Page 12 of Savage Daddies

Nothing pots.

That’s because green-eyed goddess is playing with my mind again.

Wrangler is right. We shouldn’t be talking about something that happened years ago. I set the cue up against the wall and take a long gulp of stout to empty my head. Wind whistles through gaps in the architecture, causing the wooden structure of this place to creek slightly. Reminiscing on a one-night stand takes me away from the present day—a pretty damn good experience that I don’t want to let pass me by.

Passing initiation changed my life.

My midlife crisis hit pretty hard, triggered by Trudy, my ex-wife, wheeling two suitcases out the door. I asked if she wanted a hand, she said, “I got it,” and that was pretty much it. My eight-year marriage was over.

We were young. Both twenty-four when we tied the knot. It was too early, we’d only known one another eleven months, but we were young and in love and besides, everybody else was marrying so we had to catch up.

We stopped having sex. Two years after the marriage, desire burned out. It wasn’t the best anyway, and we only did it because that’s what married people were supposed to do, but she was never wet and most times I only ever reached a semi, so finishing was out of the question. But I loved her. Looking back, it was platonic, but she was company and we both looked out for one another.

Until she got bored and decided to leave.

I see why. I taught high school, and teachers lose all sense of personality the second they sign their contract. The little bit of personality youdohave is centered around school. Conversations become work-related, even out of office hours. Even during spring break when you’re in Hawaii with Trudy enjoying a piña colada, laughing to yourself about the Lady Macbeth joke one of your students made.

Stick a “boring” label on me already.

Teaching had its perks. Seeing students succeed brought pride to my chest, and I brought a fair few students all the way from F’s to A’s so that’s worth celebrating. But I became a shell of myself apart from that, and nothing existed outside of marking and lesson planning.

At thirty-two years old, a couple months after Trudy divorced me, I resigned.

The next day, I bumped into a Venom Vulture club member at the gas station and questioned how he managed to get his leather-gloved hands on a Screamin’ Eagle 135ci.

The rest is history.

I take another drink of stout and lean against the wall. Nothing beats the satisfying sound of two phenolic resin balls clicking together. It’s Wednesday morning and I’m having a cold one with the boys. This is my life now. No more shouting at students. No more explaining Shakespearean language. Just silence, and desert wind whistling in through the eaves.

And a scream.

Wrangler looks up from his cue. “What was that?”

“A scream.” Bullwhip strides over to the window. “Get your ears checked.”

“I dunno,” Wrangler snorts. “Those coyotes get pretty fuckin’ wild sometimes.”

Bullwhip frowns, head turning back and forth as he searches the surroundings. “Shit.”

“What is it?”

There’s no time for questioning. Bullwhip heads out the door, and we follow him.

Daylight filters into my eyes. The sun is bright, penetrating right into my eyeballs.

But that’s not the only bright thing around here.

Red hair. It shines almost as bright as the glowing ball above us. Long waves of it lift in the wind as she struggles against something. Sinking sand? What is that? She kicks her feet. Crawls backward on her elbows away from something that, given her race to get away, appears to be still chasing her.

“Sweetheart?”

“Oh my GOD! Get that thing off me!”

Bullwhip frowns. “A spider.”

“How are you saying that so calmly?” she asks.

I move closer to see two hairy legs wind around the woman’s bare ankles.

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