Page 12 of Bear Strength

“Is there anything I should know, Suse?” I lean even more towards her as I speak.

I remember Mason’s voice. His stature. How he could crush my hand inside of his, without blinking. He makes a Hell of a nightmare to those who wrong him, I’m sure of that. But, I haven’t wronged him. And, Dom is just a kid who spray painted a stupid wall.

“You know I’m not the one to spread any gossip, Danny,” she tells me, wearily.

“Then, don’t, Suse. Just tell me what you know for sure.”

My voice is sharp, demanding. If there’s anything I need to know about the men my son will be spending weekends with, then she better tell me now.

“You don’t know Sam Michaels, do you?”

“Should I?”

I pause, as I wave at Jane and her sister who point at their table, to let me know that they left their money there. I nod, just opening my mouth for a silent thank you. I gesture at Susie to hold it for a moment, and I go over to clean up the table. I do it with trembling fingers. I’ve never heard of Sam Michaels, but obviously Susie seems to think I should know about him.

A few minutes later, I return to the counter, sitting opposite Susie. The fear on her face has given way to simple worry, but that glow was gone. I could only hope it’d resurface once she meets up with Hunter.

“So, Sam Michaels?” I remind her, but we both know she needs no reminders.

She looks down at the counter, her fingers drumming the laminated surface. Her glance quickly comes back up again.

“He’s… he was Hunter’s friend,” she says, as if her own correction is supposed to foreshadow the ominous tone of the story. “He used to be in business with those bikers. Somethingwent wrong, and… Sam disappeared. That happened a few years back. No one knows what happened to him.”

“Come on, Suse,” I try a smile, but her story lingers on. It’s impossible to forget. “That sounds like something out of a noir novel. A small town crook killed by the big mafia boss. It’s probably embellished a little. Not like much happens here, anyway. So, when something actually does happen, everyone adds a little to the story they pass on, and poof. You’ve got a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holms.” I say all this so quickly and out of breath, that I almost don’t see the look on her face. She isn’t upset or insulted. She’s genuinely concerned. “Sorry, Suse, you know I don’t mean anything by it. I’m just cranky. Forget I said anything.”

I smile at her, cupping her hands with my own, across the counter. Hers are cold, as she tries to muster a smile.

“You’re probably right,” she finally says, and I’m not sure if I believe her or not.

I know she’s only looking out for me. She’s proven this more than once. She’s a person you can trust. So, did she really mention all this and now agrees with me because she really believes I’m right, or she’s just unwilling to discuss it further? My bet is the second one. But, I agree with her. Fear leads nowhere. Or, in my case, it leads you very, very far away. As far as your car would go. And, then on foot a little further away.

“Just don’t get too friendly with those guys,” she adds, just in case.

“Friendly with bikers?” I snort. “No way in Hell.”

Whores and bikers. Bikers and whores.

I don’t go so far as to explain where my dislike and fear of bikers, and whores for that matter, but that has no relation to this story, comes from. Neither of us is all that eager to continue this conversation, but I don’t want her to leave on a bad note.

“So, what movie are you and Hunter gonna see?” I switch topic to something more pleasant, but I’ve already made up my mind. Not only am I driving Dom over to the bikers and back, but I’m staying there until I need to get to work as well.

CHAPTER 7

Wagner

The ride down South is easy. Quick. The wind in your hair. The smell of tires burning the highway. There’s nothing like it. I see Adrian a little in front of me. He doesn’t turn around to see if I’m there or not. We never do. We just expect you to be there. If you’re not? Well, you’ll catch up. You better. If you can’t, then maybe you don’t deserve to ride with the Hellraisers.

I know this road by heart. I’d been beaten and left for dead by the side more times than I can remember. The animal in me never wanted to retaliate. Probably because I kept it subdued for so long. It’s fucked up when you’re the only one of something. The only member of a species, of a breed that exists nowhere else. Or, at least, you live half your life believing this. So, you end up not caring. You pick fights just for the heck of it. You fuck chicks because… well, just because. Is there ever a reason for fucking, other than the sense of instant gratification? I’d say the fuck not.

A life led in murky bars, head between smelly tits of some sleazy stripper, mouth drowning in cheap booze. You’d think you’d get tired of it eventually. But, you don’t. You’re the only one of something, something horrible, something not even fully human, but something else completely. Something others are afraid of. So, you stop showing them this side of you. Because, all you’d ever get in return is violence, hate, fear. Hell, there’s more of that shit in the world than necessary. Why create more?

One night, you pick a fight with the wrong guy. You slap his girl’s ass. You squeeze her fake tit. Whatever. You’re too drunk to know what you’re doing, anyway. But, they don’t care.They take you out of the bar, dragging you by your feet. You can barely stay awake. The booze is cheap. It does you in quick and hard. Hell, you doubt you could even stand up straight. But, they don’t even give you the chance to try.

Three guys to one. Is it fair? Shit, I guess not. Three guys to one animal, though? More fair? Probably. But, you’re too fucked up to transform. That shit takes focus, concentrated effort. So, instead, I feel the blows to my belly, to my side. My inner organs shift to adapt to the blows, to make them less painful, to make my innards less hurt, less sore the following day.

Three guys to one. No one pays any attention. People just pass by, in broad circle, pretending they don’t see. It’s alright. I’d pretend not to see, too. Easier that way. They spit at me, they throw their cigar butts. I don’t even feel the burns. Warm liquid oozes out of the corner of my mouth. It tastes like copper wire. I spit it out.

I have no idea how long it lasts. Long enough for me to lose consciousness. When I open my eyes, one of them at least, the sun is high up in the sky, like a torch. But, it’s not my victory it celebrates. My other eye is beaten shut. I can’t press my lips together. That copper taste is gone from my mouth. I can taste grains of sand between my teeth. I try to move, but my whole body hurts, like I was pulled apart by horses, to all four sides of the world.

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