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Erik
PS Again. Please don’t leave. I will track you down, so save us both the headache and relax for a while.
Okay. I’ll stay. That works for me. I’ve got a few days off, and I don’t have to visit Adam in jail again until tomorrow at the next available visitation.
Climbing out of bed, clothes fully intact, I take his lead and pad across his plush, feet-loving carpet and pull the door of his closet open. Once again, I’m met with a shock. It’s clean. Shirts are hung by color and style—mostly black with a few other variations mixed in. Another pair of boots and a pair of black Converse rest beside yet another dresser. I pull open the top drawer and find jeans all nicely folded. The next yields shorts and more jeans. The bottom is where the pajamas are hidden. Let’s just say it’s a sparse collection of pjs, which leads me to believe he either sleeps in boxers or nude. I’m hoping the former ’cause I don’t think my brain can digest the latter. Gunz naked twenty years ago was incredible. I imagine it’s not much different now. Maybe even better. Not that I plan to find out.
Confiscating the nicest pair of pajama pants with a drawstring waist, I also snag a random t-shirt from a hanger. There are clothes in my truck I could wear, but I’m going to assume a stranger walking around on her own on a biker compound isn’t advised. I don’t know the rules, so I’m going to follow Gunz’s lead. Fewer problems for me and him if I do that.
Draping the outfit over my shoulder, I remake the bed before slipping from the bedroom into the bath to wash. I find a towel under the sink to go about my business. By the time I’m through, I feel refreshed and ready to take on whatever the day brings… even if I’m dressed in a large Harley t-shirt from a dealership in Texas and bottoms so long and baggy, they cover my toes. It works, that’s all that matters, as does my bra. At my age, I’d rather lose a toe than walk around people I don’t know without one. Hell, if I had sex, I might not even take it off. Let’s say, after breastfeeding a nine-pound newborn and sliding over the forties plate, my boobs are less than stellar.
Standing in front of the mirror, I wipe the fog away to see myself. There I am. Not bad. Not great. Just me. Purple hair to hide the gray. I got tired of dying it to keep my natural color, so I decided it didn’t matter anymore. Purple’s better. Life is too short to care what other people think. This age line on my forehead doesn’t matter either. I massage it with my finger, and it smoothens out only to return when I quit messing with it.
There I am… me.
Melanie. Mother. Professor. All around decent human who doesn’t smoke, rarely drinks, and is mildly addicted to tea, loud music, and wearing leather bracelets, like the one I’m re-tying on now—simple strips of black cord with a single heart charm dangling from the middle. Adam gave it to me for Christmas when he was in high school. It’s a favorite of mine.
Fingering my hair, ’cause borrowing someone’s brush without their permission is inappropriate, I do the best I can with what I’ve got. Next, I refold my clothes in a neat pile and exit the bathroom to set them on the edge of Gunz’s bed for safekeeping. Now, it’s really time to face reality.
The hall is basic enough and opens into a living room where Dom’s playing on the floor with a blonde baby girl and old-school blocks. The oversized flat-screen television is on with a cartoon I don’t recognize. Not that I would. I’m out of practice with the baby thing, now that Adam’s a grown man, or tries to be.
I step around them and their toys and find myself in an adjoined kitchen, dining room combo where Janie sits at a small, four-person table within eyeshot of the kids. With her is the same blonde from Gunz’s photos. Bink, I think her name is. He explained her a bit last night. There’s also a brown-haired teenager wearing a huge sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing a hot pink bra strap.
They look up at me all at once as if I interrupted a conversation, probably about me. That’s how most women work. Gossip is their lifeblood.
Bink lifts a chin in hello. How very biker chick of her. She has bags under her otherwise beautiful eyes, high cheekbones, and she’s gorgeous. Prettier than her pictures.
I return a half-awkward wave thingy.
Janie’s the first to break the silent stare-at-the-new-woman moment. “Bink, Tati, this is Kit. Kit, Bink, and Tati,” she introduces in a mild Spanish accent, her eyes sweeping from me to them and back a handful of times, gauging reactions. She’s an observer, this one.
“That’s me.” I rock back on my heels and point to the kitchen. “Gonna grab a drink if that’s cool. Gunz said to wait for him here. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Sure. Help yourself.” This comes from Tati, the teen. She smiles my way when the others don’t. If anything, they look like I’m infecting their turf with an imaginary fungus and want me gone.
Fantastic. This is going swimmingly.
Drink, then hide. That’s the plan. I skate by the table and find what I need in the kitchen. Tea bags are in the fifth overhead cupboard, mugs in the second. I add hot water into a motorcycle-printed cup, microwave it for a minute, and dunk whatever tea Gunz has on hand in the liquid. I’m not picky. Tea’s great in all forms—hot, cold, iced, sweetened, unsweetened, black, green, and flavored. I’m a fan of it all.
Blowing on the top, I rest a hip against the counter and look out the large front window that faces the street. Houses line the rear of the compound, all single-story with well-kept lawns. Nothing fancy. Very midwestern, nineteen-fifties suburbia. At the end of the road, there’s a sort of cul-de-sac. In the driveway of the last house sits a pink-and-black classic muscle car. From here, I can’t make out the model, but it’s a nice one.
Across the way, a curvy woman, with brown hair, a bedazzled shirt, and wild print leggings, blows bubbles with her two kids on their front porch—a toddler and a girl, elementary school age.
It’s nice here. Much different from what I expected. When you roll up to a biker compound with a mangled gate, you don’t imagine women and children living beyond the walls. And you definitely don’t consider how normal their lives seem.
I take a sip of hot tea and sigh to myself, wondering how long Gunz will be.
If I hide in his bedroom all day, I’ll go stir-crazy. Sitting still isn’t my forte. I’m a busy bee. Always working, cooking, cleaning, watering my neighbors’ plants… you get the gist.
What if Gunz is off plotting a way to get rid of me?
Maybe he didn’t feel the kinship I did last night.
I shake my head to purge such thoughts. He wouldn’t have written the note the way he did if he didn’t want me here. He’s not some young stud trying to add another notch to his bedpost by appeasing the baby mama. The man clearly gets enough tail that he doesn’t need to play games.
Waiting it is.
Is it weird I kind of miss him already?
