Thrash (31 page)

Before I realized what was happening, she started shaking. I looked down, I saw the tears streaming down her face.

“I don’t need time. I mean, I thought I did, but I don’t. I know what I want. I want you.” She sniffed. “I just don’t know how I’m going to deal with all this…” She nodded, as if to encompass everything. “I want to, so I will. But I just… I want to actually support you, not be panicking every time you turn around. And I don’t know how to do that right.”

I looked at her, stunned.

It had only been a day or two since we argued, but it seemed like an eternity. I stood there stiffly, trying to keep my hands still. I chose my words carefully. “You are not trapped here with me, Nora. You are your own person. You can do what you want.”

“I know.”

I stared at her for a moment, then my lips began to twitch. It was started to hit me, what she’d just said.

“You know,” I said quietly, stifling a chuckle. “You don’t have to be perfect. Trust me. I get it.”

She sniffed and looked up at me. A small smile quirked her lips too as she saw I really did get it. Then she sobered. “I really can’t do this on my own. I can do a lot, but this is different. This is us. I need your help.”

I replied, “I know,” and she smiled again. “You don’t have to do this alone. I don’t know how to deal with this shit, either. I just do. Cuz I have to. You being there for me was different. I…did better. Got it together faster. Feel stronger. You walking away sucked…”

She half laughed, half cried. “Yeah, it did.”

“You, too?”

“Yeah…”

I hesitated, then came forward, touched her chin, tilted her face up to me so that I could look into her eyes. “Please stay with me.”

“You still love me?” she asked, a slight warble in her voice letting me know even she wasn’t fully aware of her fear.

“Always,” I whispered back. I kissed her, and I didn’t care whether it was right or wrong. I wanted to feel her lips against mine, to taste her, have her, hold her.

She was mine. I needed her.

When we came up for air, we were both panting.

“DeMarcus,” she started, her eyelids fluttering.

“I love it when you call me by my name,” I whispered into her ear and pulled her close to me.

“Go back to the apartment?” she asked, hopeful.

“I need to make an appearance first, for Crowe.” I pursed my lips together as I thought about him. It wasn’t fair.

I wished more than anything that he was here with us, and that we didn’t have to fight. I wished none of this had been necessary. And I wished to hell I could make time stop for a few hours and get away with Nora.

Fuck, did I want to walk out. I wanted to blow everything off, but I wouldn’t like myself much tomorrow if I did. People were depending on me.

Bones was gone, and the mob was weaker. We were caught in the first stages of a power vacuum.

We needed to take advantage of that, soon. Rage needed me to focus and do my part of this.

I needed to head on in.

Nora hugged me and took my hand. “Come on, VP. When you’re done, I’ll show you what I’ve done on the mural.”

“You’re done?” I asked.

“I finished this morning.” She beamed up at me, genuinely happy. “It might be just what you all need.”

44

I made the rounds with Thrash, talking to every person, every individual that came up to us.

The entire community seemed to be here in this little clubhouse. Everyone seemed to be connected to us in some way. So-and-so had known their family when their jobs went under. Another had been harassed by encroaching gangs. Crowe had helped one man when money was tight. That man had become a funeral decorator since, and he had been coming by to help the MC deal with their recent losses of late at a discount.

I was amazed that everyone knew the story.

The official report had been a mugging gone wrong. The autopsy had been done and “confirmed” and then the body was put to rest. It was going to be listed as an unsolved crime. In this case, the truth was one of those things that was being buried with the club.

I was starting to understand why they did this, though. They were more than just another MC. They rode their bikes and made their deals. They maneuvered and fought and occasionally they had to kill someone. But they were also the town's guardians. I could tell by all the sad, desperate, lonely faces, that these people welcomed their help. And Fire and Steel worked to protect them for more than just the power of it. They cared about these people, too.

This wasn’t just turf. It was a community.

I pulled Thrash into the conference room and opened the blinds so that the sunlight could shine in. The windows were open to let out the fumes from the paint, and the air felt… nice.

I had carefully set up a light cotton set of drapes over the mural to keep the mural from prying eyes, but I was happy to draw them away for his eyes.

He just stared at it for a while, his mouth open.

Finally, I asked, “What do you think?” I was so nervous I almost shook him to get an answer.

He laughed aloud. “I think it is the best thing you’ve ever painted, and I own some of your work.” He looked genuinely pleased with it, and a lot of my anxiety eased.

“Do you think we should show everyone?” I asked. “Or it the wrong time? I didn’t mean to finish it in the middle of all this. I didn’t… Yeah… You know what I mean.”

He grinned at me. “I think this might just be what they need.”

He walked outside of the room, making a beeline to Rage. They spoke for a few minutes, then Rage looked from me to the open door then back to the group. He nodded once, then shook his head.

Maybe he didn’t want anyone to see it, after all.

“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Rage asked, his voice booming loud. A hush fell over the crowd.

“We are so glad you have all come today to help us celebrate the life of our friend, Crowe. He always said he wanted his funeral to be more like a party than anything else.” A small round of laughter interrupted. “Don’t worry, we’ll be bringing out the harder stuff a little later. In the meantime, we have something I think you would all like to see.”

I shifted from foot to foot, the old habit coming out in force here among my new family.

“Fire and Steel have hired one of the best artists in Braddock to paint a mural on our wall. We asked for a mural that portrays what Fire and Steel stood for. Something that showed exactly who we are. I have been told that the artist has gone above and beyond. She has chosen to not only honor our fallen members, but to honor the entire community as well. As such, we would love to share the big reveal with you all.”

He walked over and shook my hand then pulled me to the front of the room, turning on the light.

The scene I painted came alive under the lights. It wasn’t anything morbid. No skulls, no bones. I had chosen vibrant colors, layering them over a grim, yellow base. The base was for the grittier aspects of Pittsburgh. The color emphasized the people. I had brought out the grim light with the hues of the sunset and I had indulged myself a little, painting a tiny river in minute detail: the Monongahela. My calling cards.

The mural portrayed all of the things that Fire and Steel helped to preserve. Braddock. The playgrounds, the schools, the steel mills quiet and still in the background. Beauty and meaning growing out of the grit and grime. It was all there like a scene. No bone, no death. Life. Each establishment they touched, and many of the people too, were up on that wall. They were Fire and Steel.

Under the mural, I had carefully painted the names of each active member. I had made a point to leave plenty of room for future names, future generations. But I had balanced the names out, so that they would always look symmetrical. There would be no more sloppy scribbled names off to the side, squeezed in between older members’ tags like dead leaves.

I had also claimed the adjacent wall. The names of the fallen were relisted on a sepia base. It was simple, although I had added a few frame lines very carefully. The technique was a relic from my childhood, an old compulsion to contain things, but it set off the painted names well. And the guys seemed to like it.

Above the main mural I had painted their symbol, the flame, the anvil and the hammer. Fire and Steel was carefully written around it in strong solid letters. I had painted as I pleased for the mural, but I had taken special care with the names and their lettering. These were amazing men. Men who didn’t mistake caring for weakness. It seemed like such a minor thing, such a dumb little detail; but I didn’t want to undermine their strength with ‘girly’ lettering. I personally liked all of it: the girly, the bold, the thin and elegant, the blocked ironclad. But I was an artist. That helped me on my job. These men had other things to focus on.

This was their mural. I had wanted them to feel proud, not embarrassed. I did my thing and appealed to the basics: heart and home and strength and pride.

It worked.

Layla had helped me with the names, making me a list of the club’s history and members. It had been a lot to ask her. I had started the mural names with Rage, then Thrash, Mick and Crowe, then Wrath, and so on. But the ‘order’ had been even more important on the memorial wall. We had run over the death certificates multiple times, hunting down any that had been lost, and double checking a few of the sketchier bits.

Crowe’s name showed up in two places: on the main mural, and in careful detail on the memorial wall. So did Beast’s.

I saw Layla standing in the doorway, smiling at me as people circled the room.

“You did good,” Wrath commended me, looking it over. I’d included his boxing club in the mural, made sure to get the name of the establishment right. “Real good.”

“This,” Mick said, beaming like a Christmas light. “This is us. This is our community. You get it.” He gave me a hug. Layla’s uncle was like a big old teddy bear.

I smiled and hugged him back, which seemed to tell him to squeeze harder.

“Can’t. Breathe,” I finally squeaked out, and he let up.

When he had left, I caught my breath and sat down to enjoy my sense of accomplishment.

I was proud of this piece. Prouder than I was of anything else I’d painted. It had truth, meaning. And they were happy with it. Really, truly happy with it. I had done it right.

I did believe in this dream. The violence this club endured was not of their making. At least not this new club. This club had its own agenda, and it was focused on preservation, not destruction. The community recognized this.

Some people stood by the local power out of fear. Others out of necessity. And a rare few? Out of pride and gratitude.

Fire and Steel was the latter kind of power.

I did not envy anyone who chose to go against them.

45

Thrash offered to drive me home in the truck, and I agreed. But while he was wrapping things up with Rage, a naughty little idea reared its head, refusing to lie back down.

I was giddy, drunk on praise if not liquor. The Victory stood proudly in the lot, an elegant dragon of a bike, her lines fascinating me. I tiptoed over to her, slowly, an awkward flirt, and reached out tentatively to touch her.

She was a gorgeous creature.

I knew the bike wasn’t alive. But it was wonderful, and I had come to respect everything it symbolized. Everything it could do and all that I had seen while riding with Thrash.

To me, she was a bit of a metal dragon.

I ran my hand over the fine tracery of veins in the leather of the saddlebags, and pushed on the padding of the seat. The chrome was bright and black with metallic undertones that confused the eye and brought out an infantile urge to put the shiny thing in my mouth.

I stepped up on the footpeg and hopped onto the seat, only to squeak and cling to the grips as I realized just how tall a person had to be to safely drive this thing.

My heart sunk, realizing that in spite of the fact that my feet could reach the brake, I was too short to stand the bike at traffic lights, or anywhere at all really. If the stand had not kept the bike upright, I would have laid her sideways.

I heard a strange noise behind me. I turned to find Thrash staring at me, his eyes roving over the sight of me.

I grinned slightly, a quirk of my lips. My lips and legs spread a little further when I realized how much he liked the view. Those pants were starting to look uncomfortable.

“Wanna ride?” I cooed, leaning back to look at him just like he did that first night when he offered to take me home.

If he hesitated, who could blame him? I had ridden a bicycle. I had steered a jetski once. It had been an awful summer, with all sorts of stupid parties where no one actually liked one another. A guy had been making fun of one of his friends, claiming a girl like me could probably drive better than him.

I had been certain I was going to die. Instead, I had found a grit inside me that had helped me to wake up to the fact that I might actually be able to leave. I had outdriven those jerks. And I had not come back. I had zipped back to the docks, slowing till I could jump off and swim back to the party.

My mother had laughed it off, steering me out of sight before she chewed a few holes in my soul. But she couldn’t take away what I had learned about myself.

I knew there were things I could do that were similar to driving a motorcycle, but the fact was, I did not have a license. I had no idea what I was doing, and I seriously doubted Thrash was going to let me have a go on his ride.

He didn’t mock me though.

Instead, he walked over to me, those eyes roving down the line of my body. He slid his hand into my hair, slowly tightening his grip until he held me gently but steadily.

I gasped as he tilted my head back and looked me in the eye. “Do you really want to drive?”

My eyes were wide and bright, and I couldn’t nod because of his grip. I couldn’t breathe. I could have stayed silent, let him kiss me.

But I took a shuddering breath and licked my lips, desire pouring through my body as his eyes watched my lips hungrily. And somehow, I whispered, “Yes.”

It wasn’t enough.

“Yes, I want to drive.”

And then he did something incredibly illegal and completely incredible.

I could feel the heat of his skin as he guided my hands to the grips. I could feel his cock through his jeans, and the rumble of his chest as he explained to me the basics of driving his most precious possession.

And then he did something insane. He held himself in check and whispered for me to start the engine.

I did it. My tiny hands suddenly felt strong and powerful.

As the engine growled and roared beneath me, I was overwhelmed by the urge to scream like a wild beast to the skies. My lips split wide into a toothy grin and I laughed outright, a sharp free sound without any purpose. It was just a single noise of unadulterated pleasure.

“Steady,” he said, and I had to remember to breath.

If I destroyed the bike, it would all be over for the night.

I cleared my head as best I could and let Thrash show me how to gently guide the bike forward.

There was something surreal and strangely special about our delayed desire, putting my need on hold to actually listen to him show me how to do something that I genuinely wanted to do. He kept one arm loosely around my waist while the other helped me guide the weight of the bike.

Together, we steered the bike out of the lot and down the empty road towards the apartment. It was my first time and I valued what he valued. I took it slow and paid attention to how to slow down and stop. Both were more important than most people realized. Smash your brakes on a motorcycle and you might as well be a sack of fruit on a game-show.

When we neared busier streets, I used these to pull over and give him back the lead. I was getting tired and I knew I needed more practice if I wanted to really have fun at it.

He kissed me like a drowning man, then took the lead. I wrapped myself around him and enjoyed the rest of the ride home, my chest thrumming along with the engine.

Thrash parked the bike in the lot and scooped me up into his arms. He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t speak to me. He just walked me straight inside, up the stairs and only set me down to unlock the door.

I nearly fell over when he set me down, and when he caught me, his lips somehow ended up on mine again, and my hands ended up working their way up his shirt. We fumbled our way into the apartment and slammed the door behind us.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my shirt.

We started half propped on the chair, but I slid off with a giggle and scooted across the tarp I had been painting on for weeks. I had set aside the canvases at the far ends, and my supplies had been finding their way into the kitchen sink. So when Thrash joined me on the plastic there was nothing but dried paint drippings between he and I.

We probably could have gotten very creative with acrylics that night, but neither of us had the patience for it.

I dragged him out of his clothes, not even waiting for him to tease me. Vest, shirt, pants – I just pushed him back and snagged the waistband of his boxers, sliding it down just as far as I needed it before swallowing him whole.

“Holy fuck, woman!” he cried out. I wasn’t sure if he did it loudly or softly. I didn’t care who heard. I sucked on that taunt flesh until I could feel him shaking.

He wasn’t going to last long if I kept it up, so I backed off, just enough to pull my own pants off and climb onto his lap.

“What do you want, Nora?” he asked me, his hands traveling up my waist to squeeze my breasts.

I writhed above him. I could have said anything, but I knew I was exhausted. I knew I had missed him like clean air and a warm bed. And I knew that there would be other nights for titillation and creative exploration.

For tonight, what I wanted was to be as close to the man I loved as it was possible for two people to be.

I looked down at him out of heavy-lidded eyes, and felt a deep pride at his body standing at attention beneath me. “I want you to fuck me, DeMarcus,” I murmured hoarsely, completely honest and so vulnerable for it. “And then I want to curl up against your skin and sleep and wake up with you in the morning. Because I’ve missed you.”

His palm cradled my cheek. I pulled aside my panties and lowered myself onto his cock as he drew me down for a kiss, and then I began to slowly milk him. I kept it gentle, wanting to let him enjoy the feeling for as long as we could, and I enjoyed it, too.

After so long apart, with few occasions to be together and never for long, taking our time was a delicious luxury. I wound my hips upon him, squeezing, rising and lowering myself again, as he kissed my throat and buried his nose in my hair.

I felt his lips travel over the soft outer curve of my earlobe and along my jaw, waiting to see what else he could do. Those hands wandered over my body, lingering flesh against flesh, until I shuddered and hid my face, fighting the urge to cry.

He rolled us sideways, pushing me onto my stomach.

By that time, it was what I wanted, to feel him push the full length of himself inside of me, the hard triangle of his hips flush to the backs of my thighs. Wet and tingling, I spread my legs wide and reached around to run my fingers along that broad thigh as he pushed himself deeper inside me and then withdrew – just enough to make me cry out as the ridge of that smooth head stroked me in all the right places.

When he pushed himself again, I turned my face so that my cheek was against the streaked tarp, so that he could see me, and groaned softly. “Come here.”

When he curled over me, still deep inside, I cooed. His arm had wrapped around my waist, using the other to prop himself up. He was breathing hard, wearing himself out in an effort not to cum, and I was surprised to realize that I did not need him to do all that work.

I was ready.

I ran my fingers along the hand beside me and whispered, “Let’s go.”

He understood, staying close, pushing deeper and deeper with each thrust, winding the buzz in my body to wonderful heights, filling me with warmth, until finally he released. He braced himself quickly, trying not to fall on me.

It was the pressure of him pouring himself inside me at just the right angle that pushed me over the brink. I gasped and arched my back, releasing the tension, and grinned as his juices escaped a bit, catching the faint chill in the air.

I wriggled out and over a bit so that he could relax. I felt like I was on a cloud and everything was right. I watched him roll onto his back and stretch an arm over his head, and giggled. That swell of muscle and dark flesh was so graceful over his thick, strong body. I reached out and ran my fingers lightly over his chest, enjoying his light laugh. He took a deep breath and groaned as I began to knead his shoulders.

“Roll over,” I murmured. I said it as much to watch him move as to ease his leftover tension. I had to use my fists to dig into the meat of his back, but it was worth the effort to feel all that muscle in my hands. I followed the lines of his body, searching out knots and then dancing my fingers up the meat at the back of his neck.

At the collective, my first roommate had been a pretty little Korean girl. We had been about the same height and had gotten along well. When she saw how tired I was, she asked if I was looking for a boyfriend. When I said, “Maybe at some point,” she had winked and showed me this trick. She had pointed to tension points on my back to help me understand where a man’s muscles might tighten.

I had studied human anatomy. I had not been particularly good at remembering the names of it all, but I had understood how they worked and flowed together in a way that no teacher could show. In light of that, my roommate’s tips had made a lot of sense.

She had shown me how to use my knuckles and fists using her hand. “Brace your hand but let it take the pressure, too.”

I used everything I could remember and let my gut guide me through the rest.

Finally, he nudged me off, rolling over and drawing me towards him.

“You are a goddess,” he murmured into my ear, a languid panther of a man holding me close.

I snuggled close and, without a word, fell asleep in his arms.

I didn’t remember him carrying me to the bedroom. I didn’t hear him whisper, “I love you, Nora,” into my ear. He told me about that later. What I would remember later was his nearness when he curled up around me. My body relaxed, all the tension seeping away.

For the first night in weeks, months, perhaps years, we both slept peacefully, without nightmares or worries.