HARDCORE: Storm MC(148)

You did? I didn’t want to ask, but that was the question that came to mind. When she was dressed, she followed me downstairs and out the front door.



“Thanks for last night,” I said as we climbed onto the bike.



“You’re welcome,” she mumbled.



I wanted to ask what her name was, but there was no way I could get away with it. I decided to ask where she lived, and rode there with her on the back of the bike. It was a relief when she was gone, up the front steps of her apartment building.



I felt better on the ride to the clubhouse. The raw March air cleared my head. I had a lot more energy, and life looked a lot better in general.



I had to stop complicating my life. Getting smashed and bringing a woman home wasn’t the way to do that. All I needed was to screw up and get one of them pregnant because I was too drunk to be careful. I shuddered to think.



When I got to the clubhouse, I wasn’t the first person there. My second, Flash, was passed out on the sofa in the lounge. He didn’t flinch when I opened and closed the door. I did it again, just to see what he’d do, and he stayed still. The second time that morning I had a passed-out person to deal with.



This was more fun, though. I thought about drawing shit on his face with permanent marker, but he’d probably shoot me if I did. I thought about taking pictures of him and sending them around to the rest of the club. Maybe I’d make a sign for his chest or something.



Instead of that, I went to the kitchen and found two pans. Then I crept up to him and banged them together as loud as I could, right over his head. I couldn’t make out the words he screamed when he jumped up, but it was enough to see how freaked out he was.



It took a while for me to stop laughing.



“Fuck off,” he grumbled, rubbing his hands over his face. “Trying to give me a heart attack or something?”



“Something like that.” I sat on the sofa, feet up. Flash went to the bar to pour himself a drink. He was feeling it, too. He looked like shit.



“What’d you do last night?” I asked. “Molly kick you out or something?”



He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “She’s fucking crazy. Bitching to me about this and that. I don’t need that shit, so I came here.”



“She didn’t kick you out, then? You came here on your own?” He shot me a warning look over his glass, and I knew I was right. Molly was too smart to let him stay around when he was being an ass. She kicked him out, told him to find someplace else to sleep for the night. It wouldn’t be the first time.



“What about you?” he asked, leaning on the bar. “Where were you last night? I thought I was gonna see you.”



“Nah,” I said, waving him off. “I did go out, but I went home early. Did my drinking at home.”



“Alone?”



“No.”



“She stay the night?”



“Yeah. She’s home now. Just dropped her off.”



“You know who she is?”



I shook my head, shrugging.



“One of the club groupies.” We both made a snorting sound. The women who hung around our club, hoping to get in by hooking up with one of the members, always made us laugh a little. They would hook up with anybody just to be part of the action. It was good to feel so important.



Just then, there was the sound of a honking horn and car tires squealing outside the door. We froze for a second, then rushed to the door. I drew my gun, edging along the wall. Who the hell knew what got dropped at the front door?



“Cover me,” I muttered. Flash pulled his piece, too, then nodded to tell me he was ready. I was just at the doorframe, and turned quickly, gun pointed out the door.



Into the face of a little girl on the other side of the glass.



She shrieked, covering her face. “Shit!” I whispered, fumbling to put the gun out of sight. “It’s a little kid!”



“A kid?” Flash slid his piece into his waistband. “What the fuck?”



“Why are you asking me?” I turned back to her. She looked at me through open fingers.



“See? No more gun. I’m sorry I scared you.” I looked around. Nobody out there with her. I decided to take the chance and open the door, remembering stories of the way soldiers in Vietnam would rig kids and pregnant women with explosives. They knew American soldiers would take pity on them, go near them, try to help them. Then the explosives would go off.



She wasn’t explosive. She was shaking with fear, though. I sank into a crouch until we were knee level. She only wore a t-shirt and jeans, and even I felt sorry for her. It was too chilly out for a little kid to be half dressed.