TRIGGER: A Motorcycle Club Romance Novel (11 page)

Dear
Trigger –

Well, it’s been two weeks now, and I’ve tried to wait to write until I
have something to tell you. But wouldn’t you know – nothing’s happened. Which
seems, almost, like an insult. I guess I feel like the world should have
started to crumble, the whole world, since mine is in shambles without you.

Seems like you left and Russia should have bombed us or China should have
taken over or Germany rise from the ashes bigger and
badder
than 1939.
 
But instead – it’s all
the same. I go to work. I come home. The people on the news talk about the same
things. The sky isn’t falling. I’m the only one on this planet suffering the
way I am.

Except, of course, that’s not true. Worse things happen every day, don’t
they? You’re not dead – every morning I wake up and remind myself of that. Even
though my bed is cold and lonely without your body pressed against mine, and I
miss the smell of oil and work on the sheets, there are worse things. I can
write to you, and you can read it. And write back. You will write back, won’t
you?

But of course you will – sorry for the moment’s doubt. I won’t ever doubt
your love while you’re gone. I guess in a selfish way there is something nice
for me about you being surrounded by men – don’t think there’s any chance of
losing you to a man named Snake Oil Sal.

I do hope they’re treating you right though. The things I sometimes
imagine make me sick and afraid for you. But imagining is something I know I
shouldn’t do much of. Nothing good can come of imagining.

Only imagining us together again, that will be good. Someday we will sit
outside in a big beautiful park with a gingham blanket beneath us, a bottle of
wine (a big bottle, baby), cheese and grapes and apples and all sunlight
everywhere, and nothing to do but sit with my head in your lap and giggle at
the birds in the sky…

Those are the only imaginings I try to do. Dreamy, wonderful days where
nothing can come between us. We’ll get there, we must. I know I’ll never give
you up for someone who’s free to spend their time and attention on me. Not as
long as I know you’re there, wishing for me the way I’m wishing for you, I can
promise you my heart. The best part of me. The best part of us.

You made me a promise like that once and you always kept it. And I hope
you know – I’m just as good at keeping promises.

Well, besides all that mushy stuff, I don’t have anything new to report.
It’ll be winter soon and my boots are wearing thin but I set aside a little
money each paycheck for a new pair – but I put aside a little more for a car.
You know they took yours, right? Said it was stolen property. I guess you had
to have known that, though.

Anyway, I moved into a one-bedroom in town, by the way, since it’s about
all I can afford now that I’m paying the rent on my own. My address will be on
the envelope. The heat is finicky but there’s a friendly cat that comes around
to say hi at my window. I’ve called him
Stucky
because he sticks his head in through the gap between the pane and the glass –
my landlord promises to fix it, seeing as how it’s going to only get colder and
it does get drafty – but I don’t mind for now. Just bundle up and wear my
winter clothes inside and I’m toasty warm.

Especially with
Stucky’s
green eyes and sweet,
warm breath to keep me company. And your love.

There I go getting mushy again! I need one of those electro-shock collars
to keep me in check. I better sign off before I get even worse. Write back
soon. I’m sending along a little money – what I can – for your commissary.
Don’t let them treat you too bad. You have rights, prisoner’s rights, you know?
Maybe you can spend your time at the library. You’d make a good lawyer, and now
you have nothing but time to start learning. Just a thought. You always said
how dumb you were but you know damn well you’re smart as could be.

Write back soon. I love you. Always.

•
     
-
     
Cass

Dear
Trigger,

It’s been about three months now since my first letter. And I know you
know that. You must’ve gotten my other letters – unless you didn’t, in which
case I’m going to be raising some hell! They have no right to keep my letters
from you. But if you have gotten them, I can only imagine you’re too busy
keeping yourself in the right mind and good company to respond. That’s alright.
I come home every day hoping to see your handwriting in the mailbox, though, so
if you can find yourself a little time for me, it’d be much appreciated.

At any rate, I have some news for you that I hope will make you smile! I
have been saving all I could – not for boots, like I said, but for a car! And
lo and behold a fellow from the shop saw me walking to work the other day, must
have taken some pity on me and gave me a ride. And he mentioned he had a car
for sale – a real beater, but he said he’ll get the boys to do the repairs for
cheap. After this winter, it should be good enough to carry me back to NY –
which means back to you, baby.

I can come visit, is what I’m saying. Isn’t that good news?! It’ll just
be two more months, he said, before the car will be in good enough shape to
make it to NY. And he’s
gonna
sell it to me for just
exactly what I’ve got saved. I’ll be splitting paychecks between rent and
repairs ‘til then, rice and beans every night, but it’ll all be worth it. Never
mind that I’ll get to see Jennie again after all this time apart – it’s the
best I could ever wish for.

Just think, baby, two months and we’ll get to be face-to-face,
hand-to-hand. Greg, the guy who’s
gonna
sell me the
car, said they were happy to do it to help me out. They really liked you, and
they said they didn’t know or care what it was you did to get yourself in
trouble. Said some stuff about the government being too big for its britches.
They’re a sweet bunch, really, and they did tell me to send along my best. They
also said to tell you that “Tucker got his in at last,” which I can’t even
begin to imagine what that means, but I guess you do!

Anyway, that’s my big news for the week. I’ll write again soon – and be
anxiously awaiting your response, if you can spare the time to write one. You
still have my heart. I’m keeping my promise. I know you are, too. Two months,
baby. Two little old months…

Yours always,

Cass.

Baby
–

Tomorrow I light out for New York. And Jennie. And, most importantly,
you.

I don’t know why you haven’t responded. I don’t want to think it’s the
reason that my ego tells me it is – that sentence was a mess, but I hope you know
what I mean. That little part of me, the part my father put inside me, tells me
it’s because you never really loved me, I’m no good, I’m never going to get the
boy, etc. etc.

I know, though, I know that’s not how it is. But I can’t help thinking…am
I stupid for keeping up writing? Tell you about all the stupid little things I
do every day? Does it bore you? Are you tired of me? Do you want to forget all
about me? Does it hurt too much to know that I’m free and you’re not? What is
it, Trigger? Please, all I need is one little sentence, just tell me how it is
you’ve never felt like responding?

Maybe it is true that they aren’t giving you my letters, though. That’s
the happiest and most infuriating possibility. They’re not allowed to do that.
But if that’s what’s happening…well…it would make me feel a little bit better,
that’s for sure. Is that horrible? I don’t know – all I know is that I’m coming
to see you. I looked up visiting hours and I’ll be able to see you on Saturday
from 2-4. Isn’t that amazing to think about and look forward to? At least, it
is for me. Maybe it will be a total surprise for you…

I spoke to Jackie and she was delighted to hear about me coming home to
spend some time with Jennie. And they’ve offered me a place to stay for a month
or two to get back on my feet! Of course, they’ll keep Jennie after; I still
can’t raise her, and I’ll barely be able to afford a place of my own. They’ve
been so generous, and you know Jennie really has sounded happy…I am too excited
to see her! I can’t tell who I’m more excited to see, honestly!

My father asked me to come see him, too. In his last letter. I suppose it
wouldn’t be the worst thing; then again, it just might. I want to say: “what do
you think?” But of course, I’ll just ask you that in person. I don’t even know
what the point of this letter is considering the fact that I’ll be seeing you,
probably before you even get it! I’m just too excited and need to tell someone,
and you’re my someone. You’ll always be…

Oh lord. The mush is coming. Best be off. See you soon, baby.

•
     
-
     
Cass

Trigger
–

Well, I guess I got my answer. You wouldn’t see me. So I HAVE been a
fool, and I HAVE been stupid and blind and just…exactly everything my father
ever said about me.

Well, I get it, and I’ll let you go. Since that’s what you want.

For what it’s worth, I still love you.

But I’m sure I’ll get over that. Someday.

•
     
-
     
Cass

Cass
–

You’re right. You’ll get over me. You better. You deserve a good life,
and I can’t give you one. Don’t reply to this. You won’t get a reply back.

We’re both moving on. And you’re moving forward.

•
     
-
     
Trigger

End
of Part 1.

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REIGN
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Part
Two:

Ten Years Later

Trigger

“You sure you’re okay with
this?” Reign asked, squinting at me across the desk in his office. I nodded, my
hands behind my head.

“Whatever you need bud,” I
said. “Besides, what’s good for you is good for me,
ain’t
it?”

“That’s the idea,” Reign
said with a smile. “You ever done anything like this before, though? Thrown a
fight?
Ain’t
as easy as it looks.”

I shrugged.

“Well, no, I never thrown a
fight before, but I sure as hell have lost my share,” I said. “Got the scars to
prove it, too.”

“I’ll bet,” Reign said, now
bringing his hands to his chin and looking at me thoughtfully. “To be right
honest, I don’t know a damn thing about it, either. You’re our champ, never had
fighting in our wheelhouse before. I
gotta
see…why
don’t you go talk to
Knicker
? He used to fight
before. Too old now, but he did a lot of basement rings and shit. He might
know.”

I cringed inwardly. I liked
Knicker
just fine – but I didn’t like having to ask
anyone
for help with
anything.
Much happier just to look it
up online, or wing it when the time came. But I realized this wasn’t something that
I should just wing – winning fights was easy, losing them on purpose? That
could be hella hard. You couldn’t be too obvious about it or it would blow the
whole deal.

“Anyway, you got a month to
figure out how to do it,” Reign said, looking down at his desk and shuffling
some papers. He looked like a damn manager at a restaurant, except for his cut
and tattoos and the scars on his own fists, of course. I thought I’d go out of
my damn mind in his position. I’m all action, too dumb for crunching numbers
and making deals. I’m your hired gun, your fists in the ring, the guy who’ll
run headfirst into the firefight. Leave the paper pushing for the smart guys
and
gimme
a shot, a bump, and a guy who needs a good
beating.

“Right-O, boss,” I said,
rapping my knuckles against the desk as I stood up and made for the door. Just
as I pushed it open, Gabriella appeared, looking haggard and gently bouncing
her and Reign’s little boy, who was fussing up a storm. I gave her my best
good-guy smile and pinched the kid’s cheek, but beat it pretty fast after that.
Another thing I didn’t have any interest in: wives and kids. Gave me the
shivers just thinking about it.

I had a sweet little piece
waiting for me in my room behind the motel. Probably still sleeping; it was
early yet, my little meeting with Reign having started at seven, before Endo
even opened up the kitchen or Honey came around to look at last night’s take.
The strong desert sunlight came in bleary through the dusty windows. Sparkling,
lazy dust motes danced in the air, and I had to remind myself it was all just
dead flesh and sand. I could get all sappy in dim rooms like this sometimes.
Reminded me of a time I’d gone to great lengths to forget. Another morning…

But that had been ten years
ago. Ten long years, most spent in minimum security lock-up at Riker’s Island.
I’d been transferred to Utah – of all places – my last two years, due to
overcrowding. I’d been offered legal assistance fighting the transfer; I was a
good prisoner, for the most part, did what was told, and I guess they thought
it wouldn’t be fair to my friends and family if they couldn’t visit me anymore.

Little did they know, I had
no friends and no family and the transfer was an answer to all my prayers. New
York was not kind to anyone, least of all ex-cons with no money and nowhere to
go. And I didn’t underestimate the lingering bad blood that prowled the streets
of Brooklyn, looking for revenge for Steel’s death.

Or, more accurately, his
murder.

Funny thing about prison.
You can get away with shit you don’t think you should be able to get away with
– as long as the shit you’re doing makes the guards happy. I was fucked from
the moment I entered that shithole. I couldn’t rightly join up with the Blacks
or the Latinos or the Asians, and the Whites? I never seen a worse group of
skinheads, hillbillies, and regular old jackasses. My type of guy – bikers –
weren’t too keen on me, either. My reputation had preceded me, it seemed. So I
was alone, for the most part, which made me an easy target.

Or, at least, it made me
seem
like an easy target.

But wouldn’t you know it –
turns out, I was a damn good fighter. Or, at least, a fast learning. I got my
ass handed to me more times than I care to remember that first year. The second
year, though, I started coming out on top once in a while. By the time I’d been
in for five years, I wasn’t someone you wanted to mess with, and the only guys
who tried to jump me were fresh meat who didn’t know better.

I sure as hell wasn’t making
any friends, but I was keeping my nose unbroken and my asshole virgin. That
sounds like a joke, but it’s not. Some guys get in touch with their feminine
side, you could say. Some are
forced
to
get in touch with their feminine side. Me? I was kicking and screaming and
busting heads every time anyone looked at me like I was edible.

You’d think all that
fighting would end up with me getting sent to max, or having extra years tacked
on. But guards like a good cage match as much as any of your pay-per-view
subscribers, and somehow a few of them took a shine to me. I understand it was
a betting matter at one point or another. Made me
kinda
sick, you know, that these fucks who were supposed to keep us from getting
knocked around so much our brains turned to mush were actually having fun
watching us grind each other into the ground.

Then again, I managed to get
off early on good behavior. And I had a whole new set of marketable life
skills. So who am I to complain?

I’d come to the Black Smokes
by way of a fellow inmate in Utah, who recommended me to talk to a man named
Reign in a place called Ditcher’s Valley. All you could see of Utah from the
exercise yard was wide stretching desert. Hot and hazy even in mid-winter. When
I got out, I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I expected the earth to unfold
for me, freedom to come in the sight of rolling, lush mountains.

But it was all the same.
Every highway I went down, all the same. I could have gone back to New York, I
guess. Or further West, to California. But to be frank, I was tired, when I got
out, and the idea of travelling anywhere made my head hurt.

So I packed up what little I
owned and hitched out to the Valley. It was easy to find headquarters; it was a
one-horse town if I ever saw one. And just like the fellow told me, I found a
sympathetic ear in Honey. She was hard-hearted and looked at me through
slitted
eyes, sure, but at the end of the day she gave me a
room. And at the end of the week, she let me sweep up after the bar closed
down. And when Reign finally saw me, saw the signs of fighting etched on my
hands and face like flags, he took an interest.

“We don’t take in many new
members,” he’d said. “And you’ll sure have to prove your loyalty. That could
take a while. But to be honest, I’m looking for someone who can fight. I got a
guy down in Reno who does underground boxing. Real dirty shit. Looks like you
might have some experience in that.”

A year later, I’d won enough
fights and done enough grunt work to gain that trust. It felt strange – after
all those years – to fall right back into the same life that had led to my
incarceration in the first place. But things worked differently in the Black
Smokes. Reign and his right-hand man, Endo, and even Honey, were smart as whips,
all of them. Smarter than Steel by a country mile, for sure. They stayed away
from the kind of shit that gets you real time, kept their business as legit as
possible. It was more like a family than a club, really.

With only about a hundred
members, the club ran things small but tight. And they were known, in a good
way. In the sort of way that made people think twice about messing with them,
despite their small numbers. Having a patch with the Black Smokes was like
being member of a VIP club. And out there in the desert, there wasn’t much
competition for the good runs; they mostly dealt in hustling immigrants across
the border, security for those who needed it, shit that
kinda
made you feel good doing it.

The strangest thing was
trying my
damndest
never to mention my life in
Brooklyn. I didn’t figure my membership was irrevocable – and if there was one
thing that could get you kicked out of a good club, it’d be a history of
killing your club President. And lying about it. But things worked differently in
the Black Smokes. They didn’t have anything to do with the old New York clubs,
probably wouldn’t even have known what I was talking about if I tried to tell
them who I
used
to work for.

Which was all right with me,
trust me. Last thing on earth I wanted to do was relive any of that. I was
happy getting by with the Black Smokes; they were good guys, they took me for
who I was, never tried to make me do shit I didn’t want to do, or act like they
were better than people. It was a far cry from listening to Steel wax poetic
about worthless immigrants, or the racism that pervaded every inch of prison.
These, I felt, might really be my people.

And the seemingly endless
stream of pretty little girls who were willing to hop into your bed at the drop
of a hat (or helmet)? One hell of a perk.

I thought of this as I left
the dusty bar behind; Endo was just coming across the long parking lot, looking
a bit worse for the wear. His woman was about to pop one out, too, and he had
been getting in all the late nights at the bar he could before getting tied
down to a crib. Somehow, though, he was still insufferably excited about the
little
rugrat
-to-be. He and Reign said shit like,
“it’s different when you love ‘
em
,” like I didn’t
know what love was…

Well, hell, did I? I’d only
ever had Cass, and we’d just been kids. Barely even old enough to pass for 21
at the gas station (and sure as hell not legally allowed to buy any of that
booze). What could we have known about love?

All I knew was that there
was a tiny, sore spot in my heart that ached when I thought of her. And those
letters. I never could bring myself to throw those letters away. As though
keeping them meant she might still be out there, might still have a little love
for me in that big heart of hers. But she was probably happy, hitched to some
investment banker or stock broker, maybe with a few kids of her own, or living
with her sister in Chicago…

I had to push the fantasy
from my head as I unlocked the door to my apartment. This girl was a snorer. I
could hear her from the hallway. Though, to be fair, that wasn’t saying much;
my apartment was tiny, even by New York standards. I kind of liked it that way.
Spend eight years in lock up, you get used to living tiny. I didn’t own much in
the way of material goods, didn’t need much space. Felt almost homey, living in
a cage.

I lingered for a moment in
the doorway to the bedroom, watching the covers rise and fall. Strands of
auburn hair lay across my pillow, barely poking out of the top of the blanket.
I’d jacked the AC up to combat the heat. I tried to remember anything about the
girl; I knew her name, she’d said, was Bella. Or Belle. Or Beau. Or something
southern like that. She liked Long Island Iced Teas. I’d only had to buy her
one before she’d dragged me back to the bathroom and started unzipping me.

I felt a little bad. She
surely thought – or at least hoped – that I might ask her to stick around,
might be her boyfriend or some shit. But I knew that was never
gonna
happen, and I think at some level, so did she. They
all did, never raised too much fuss when you gave them a kiss and rushed them
out the door so you could deal with your hangover. Barely ever even asked for a
number.

Crossing the room, I wasn’t
too keen on getting back into bed. Once I’m up, I’m up.
Maybe I’ll make some breakfast,
I thought vaguely, knowing I’d do
no such thing. If you were trying to give a girl like this the wrong idea,
there was no better way to do it than with pancakes and screwdrivers. I guess
my presence in the room woke her up even before I sat down on the mattress,
because the covers stirred and two skinny hands emerged from the top,
stretching out, accompanied by a muffled squeak.
Cute,
I thought.

“Morning, sunshine,” I said,
pulling back the covers. The redhead laughed and tried to pull them back up.