Page 56 of Riot's Thorn
It’s probably a sensitive topic, but I want to know him more, so I decide to tiptoe around a few questions I’ve been saving up.
“I love how cozy you’ve made it over there,” I say. “Why did you make that space for yourself?”
He’s quiet for a long while, staring off into space while he eats. I know he heard me, so I give him time to think. I’d guess no one knows about it because he hides his vulnerable side that doesn’t fit with being a badass biker. Especially one who kills for a living.
It takes him a minute, but when he speaks, his words are monotonous. Without the typical emphasis on certain syllables, it can be hard to tell how he’s feeling, so I’ve learned to look for other signs. If he’s fidgeting or moving around in some other way, he’s distressed. If his body is still and his words come easier, then he’s relaxed.
Right now, his knee is bouncing, so I know whatever he’s about to say bothers him. “When I was a kid, maybe six or seven, my mom would kick me out of the house whenever she was mad at me. I had nowhere to go, but there was a corner store I knew how to get to, so that’s where I went. The owner wouldn’t let me loiter around inside for very long, since I didn’t have money, so I found a spot behind a dumpster. As I grew up, I made it more comfortable with pillows and blankets I kept hidden in a tote close by. It became my safe place.”
“Oh, god, I’m so sorry.” The more he tells me about his mom, the less the idea of him killing her disturbs me.
What does that say about me?
“Don’t be. That’s how I figured out how smart and friendly rats could be.”
“What? There were rats?” I whisper the question, as if the outraged way I asked would hurt Ben and Amy’s feelings. This nearly earns me a grin, and I vow to make this man smile someday. I need to see it.
“Yeah. It took some time for them to trust me, but bringing them food helped.” He pushed the rice around on his plate,which tells me it bothers him more than what his tone allows. “They were my only friends until I turned eighteen and moved across town. I didn’t do it on purpose, but each place I lived after that, I made a small space for when. . .”
“When you needed to calm down or process something?” I finish for him because admitting that might be hard for a man like him.
“Yeah.” He glances up at me. It’s so brief, I barely catch it, but I know he’s looking for acceptance.
“I’m jealous. I could’ve used a space like that multiple times this week.”
“You can use mine whenever you want.”
“Thank you.” I take a bite of my fajita, deciding to ask another burning question that’s been on my mind. “How did you find the club?”
“Did you meet Dutch? He’s another one of my brothers.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Anyway, we worked at the cement factory together when we were younger. We both had bikes, and the factory had motorcycle parking, so we ended up coming to and leaving work around the same time, even though we worked in different departments. One day, he showed up in a leather cut with a prospect patch, and we got to talking. He told me the club was just a big family, and the way he described it, I just knew I wanted to join.” He breaks off a couple of pieces of tortilla and feeds them to Ben and Amy, who took a break from roughhousing to eat. “I was already fucked in the head by then—my mom made sure of that—so when the club realized I had aspecial talent, they fast-tracked me.”
At the time, the club had multiple illegal ventures, so things weren’t as calm as they are now. Turns out, when you’re able to take lives without remorse or even caring why, you’re an asset.
“Did you find what you were looking for with the club?” I ask, wanting to know his perspective on it.
“Yes and no. Every man out there would die for me, but I’m just different, I guess.” So he does feel that disconnect. I wasn’t sure and didn’t want to bring it up if he hadn’t noticed the way I did.
“Why don’t you say something about how they segregate you?”
“That’s too harsh a word, and I can’t really put all the blame on them. I’m different. And don’t try to deny it because I know you know, too.”
“I don’t think it’s because you’re ‘fucked in the head’, as you put it. I just think your brain works differently,” I say.
“I guess.” He sighs, dismissing my opinion, but that’s okay. At least I said it.
Standing, he takes his empty plate and my mostly empty one to the kitchen. Seconds later, he returns with a water bottle, handing it to me. “Thanks.”
“I gotta go out for a bit,” he says, pushing his feet into his boots.
I straighten. “Where are you going?”
“Just have some unfinished business to attend to.”
“The man?”
