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I take a cleansing breath. My demons don't have their claws sunk into my skin, but I'm acutely aware of their ever-looming presence lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment of weakness to present itself. Every day I wake up and choose life. Some days are harder than others, but when I look at the people in my life, I dust myself off and keep moving forward.
Several hours later, I'm at my day job, finishing up a floral sternum tattoo for a chic named Stacy, a client of mine. "You got plans tonight?" she asks.
I keep my head down, focused and the task at hand. "Why?"
"I thought maybe you could come over to my place?" she says, hopeful. I lift the needle from her skin, place it on the table beside me, and glance at her but say nothing. "Don't you miss me?" she pouts.
Choosing not to hurt her feelings, I stay silent. Her clinginess is why I haven't fucked her in some time. "You could invite me back to the clubhouse."
I quickly squash her hopes. "Not happenin'." I grab some clean paper towels and the bottle of green soap nearby and clean the tattoo. "Take a look," I tell her, cleaning my station.
Stacy slides from the table and stands in front of the mirror. "It's beautiful, Blake." Then she turns to face me so I can cover the fresh ink with an adhesive bandage. "Come on. Didn't I mean more to you than just sex?" she whines, continuing in her attempt to lure me. Stacy closes the gap between us. From the corner of my eye, I notice Gabriel shaking his head, clearly overhearing my current situation. "I can't stop thinking about you."
"We haven't fucked in over a year. Move on." I show no interest in her campaign to get me in her bed again.
"I haven't seen you with anyone else in town." She falls silent, and for a second, I think she's about to give up, but she continues through laughter, "Are you fucking a club whore?"
I cut my eyes at her, anger twisting my gut. "Just because I fucked that cunt of yours doesn't give you claim over me, and it sure as shit doesn't give you leeway to question whom I choose to have in my bed."
Stacy's face reddens with anger and humiliation because I wasn't subtle or quiet with my words.
"You know what? Fuck you, Blake. I'm better than any whore." Her words anger me further, but I stay seated. She snatches her bag from the floor, digs around inside, tosses some tip money at my feet then stomps out of the shop.
I continue cleaning up and sanitizing my equipment.
"That escalated quickly. She's batshit crazy." Grey watches Stacy out the shop window as she climbs into her car. "Told you she was trouble," he pipes up.
"I don't need theI told you so's." I run my palm over my face.
"Fine. How about a beer, and I kick your ass in a game of pool?" Grey twirls his keys around his finger, eager to hit the road back to the clubhouse.
Thankful for the change of subject matter, I nod. "Alright, and to sweeten the deal, the loser washes all the club members’ bikes this weekend," I wager, my mood shifting for the better.
"I'll do you one better. The loser washes the bikes while wearing a pair of daisy dukes." Grey grins.
I let out a hearty laugh. "You're goin' down, brother."
Grey looks past me at Gabriel, who has gotten up. "Anything else I should grab from Charley's, besides those few cases of whiskey, on the way home?"
"Grab the women a few bottles of that fruity shit they like mixing drinks with," Gabriel grumbles in his usual manner.
"You got it!" Grey shouts over his shoulder as he steps out the door.
Before I take my leave, Gabriel stops me by saying, "It's easier when you stop runnin'."
"Runnin' from what?" I'm curious about where this conversation is going, seeing that Gabriel isn't much of a conversationalist.
"Not what—who."
He doesn't have to elaborate. I know to whom he is referring. Hell, every club member has witnessed the dance Ember and I have been performing for a couple of years. "She deserves better."
"Don't you think she should get to decide that for herself?" Gabriel hits me with another gut punch of reality, and I have no rebuttal.
Later in the night, everyone is gathered at the clubhouse, enjoying drinks and good music. After beating Grey at three games of pool, I toss the cue stick onto the table, wearing an ear-to-ear smile, knowing I won't be sudsing up chrome with my ass hanging out.
Quinn strolls across the room to where he craftily displayed a pair of cutoff jeans by pinning them to the corkscrew board near the front door with two small pocket knives. "How about a pregame show before the main event?" Quinn teases as he tosses the shorts at Grey, then sits beside Gabriel and pulls Emerson back on his lap.
"Fuck, man. You didn't have to cut them so damn short." Grey holds the denim to his waist. "How the hell am I supposed to keep my dick contained?" He inspects the narrow strip of denim holding the crotch of the shorts together.
