Thrash (7 page)

The once trendy bright
blue laminate countertop is so worn and faded in spots that its
color is almost unrecognizable. She used to spend hours cooking in
it while Jeremy would rock out with a wooden spoon on an upside
down pot on the floor. He was such a noisy kid. It never seemed to
matter how messy the house got or how loud we were, Dad would come
home—often with a few of his brothers in tow—and he’d sit down on
the kitchen floor—usually drunk off his ass—and show Jeremy how to
really play the bottom of a pot. It used to drive mom nuts. My
mother loved this kitchen once; then again, she loved us once,
too.

“
It’s probably why she
left,” I mutter and kick off the door frame. Memories are annoying
as fuck. As much as you want to hold onto the good ones, the
trade-off is that you have to hold onto the bad ones as well. On
the far wall is a small desk that’s overcrowded with an aging
desktop computer and countless bills that have been tossed on the
keyboard to be looked at later. I sit down at the desk and boot the
computer up while casually looking through the bills. The water and
garbage bills are past due, so those will be the first to be paid.
The mortgage is—surprisingly—less than a month behind, so that can
wait. My car insurance is up for renewal again next month, so
here’s hoping I can make enough in tips to cover at least half of
that bill. I’d probably make more sucking dick for a living than I
do at Universal Grounds, but I have to maintain some self-respect.
It’s one of the few things I have left.

Once the computer boots
up, I open the web browser from hell. Unfortunately, something’s
wrong with the computer, so I can’t download another browser to
use. I locate the search bar on screen and type in MANCUSO.
Doubtful that anything is going to come up, I sort the bills
according to what’s most important. The bill for the newspaper that
the little wilderness scout talked me into a few months back goes
on the bottom. The Gazette can just cut off the service. It’s not
like we read the fucking thing anyway.

Looking up from the stack
of bills, I scan the screen. Instead of finding the results I
expect—which is nothing—I find myself faced with links to news
reports, all of them very recent. I click on the first search
result, which is from a newspaper in Brooklyn, New York City. The
article is fairly extensive and way longer than I’m comfortable
reading, but I catch the highlights. Carlo Mancuso, alleged Italian
mob boss to the Mancuso Crime Family, was arrested back in May for
the creation, sale, and distribution of meth around the five
boroughs. It takes me a few paragraphs before I realize why I
should give a shit about this guy.

“
Mancuso’s son, Michael
(19) was hospitalized for a gunshot wound. Mancuso’s daughter,
Alexandra (19) is said to be recovering from the events with family
out west,” I say, reading the article aloud. On a hunch, I do a web
search for Alexandra Mancuso. A few links pop up: Our Lady of the
Immaculate College Preparatory School; a Facebook page; three
different blogs that appear to be fan pages for criminal
organizations; and several news articles that relate to her
father’s arrest. I click on one of the blog links, and sure enough,
the page is filled with information about suspected mobsters, and
the Mancuso family takes center stage. With Carlo’s arrest being so
recent, it seems he’s become something of a sensation. Three posts
down, I find a few pictures of Mancuso’s daughter, Alexandra. She
looks to be of average height for a woman, her outfit doesn’t do
much to show off her figure, and her long, dark brown hair is very
well maintained. What catches my eye is the caption: ALEXANDRA,
PRINCESS TO THE MANCUSO CRIME FAMILY, OUT FOR LUNCH WITH HER AUNT
GLORIA.

Princess.

My mood suddenly dissolves
completely as I’m left with zero doubt that this Alexandra is
Duke’s Princess. And she’s beautiful in a classy way that no Lost
Girl ever will be. Her makeup is subtle, her clothes are clearly
expensive, and the way she carries herself in the photos shows she
was brought up with manners. No wonder Duke’s got a thing for
her—or spends time with her—whatever it is, she matters in some
way. Looks like the bastard biker’s taking a shot above his
station. Well, if he can try to raise his standards, so can I.
Taking a peek of the clock, I see that it’s nearly seven. I’m
supposed to meet Darren at eight. I would rather hide out than see
him, but the drama that would ensue from me standing him up isn’t
worth it. I close out the browser, turn off the computer, retreat
to my bedroom while doing my best to ignore the hushed whispers
coming from behind Jeremy’s closed door. I have to get out of this
house.

Chapter 5

I’m a disaster. Even after
my shower, I can still feel Duke all over me. Part of me feels
dirty as hell about that, and the other part of me doesn’t really
feel anything. My dyed blonde hair is teased less than I usually go
for when I’m going out. I also tried to keep the eye makeup to a
minimum, but it looked all wrong. I suppose, in a way, I look a bit
classier—more like fucking Princess—but it wasn’t me.

The girl in the mirror
with the smoothed-down hair and pale pink lip gloss looks so
generic that I doubt anyone would be able to pick her out of a
crowd. My green eyes don’t stand out, and my roots are that much
more obvious. Blotting my lips, I check my red lipstick—the one
part of my normal self I decided to keep
.
Once I’m satisfied, I grab my purse and head out for The 101
Club.

When I open my bedroom
door, I’m met with Jeremy and the girl he’s been entertaining for
the evening. They’re in his doorway, and his shirtless torso towers
over her petite frame. She looks so much like the last girl he had
over, and it takes me a moment to realize she
is
the last girl he had over. My
brother isn’t much for repeat visitors, so this is a new
development. He must really like this one if he isn’t making her
sneak out his window.

“
Do your parents know
you’re here?” I ask her. Slowly, she turns her head in my
direction, but her eyes focus on the wall behind me. The pause is
enough for me to know the truth.

“
Okay, awesome. So Jer,
when her dad shows up all pissed off, I’m going to let you deal
with him,” I say and walk off down the hall. He catches me at the
front door and places an oversized hand on the door jamb,
effectively stopping me from leaving without a fight.

“
Was that necessary?” he
asks. I turn around and lean against the closed door.

“
Yeah, Jeremy. It was,” I
say, folding my arms over my chest and staring up at
him.

“
It’s not like what I just
did is any different than what you do with the club,” he says with
disgust in his voice. I blanch in a mix of surprise and
embarrassment. I don’t talk to my brother about my social life, and
he never asks. I guess I just assumed he was so into his own thing
that he hadn’t noticed.

“
I’m the adult in this
house,” I say.

“
So what, that means you
get to do whatever you want? I’m just your stupid kid brother you
got stuck with, so I have to listen to your hypocritical bullshit?
Fuck that,” he yells.

“
Yeah,” I yell back,
“That’s exactly what it means. And if you want to keep inviting
your little girls over for play dates you’ll knock it off with the
attitude,” I say.

Cracking a cruel smile and
with cold eyes, he says, “Don’t you want to start them off right?
You can show them how to be a Lost Girl so when I get my patch
they’ll know their place.”

“
You’re not getting a
patch. You hear me now, and you listen good—you can be an asshole,
you can use every girl in this town. I don’t care. But if you think
you’re going to prospect, you are dead wrong, dude.”

“
And who the fuck is going
to stop me?” he says, smiling. “You’re not my mom. She ran off.
You’re not my dad. He’s locked up.”

“
Just clean up the
kitchen, okay?” I say and push him back then slide out the front
door. Walking to my car, I’m fuming mad. It feels like I’ve left
the house a hundred times today and half of those have been after a
fight with Jeremy. Five months—I remind myself—just five months
until he’s eighteen. A sudden panic overtakes me at the thought of
him being old enough to prospect. Then for a brief, selfish second
I wonder what it would be like to only have to worry about myself.
Having one mouth to feed would be a lot cheaper and certainly if he
were patched, he’d be earning his own keep. But no matter how less
stressful it would all be financially, it’s not worth what could
and likely would happen to him. He’d be no better than the rest of
them.

With irritated thoughts of
my brother, I drive to The 101 Club on the other side of town, just
beyond the bridge that crosses Noyo Bay. The 101 Club sits just off
of South Main Street in a large dirt lot on the inland side of the
road. The building looks small from the outside, with its worn
paint and inconsistent flickering neon sign above the door that
invites patrons to “Ente,” the R that nobody ever bothered to
replace having been busted years ago.

I step out of the car and
look down at my dark blue jeans tucked into three-inch knee-high
black boots. Normally, if I was looking to have a little fun, I’d
have gone for a suggestive top, but tonight I decided to wear a
fitted, long sleeve, black top. It’s nothing fancy, but it covers
up my ink. Not that I don’t love the artwork I’ve had done, but
tonight it just feels too obvious. I highly doubt Ms. Mancuso has
even an imperfect blotch of skin, let alone tattoos that trail
across her arms and lower belly.

And just like that my bad mood gets
even worse. I’m letting this chick and her presence in town really
fuck with my head. I know damn well that it’s my own insecurities
biting me in the ass, but that doesn’t put a stop to the incessant
voice in the back of my head that won’t stop saying, “You’re not
good enough.”

Inside the bar, it’s
poorly lit, which probably helps its customers tie one on and take
someone home they surely wouldn’t in the calm and sober light 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.