Where Souls Spoil (7 page)

Chapter 7

We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict.

Jim Morrison

ONCE WE START back on the road, the man in the front passenger seat and the one across from me fall asleep immediately. My eyelids are heavy, but every time I close them, a string of images assault my mind. From Tony bleeding out to him in the hospital, then to Gloria and me at the house, and eventually Ryan. I don’t know why Ryan makes his way into my subconscious, but he does. The way his eyes bore into mine like he was trying to figure me out. There were questions there that I don’t understand and I doubt I’ll ever have answered.

As the hours pass and Pennsylvania bleeds into Ohio, Indiana, and then Illinois, I allow myself to zone out. The stark countryside is beautiful in a neglected, desolate sort of way. Spring is in full effect, and summer waits just around the corner. The heartland is gorgeous with its corn fields and rows of vegetables and even the occasional dairy farm spotting the landscape. But after a few hundred miles, even the pastoral charm of the Midwest wears off and I’m left with the choice between attempting to sleep despite the haunting images that barrage my mind, and the landscape. Neither is appealing, and eventually the mind-numbing dullness of the situation takes over, engulfing actual thought in favor of autopilot.

We stop three times for gas, mainly to fill up the bikes and to give the riders a rest. The Devil of Death and the other two men in the van switch seats at the first stop and don’t switch back until the last. I study their patches and their demeanor all the while studiously avoiding Ruby’s occasional forays into consciousness. Though she is quite kind, she is mostly quiet. I find her attention on me more often than I’m comfortable with. I feel the urge to promise her that I’m real and I’m not going to suddenly turn into a ghost, but that would be rude, so I just pretend I don’t see her staring at me. It’s not easy.

Along the highway I see the signs for Chicago and hear grouchy muttering from the front seat about having to “get the fuck as far away from Chicago as possible.” The driver answers a cell phone, says a few words, and pulls it away from his ear, sliding it back into his jeans pocket. As we pass the signs for Chicago, some of the bikes pull off the highway.

“Rig’s crew is going to make sure Chicago stays in the Midwest,” The Devil of Death says. I stare at him quizzically, and he lets out an annoyed sigh then, after a pause, he clarifies in an annoyingly condescending tone. “Your daddy’s a mob boss, right? Yeah, so he’s got buddies in Chicago. You’re the mob’s property, and we’ve got you. Now, how happy do you think they are about that?”

Despite knowing nothing about these people and what they’re capable of, I feel an annoyed tick in my jaw. I bite back my sarcasm as much as possible and say, “Thank you for the clarification.”

“What’s a matter? Did I annoy you, Princess?” he asks in a mocking tone. I fold my arms over my chest and turn away from him, focusing intently on Ruby’s sleeping form.

“Thank you,” I say again, because I was raised to be, if anything, polite. “For coming to get me.”

“It was a club vote and I lost. You ain’t my kid, and this ain’t my baggage.”

“Still,” I say, a bit quieter. Thanking someone who is so hell bent on pissing me off is challenging at best. Having had enough small talk for the time being, I settle into my seat and lean my head against the blackened window, hoping sleep will claim me.

When I wake, the sun has already set, and night time is upon us. The high-pitched squeal of the van’s brakes as we stop rouse even my new friend across from me. As his eyes flutter open, I smile at him as happily as I can muster. His eyes land on me immediately and a grimace appears. If he can’t bring himself to be kind, or even tolerant of me, perhaps I can kill him with kindness. Literally.

To my left side, Ruby stretches out, having slept most of the way since we left Brooklyn. “Where are we?” she asks, looking at the men in front.

“Some hick town in Iowa,” the passenger says. The driver puts the van in park and cuts the engine. It isn’t until the guys who have kept time with us turn off their engines that I realize how loud they really are. In their wake is a glorious silence that immediately makes me feel infinitely more at ease.

We climb out of the van and step onto the cracked pavement of the Williamsburg Motel, whose florescent neon sign flashes, sporadically cutting out. For the first time since we locked eyes at that gas station, I see Ryan in the crowd. He’s standing, hands on his hips, surveying the men around him. Ruby takes my arm and gently leads me past him and into the motel lobby, following Jim, who manages to score an impressively low group rate. Upon inspection, there’s ten riders with us, half the number that there were to begin with. As we emerge from the office, Jim tosses out four room keys, then he hands one to Ryan. He hands one of the remaining two keys to Ruby, and finally, one to me.

“Duke, Diesel, and Bear are going to keep watch for the night since they got to sleep in the van. You’ll be safe, but I figured you’d want a little privacy.” I nod, grateful for the consideration.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, and it is perhaps the most genuine thing I’ve ever said.

I rest up, trying to make this situation a little more bearable with a hot bath and lots of sleep. Not knowing when I’ll have a chance to shower again, I load up my bag with the extra soaps and a few washcloths. Though the men never bother me, I hear when they change shifts. Jim told me one would be at the door to my room and the other would be around back beneath the high bathroom window. Not only are the window and the door the only points of entrance in my dusty, rundown room, they’re also the only points of escape. Not that I had been thinking of an escape. I’m not stupid enough to believe that I’d fare better on my own in the wilds of the Midwest than I will with Ruby and Co. Still, I’ve spent a lifetime under Carlo Mancuso’s thumb, and I know better than to assume that the only thing the leather-clad, gun-wielding men are attempting to stop is a break-in.

By morning, I already feel a hundred times better, having rested and cleared my head. I’m still feeling the lingering effects of the anti-anxiety medication Gloria slipped into my milk, but at least now I feel like I have my wits about me again. Today, our trip feels very much like yesterday’s did—long with a series of short stops along the way for beer and snacks, but more often than not we break for bathrooms and to fill up the tank. Today, I’m more aware of my surroundings. I’ve noticed the motorcycles stop more frequently than the van, but before they do there’s always a call in to one of the guys. The conversations are never lengthy, saying only what absolutely needs to be said, and when the bikes pull off the highway to refuel, the van keeps going, but at a slower pace. The bikes always keep up and the remaining riders adjust their formation to fill in the gaps left by the departing riders. Seeing all of this, the way the riders work together, keeping the van surrounded, is fascinating. In all of my years of watching and listening to my father’s business, I’ve never seen such fluid teamwork from such a large group.

When the van stops for gas, all of the riders stop, whether they fill up or not. Ryan stays close to Jim’s side, and Ian stays close to Ryan’s. The three men cast me the occasional sideways glance. For Jim and Ian, it’s almost like they’ve just remembered I’m riding in the van. But for Ryan, the way his gaze tracks me, it’s like he’s making sure I’m still there. Like he’s never forgotten me. I don’t allow myself to forget Ruby’s warning from yesterday, so I don’t engage. I do, however, watch. Despite being among such a large group, I feel so very alone. And Ruby isn’t much of a talker, though she’s trying here and there. There’s so much I want to say to her and so very little I can bring myself to.

The day winds down in another rundown motel, this time in Wyoming. I hear stilted talks of Nevada and something about territory. The general idea is, I think, that we’re getting closer to home, which is, as far as I know, somewhere in California. Aside from that, I know nothing—because I’ve asked nothing.

On the third day of our journey, we’re nearing the end, which is unfortunate. Though I’m worn down and out of clean clothes, I’m settling into life on the road. I find myself in that space between expectations of normalcy and chaos. I’m learning the ticks of the men around me. Duke, the Devil of Death, is at his best in the late evenings. Anything too early and he’s an asshole. I don’t know if I’ll see him much once we get ‘home,’ but I’m working on figuring out his sweet spot with whiskey. Too much or too little and I find my foot itching to kick him.

Since yesterday, I’ve learned the names of the other two men who have accompanied Ruby and me in the van. Neither man is chatty enough on his own, so I had to ask Duke for their names. The man who does most of the driving tends to keep himself scarce, and has a shaved head. He goes by the name Diesel. His long-sleeping companion goes by the name Bear. After watching him sleep for days on end, I can see that the name was aptly applied.

As for Ruby, I’m doing the best I can to open up to her, but it’s not easy when she is so hot and cold all of the time. Any time I’ve tried to ask her about my mother, it’s been a disaster. Her entire body goes rigid, and she just shuts down. The guys even notice it and tense up. One of Duke’s few redeeming qualities is that he’s protective over her. I can’t stave off the petty jealousy that flares when he gives me a look, warning me to back off when I’ve stumbled upon a sensitive topic. I don’t even
like
Duke, but the loneliness is getting to me, and I’ve found myself wanting to talk to him. I’m out of my element, essentially alone, and a guest among a gathering of family. So I vow not to bring my mother up again, not until I can form some kind of relationship with Ruby. I want to get to know her, especially if she’s going to help me get on my feet, but that’s going to be quite difficult if I continue to upset her.

Quietly, I clear my throat, catching Ruby’s attention, and I say, “Thank you.” Since I’ve spent the past day or so mulling over how to get on her good side, it’s suddenly occurred to me that I don’t think I’ve thanked her until now. I don’t understand much of what’s going on here and why she would go through all of this trouble for me, but I do understand that she did. And regardless of whatever rift they had, despite my mother’s death, Ruby’s helping me. I don’t know where I would be without her right now.

“Not a problem,” she says with a tired, but friendly smile. I shake my head.

“But it is,” I protest. “It’s kind of a big deal to drag these guys across the country for me.”

She nods. “Yeah, that kinda is a pain in the ass.” The men chuckle—the first sound I’ve heard from them in hours. It’s not even noon yet, but we’ve been on the road since early this morning, long before the sun ever rose. And just like that, the men are talking, and Ruby is laughing. She’s telling them I’m such a pain that I’ll fit right in. For the first time in days, I feel like maybe one day I could belong to something or somebody again.

Just as I join the conversation, a loud boom sounds outside, and the van crashes off to the side of the road. The driver swerves, cursing along the way. The passenger gets on his cell as the sound of angry shouts and motorcycle blast into my ears. I look out the window to see the bikes, checking that everyone is okay. Ruby does the same. The bikes swerve out of the way as we come to a screeching halt, but not before plowing into the edge of a corn field. I’m tossed forward, landing with a bang, my knees hitting the floorboard. Instinctively, I cover my head and fight back the tears that are coming. My lungs strain for enough oxygen, but it feels impossible. There just isn’t enough air. Sucking up enough air as I can, my lungs struggle to find a steady rhythm. It’s no use.

Chapter 8

Is freedom anything else than the right to live as we wish? Nothing else.

Epictetus

VOICES CLAW AT the corner of my consciousness, fighting for attention. I hear “It’s okay” again and again until I begin to believe it’s all in my head. But as I slowly pull myself together, steady my breathing, and shut down the tears, I realize the voice isn’t mine. It’s Ruby. She’s hunched over me, her torso pressed into my back, and arms draped over mine. She rests her head on the back of mine and continues to soothe me. Little by little, I force down the acid rising in my throat and shake off the feeling of impending doom.

“It’s just the tire,” she says. “It blew.”

As she pulls away slowly, I feel the insufferable need to be held once again. My father isn’t one for coddling and, though he didn’t fight my mother’s way of caring for us, it was obvious that it displeased him. I learned early on that she was two different people—one when he was around, and one when he wasn’t. She was so good at hiding things from him that I sometimes wonder if I really knew her at all or if she was another way when I wasn’t around, too.

But I can’t think of that now, or the desperation chewing at my stomach to have Ruby’s comfort again. I raise my head and firmly plant my hands on the floor of the van. My humiliation over my reaction to a flat tire only worsens when I realize the side door of the van is open and Ryan and Jim are standing shoulder to shoulder, watching me. Ruby rubs my back and says, “Ignore them.”

“Go on, it’s not like none of you’ve ever seen a girl cry before,” Ruby says. Ryan’s eyes leave me, focusing on Ruby. A smirk finds its way to his lips. Jim guffaws loudly.

“With you around? Come on, Ma, when’s the last time you cried?” With Ryan’s words, the men focus on him and Ruby, leaving me to my embarrassment. It takes her a moment as her face pales. It’s a sore subject, it seems. Her eyes dart to mine and then back to Ryan. His smile drops some, and she clears her throat.

Then she composes herself, the smart shell back on, saying, “The day I realized I was stuck with you.” They smile at one another broadly. Jim shakes his head and turns around, his dark hair whipping at his jaw.

“Ignore her,” Ryan says. “I kick ass.” His eyes are back on mine, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. I let out an embarrassed laugh, trying to stave off the irritation I feel at my own reaction. Of course it was a blown tire and not a mob hit. What a silly thing to consider. Here, in the never-ending farmland, with nobody and nothing within fifty miles of us. No, that’s not how my father works. He’s typically a little more orderly than that.

“Damn girl, don’t be embarrassed over that,” Duke says with a dramatic roll of the eyes. “You gotta learn to handle yourself better than that if you want to hang around here.” He’s teasing me, giving me an opening to make light of the situation—exactly, I’m guessing, what one of them would do.

“Sorry about that, I’m new to this being on-the-run thing. I could use some pointers. Got any?” The crowd—which now consists of the entire group—breaks out into rowdy laughter. Duke gives me a smile, an actual, genuine smile. I smirk, knowing I’ve gained his approval for the time being. Ryan’s eyes light up as he sticks out his hand in offering. I look down at his dry and cracked hand, palm up, and then back at him. He gives me a small nod and I reach out, happy to make contact with him.

Ryan’s grip on my hand is tight, his skin warm. I never realize how cold my body runs until I touch another person. It’s unfortunate how little physical contact I’ve had with others that even the smallest touch matters to me. With a slight tug, he has me crawling out of the van and stepping into the low grass on the side of the road. Once I’m steady on my feet, he releases me, but keeps his body close to mine. Feeling brave for just a moment, I let my hand graze his. He hooks his pinky around mine, then lets go. I shudder involuntarily. He gives no reaction, leaving me to wonder how much another’s touch means to him. Is it inconsequential, even innocent as it was, or is it routine for him? I allow that thought to take precedence over the sight of the blown front tire of the van, the damaged cornstalks, and the disgruntled bikers. Because in that moment the only thing that matters is Ryan and the way his pinky felt wrapped around mine. As stupid as it sounds, it matters to me.

A strong elbow nudges my upper arm, bringing my attention back to reality. Looking up, I see it’s Ryan. “Huh?” I ask.

“I asked if you’ve ever ridden on a motorcycle.”

I think back, realizing I have. “My brother got a BMW for his birthday last year.”

Ryan chortles. “How far did you go?”

“Um, around the parking lot,” I say. “My father wouldn’t let him take me anywhere on it. He said it was too dangerous for me.” Ryan shakes his head, looking at the men around him.

“Well, today’s your lucky day. You’re a sitting duck here with the van. You get to ride with me.”

“I get to ride on your—” I sputter off then stop. Already, I have more freedom here with these people than I ever had with my father.

He leans in close and whispers, “Careful, little girl. You don’t want to go there.”

Ryan’s answering wink is enough to do me under, but it’s the words that spill out of his mouth that send shivers down my spine. Maybe I don’t want to be careful. And maybe I do want to go
there
.

Before I can embarrass myself further, Ruby comes around to my side, giving me a reassuring smile. “I’ll be riding with Jim, right beside you.”

I nod and give her a small smile, praying that she can’t see how excited I really am. Having lived my entire life in what amounts to, essentially, a glass bubble, the prospect of getting out and doing something wild is exhilarating.

As the bikers talk amongst themselves, Ruby leads me away with Ryan and Jim hot on our heels. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. We come around the van to the bikes haphazardly parked, set-up on their kickstands, in a large cluster. I can’t make out which one is Ryan’s. They all look the same—black and chrome with worn leather seats and cargo bags strapped to the sides. They each appear to have something unique about them. One has a second seat, another has a backrest, and a third has red flames painted into the black. Despite some of the wear and tear, each bike is obviously loved and cared for.

A heavy arm rests on my shoulders. Instinctively, I know it’s Ryan. He has this particular scent of leather and his own personal musk. Looking up at him, I catch the half-smirk on his face and allow myself to gift him a small smirk of my own.

“Trying to figure out which one’s mine?”

I shake my head, fighting the impending laugh, “They’re very similar looking.” He bends his arm at the elbow, closing in on my head until he has me in a full-on head-grip. Swatting at his chest, I giggle uncontrollably. Urged on by my reaction, he reaches up with his other hand and rubs his knuckles across the top of my head until I have no doubt that my hair’s a mess.

“My bike is nothing like the rest of them,” he grinds out. He firms up his grip on my head, turning my body in toward his. My eyes are closed, letting the rest of my senses take over. I breathe him in, enjoying every bit of who he is that I can. There’s something in the way that he’s strong and playful at the same time. He keeps me close to him, tucked snugly into his chest. For just a brief moment, as I’m inhaling his scent and his warmth, the rest of the world melts away. There is no danger, no fear, and no rough and rowdy bikers around us. There’s just me and Ryan.

When Ryan finally lets go of my head, I pull back, smack his chest one final time, and attempt to smooth down my hair. I keep my scowl in place, almost daring him to do it again.

“You messed up my hair,” I accuse. He gives me a flat look and steps back, leaning on one of the bikes. Nobody moves to protest, so I assume the bike is his.

Ryan’s bike is a Harley-Davidson—I think they’re all Harleys—but his does look different from the others. While all of the other bikes are chrome with shiny black paint, Ryan’s paint job is a black matte finish. The word FORSAKEN is painted over the matte in a shiny black finish. Without taking his eyes off mine, he reaches for his helmet and hands it to me. Clumsily, I grapple with the thing, surprised by its weight. It looks rather dinky, unlike the one my brother has. Where Michael’s helmet has a window for him to see and covers his entire head, Ryan’s merely covers the top of his head, leaving his face exposed to the elements.

“Careful, you drop that and it’s no good,” he says. Immediately, I tighten my grip on the helmet and hold it to my chest. I don’t really know what he means, but he’s asked me to be careful. I don’t want to ruin his things.

“You’re going to need to put it on your head,” Ruby says. She comes up beside me and takes the helmet from my sweaty palms. Placing it on my head, she brushes errant hairs from my face. She’s so close, her eyes are fixed on mine. Her large brown eyes and heart-shaped face contort painfully in a rush of emotion. She brings her hands to my cheeks as her eyes pool with unshed tears. She gives a small smile and whispers, “You’re beautiful.”

She looks so much like my mother, it’s almost unbearable.

Jim comes up behind Ruby and places a helmet on her head. It looks exactly like Ryan’s. As he snaps hers into place almost blindly, she pulls herself together and snaps mine into place as well. It’s feels a little loose, but I decide not to make it an issue. There’s too much going on in my brain right now to worry about it.

Turning back to Ryan, I see he hasn’t moved. His expression is a cross between indifference and sorrow, I just can’t decide which. I wait a moment until he snaps out of it and moves to sit in riding position. With his hands gripping the handlebars he gives me a quick nod and a mischievous smile. I walk awkwardly to the bike, trying to calm my nerves. Having watched these men ride for the past few days, I’ve been both curious and nervous about the prospect of getting on a bike. Up until now, only in my fantasies have I been able to passenger with Ryan.

Don’t be a baby.

Smiling at him, I place my right hand on his leather-bound right shoulder, using it for support as I awkwardly swing my left leg over the bike. I find myself on wobbly footing, but Ryan’s right hand grips mine as I dig my nails into his leather vest, and his left arm snakes behind him, pulling me closer to him. With his guidance, I land properly on the back of his leather seat.

“Not used to having something this big between your legs?”

“I bet you’d like the answer to that, wouldn’t you?” I say before I can catch myself. Ryan turns just enough so that I can see the lascivious smile that’s spread across his face. His tongue darts out and licks his lips, sending a shiver up my spine. My father would have had a holy fit had he caught me being mouthy in front of his men. Carlo Mancuso likes his women compliant. But the way Ryan’s looking at me, with his eyes practically glazed over, I’m guessing he likes his women mouthy.

“How long till Nevada, Cap?” A deep voice asks from somewhere behind me. I fumble with getting my feet situated on the small foot rests that stick out from the rest of the bike.

Surprising me, Ryan clears his throat and says, “A few hours.” The surrounding bikers mount their Harleys and start up their engines. Ryan follows suit and the bike come to life with a deafening roar. The bike’s intimidating rumble vibrates every inch of my person. I take advantage of my position and wrap my arms around Ryan’s midsection, pulling myself as close to him as possible. He leans back minutely. I let my cheek rest on his shoulder blade.

Slowly, the bikers spread out along the side of the highway, facing the road. Ryan steers the bike through the crowd and, like a shot, we’re the first on the highway. We kick into another gear and speed up, the rush of the wind and the sudden speed jostling. I let my fingers dig into his taut abdomen as we sail down the concrete stretch, surrounded by nothing at all discernible beyond the neatly laid rows of green that stretch for as far as my eyes can see.

A little too late, I realize I’ve left my bag in the van. My Aunt Gloria gave me that bag, and it has the few worldly possessions I now own. Fear claws at my heart. If I lose that bag, that money, then I have nothing.

“Ryan?” I ask, but he doesn’t react. I say it a little louder this time, and still nothing. I give myself a moment before screaming his name as close to his ear as I can. He jumps in place, but somehow keeps the bike steady.

“What?” He asks loudly, though not nearly as loud as I was.

Leaning toward his ear I say, “My bag! I left it in the van.” I think he’s not going to answer me, given how long it takes him. But when he does, there’s a noticeable smile in his voice.

“It’s safe,” he says. I know better than to ask how. Men of power, who have power because they’ve taken it, not because it’s been granted, they aren’t to be questioned. So I let myself trust him, even though I don’t know him yet.

The highway stretches out before us, but nothing changes. No matter how many miles we clock or how long we ride, it all just stays the same.

“How do you like it?” Ryan shouts over the cacophony of engines. I snuggle into him, not knowing if I’ll ever get another opportunity to be this close with him.

“It’s incredible,” I say. A smile breaks out on my face and I laugh. The rush of the wind and the power of the bike overtake me and, for just a moment, everything feels right.