Vulnerable (Barons of Sodom) (3 page)

“Hear ye, hear ye!” called Yak, the unofficial class clown
of the Barons of Sodom. “Order in the court. Let it be known: the man upstairs
is on his way
down
.” Yak stood over the assembled riders, smacking his
fist against a tree stump as a judge might bang a gavel. All ritual meetings
took place in a clearing behind the garage—well, it wasn't so much a clearing
as a patch of desert bending around a man-made fire pit. There were some
half-hearted live oaks watching over the earth.

“Stop fucking around, asshole,” called Spivey. Spivey was...
heavy-set. He was the largest of the Barons and—some said—the cruelest. When
seated, his beady eyes and girth resembled nothing so much as Jabba the Hutt
from the
Star Wars
movies. The only reason he'd been spared a related
nickname within the club was that rumor had it he'd shot the last man who'd
called him fat to his face.

“No need to be such a princess, Spy,” Yak whined, “just
mucking around. Lord knows we've gotta hold on to the little joys in a
bumblefuck place like this.”

“You watch what you say, shitbird. I'm loyal to the man
upstairs.”

“Oh, and I'm not? Just cause I don't get my rocks off in
rural Waco?”

“Club's not about
you getting your rocks off
.”

“Fucking surprise there.”

“Gentleman!” Tucker intervened. Yak and Spy were at constant
war, as self-designated third and fourth-level leaders of the group. But they
both cowered before the chief. Everyone did. “Assume your positions. Heard we
got a midnight meeting.”

“Nice of the lieutenant to fucking show up,” grumbled Spy—though
he was sure to mutter the words. For all his game, he'd also come to fear
Tucker, whose imposing figure and reputation with a lead pipe were not to be
trifled with. He'd earned the respect of these men.

There were twenty others in the motley crew, each of them
tough and rude and fiercely loyal to the band of outlaws they served—there was
Zeno, the war hero, fresh from two tours in Afghanistan. There was Judas, whose
ugly, mysterious name connoted only that his parents hadn't loved him. The Barons
were damaged men—convicts, runaways, men who'd seen action—and they were none
of them afraid to live outside of society. As dumb as his cohorts could
sometimes be, Tuck loved these fools. He was honored to govern them.

“Let's all settle, gentlemen,” drawled a low voice from the
back of the group, a baritone draped in a Delta accent. Then the chief stood.
He'd been hiding in their midst. The riders assembled into neat rows on the
ground, all but bowing before their leader: the man upstairs.

He had no other name, or none that they knew—so they called
him God. No one could say how old he was, or where he'd come from. But the man
upstairs was the brains behind the Barons of Sodom, the key to their strange
origins. He was responsible for brokering all business deals (illegal and
otherwise) and securing homes and women and money for all in his employ. He'd
instilled in each of his soldiers a contempt for civilian life and a love of speed.
He'd taught them to respect nothing so much as the land and the engines which
allowed one to traverse that space freely and alone.

“Glad you all could make it,” God said, twisting his cracked
face into something like a smirk. “It seems we've got ourselves a new bit of
business, boys. Who's excited?”

The little band hollered and stomped their boots against the
dry earth. Not Tuck, though. Tuck stayed calm.

“It's a funny shake-up for the Barons,” God continued. “We
aren't really in the knights-in-shining-armor business, are we boys?” The men
continued to stamp and holler, though some of the din registered confusion.
Knights in shining armor? Barons were typically petty thieves, dealers,
fighters. They killed when they had to, and they took what they felt they
deserved. Not a one of them had ever been anyone's 'knight.'

“Yet today, we're receiving a hefty sum from a private
client who's asked us to house a witness,” God finished. Then he clapped his
hands together, and Bo Diddly—the brute-with-the-heart-of-gold in their number—appeared
from the neck of dark land behind the garage. Bo was leading a young woman—shaking,
tiny, her hands bound and her eyes covered by a blindfold. Couldn't have been
more than twenty years old.

“Fellas, I'd like you to meet our new housecat. Call her
Baby
.”

The men cheered.

“As I said, we'll be watching over this little one for a
while. Making sure she's treated right, and no one funny comes looking for her.
Now I know it's unconventional—”

“I know you aren't asking us to do no
babysitting
,
G,” hooted Yak, “not with some damn PYT around the place.”

G, in his maddening way, waited until the biker crowd had
settled before he continued. “I'm no fool, boys. I know Waco hasn't been easy
on any of you. This land is pretty
dry.”
The men laughed. “So you bet
your ass, Ms. Baby's gonna work for us in return. She's gonna earn her keep,
and in turn, you all protect her as you'd protect your own fucking kin.” The
leader's voice had hardened now. There was something about the way he spoke,
the affected casual quality to it—it could fill a man with fear. The assembly
of Barons of Sodom fell silent.

 It was confusing. As long as Tuck had been with the MC,
they'd never been employed for any kind of private hoopla—they dealt mostly
with shady businessmen and the occasional other club. They'd faithfully
protected kilos of cocaine, but never a young woman. Tuck knew well how most of
the men thought about women, given the passing comments they gave Athena and
the way they'd curried favors in Louisiana. These were rough, Cro-Magnon types,
who took their women like prizes. A motorcycle club sure as hell didn't seem
like the safest place to hide some delicate little flower.

In the city, the club had entertained a small cast of
lovelies—women the chief kept around for “relaxation purposes.” The lovelies
would pamper and spoil the riders in exchange for money and protection, but
their positions were contingent on sex. These women were expected to move
fluidly between all the club members, expected to be ripe and willing. Those
kinds of women—and on the other end of the spectrum, the tough birds, like
Athena—were just about the only two sorts a motorcycle man could register.

Baby was quaking where she stood. Gently, Bo Diddly removed
the binding kerchief from her eyelids, and her eyes rolled open. The men took
in their charge.

She was beautiful. Easily the most beautiful woman Tuck had
ever laid eyes on, even counting all the professionals he'd encountered, casing
the derelict streets of New Orleans. She was thin and long—willowy, but
possessing a shapely, scooped ass and two breasts that hung heavy and looked
juicy as hell. Her mouth was full and heart-shaped, a faint natural rose color.
Her cheeks were blushed a furious red. Her hair was as dark and soft looking as
his was light and thick; he watched it catch the moonlight. Though Tuck prided
himself on a sense of serenity and control that could rival any biker, he
instantly felt an erection stir in his jeans.

She looked frightened. And, against all instincts he'd ever
known, Tuck wanted nothing more than to scoop Baby into his arms and carry her
to some cozy place. He wanted to peel off her rain-dampened clothes and kiss
all her crevices—then, he wanted to nudge her quivering legs wide to let him
move in. Then he wanted to fuck her, long and hard and deep. He wanted to hear
this woman's screams of ecstasy echo across the dull plains and then he wanted
to come deep inside of her, to feel the mingling of both their juices on his
legs, before collapsing against that pale, perfect skin. He'd like to see that
frightened face collapse into joy and peace.

“We're all thinking it, Tuck,” Spivey murmured, licking his
lips. “Looks like God's got a sense of humor.”

“What? How do you figure?”

“Knows there's restlessness in the ranks, so he brings home
a pet. Gotta love him for trying.” The big man lurched forward, so his belly
jiggled below its leather vest. “I'd fuck the shit out of her. Can't wait to
get the chance, either.”

Tuck regarded the beauty again. She still quaked where she
stood. Though he'd enjoyed plenty of his own indiscretions in the city, time in
Waco had made a stone of the Lieutenant. As much as he might want this young
custody of the club, he knew immediately he could do nothing about it.

Instead, he leaned forward on his tree stump seat and shoved
Spivey hard.

“Don't you fucking talk about the girl,” he murmured, his
eyes growing flinty, “not when God is speaking.”

It was like a war. Everything depended on one's loyalty to
the winning side.

BRIDIE, cont'd:
You might have guessed this already,
but dinner did not go as planned.

As soon as my aunt had laid out all the silverware, she
fixed me with a gaze I'd never seen before—this acidy face, all cruelty and
contempt. I saw I was her enemy. Even through her high, she'd managed to
determine that her date wanted me. And no—I'd never seen her look that way at
me before. I was...taken aback, to say the least.

“Now Bridie, whyn't you go play outside for a while? Drum up
some fun with the other
little girls
?” She practically hissed. I waited
for Mr. Reginald to come to my defense—say something about how he'd love to
continue getting to know me over dinner.

I know more about men now, thank the good Lord, but in that
moment I felt only this deep sense of betrayal that the tall man wouldn't even
meet my eye when my aunt—the only person in the world who loved me—was casting
me out of our home.

“I'm not a little girl anymore, Auntie.”

“Ha, well, I'll be darned. What are ya then?” She set the
spaghetti dish down hard on our linoleum slab. “A little princess? A little
live oak tree? Tell me, Bridie: are you a little slut?”

I ran from the house. I ran as fast as my long,
almost-eighteen year-old legs could carry me. I went out to the farthest edge
of the trailer park, a piece of land where armadillos scurried by in droves. I
thought about Mr. Reginald. How he looked a little like Clark Gable, about his
eyes. No one had ever taught me explicitly about sex at this point—it wasn't
taught in school, I mean, and my aunt was tight-lipped about the things she did
with her “gentleman callers.” All I had to go on was the content of those
catcalls and the distant sounds I sometimes figured I was imagining coming from
our trailer. Low moans moving across the plains while my aunt entertained her
guests.

I sat and cried in the shadow of someone's clothesline. I
wished I could make myself small, small, small. I cried the way only little
girls can cry, I think—those heaving, gasping sort of tears that hurt your
chest after a spell. I didn't usually give myself the luxury of sadness, but
something about that night felt irreparably broken. I felt like such a fool.

I wondered if I could skip town, like my mother, or the
characters in any of my books. I could see all the places I dreamed about: the
oceans, the big cities, the landmarks. That night it was so quiet. I couldn't
hear anything—not even coyotes. Not even wind. I set my little wounded heart to
the task of “making a plan.” I drew lines in the dry earth with a stick—I'll go
to San Francisco first. Get me some gold. Yes, I hear myself saying, officer.
Was anyone ever so young?

The night was quiet...until it wasn't. My ears perked up at
a loud series of sounds—sounds loud enough to get the neighbors in even this
distant part of the park to open their trailer doors. The sounds came so fast I
could barely make out what might have been happening—whether what I was hearing
was violence or joy. It was an argument, I gathered after a moment—or rather, I
put together later. I heard what I thought were my aunt's low moans, only these
turned into loud, long screams. Realizing this, I ran across the flatland as
fast as I could—so fast that the wind pressed my hair flat against my back,
like a series of whips.

You'll forgive me if I don't like to talk much about what I
saw, when I got back home. I've already told the police everything I remember.
You fellas heard of this concept, “suppressing memories”? Well, right—of course
you have. I just remember...blood. That's it. A liquid curtain that looked
thicker and darker than I would have imagined, painted all across our shitty
carpet, our kitchen surfaces. Mr. Reginald lay face down in the living room,
the fresh press of his suit all fussed up. I remember being surprised at how
unkempt he looked in death.

My aunt was on the couch. I...I just hope she didn't suffer.
I pray to the good Lord every day that she didn't suffer.

I remember screaming and screaming. I remember running
across the plains. I remember sirens, but I barely remember the days that
followed. I know I turned eighteen in the interrogation room.

Again and again, your boys asked me what I saw, what I
remembered—so many times I got to thinking,
maybe I did dream it. Me and my
little overactive imagination, we dreamed it.
So much time passed under
that bright white light. I know now what they wanted me to say—that I'd seen
it. That I knew who did it. That
I
did it, even, that I'd taken the gun
and shot my own aunt in the chest so many times over. They wanted some answer I
couldn't give. Instead, I just cried and cried.

On the final day, the chief of police came in. Sergeant
Wicker, I think he was called. He was kind to me. Gave me a sweater to wear,
because it was so cold in that room. Told me they'd let me out soon, and had
men hunting for my mom. Said he'd get me a sandwich to eat. Then he slid a
folder across the table and told me to look at the pictures inside. If I
recognized any faces, he said, we'd go from there.

It was a mean-looking little book. Mostly mugshots of young
men, each scowling up at some poor photographer. I was exhausted, and I looked
through them quickly. I knew so few people in town that I figured I wouldn't be
able to recognize any faces.

But the last one in the book I tripped on: something about
that cat's smile. It was familiar to me. He had a little toothbrush mustache
and thick, coarse hair. Lots of lines on his face, though he didn't seem
especially old. “I think I know this man,” I said. I thought I'd seen him with
my aunt a few times, around our trailer. I pieced together that he was one of
her many drug dealers.

The detective's eyes kind of flickered, when I pointed to
the photo—and this photo wasn't a mugshot, it was just a candid. The man was at
an office of some kind.

“Does he know you, that fellow?” Sergeant Wicker asked. I
told him yes. I told him we'd exchanged a few words once or twice, that he knew
I was in my aunt's charge. I mentioned that he'd taken me to school one
morning, weeks ago, when Aunt Caroline's truck had been in the shop.

The sergeant didn't say goodbye once I said this; he just up
and skedaddled, fast. He seemed agitated. I never saw Sergeant Wicker again,
and I never saw that meal he promised. Next thing I knew I was in handcuffs and
two officers were escorting me out of the cell and into a waiting cop car.

The only other thing you really need to know, to understand
my miserable years in Waco (the only thing worth mentioning, anyway) is that I
know people tended to forget about me. In school, because I was shy and strange
and had no “people,” I flew pretty much below the radar. I had no friends. I
was in no clubs. And though the boys liked to call out my tits and my ass and
my hair, I'd bet you dollars not a one of them could remember my name.

But invisible people? We can be dangerous. Because we see a
lot of things we're not supposed to see.