Needing Me, Wanting You(7)
Shivers travel up my arms as I run my fingers over the delicate rose tattoo on my bicep. Watching people like this is akin to living a hundred lives, a thousand. I get to delve into a whole host of scenarios I'd never otherwise get the chance to participate in. I've gotten so good at it that my imagination is enough to give me an adrenaline rush.
“Did you enjoy dinner?” Darren asks, lighting up a cigarette and pretending that neither of us is bothered by the lack of privacy in our conversation. My brother doesn't go anywhere without an entourage now. The quiet nights we used to share, when I was six and he was twenty-one, sitting on his knee and reading stories about faraway places … those are gone forever. I look up at him with a smile on my face, shifting slightly, my leather pants squeaking against the rough wood of the rocking chair. It might sit at the clubhouse now, but this used to belong to my mother. It's one of the few things of hers I brought over here. And I don't even like the reason I did. I'm sorry, Lizzie. You pushed me to the edge, and I did petty things. If I could take them back, I would. But you, you'd never say you were sorry, would you?
“It was wonderful, thank you,” I tell him, looking up and watching the bright yellow of the porch light highlight his cheeks, the cleft in his jaw. Darren's green eyes shimmer as he takes in the scenery around the clubhouse, appreciating it but still watching. Always watching. Sometimes I think my brother is too paranoid. Nine times out of ten, whatever situation he encounters is solved without violence. Then again, maybe he's earned that blessing by being so cautious. I look away and focus my attention on a man in a suit and sneakers. Strange combo. I smile. Wonder what his story is? “The new guy, the one with a lady's name. He's real good. Best chicken and dumplings I've ever had.”
“Marcy?” my brother asks as I take a drag on my cigarette. But he doesn't smile back. I've known him long enough that I can tell that something's wrong. I don't bother to ask though. He won't talk about it with me. That's club business there. I can hazard a guess though. Triple M. If they're anywhere near here, my brother will want to pay them a visit. We can't be perceived as weak, and allowing a group to travel through our turf, to rob us, to disrespect us, that would be a big mistake on Darren's part. He knows it; we all know it. “Weird name, good guy, excellent fucking cook.”
I twist fully around in my seat, letting the magazine fall to my lap and wrapping my arms around my legs. Moths flutter gently in the air around us, green and white blurs that sparkle at the edges of my vision like stars.
“But you didn't come out here just to talk chicken and dumplings, did you, Tax?” I ask, using his nickname for the benefit of the guys. I'd much rather be calling him Dare-Bear, throwing myself into his arms and letting him hold me tight. I'm not a little girl anymore though, and that scares me. Really, really scares me. Little girls get decisions made for them; women have to make their own choices. What if I'm not ready to make my own choices though? “What's up?”
I swallow hard and keep a neutral expression on my face as Tax moves forward and sits down on the patio step, nursing his beer and staring blankly outwards. My heart is fluttering in my chest, mimicking the flapping of the moths' wings. This, this could be the conversation I've been dreading for awhile now. You're nothing but an ornament, an accessory, a hanger-on. You're like a puppy purchased at Christmas, novel at first but useless when you become a bitch. I blink Lizzie's words away and let my eyes trace the patches on the back of Tax's jacket.
“I'm sure you've heard the rumors, right?” Tax asks, leaning his elbows on his knees. His shaggy hair looks like rubies in the waning light of the evening. I've got the same hair – everyone in my family does. Lizzie, Darren, my mom, my dad, me. It's wavy, but it behaves well. I waver between loving it and hating it. Half the time I feel like the dark red against my pale skin is beautiful, a perfect contrast. The other half of the time, I feel like it looks like blood. Old blood. Spilled and spoilt. I shake my head and brush the stray strands of hair back.
“Triple M?” I ask because it's pointless to pretend I don't know what Darren's talking about. After the tidbits I gathered in the dining room today, I can see where this is going. My heart doesn't stop beating. Yes, I'm relieved that my brother isn't here to demand that I get my shit together, but whenever I hear that name, I get light-headed and tight in the chest. Triple M. The crazy bikers who don't follow the rules, who don't even try to play it straight. I find myself running my tongue over my lips. I'm part of an MC, one that knows how to hold itself together, to stand strong, to fight hard. Why am I sitting here fantasizing over some outlaw group with no sense? I put the butt of my hand against my forehead, leaning forward and trying my best to catch my breath.