of
the day. Horny customers make for spendthrifts, and spendthrifts
are good for business. The decor leaves a lot to be desired with
its mismatched furniture and torn fabrics, but it is comfortable
and usually a decent mix between quiet and noisy. The likelihood
you’ll have to shout to hear one another is low, but it’s not so
dead that you feel alone. It’s perfect, and the owner is a friend
of the club. He knows me and will keep an eye on me.
In the corner, shrouded in
the darkness left by a burnt out bulb overhead, is Darren. He has a
fresh beer, poured from the tap, still foamy on top, that he’s
sipping from. In profile, he reminds me so much of who he used to
be toward the end—grouchy, sullen, and mean.
Taking a deep breath, I give myself a
moment to pause before closing the distance between us.
“ Hey,” I say, sliding onto
the stool beside him while keeping as much distance as I can.
Setting down his beer, he turns to face me. All smiles and
arrogance, Darren looks me up and down. With every mannerism and
word he speaks, it seems like he’s stuck in a time warp. A few
years older, likely a whole lot smarter after college, but still,
just the exact same person he was back then—and here I was hoping
he’d have changed.
“ Something’s different
about you,” he says, looking at my covered arms. I squirm a little
under his gaze. Something about Darren Jennings has always been
more than a little unnerving, and, yet, I have such a hard time
having a backbone around him. Continuing to look me over, he
reaches over and lifts the bottom of my sleeve. “It’s been a while
since I’ve seen you with this much clothing.”
The comment, as sly as it
may be, hits me right in the gut. I just wanted to spend a few
hours being someone other than a Lost Girl or a big sister, or even
a crappy employee, and this is how he greets me. Signaling the
bartender, I point at Darren’s beer and hold up my index finger in
the air, asking for one for myself.
“ So, about my dad?” I ask,
trying to avoid talking about myself. As the bartender brings the
beer over and I place a five dollar bill on the counter, Darren
delves into his plans now that he’s graduated, which is not what I
came here for. He wants to attend law school, but he doesn’t know
where yet. He plans on taking a year off between now and then so he
can choose a school, and this way he has the opportunity to spend a
year volunteering abroad. I nod my head, unsurprised by his plans,
and try to keep smiling.
Every now and then I
interject a “That’s great” or “Very cool” so he thinks I care. It
takes a while, but he eventually gets into my dad’s case.
Unfortunately, his arrest was all over the news and The Gazette
because he’s Forsaken. Darren asks me uncomfortable questions about
my dad—most of which I can’t answer. The few questions I can
answer, I think of how to word the answers, often times taking a
long sip of my beer in an attempt to delay while I think. I can’t
tell him most of what he asks about. Instead, I opt for half-truths
that don’t get the club in any trouble. The thing I try to focus on
is his parole hearing that just happened. We’re awaiting word on
whether or not it was denied. Not that I expect it to be
approved.
“ More shit with Forsaken?”
he says, a snide look on his features. I tense at the word and then
slyly look around. Locals have incredibly strong opinions about the
Forsaken Motorcycle Club. They either love them for everything the
club’s done, which even I can admit is a lot, or they hate the club
because they know behind all of the community activism is a very
real, very violent, and very illegal enterprise. But they all fear
the club, or at least they should all fear the club. Jim, the
president of the Fort Bragg charter, has a very creative way of
silencing its outspoken opponents.
“ Something like that,” I
say coolly, but he isn’t really having it. Darren doesn’t let
things go. He’s
the day. Horny customers make for spendthrifts, and spendthrifts
are good for business. The decor leaves a lot to be desired with
its mismatched furniture and torn fabrics, but it is comfortable
and usually a decent mix between quiet and noisy. The likelihood
you’ll have to shout to hear one another is low, but it’s not so
dead that you feel alone. It’s perfect, and the owner is a friend
of the club. He knows me and will keep an eye on me.
In the corner, shrouded in
the darkness left by a burnt out bulb overhead, is Darren. He has a
fresh beer, poured from the tap, still foamy on top, that he’s
sipping from. In profile, he reminds me so much of who he used to
be toward the end—grouchy, sullen, and mean.
Taking a deep breath, I give myself a
moment to pause before closing the distance between us.
“ Hey,” I say, sliding onto
the stool beside him while keeping as much distance as I can.
Setting down his beer, he turns to face me. All smiles and
arrogance, Darren looks me up and down. With every mannerism and
word he speaks, it seems like he’s stuck in a time warp. A few
years older, likely a whole lot smarter after college, but still,
just the exact same person he was back then—and here I was hoping
he’d have changed.
“ Something’s different
about you,” he says, looking at my covered arms. I squirm a little
under his gaze. Something about Darren Jennings has always been
more than a little unnerving, and, yet, I have such a hard time
having a backbone around him. Continuing to look me over, he
reaches over and lifts the bottom of my sleeve. “It’s been a while
since I’ve seen you with this much clothing.”
The comment, as sly as it
may be, hits me right in the gut. I just wanted to spend a few
hours being someone other than a Lost Girl or a big sister, or even
a crappy employee, and this is how he greets me. Signaling the
bartender, I point at Darren’s beer and hold up my index finger in
the air, asking for one for myself.
“ So, about my dad?” I ask,
trying to avoid talking about myself. As the bartender brings the
beer over and I place a five dollar bill on the counter, Darren
delves into his plans now that he’s graduated, which is not what I
came here for. He wants to attend law school, but he doesn’t know
where yet. He plans on taking a year off between now and then so he
can choose a school, and this way he has the opportunity to spend a
year volunteering abroad. I nod my head, unsurprised by his plans,
and try to keep smiling.
Every now and then I
interject a “That’s great” or “Very cool” so he thinks I care. It
takes a while, but he eventually gets into my dad’s case.
Unfortunately, his arrest was all over the news and The Gazette
because he’s Forsaken. Darren asks me uncomfortable questions about
my dad—most of which I can’t answer. The few questions I can
answer, I think of how to word the answers, often times taking a
long sip of my beer in an attempt to delay while I think. I can’t
tell him most of what he asks about. Instead, I opt for half-truths
that don’t get the club in any trouble. The thing I try to focus on
is his parole hearing that just happened. We’re awaiting word on
whether or not it was denied. Not that I expect it to be
approved.
“ More shit with Forsaken?”
he says, a snide look on his features. I tense at the word and then
slyly look around. Locals have incredibly strong opinions about the
Forsaken Motorcycle Club. They either love them for everything the
club’s done, which even I can admit is a lot, or they hate the club
because they know behind all of the community activism is a very
real, very violent, and very illegal enterprise. But they all fear
the club, or at least they should all fear the club. Jim, the
president of the Fort Bragg charter, has a very creative way of
silencing its outspoken opponents.
“ Something like that,” I
say coolly, but he isn’t really having it. Darren doesn’t let
things go. He’s
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