the situation so that Logan would relax, but in the back of her mind, she knew things would get worse. Since his high school graduation, around the same time Millie fought her way through medical school, Logan tossed himself from one sticky situation to another. First it was the abusive ex-boyfriend of a girl Logan met six months after he turned 19. Since that first beating, Logan tried to make himself tough in the eyes of guys on the street, rather than use his head and get a job, an idea Millie tried to instill in his young brain with very little success. Logan was determined to prove himself "as a man," whatever that meant, even if it got him killed. Meanwhile, his elder sister worried night and day about him, as she felt the responsibility of his survival until true adulthood rested on her shoulders. There was no one else to parent Logan, and if she did shield him from terrible decisions, lethal consequences awaited him. This time, there was no telling who Logan insulted to prove he was not afraid. Her brother was a good kid, just misguided as young people so often are.

"Millie," he said. She dropped the syringe in her hand and turned to face him. "He's coming back."

"Who?" she asked, her eyes fierce with attention.

Logan shook his head. "It's bad."

"Tell me what you did, Logan. Now!" He didn't respond. "Does he know where you are?"

"Of course he does. He knows everything about everyone."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Millie screamed. The other nurses working around them pretended not to overhear the conversation. They kept their heads down, and the rustling of metallic tools, crumbled plastic, and clinking glass filled the hollow room. "Logan!" Millie was waiting for an answer.

"Sister. This time, it's not the schoolyard bully."

4 - THE SACRIFICE

Millie ran around her house, locking all the doors and dead bolting the basement. She grabbed all the batteries and microwaveable food she could, shoved it into a box, and brought it down into her basement. Her tiny body bounced around the room like a Tinker Bell during an apocalyptic frenzy. Logan lay on the couch, his hand in a cast and his face covered with bandages. "Sis, this isn't War of the Worlds. He will find us, I promise."

"I can hide you, in the basement. Like Anne Frank. He won't think to look there. You can stay there for at least two weeks. We have more than enough food and supplies for you."

Logan laughed, despite the heat of the moment. "You really don't get it do you? You don't realize who were are talking about. This is Boston Eager."

Millie stopped her frenetic running from room to room and turned to her brother. "I'm sorry, but I don't spend my time frequenting the criminal underworld of Southside Boston, Logan. Not like you do. Why can't we just call the cops?"

"The cops likely already know. They won't do anything but tie up the reports in red tape, all because they've been bought and paid for by his gang. Plus, they'll never say it, but they respect him."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me. Logan, he's going to kill you."

"Of course he is, unless I…"

"Unless you what?"

"Sister. My dearest Millie," he said, rubbing his thumb over the surface her cheek. Millie sat on the edge of the coffee table, still in her doctor's uniform. "Why are you so good to me?"

"Because I'm your sister, and there's no one else who will protect your stupid ass. Logan, tell me what happened. I don't understand why you just can't let me take care of it."

"There is nothing to take care of."

"So you're just going to give up. Like that. Because you're too stupid to stay out of trouble. No, you gotta show your bravery. Gotta show how big your balls are. I don't know who this Boston is, but from what you have told me and based on how the other nurses reacted when they found out who beat the shit out of you, you put your hooves in the wrong puddle, buddy."

"Of course I did. I should have thought about what it would do to you."

"You always say that, Logan. But you don't, and when I solve your problems, two months later you find yourself in another mess. I just don't get it. When are you going to grow up? When will you learn?"

"Doesn't matter, sister. There's nothing I can do. I've made peace with this situation. I made a mistake, and now I'm going to pay for it."

"So you're going to let him kill you because you refuse to go hire a hooker on the street corner to give his friend another skank to bang."

"He won't accept that."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"He just won't. He'll want someone admirable, a real person, not a low life. Plus, he's probably already banged all the hookers on the street anyway, or his boys have."

Millie put her head in her hands, rubbing the crown of her forehead to dissipate the pain. "Your hard-working sister put herself through medical school to protect you. Your lovely sister fought her way to a stable, high income, with no spouse, no children, just you. You're all I've got, and I did all that to protect you. I won't stop now. Just tell me what to do. He doesn't know where I live. Why would he come here to look for you?"

"Because he probably already knows everything about me." Millie grabbed the pillow on the sofa next to her and screamed into the fabric as loud as she could. She lay there, bent over herself with her face buried in a goose-down pillow, exhausted. Logan tried to readjust himself on the couch, a difficult task because of his injuries. "I just think," he said, wincing, "I should face the consequences of my choices, like a real man."

Millie finally looked up, her blonde hair hanging from her face in chaotic strands. "You have really got to lay off those westerns, kid." Then she got up, pushing her hair back in place and looked around her house. The living room stood on the corner of the house, the entire bottom floor of the building divided into relatively even squares, with the kitchen at the upper part, Millie's office in the other corner, nearest the living room, and the dining room taking up the last quarter. The dining room was the emptiest room in the house, with a few plastic chairs and a table Millie put a plastic tablecloth over. The entire place signified a woman who put her life and dreams on hold to take responsibility for her brother, the little kid she'd saved from countless bad decisions ever since she was a toddler. She was his guardian, and she would stop at nothing to save him from his current doom.

"No," she said looking down at him. "You're staying here. Let him come if he must, but you're not going anywhere."

They waited throughout the night, and Millie made several cups of coffee. After several hours, she gave Logan his morphine for pain, after helping him go to the restroom one last time. She didn't know what the next day would bring, but Logan needed his sleep. Doctor's orders. She stayed by the couch, holding some silent vigil for the upcoming conflict she knew would come to pass because an ominous and terrible stench filled the air of her house--company was coming. But after working a 12-hour shift, then witnessing her brother enter her hospital battered and beaten, her exhaustion finally overpowered her body. She sat down at the kitchen table for thirty seconds, her eye heavy and red, then fell asleep.