Merciless Ride (9 page)

Alas, that is not my current situation. Axel is tucked in for the night at my mom’s house. My aunt is staying over so they want him to spend the night. At least I don’t have to worry about picking him up after my shift.
 

Everything has changed and become more complicated. This was all much easier when he was a baby. He is getting bigger now. When he’s asleep, he’s dead weight to move around and get home.
 

Arriving at Ruthless tonight, I smile at the bikes already lined up outside. The Hellions prospect, the one who came to pick Shooter up from my place three weeks ago when he left me his car, is outside watching over all the chrome and leather. I kind of feel bad for the guy. Well, any of the prospects, really. They are made fun of most of the time, and the guys run them ragged. It is supposed to be some macho display of dedication and loyalty. I don’t get it, but I am not part of the club, so I guess I wouldn’t. It’s not my place to ask questions or try to understand.
 

Hmmm… I wonder if he knows when my car will be finished. At this rate, I need to make Shooter’s car payment for the month or some shit. It’s definitely not something I can afford right now, but I need to pay him, especially if this is going to drag on further. I don’t want to owe anyone.
 

Thanks to Corinne, I have picked up a few day shifts as a waitress at Brinkley’s, a local diner. It is nothing to brag about, but it is helping get the bills paid. They have a consistent lunch rush; as a result, I am making a more steady income on tips than I do behind the bar.
 

The guys are good about slipping me extra, especially Tripp. Rex has tried, but it makes me feel cheap so I always give it back to him. However, I find money pretty regularly in my purse that I am sure comes from him. Since I can’t prove it, though, I try to turn a blind eye to it.
 

I see another biker standing near the bikes, only he is a fully patched member of the Desert Ghosts MC, his cut clearly displaying their insignia. Guess they are sticking around. They have been riding through more and more frequently. Although, in the last two weeks, they have been at Ruthless nightly. Whatever they are here for, they are obviously affiliated and on friendly terms with the Hellions. There is no way they would feel comfortable hanging around this often for this long if it wasn’t friendly between the clubs. Hellions run the Carolina’s everyone knows it and no one challenges it.
 

Ruthless doesn’t fly official colors. The owner, a good ol’ country boy named Bob, says he can’t fly colors in his bar while still paying tithes at church on Sunday; he wouldn’t feel right about it. Whatever you say, mister. Pastor Joe knows the money placed in that offering plate comes from booze, and that booze was paid for with Hellion’s money. He sure doesn’t turn it away, now, does he?
 

Either way, the bar keeps steady business, which keeps me making steady tips. With the Desert Ghosts in town, I have been making a little more each night, saving up to get Axel a trampoline for Christmas, I hope.
 

Working here, even though I’m surrounded by badass bikers, I feel safe. I know the Hellions won’t let anything happen at Ruthless. Sure, we have the occasional bar fight when the brothers get a little drunk. The barflies get in hair pulling cat fights almost nightly, but I feel safe at my job, something I can’t say about working at another bar.
 

The night is busy, and as soon as I get behind the bar, it’s chaos—drink orders flying, alcohol spilling, ice dropping, and people shuffling about. The longer it goes on, the more I feel my feet dragging. The extra shifts at Brinkley’s are taking their toll. Not knowing what my car repair is going to cost, though, I need every penny I can get.
 

Corinne rings the cow bell we have over the bar to let the guys know to belly up to the bar and get their final beer then get the hell out. Last call, which means we can go home soon. I am more than ready to hit the bed tonight.
 

Corinne seems nice enough. She is new to bartending, but definitely not new to bikers. She is a barfly through and through. Although, I guess I shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Some people probably think that of me, given my history with Rex.
 

History, that word again. Well, it certainly is what Rex and I are. Why I ever disillusioned myself to believe there could be more is beyond me.
 

Rex was the bad boy biker on the streets when I was in high school. He would pass by and wink at me. The first time he spoke to me, we were at a gas station. After I pulled up in my Honda, he strutted over as I was pumping gas. He looked over and saw my high school tassel hanging from my rearview mirror and smirked. It was my senior year. I knew it was cheesy to hang it from my mirror, but I was proud to be graduating and leaving my small town. As he watched me for a moment, his eyes dancing in humor, I was completely enamored and enthralled.
 

After a pat on my ass, he looked me up and down before saying, “Call me when you’re legal.” He then walked away with all the confidence in the world, never giving a second glance back. That is Rex, though, never looking back.
 

Lost in my life musings, the bar is empty before I even realize it.
 

“See ya tomorrow, Tessie,” Corinne calls out as she heads to the front door.
 

“Night. Drive safe,” I reply as I watch her lock the door and walk away.
 

After turning over the last bar stool, I make my way to the stock room. Sighing, I think back to the many nights Rex would stay behind to close up with me. The many nights he would take me right here in this very room.
 

Time to let go of all of that
, I remind myself. He is never going to grow up or settle down.
Take a page from his book, Tessie, no more looking back.
 

 

Three weeks. Three long, fucking weeks. Ever since Boomer brought her up, the ghost of my past is haunting me once again. She is relentless this time. I close my eyes and see her tear-filled gaze before she pulled the trigger, the depths of her stare begging me to change. Begging me to go back to a time when things were simple between us. Begging me to give up my career and be the man who could be home every night for dinner. The man who could sit beside her at church on Sunday. The man who crawled into bed with her to share my every secret and woke up every morning, cherishing having her in my arms. The stare, the look, and the final moment when she shut down, realizing I could never be the man she wanted. The final moment when I had to accept that I had cost her everything.
 

When I crawl in my bed each night, Tracie comes to me in my dreams. She reminds me I will never love again. I will never share a bed with anyone. Just as I cost her that dream, she is making sure to take it from me. I wake up drenched in sweat, my sheets soaked to the mattress and twisted into a disheveled mess as I have tossed and turned, fighting the demon within me. I couldn’t bring someone else into my nightmare. It would be unfair.
 

In the end, she got everything she wanted, only she isn’t here to share the life she has created for me. I live the life she wanted us to have together. My house isn’t as big as she would have wanted, and it is not in a subdivision on a cul-de-sac, but it is a home. I work at the garage where most weeks are a five day work week, eight hours a day. If we have a rush order, I work late or weekends, but that doesn’t happen often. I have my club, but I only go on the transports occasionally when there isn’t anyone else to fill in. My Army career is long gone and there is no going back.
 

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder that is what they call it. Fucked up beyond any help is what I call it. Either way, I am no longer qualified to do my job. I am no longer one of the elite. My DD-214 lists me with an honorable discharge. My team sergeant and commanding officer didn’t want to completely tarnish my reputation, but they felt I was no longer fit for duty. Fit for duty. Hell, I am still not sure I’m fit for life, and it’s been six fucking years.
 

Looking around me, I realize I have lost all control this time. The empty bottles of Jack Daniels litter my space, yet I can’t drink the memories away. I have done things I am not proud of. I have killed men. I have seen first-hand the damages of a civil war in a depraved country. I have walked away knowing my job only had a short-term impact and that one day those same, small boys I played soccer with in the street may grow into men who will want to kill me for merely being an American soldier. I have stared men in the eyes, watching them as they die. I have made good decisions and bad. I live with the consequences of my actions, no matter the lasting price I continue to pay. I served with honor, courage, commitment, and pride. And I would do it again in a heartbeat, no second guessing.
 

My regret is in how I handled Tracie. My job was my job, and I was damn good at it. With all those skills in reading people, I never thought to carry them over into my personal life. I shut Tracie out and took for granted that she would be along for the ride, no matter what choices I made. I was wrong. Dead wrong and that death was hers.
 

Typically, I can push it all down, put it aside and focus on day to day activities. When all else fails, I dump my problems in the bottom of a bottle. For these past three weeks, however, I can’t escape the memories. I can’t push down the thoughts.
 

I get in the shower, the water turning red in my mind. I watch it swirl down the drain, remember washing her blood spatter and brain matter off my face, arms, and hands. I couldn’t get clean enough. I still can’t. I am tainted. Her blood covers my soul, it will never wash away. I let her down.
 

With Tessie’s car ready, I have to get my head on straight to deliver it to her tomorrow. Her original problem was her alternator, but not wanting to risk further problems, she now has a new engine, new clutch, and new tires. Reality is, she needs a new car, but I know she can’t afford one.
 

Man up, get the car to her, and let her go. She could use a friend, someone to take her out and allow her freedoms to let go and not feel the weight of the world on her shoulders. That’s what she needs, but it can’t be me. My demons don’t need to spill over into her already fucked up life.
 

 

Shattered
 

 

Work. Work. Work. After a busy day shift at Brinkley’s, my feet are dragging at Ruthless tonight.
 

The bar is packed. It seems like the Desert Ghosts have most of their club here tonight. I see Thorn over at the pool tables with Tripp. The Ghosts club prez is not overly friendly. Hell, none of the guys are what I would call nice, whether Hellion or Ghost, but Thorn, that asshole comes off jaded.