The Heart You Carry Home (14 page)

Jeanine whipped back around. “Don't throw your happiness away because you think I've wronged you!”

Becca had never seen her mother so frantic or heard her voice strain a full octave above its usual husky pitch, but she was too hurt to care much about Jeanine's distress. “You don't even love me enough to stick around for Easter lunch!”

Jeanine rushed from the room, leaving Becca alone with the suitcase and trash bags. When her mother didn't come back after a few minutes, Becca crept into the hallway. To her horror, she could hear sobbing on the other side of the bathroom door.

The next morning Becca helped load the trash bags into the car. Then she watched her mother light a cigarette and pull away. When the car was gone, she looked up at the house. She'd never given the tiny structure much thought. It was just her home, nothing special. Now it was the only part of her family that she had left.

By nightfall, they reached Alamosa in south-central Colorado and headed to a bar on the outskirts of town. The men parked in a lot that was overstuffed with motorcycles. With considerable relief, Becca climbed off Reno's bike and followed the trio to a long line of bikers who were waiting to enter a tented pavilion beside the bar. A large sign read
Motorcycle Mountain Festival Fundraiser
.

“You're in for a treat,” Reno said as they drifted slowly toward the entrance. “You've never been to a party like this before.”

“I bet,” Becca said, her teeth chattering with cold. Ever since it had gotten dark out, she'd been freezing. Now her entire body felt numb.

“Might consider getting yourself a leather jacket in there,” Reno said. “You'd be warmer. And you'd be less at risk of getting skinned if anything were to happen on the road—not,” he added quickly, “that I'd let anything happen.”

It was true, Becca realized, that Reno was a responsible driver. Despite his penchant for unnecessary revving, he wore his helmet, even in the states that did not require it, and, unlike Bull, he avoided lane splitting. “I trust you,” she said and noted Reno's surprise at the compliment.

The entire motorcycling population of southern Colorado appeared to have congregated at Motorcycle Mountain. They were like nocturnal critters who'd crawled out from their logs and up from their holes. They swarmed and buzzed, and for the first time in days, King smiled. Becca was shocked; her father hated crowds.

They moved through the tent, full of people eating and drinking, and then passed out into the night, where fields full of camping tents rolled gently into the dark. Among kiosks peddling biker paraphernalia, Becca fingered the leather vests and bras and Daisy Dukes that were hung up like the decor of an S&M dungeon. There was an entire stand of accessories to keep long hair from tangling in the wind, which, amusingly, was less of a problem for her than it was for most of the men.

Bull arrived with beers. As Becca drank, he held up a suede demi-bra dotted with rhinestones. “You should try something on,” he said. “Leather could be your look. As long as they carry extra-small.”

“Fuck you,” Becca said.

“I'm just playing, Rebecca. Can't a college girl take a joke?”

“As long as we're talking extra-small, Bull, I think I see a child-size helmet that'll fit you like a glove.”

It wasn't King who came to her defense but Reno. Only a few days ago, he'd been the one accusing her of a weak sense of humor. He was growing on her, and she didn't like it.

“Listen,” he said to her now. “You're not riding safe. We need to get you fitted out.” He leaned over the counter and spoke to the biker chick manning the register. She disappeared among the racks and returned with a leather jacket and a pair of gloves. “I think these'll fit,” she said with a smile and passed the items to Becca.

The jacket was heavy and stiff. “I feel like I'm holding an animal carcass.”

“That's because you are,” said Bull.

“Go on.” Reno nodded. So Becca put on the jacket and zipped it. She felt constrained, almost corseted. “I know it seems uncomfortable at first. But once you wear it in, you'll never take it off.”

Becca looked at the price tag. “Two hundred dollars? Forget it.”

“Your life isn't worth two hundred bucks?” Reno asked. “And at the very least, this jacket will keep you warm. Jesus, girl, you were shivering so much tonight, you made
me
feel cold.”

“I'll throw in the gloves for free,” said the cashier. She leaned over the counter and motioned for Becca to come closer. “You look pretty tough in that jacket,” she whispered. “Seriously. If you don't want anyone to mess with you—just suit up.”

Becca looked around for her father to get his opinion, but King had disappeared.

“Come on.” Reno nudged her affectionately. “Become one of us.”

Becca couldn't believe she was letting herself be talked into this, but she handed over her credit card.

“Hallelujah!” Reno exclaimed.

Becca downed her beer as though trying to dull the pain of her extravagant purchase. “Time for another,” she said.

On their way to get drinks, Reno, Bull, and Becca paused outside a small tent advertising tattoos. “My diabolical plan to convert you from human being to biker chick is nearly complete!” Reno rippled the tips of his fingers together like a cartoon villain. “Tattoo to seal the deal?”

He was only joking but Becca looked him dead in the eye. “Fine,” she said and pushed inside without looking back. She didn't want to lose her nerve.

Becca had a terrible fear of needles, but she wasn't going to back out now. She was so determined, she didn't even realize that she'd cut the line and planted herself in an empty chair. The bikers who'd been waiting were so amused that they only laughed.

“You sure you're old enough for this?” one of them said.

“Your mama know where you are?” said another.

“I thought this jacket was supposed to make me look tough,” Becca complained, and the men laughed harder.

“Becca, you really want to do this?” Reno had made his way through the crowd to her. It was the first time he'd used her actual name—called her something other than
girl
—and she understood that in a moment, she'd be changed for good. A jacket could come on and off; a tattoo was a commitment.

“What's it gonna be?” The tattoo artist looked utterly uninterested, like a diner waitress snapping her gum.
What's it gonna be?
But this was serious. Like the biker vets with their U.S. Marine Corps crests and American flags, Becca was taking a stand. She was making her own political statement. “What hurts the least?”

“It all hurts,” Reno said.

“You want a soft area,” her soon-to-be-tormentor advised. “But you don't seem to have any of those.” She took her own tattooed hand and pinched Becca's upper arm. “Solid as a rock, this one. Unlike them.” She nodded at the paunchy bikers. “How visible do you want it? If I do your back, you can hide it, but you'd have to sleep on your stomach for a while.”

Becca did not want the tattoo anywhere near Ben's bruises.

“Inner wrist,” Reno said, and Becca could tell he'd been giving the question serious thought. “It's visible but not too visible, but it'll hurt like a mother.” Reno flashed his gold-toothed smile, and there he was—the Reno from King's kitchen, the man Becca despised, reveling in her discomfort. Which was all she needed to be convinced. She offered up her left arm. “I want it to say
King
in black. Cursive but not too fancy.”

“No heart with an arrow through it?” Reno laughed. But Becca ignored him. The tattoo artist swabbed Becca's wrist with alcohol and already she felt like passing out. “You need to bite on something?” Reno said.

There was a pressure on her arm and she flinched. This time, it was only the woman making the outline. Reno shook his head. “You don't look so great.” Now he seemed truly worried about her.

“This good?” the tattoo artist asked. Becca looked at her father's name, inked across her wrist, soon to be permanent.

Reno shook his head. “Your daddy isn't gonna like this one bit.”

“You said to make an effort,” Becca snapped. “Let's get this over with.”

And then pain. Specific and brutal pain, the nature of which she'd never felt in her life; it was like a hive of hornets had landed on her arm or like a blunt knife was sawing her hand off.

“Well, look at you, Rebecca.” This was Bull. He seemed to have materialized specifically to bait her, but then she saw that he was carrying another beer.

“No alcohol allowed in here,” the tattoo artist said, barely looking up.

“Give it,” Becca snarled. She grabbed the cup with her free hand and gulped it down like water. “Get me another one,” she demanded.

The tattoo artist shook her head, but she kept on working.

“Get the girl a double shot of whiskey.” Reno handed Bull some money. “You seen King out there?”

“He's over with Elaine. Should I . . . ?”

“Just get the poor woman her drink.”

“Yes, sir.” Bull saluted and ducked out of the tent.

“Who's Elaine?” Becca huffed, grimacing, feeling the urge to scream. But she was not going to let that happen. She was going to take this. She was going to suck it up.

“It's a good thing your daddy doesn't have a longer name,” Reno said.

Becca forced a smile. She felt cold, then hot. She was going to vomit. Her head swam in a nauseated blackness. The minutes passed. Bull seemed to have forgotten about her drink. Reno stood by, chatting with a couple of vets. He hadn't told her who Elaine was, but who cared? How long had she been sitting here? How much longer was this going to last? Time seemed to have slowed; it was like entire minutes had been packed into seconds.

“What in the hell are you doing to my daughter?”

The whole tent seemed to look up at once. King stood in the doorway, as menacing as a madman. He pushed his way through the line, leaving the other bikers mumbling in his wake.

“Looks like Bull took a detour on the way to the bar.” Reno laughed. “Hiya, King!” He gave an exaggerated wave.

“Get outta that chair!” King lumbered forward, and the tattoo artist held her hands up like there was a gun in her face.

“All of a sudden you care what I'm doing?” Becca snapped, puffing through the pain, which continued to bite through her arm even though the pen wasn't touching her.

“It's your name she's putting there,” Reno said and Becca held her wrist up. The tattoo artist had finished only three letters, so the tattoo read KIN; next to it was the
g
, much fainter, in pen.

“
King
,” Becca said. “It's going to say
King
.”

King stopped his advance. His eyes were deep gray and glowering, like gathering clouds. His jowls quivered.

“You make that lady stop now,” Reno said, “and people will look at your kid and think,
That's one lonely girl who's got to write
Kin
on her own arm
.”

Reno was only trying to lighten the mood, but his words were like a kick in the chest. Becca
was
all on her own. She was all the family she had. “Finish it,” she told the woman. “Please.” The tattoo artist lowered the needle and Becca winced as the tip bit in. She kept her eyes fixed on King's reddened face, staring him down as her body screamed.

“Branded!” Reno announced. And they left the tent with Becca's wrist wrapped in a bandage.

King didn't look angry anymore. More like resigned.

“She chose your name for her body. And she doesn't take kindly to needles,” Reno said.

“You're going to regret that, Becca,” King said, shaking his head. “It's expensive to get those things removed.”

“I'm not getting it removed.” She turned from her father and beelined to the bar, wondering what in the hell she'd just done to herself.

Becca was drinking and watching the crowd dance to hair-band covers and rockabilly when a hand floated into her field of vision. She was confused at first—what was somebody's upturned palm doing so close to her nose? But then she saw that the hand was attached to a wrist and that the wrist was attached to a forearm and that the arm was connected to a shoulder. The man standing before her looked Hispanic, possibly Mexican. He was stocky and thick around the stomach, with a glossy head of black hair. He flashed a large, toothy smile. He nodded at his palm.

Becca looked around, confused. “He wants to dance with you!” somebody shouted. She looked dubiously at the stranger but decided to get up. The next moment, she was in the crush of bodies on the dance floor. Her partner—who was hardly taller than she was—twisted and turned her with ease. He was keeping his distance and Becca could tell he must be making a huge effort at politeness, because around them, almost all of the dancers were pressed together, their hands squeezing each other's asses. It was a baffling scene: gnarled bikers, many of them vets, so stiff and silent in their daily lives now out on the floor swinging their biker ladies easily by their waists.

Becca spotted Reno dancing with some townie with an exposed midriff and tight jeans. He looked downright elated, his gold caps flashing. A slow song came on and all the couples who weren't already pressed close collapsed together. Becca was suddenly pulled against her suitor.

“You're a good dancer,” he said into her ear. He smelled of cologne, the kind that was advertised as having the power to make women lose control of their faculties.

“No, I'm not.”

“Can't a guy give a pretty girl a compliment?”

She didn't answer. As uncomfortable as she felt in his meaty arms, she wanted to let the moment play out.

“You got a husband, huh,” the man said. Becca could smell the beer on his breath, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. She glanced down at her wedding band and the engagement ring with the small square ruby. She didn't answer this question either, which the man seemed to take as a good sign. He squeezed his hands tighter around her back and she noticed that the bruises were hurting less. They looked grotesque, were fading to a greeny yellow, but the ache was now a quiet pulse, much less painful than the frigid motorcycle wind or the sting of the tattoo needle.