Page 5 of Forty

Did I spill some pop? Sigh.

Forty Nowicki was a rite of passage, the kind of heartbreak everyone goes through with their first love, but somehow my soupy grey matter doesn’t get that it’s long over and probably wasn’t as intense and earth-shattering as I thought it was at the time.

But I still dream about him. Not all the time. Only when I’m stressed or I fall asleep drunk.

And at some point in every relationship, usually when I’m trudging along a highway in the pouring rain or stuck in a bathroom with a maniac beating down the door, I have the same epiphany.

Aaron, the guy who baited me and his ex into fighting? And then videotaped it and posted it on a porn site? He had a softail bike like Forty.

Paulie, the guy who picked me up for a date in a stolen Lexus, landing me in City Jail until it got sorted out? He was gruff, a man of few words. Like Forty.

And Nick, the guy who kicked me out of his truck on the side of the highway after two years together? He had Forty’s exact build. Height, weight, haircut. Everything. And I didn’t see it.

Not ‘til it was over.

And oh shit. Big reveal. Thinking about it now? Carlo has that “lethal violence simmering just under the surface” that Forty had. Ugh. I couldn’t have picked a guy who likes professional wrestling and monster trucks? Forty was into those, too.

I stretch my legs and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Carlo’s messenger bag is plopped next to me on the floor. It was stupid to take it. Hopefully, he was attached to the papers that I dumped on his counter and not the bag itself. It’s real leather, I think, but it’s not custom or anything. Too late now. I’m not taking it back.

I sigh, shoulders slumping. So, what do I do now?

I obviously can’t go back to the job at L’Alba. Rent is due in two weeks. Without a paycheck, I’m gonna be at least three hundred short. The landlord isn’t cutting me any more slack.

Anyway, I’ve got way bigger problems than rent. Everyone knows the Renelli organization doesn’t leave loose ends. And isn’t that what I am now? I must have fingerprint bruises around my neck. My face is busted up. That’s physical evidence. If I was suicidal enough to go to the cops, they’d press charges. They’d have Dominic Renelli’s money man in lock up. For a prosecutor, that’s leverage.

Renelli would never let a nobody like me walk around holding that kind of leverage.

At the very least, I’m due for a warning visit from some goons. And I don’t want to see how sideways that could go with my mouth.

It’s depressing. I’ve been in this city for five years. I know everyone. But push comes to shove? I’m a nobody with no one to call. No place to go.

It’s my fault. I keep it light, never get too close. I friend people, but I’m notfriendswith people, you know?

I wish it was different. Once upon a time I had real friends, crazy people that rolled with my crazy. Well, I thought I did. Then Forty dropped me, and my “friends” turned on me in zero seconds flat. That kind of loyalty? It’s admirable in a way. Hurts like a bitch to be on the flip side, but you can’t help but respect it.

I sigh, kick off my shoes, and wriggle my toes. What am I doing on the floor? I need to pack.

I can’t stay here, and there’s only one person in the world who loves me enough to let me crash, no questions asked. My baby brother Lou. We have different fathers, and we’re nothing alike, but he still thinks I’m cool. He’s the only decent person in the family. Gentle. Oblivious.

Lou still tags along with Steel Bones, all these years later. I brought him around the clubhouse when Forty and I were together, and when I left town, he never stopped showing up. The brothers never iced him out like they did me.

When we talk, Lou keeps me posted about the MC. My girl Shirl, the only one who didn’t drop me completely, lost her husband Twitch to cancer. Ernestine put Grinder out. Forty’s coming home on a medical discharge. Scrap’s getting early release. I told Lou I didn’t need the updates, but he doesn’t stop sharing. Like I said. Oblivious.

If I go home, I’ll see Forty. He’s been back three years or so now, and Petty’s Mill is too small to avoid anyone for long.

A thrum begins in my belly, shooting bubbly tingles of anticipation to my nerve endings. Some of the tension seeps away. Ah. Sensation. Better than any drug.

Maybe I don’t want to avoid Forty. Maybe I have some things I want to say.

There’s an exhaustion competing with this new adrenaline surge. Butterflies are going crazy in my belly, while my arms and legs feel like weights dragging me down. This always happens when I think about going home. There’s a large part of me that would rather walk through fire than confront the past.

But damn, I need a bolthole right now. A place to feel safe, even if it’s an illusion. To feel like I did for that golden moment in my life when Forty Nowicki wouldn’t leave my side, and no one could touch me.

I want to turn this shitshow that is my life around. Start again. Figure it out this time and get it right.

I sigh one last time, long and loud, and I haul myself to my feet. I’ve got a lot to do. I need to bail before Dominic Renelli hears about this. I need that man to understand that I am in no way, shape, or form a threat to him or his organization.

And now that the idea’s firm in my mind, I’m more and more excited to see what’s still back there in Petty’s Mill. Is there anything left to salvage?

---