Rod (3 page)

“It can’t hurt, besides, he might just
respect you more if you’d assert yourself.”

“I don’t know.
 
When I asked him about this shit earlier, he
said that I should come back when I can think of something I bring to the
club.”

“You’ve got this.”

He presses his hand on my arm and I can
feel its warmth.
 
He squeezes it
reassuringly.
 
His scent is remarkable
and I just want to wrap myself up in him.

“You have a bike, right?” He asks.

“It’s the pink Harley out front.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw it when I got here.
 
It’s cute and girlie,” he teases.

My sarcasm kicks into high gear and with a
smirk I say, “Well fuck you too.
 
My bike
probably cost more than your house.”

He backs away with his hands up and
eyebrows raised and says, “No offense, sweetheart.”

He laughs when I react with a smile.
 
“It’s not like it’s ‘Barbie’s First Bike’ or
anything.”

Dad enters the pit of the back room and
begins surveying the room.
 
I squirm in
my seat waiting for him to notice my presence.
 
I inch toward Rodney and breathe him in.

“I
gotta
run;
wanna
meet up Friday night for drinks?” I ask.

“Yeah sure,” he says.
 
“Give me your number and we’ll set something
up.”

I grab a white napkin from the bar and
scribble my number down.
 
Sliding it over
to him, I say, “Drinks,” as I tap the napkin.
 
It’s as if I need to reaffirm our plans.
 
He nods with a cool smile.
 
His
teeth are perfectly straight and white.

I arise from the red stool and walk to the
door quietly.
 
I hope my father doesn’t
notice, but he normally gets a fix on me within seconds.
 
He looks daunting and angry, as if something
is bothering him.
 
Instead of sitting at
the head table, he stands in the center of the room.
 
His blue denim jacket is on his back with his
colors flying.
 
He means business.
 
I have no clue what has him so upset, so I quietly
leave the room.
 

“Alright, everyone, shut the fuck up,”
Mickey announces to get everyone’s attention.
 

“Sorry to get everyone out here, but I’ve
got to cancel the meeting for tonight.
 
Let’s do this on Thursday night,” my father tells the room.

The room clamors as everyone mingles and
drinks.
 
He exits the room and breezes
right past me.
 
Out of the door he goes
and fires up Baby.
 
I can hear Jasmine
telling everyone, “Alright, prospects and ‘hang-arounds’, one drink and you’re
out.”

Her voice is forceful, but sweet.
 
They don’t mind getting kicked out by a woman
who is likened to a cross between Kat Von D,
Dita
Von
Teese
, and Elvira.
   

People begin to trickle out of the back
room, the ‘hang-arounds’ and the prospects first.
 
Rodney walks out and I stand there
frozen.
 

“I
dunno
what
that’s about,” he says curiously.
 
He and
I share a close proximity and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me with those
plump lips.
 
He smiles as he eyes me up
and down, reminding me of my first order of business.

“Remember,” he instructs.
 
“Confront him, but be assertive.
 
Any other club would be happy to have you as
a member.
 
Be respectful, but arm
yourself with the words he wants to hear.
 
Let him know that you’ll be a productive member.
 
I don’t see how he could say no.”

I decide in that moment that this ‘any
other club’ thing would be a compelling argument in my favor.
 
I’ll definitely use that to my
advantage.
 
Dad hates the
Deathdealers
; maybe I should threaten to go over there?

He rubs my shoulder as he passes me and
his fingers radiate heat.
 
I’m
nervous.
 
He’s hot and talking to
me.
 
We have a date for drinks Friday and
I’m already fretting about what to wear.
 

“See you Friday night at the Corkscrew,” I
tell him.
 

“Is that where we’re going?” He asks.
 
I nod to say yes.
 
I’m familiar with the place and know everyone
there.
 
It’s my bar of choice.

He waves to indicate that he knows the
place and I watch his jeans move as he leaves the bar.
 
His wallet is in his back pocket and I watch
the outline as he goes.
 
He’s got a cute
ass and I think about squeezing it.
 
A
devilish smile creeps across my face.

I turn to Jasmine as I notice some
stragglers.
 

“I’ll lock it up,” she assures me.
 
She appears crestfallen that she put on her
‘face’ and the meeting was shut down so quickly.

“Thanks,” I tell her as I walk toward my
Harley.
 

“Have fun kiddo.”

It chaps my ass that dad didn’t survey the
place to find it fully clean and ready.
 
I still hold out hope that something will spark him to see things my
way.
 

Peeling out of the dirt road surrounding
the Dragon’s Lair, I guess that my father is probably at home.
 
I head in that direction as I plan out what
I’m going to say to him in my head.

I thunder my way down our street and park
my bike in our garage next to dad’s baby.
 
My mother’s bike occupies the spot next to
dad’s
,
and is more like an updated version of mine, color and all.
 
If mine was ‘Barbie’s First Bike’, then hers
would certainly be ‘Barbie’s Bike
After
Getting
Rich’.
 
It’s pristine and gorgeous and it
suits her well.
 

Hitting the garage door button on the wall
to close it tight, I walk inside and can already hear my parents getting into
it, though their voices are a tad muffled.
 

“Ronnie,” my father yells.
 
“You know I
gotta
go and help Mickey out, he’s in jail.”

“Fucking cops,” my mother yells back.
 
“And just once I would love it if you’d put
this family over the needs of that club.
 
Just once.”

Her voice has a warning in it, but he
brushes her off.
 
He knows she’s not
going anywhere.

“Veronica, dear,” I hear him say as I get
closer.
 
“I love you and this family
means the world to me, but my Vice President is in the fucking jail and I have
to spring him.”

“Fine,” she caves, lowering the intensity
in her voice.

He moves past me and heads to his
bike.
 
He doesn’t acknowledge me at
all.
 
I hear the garage door
opening.
 
He revs up his bike and without
much hesitation, he peels out with urgency.
   

I look at my mother standing there in her
black blouse and matching skirt.
 
She
kicks off her stilettos and discards them by the ottoman.
 
She sees right through me and any question I
have on my mind about what Mickey’s in jail for is erased.
 
She pours herself a glass of red wine and
nearly leaves the bottle on the table.
 
After taking a second thought, she grabs it and sits down on our brown
leather couch.

She turns the television on and tunes out
everything with a glass of wine in her hand.
 
She clearly has had a bad day and doesn’t need me adding to it.
 

I walk up to my room, grab a notebook and
begin listing out all of my qualities.
 
I
need to have some ammo for when he gets back from springing Mickey.
 

Writing down what assets I bring to the
club began feeling like a chore after fifteen minutes of sitting there with a
blank page.
 
I could hear Rodney’s voice
in my head telling me to assert myself to gain my father’s respect.
 

I begin writing.
 
I can bail members out of jail.
 
I can type fast.
 
Being a former bill collector at a bank means
that I can help with the finances should the treasurer be absent for any
reason.
 
I can also collect money from
past due members.
 
I can do
fundraising.
 
I can search county
records, investigate people and I can run anywhere the club needs me to.
 
Hell, that’s more than a lot of the full
patch members already do.

I fire myself up for the
confrontation.
 
I need to be strong and
resilient.
 
My dad is a tough nut to
crack, but crack he will.

Two hours pass and dad walks in the door,
buzzed from sharing a beer with his old Irish friend.
 
I hear him padding down to his office and I
gather that there’s no time like the present.
 

Walking into his office felt foreign to me
for some reason.
 
I could pay no
attention to feelings on the matter or him trying to rile me up.
 
This is a serious meeting.
 
With notebook in hand, I poke my head in his
office to see him smiling.
 
Perfect.

I say, “Got a minute?”

“Yeah, come on in,” he spouts off.

I take a seat with my notebook in
hand.
 
I’m nervous and I bite my
lip.
 
He is preoccupied with something
and tells me, “Alright, make it quick.”

“You said to come back when I’ve got some
kind of idea what I can bring to the club,” I say apprehensively.

“Yeah and you feel that you’ve found the
answer in the span of five hours?” he teases sarcastically.

“I made a list,” I say in response.

He extends his giant hand to take the
notebook from me and he makes a dot next to each of the things I’ve listed on
the paper.
 

“Collections, investigations, fundraising,
and running your sister to her mother’s?”

“It’s more than what a lot of the other
members are doing,” I tell him confidently.
 

“But favoritism,” he mutters.
 
I stop him dead in his tracks.

“Don’t hand me that favoritism bullshit,
dad.
 
I’ve earned the right to be at
least considered a prospect.
 
You’ve let
less qualified people in.
 
Take
Alexandra, for instance.
 
She’s basically
in the club because she’s sleeping with Max.”

“You know that’s not true,” he tells me.

“Actually, I don’t,” I say candidly.
 
“I took a look at an application that she
used to get her old bartending job at the Corkscrew when I worked there.
 
Prior to this, she worked at a gas station.
 
Before that, she was a stripper.
 
Do I need to go on?”

“You’re missing the point,” he decides.

“I am?
 
Alright, then let me make a point,” I demand.

“Oh yeah, smartass, what point is that?”
he asks with a smarmy attitude.

“I guarantee that the
Deathdealers
would be happy to have me if the Dragons won’t.
 
In fact, any other club in the county would.
 
It’s not a threat, I’m just stating
facts.
 
I don’t want to join them, but
someone will find me qualified to help.
 
I’m not going to let up until you accept me, dad.”

“Don’t ever say the
Deathdealers
’
name in this house ever fucking again,” he says.
 
“But you do make good points.
 
Listen, I’m going to make you a prospect, and
before you jump for joy, you should know what that involves.
 
First, I’m going to treat you like everyone
else.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything different,” I
say with a low voice trying not to interrupt him.

“Secondly, I’m not happy with this at
all.
 
I wish you were like other girls
your age.
 
They’re busy in the suburbs
draining their parents’ bank accounts for college money.”

“I think that ship has sailed,” I joke.
 
He’s not having it.
 
I sneer.