Patience: Biker Romance (The Davis Chapter Book 1) (4 page)

Nodding, “Just for the moment, I think. I’m going to head home and shower. Maybe if I clean up the car, I’ll come across something. Either way, though, I’ll be back here tonight. Somebody must know the real me, right?” I try to keep my voice light. Thunder was a little too close for comfort.

After a few tense seconds, he nodded and stepped away from my car door. “Guess I’ll see you tonight, then.” He turned from me without waiting for a response. Lucky me, I didn’t have one for him. I slid back into the driver’s seat and pulled the heavy door closed. It didn’t feel as much like a prison cell, anymore.

The key slid right into the ignition, and despite the visible condition of the car, it fired right up. I jumped in the seat when Thunder’s motorcycle roared to life. For the entire morning, Thunder had set me at ease more and more. Parts of the old Patience were coming through, but in that one second looking into the glove box, everything changed. I should have known from the beginning that no one could be trusted. I couldn’t even trust myself, why should I trust some muscular biker?

Keeping my eyes forward, I told myself to head back to the apartment and figure out a better plan. Despite that, when Thunder revved his engine, I looked over to him. He gave me the international sign for roll the window down, and I did.

“One more thing,” he pulled his shades down, making him look almost sinister. “I ain’t
that
good of a man, Patience.”
 

 
The entire drive back to the apartment, my eyes were in the rearview mirror. I was half expecting to see Thunder come out of nowhere at any second. A cold sweat broke out, and the drowning feeling of loneliness took me over. I sat in the parking lot at the apartment complex for a few minutes without moving. Every bit of my focus was on listening for a howling motorcycle engine growing closer. Once I was satisfied that I hadn’t been followed, I went through every inch of the interior, minus the glove box.

 
Trash and papers littered the back seats, but nothing with any real information. While I was still sitting in back, I reached under the passenger seat. I pulled out a tube of lipstick, an empty book of matches, and a dirty water bottle. Still, nothing helpful.

I found myself talking out loud to calm myself down, “Maybe I should go to the police. Who knows, my prints could be on record or something.”

For whatever reason, my heart ground to a halt. Adrenaline began to surge through my body out of nowhere. The only clues I had to my identity where these instinctual reactions coming from somewhere deep within my mind. Why would my heart race when I thought about the police? Another mystery that only shoveled more weight onto me.

I had stopped trying to search for answers in my own head.There was only one way I would find out who I was: someone else. Somebody else knew who I was. Somebody
had
to know who I was. I hated the fact that certain things were triggering me. The real me was in there somewhere. Somewhere deep in my mind, I was looking out for Patience; whoever she was.

The trunk was all I had left. As I got out of the car, I crossed my fingers that there would be a purse inside with a wallet inside of that. I knew the odds were low, but there’s nothing wrong with hoping.
If the trunk is empty, we check the apartment, again. If the apartment is empty, we might
have
to go to the police
. The pep talk got my heart pumping hard, again, but I had no choice.

The trunk lid clicked, and I lifted it up. It was in pretty much the same shape as the car. There was some trash in there, but not much else. I sorted through all the papers, throwing the useless ones into a Kmart bag that had been stuffed under a seat. One by one, I went through the papers and receipts, but found nothing useful. A scrap of lined paper caught my eye. Actually, it was the
handwriting
that caught my eye.

It was my handwriting. I don’t know how I knew that it was mine, but I did. I hadn’t written anything since waking up with no memory, but I
knew
it was mine. I grabbed it and tried to smooth out the note.

There wasn’t much to it, but it was better than nothing:
Putah Diversion Dam, 9PM tomorrow

 
It felt familiar, like nothing else the entire day had. I didn’t
remember
writing it, but reading that note was like placing the first piece of a large, confusing puzzle. The first question that popped into my mind was whether the appointment had come and gone, already. If it had, it was useless to me. If not, what would I find there?
Who
would I find there?

A car pulled into the small parking lot, and I felt the strong need to get back inside. I felt like I was being watched, and I started listening for the motorcycle, again. I slammed the trunk lid down, wadded up the bag of trash, and headed for my door. Once inside, I turned the locks. I had to lean into the door to get the deadbolt to close, but I managed.

Whatever it took to start a new life, I would do it. If Patience really did live like this, something had to be done.
I
wasn’t Patience, and I wasn’t going to live in some shit apartment. If she was a stripper, I was quitting and going to night school. Whatever reason she carried handguns in her car, I would leave it behind. As far as I was concerned, Patience was no more. The final nail in her coffin would be the moment I found out my real name. Somebody at the Watering Hole knew it, and I’d be there at eight to find out. Even if they didn’t know it, at nine, I’d be at the dam.

The bar looked completely different at night than it did during the day. Between all the lights shining on the place and all the bikers in the parking lot, the bar actually passed as decent. There were easily ten motorcycles for every car in the gravel lot. I lost count somewhere around fifty bikes. There was no doubt that it was purely a biker bar.

I pulled around to the back, sliding my car between two tall pickup trucks. For a few minutes, I sat there; engine still running, lights still shining on the cinderblock wall. My entire day had been spent walking into the unknown, but that bar was something else entirely. I knew my past was inside. The past that was Patience and my real past. My future was west of town at a small creek.

Before I left my apartment, I thought about the glove box. I thought about the glove box for a long time. What to do with the guns? I sat on my kitchen table staring at them both. I brought them in from the car wrapped in a sweatshirt and laid them on the table as if they could go off at any moment and in any direction.

At first, I wanted to leave them back at the apartment, but I decided against it. I was heading to the stomping grounds of a biker gang, after all. I was sure on one thing: I didn’t need
two.

The pistols were identical. Black Smith & Wesson’s with wooden handles. I only knew the manufacturer because it was stamped on the guns. For long while I stared at them there on the table. When my body would remain still any longer, I picked one up and found the button that slid the clip from the handle. It dropped right into my hands like it was choreographed. The magazine was full, and with a quick shove, I slid it up into the grip. I pulled the slider back and found a bullet in the chamber.

My brow wrinkled in confusion at how effortless it had been. I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew what to look for, and I knew how to handle the gun. It wasn’t my first time holding a gun, even if I couldn’t remember doing it. It all felt way too comfortable. Nevertheless, I picked up the second pistol and did the same thing. Both magazines were full, and both guns had a bullet in the chamber. I double checked that the safety was clicked into place on both.

Back at the bar, I stared off into the distance as I thought about the guns. One had been hidden beneath my pillow, and the other sat in the glove box next to me. It felt like my hand had a mind of its own. It wanted to reach for the glove box. It wanted to take the gun out and slide it into my jeans before I stepped out of the car.

With no memory, I told myself that I couldn’t trust my own instincts. I was trapped in a world where I couldn’t trust anyone; least of all myself. That thought made me want to take the gun. But the very same thought made me think I couldn’t be trusted with the gun. What if some other lost instinct kicked in, and I opened fire? No. I couldn’t chance it. The gun would stay where it was.

Even from inside the car with the windows up, the music was blaring. When I opened the door, the sound hit me hard. I looked up to see speakers aiming down at me from the roof. I hadn’t noticed them in the daytime. To be fair, Thunder had me pretty distracted, and then I had found the guns.

I headed around to the front of the bar, weaving my way between bearded, tattooed bikers of all shapes and sizes. There were some old man that I probably wouldn’t have trusted behind the handlebars, and there were younger guys that could barely growing facial hair at all. I looked into every face and expected to see Thunder. I expected him behind me every time I looked over my shoulder, too.

He scared me. I didn’t know why, but he did. At the same time, though, in my addled brain I wanted to see him again. He was a man with secrets, but he was my only connection to the real world. I was in doubt about just about everything. Everything except the sexual tension between us. It had obviously been there, but that memory was gone with all the others.

Focus, Patience
, I told myself,
or
you’ll be Patience forever.

Standing outside the door to the Watering Hole, I took a deep breath. My past was inside that place, at least in some way. Somebody in there knew who I was. Checking the crap digital watch I had found my apartment, I noted the time. I only had a half hour inside before I had to head to the dam. I hoped to God I wouldn’t need that long. I grabbed the worn metal door handle and pulled it open.