resented my clients. They were all cool people. Lately, I’d started to want something else, something real. Especially now. Now that I was trapped.
I took out my sketchpad and made a detailed drawing of a pile of driftwood tangled together like a knotted fortress of wood. It was good practice to examine the minute details of the interwoven patterns.
When I finished, I was satisfied with my work. The wind picked up. I let the salty breeze blow through my hair and over my pricked skin before I hopped off the driftwood trunk and made my way back up the trail.
In the gravel-lined parking lot, I slipped on my leather jacket and helmet. Straddling my custom Harley, I revved the engine, flipped the kickstand, and took off down the winding narrow road. There was nothing like the freedom I felt on the back of a motorcycle.
Before I even made it onto the main park road, my cell phone buzzed in my hip pocket. What now? I had to answer it. The road was way too unpredictable to ride one-handed, so I pulled off the road.
The number on the screen made my stomach clench. I pressed the talk button and put the phone to my ear.
“Yeah?”
“Get your ass back to the clubhouse, Cruz. We have six guys that want new tats before the run this weekend.”
“I’m on my way, Bill.”
“You better not be thinking of slinking off, fucker. We can leak this info to the feds as fast as you can ride your wussy ass to Mexico,” said the VP of the Black Blades Motorcycle Club.
“I’m on my way, you sick piece of shit. Just keep your panties on.”
“Better not disrespect me, kid.”
“I thought sick piece of shit was a compliment.”
“It ain’t me that wants you around. If it were my decision, you’d already be in a shallow hole somewhere with fat yellow slugs feeding on your face. We don’t need disloyal fucks in our club.”
“I’m not in the club. Remember?”
“Technicalities. Just get the hell back here and do your job.”
The phone went dead and I cringed. Another damn day in that cesspit of a clubhouse giving free tattoos to ungrateful drunk bastards.
I was paying for the mistakes of my past — a past I thought was dead and buried until a month ago. I throttled my Harley and peeled out onto the road.
As I drove, my bike curved with the road, and my mind turned to the girl. What I wouldn’t give for a simple life with a woman like that.
At twenty-five, I felt ready for a change. My early life had been full of enough drama to last a lifetime. I was tired of bars and slutty girls with too much eye makeup. I was tired of cocksuckers like Bill and the violence that followed them. Unfortunately, my less than scrupulous past had caught up with me, and it wouldn’t let me go.
After the long drive from the trail, I turned off of the park road and onto Highway 101. The Black Blades clubhouse was twenty miles south of Leggetville, right off the highway and across from a seedy bar called The Clutch.
I pulled into the clubhouse parking lot alongside a few bearded older dudes drinking cans of Budweiser. The sun faded behind the treetops, and I could smell the scent of exhaust and barbeque.
Friday nights were a special kind of stupid around here. They brought in a bunch of hoes from across the street, fucked them all over the place, and drank until they puked. Someone always ended up in a fight, and they all wanted free tattoos.
I couldn’t keep my equipment clean enough for how fast they expected me to work. They bled all over the damn place because they were so drunk or high it made their blood thin.
That was my life now, giving bloody tattoos to fuckers who threatened to turn me into the feds. I often wondered if I’d be better off in prison, until I met that ray of sunshine — Claire Parker. I wondered if I’d see her again. It was a small community. It was inevitable I’d run into her.
I stepped into the dark stink of the clubhouse. Someone had cleaned the main room so it didn’t smell quite as strongly of vomit
I took out my sketchpad and made a detailed drawing of a pile of driftwood tangled together like a knotted fortress of wood. It was good practice to examine the minute details of the interwoven patterns.
When I finished, I was satisfied with my work. The wind picked up. I let the salty breeze blow through my hair and over my pricked skin before I hopped off the driftwood trunk and made my way back up the trail.
In the gravel-lined parking lot, I slipped on my leather jacket and helmet. Straddling my custom Harley, I revved the engine, flipped the kickstand, and took off down the winding narrow road. There was nothing like the freedom I felt on the back of a motorcycle.
Before I even made it onto the main park road, my cell phone buzzed in my hip pocket. What now? I had to answer it. The road was way too unpredictable to ride one-handed, so I pulled off the road.
The number on the screen made my stomach clench. I pressed the talk button and put the phone to my ear.
“Yeah?”
“Get your ass back to the clubhouse, Cruz. We have six guys that want new tats before the run this weekend.”
“I’m on my way, Bill.”
“You better not be thinking of slinking off, fucker. We can leak this info to the feds as fast as you can ride your wussy ass to Mexico,” said the VP of the Black Blades Motorcycle Club.
“I’m on my way, you sick piece of shit. Just keep your panties on.”
“Better not disrespect me, kid.”
“I thought sick piece of shit was a compliment.”
“It ain’t me that wants you around. If it were my decision, you’d already be in a shallow hole somewhere with fat yellow slugs feeding on your face. We don’t need disloyal fucks in our club.”
“I’m not in the club. Remember?”
“Technicalities. Just get the hell back here and do your job.”
The phone went dead and I cringed. Another damn day in that cesspit of a clubhouse giving free tattoos to ungrateful drunk bastards.
I was paying for the mistakes of my past — a past I thought was dead and buried until a month ago. I throttled my Harley and peeled out onto the road.
As I drove, my bike curved with the road, and my mind turned to the girl. What I wouldn’t give for a simple life with a woman like that.
At twenty-five, I felt ready for a change. My early life had been full of enough drama to last a lifetime. I was tired of bars and slutty girls with too much eye makeup. I was tired of cocksuckers like Bill and the violence that followed them. Unfortunately, my less than scrupulous past had caught up with me, and it wouldn’t let me go.
After the long drive from the trail, I turned off of the park road and onto Highway 101. The Black Blades clubhouse was twenty miles south of Leggetville, right off the highway and across from a seedy bar called The Clutch.
I pulled into the clubhouse parking lot alongside a few bearded older dudes drinking cans of Budweiser. The sun faded behind the treetops, and I could smell the scent of exhaust and barbeque.
Friday nights were a special kind of stupid around here. They brought in a bunch of hoes from across the street, fucked them all over the place, and drank until they puked. Someone always ended up in a fight, and they all wanted free tattoos.
I couldn’t keep my equipment clean enough for how fast they expected me to work. They bled all over the damn place because they were so drunk or high it made their blood thin.
That was my life now, giving bloody tattoos to fuckers who threatened to turn me into the feds. I often wondered if I’d be better off in prison, until I met that ray of sunshine — Claire Parker. I wondered if I’d see her again. It was a small community. It was inevitable I’d run into her.
I stepped into the dark stink of the clubhouse. Someone had cleaned the main room so it didn’t smell quite as strongly of vomit
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