Page 67 of Throttle

I can’t help but chuckle. “Road name.” I show him the patches on my cut. “And I race dirt bikes.”

“Ahh. I see. Had a grandson who raced. Poor boy was terrible.” He shakes his head.

Grandson. So, the old guy is a grandpa. His hat also reads Veteran.

“You were in the Military?”

He lets out a deep laugh. “Shit. I forget I wear this ol’ thing.” He shuffles uncomfortably in place, pouring us another shot. “War will fuck you up. Nasty place.”

I wouldn’t doubt it. I never knew anyone who was in the army, except Tank and he never talks about it, so we never ask.

Not knowing what to add, we stay silent for a few minutes before he says, “Lost my marriage because of it. My kids. My grandkids. Haven’t seen them in years. Want nothing to do with an old geezer like me.”

“Why is that?”

He holds up the bottle of whiskey. “Became a drunk.”

“Never thought about getting help? Going into rehab?”

He laughs. “Nah. To be honest, I enjoy it too much. After all, I chose it over my family.” He coughs. “Though, I do wonder what it would have been like to put them first. Or got over myself and stopped trying to protect them from me.”

We lock eyes for a moment. I know where he’s going with this.

“She’s a special one. That woman in there.” He points to Tequila’s apartment. “Reminds me of my wife back in the day. Beautiful. Smart. Knows what she wants in life. You’d be a damn fool to pass that up.”

“She deserves better. Not someone like me.”

Frank smacks the back of my head, jolting me forward.

“What the fuck, old man?”

“Did you not just hear my sob story, kid? Get your head out of your ass.”

“I’m no good for her,” I tell him as I rub the sore spot.

“Jesus. You youngsters are as dumb as they come now a days. If you ask me, this place is no good for her.” I didn’t ask. “And you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself tells me you give a shit. Makes you one of the good ones.” He staggers upright, snatching his glasses and sticking them back into his pockets. “Let her be the judge of whether you deserve her or not.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “Do the right thing, kid. And here’s another piece of advice.” He leans down, the smell of alcohol protruding from his breath. “Get yourself a haircut.” He laughs and with that, he wobbles down the hall and down the stairs.

What does he know anyway? Not my life or where I’ve come from. Doesn’t know the dangers I wake up to everyday. The enemies me and my club make on an almost daily basis. I can’t get her involved with me. It wouldn’t be fair. Wouldn’t be safe. They always target what makes the enemies weak and she would be it. But… his words hit hard. Let her be the judge… maybe.

I glance at her door one last time before getting up to leave. What I do know for certain, I’ll be getting her out of here. To a place that doesn’t have a drunk old man roaming the halls late at night.

I make a detour back to the clubhouse. It’s one I find myself taking more than I want or should.

Despite how far, I still find myself riding through every so often. Like an old nostalgia trip. It reopens the wounds, but I can’t seem to stop. I think sometimes I revisit it to remind myself to keep being the man they didn’t want me to be.

Keeps me motivated.

As I turn down the street, I’ve ridden my bicycle on plenty of times as a kid, I slow my Harley in front of my childhood house. I’d like to say it held great memories, but that would be a lie.

That bicycle I rode… I stole it. Jacked it from Tyler dickwad’s driveway and hid it in my friend’s shed. But the dirt bike I had… I bought that with the money I saved up from working at the local bowling alley. Sure, my parents let me keep it, let me ride it, but I know it just about killed them to watch me start to head down a different path then they wanted. Apparently owning a dirt bike was Satan’s work. Leading me down a dark path.

My old house always looked the same. The two-story home with blue shutters, white siding and a small porch that still had that beat up swing. The only memory—only good one I always held onto—happened there on that very swing. I was twelve.

“Ready to talk about it?” my dad asks as we sway, watching the morning sun rise.

I rub my right eye, but the pain is too much, and the left-over sting feels like it’s going to explode.

I take the bag of frozen peas my dad hands me, placing it on my shiner. The cold feels so good.

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