Rod (2 page)

I park my pink Harley Davidson motorcycle
outside of the club next to my father’s pride and joy: his black and white
vintage 1968 Harley Davidson FLH.
  
He
calls her “Baby.” She’s a beautiful piece of machinery that sometimes I think
dad treats better than he does me.
 
Not
Sasha, though, she’s his little pride and joy.
 
I pass Baby by and prepare myself for another rejection.
 

I glance upward at the sign hanging down
from the building’s entrance.
 
It’s an
intricate design of a wood-burned dragon hanging from black wrought-iron
hooks.
 
The sign reads: “The Lair” and it
gives off a confusing vibe to outsiders.
 

Nearby is our family’s store, Fitzgerald
Market.
 
It’s a more rundown looking
building that my mother manages on a daily basis.
 
Club members get a discount for getting their
goods there, but I gather that they do it moreover because it’s closer than the
grocery store.

The club is nondescript for the most part,
and could be mistaken for someone’s house. Swinging the club’s door open, I
stand there taking inventory of the club.
 
It’s dark at six o’clock in the evening and I realize that my father
isn’t holding a meeting today – or is he?
 
Dad’s been busy doing everything in his power to keep me out of the loop
with regard to the Dragons.
 

I walk inside and flick the lights on one
by one.
 
The vintage wooden bar shines in
the light and the place instantly feels like home.
 
At the age of 21-years-old, I tended bar
here, but at the first sign of trouble, dad let me go.
 
He always says that he can’t risk my safety,
but I know I can take care of myself, despite what he says.

The place reeks of cigarettes, booze, and
a mixture of perfume and various colognes.
 
In its previous splendor, I assure myself that the place was probably a
fine restaurant and bar, but now the windows are covered by dirty white shades
and the establishment is exclusive to club members.

Dad’s office light shines brightly through
his door; he’s here.
 
It’s just us.
 
Maybe this time I can convince him that I
have something to offer the club.
 
Hopefully he won’t just dismiss me as he’s done in the past.
 

Clutching my cell phone, I begin calling
my mother to ask if there is a meeting tonight.
 
Before I can tap the last number, the roar of another bike emanates from
the parking lot.
 
Yes.
 
There is a meeting tonight.
 
I shove my phone back in my pocket.

I scramble to get beer glasses, refill the
ice basins and stock the napkins for the night’s gathering.
 
I take a white cloth rag, sop up some soapy
water, and run it up and down the square bar’s surface.
 

I hope that my father is in a good mood
because he likens the cleanliness of the bar to Godliness.
 
He also likes a certain order about
things.
 
He usually allows me entrance
into the back room with the “Private” sign because he and I share the same
penchant for cleanliness.

Before he gets down to matters of business,
he always tells me to see my way out of the door.
 
His office door is partially ajar, so I slide
my hands in the crack and open it slowly so I don’t scare him.

“This better be important,” he growls,
before pausing.
 
“Oh, it’s you.
 
What is it this time?”

“Dad, I’d really like to sit down and talk
about becoming a member of the club.
 
I’m
old enough and I have a bike.”

I look around the office and see that it’s
littered with paperwork, files, and a half-eaten cheeseburger.
 
Grandpa’s memorial flag adorns the wall along
with a plaque, but I can’t read the inscription.
 
Dad’s cheeks are already reddened as if he
has been barking orders at people all day.
 
I get nervous.

He grumbles as if to say, ‘We have been
down this road before.’

My father has bags under his eyes and a
line of his salt and pepper hair has been retreating from his head.
 
His eyes are dark brown, beady and
focused.
 
Wearing blue faded jeans and a
white t-shirt, my father doesn’t look like a force to be reckoned with, but
it’s something that usually comes to his benefit.
 
When he smiles, it’s completely genuine, but
when he’s angry, people frequently clear a path.
 
I consider clearing a path right out of the
bar, but think better of it.
 
I need to
see this through.

“Trish, now you know it takes more than
wanting to become a full patch member and having a bike,” he rants as he
punctuates his statement with a sigh.
 
He
clears his throat.
 
I can tell it’s going
to be another no.
 

“I know that, daddy, but it’s time.
 
I can do this,” I try epically to convince my
father.
 
He nods his head in
disagreement.

“What do you bring to this club?” He
asks.
 
I look around as if I’m lost in
that question.
 
Before I can summon an
answer, he reminds me, “The Dragons need more than a beer bitch, Trish.
 
Any one of the prospects can do that.
 
What do you bring to the club?”

His voice grows louder with his last
question and I realize that I don’t really care for being put on the spot.
 

“Loyalty,” I stutter, before
continuing.
 
“I can do whatever the club
needs me to.
 
I take Sasha back and forth
to her mother’s place for you and I don’t say shit when you ask me to wash your
bike.”

“And for the time being, that’s nothing of
real importance,” he tells me.

Feeling crushed, I beg, “You can just let
me in; it’s your club.”

He obviously feels insulted at the
suggestion.
 

“Favoritism has no place in this club.”

I feel a sense of defeat and he knows
it.
 
He groans as if he has reached an
internal compromise.
 
I fidget around in
my seat, eager to hear his words.
 
I
fixate my eyes on him as he takes in a deep breath.

“I’ll tell you what.
 
Come back to me when you can think of
something of importance that you can contribute to this club and I’ll seriously
consider you as a prospect.”

I light up immediately.
 
“I can do the books, you know, the
treasurer’s job.”

He nods once again.
 
“That job is already taken by Money Max, you
know that.”

“Shit, dad, I
dunno
,”
I crumble.
 
“Filing?” I propose after
taking visual inventory of the mess that surrounds him.

“Filing?
 
No.
 
This is an organized mess,
believe it or not,” he mutters.
 
I think
his mood is shifting in my favor, but his body language tells a different
story.
 

“I guess I don’t really know the answer to
that question right now,” I say, feeling down and out.

“Come back when you do,” he stands in all
of his gruff glory and I take that as my cue to leave. “Shut my office door
behind yourself.”

I walk outside, pulling his office door
shut.
 
The back room has become alive
with the chaos of new prospects and officers.
 
I pass by the only woman officer, Jasmine Bridges, on my way into the
room.
 
I really need a drink.

“I’m only here to make sure there’s enough
beer,” I tell her, trying to disarm her.
 
Her bright red lips outline a smile and she dismisses me as I clamor
toward the drink area.
 
I use drinks as
an excuse to get close to the club without my father pitching a bitch fit.
 

 
She
stands there surveying the room with her long, black hair, pinup looks and
million tattoos.
 
Like a vixen straight
out of a 1950’s magazine, the men eye her up and down.
 
She’s quick to point out that, “Sucking up
won’t help,” but they persevere.
 

She turns to me and says, “Mingle for a
few minutes; if your father comes in, I’ll keep him busy.”

“He is not in a good mood,” I say.
 
I don’t pause and instead opt to enjoy the
freedom.

I grab a cold beer from the bar and sit
down on one of the red dilapidated stools.
 

I overhear the sounds of some of the newer
members trying to guess my identity.
 

“Is that Trish, the big man’s daughter?”
One asks.

“Yeah, but don’t fuck with her or the big
man will kill
ya
,” another replies.

Another voice from behind me whispers, “I
hear he lets her in to set up and then kicks her out.”

I take a swig of my beer.
 

A man sidles up to me on the open stool
and says, “Hey.”

His voice is different from the others who
huddle up to talk shit.
 
He doesn’t sound
familiar at all.

“Hey,” I say back without looking directly
at him.
 
He smells great.
 
His scent is sort of a mix of musk,
sandalwood and soap.
 
I engross myself in
the red label of my beer, trying to tune out my rejection.

“What’s your story?
 
Are you a prospect, too?” He asks.

I crack open the beer and take a
swig.
 
Staring at it sweating before me,
I tell him, “No, my father won’t let me in.”

He presses his warm hand on my arm and
pats it gently.
 
I look up to find a
gorgeous man occupying the stool next to me.
 
I freeze.
 
He comforts me with a
sweet smile.
 
His lips are juicy and pink
with his eyes of steel blue staring in my direction, burning a hole through
me.
 

His hair is dark brown and closely
shaven.
 
I watch his lips move; I realize
that I don’t care what he’s saying.
 
He’s
magnificent in every way possible.
 
He
has a certain warmth about him and I sense that his charm is one of his many
outstanding qualities.
 
A tattoo of the
grim reaper graces his bicep and is covered by a portion of his white
t-shirt.
 
His jacket is on the stool
underneath him, but I can still smell the leather.
 
Everything about him says that he’s all man.

I snap back to reality.
 
He reaches his muscular, tattooed arm over to
extend a firm handshake.
 
I grip his hand
in mine tightly to show that I’m not some wimpy bitch and he smiles.

“Rodney,” he tells me.
 
“And you are?”

“Trish.
 
Trish Fitzgerald.”

“So, the big guy is your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“He won’t let you in?”

“You overheard those assholes talking?”

“Yeah.”

He looks to me for a response to his first
question, but after he stares at his beer, I gather that he already knows the
answer.
 

Nervously, I say, “He says that the club
is no place for a lady.”

I mock my dad’s voice in his same
authoritative manner and Rodney is clearly amused.
 

“How does that explain Elvira over there?”
He asks, gesturing toward Jasmine.
 

“I don’t understand my dad’s reasoning for
anything, really.
 
Oh and that’s Jasmine,
she’s been with the club forever.”

“I mean, I get that he can’t just make you
a member, but he could let you go through initiation like the rest of us.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I say with a smile
on my face.
 
Rodney’s cute and he’s got
this confident aura about him.
 

Knowing that someone is on my side is a
good feeling.
 
Jasmine is always a
positive force, but she’s just one vote.

“You know what you should do?” Rodney
asks.

His baby blues light up.
 

“What’s that?”

“You should just confront your
father.
 
I mean, make a list of things
that you’ve got going for you and he’ll just have to see it for what it is.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”