I didn't know all the rules of their club.
“It’s no secret.” Easy’s powerful shoulders move under his leather cut. I noticed that they rarely go out in public without them on. Actually, now that I think about it, they are almost always wearing them, even inside their clubhouse at the outskirts of town. The few times they haven’t been wearing their leather vests with the colorful patches declaring them to be part of the Death Lords motorcycle club is when they’ve been in bed with me. And even sometimes, they’ve taken me with their pants just shoved down to the hips and their colors still draped around their shoulders. “Judge’s granddad moved here with some other vets from Worthington. They all shared a love of bikes and the road and kind of formed a loose association with them that became more formal as time went on. When they went to bike meets or shit like that, guys would talk and swap stories and I guess that’s how they came to put the Death Lords together.”
“There are rumors that the Death Lords are into some not so legal stuff,” I ask carefully.
“We’re no angels,” Easy admits. “But we’ve got a code and we follow it. Citizens—non-club members—should be left alone so long as they don’t interfere with our business. We’re just trying to enjoy our lives, protect our way of living without hurting others. Is that going to be an issue?”
His tone is light but he’s dead serious. I think of all the sin that goes on in the church and how so many people treat tithing and appearance at church once a week as a get out of jail free card. Easy and Michigan’s way of life is more open in the sense that they don’t hide who they are or how they want to live. They aren’t ashamed and I love that. “No, it’s not a problem.” Some imp inside me makes me ask, “Do I get a special name like you guys?”
"Our names came from our time in the service." Easy leans back and spreads his arms out in a pose I’m recognizing as a sign that’s he’s utterly relaxed. "I'm pretty laid back and so they called me Easy Beasley which got shortened to Easy. Made sense for that to be my road name. Michigan got called that because there were two Davises in our unit. One was from Tennessee and then there was Michigan and that's how we separated them."
Michigan, who I've learned is the quiet one, nods his head in agreement but by the way he likes to crowd me, I’m beginning to understand he needs the physical closeness. I don’t know much about his past, but I’m guessing he’s as starved for love as I am.
"Why not just go by Van?" Van is Easy's Christian name, the one his parents gave him and the name all of his family members call him.
"Road names are an important part of the club, honey," Easy says. "When you patch in, that's your new family and kind of like how married people change their names, that's how we change ours. And our pasts don't matter. It's how we treat the club, the members of the club, that matter.”
Like I said, no shame.
"So, no name for us women?" It's a joke because women aren't allowed into the Death Lords MC. That's not true for other MCs, according to Pippa, my boss at the library, but it's true for theirs.
"Yeah, Hot Stuff," Easy winks.
The ride home is a dream. Despite the late summer heat, I wear the leather jacket the two bought me because Michigan wouldn’t start the bike until I pulled it on. “Your skin’s too precious not to protect,” he’d said.
Well, when he put it like that I wrapped it around me quicker than he could say please. The rest of the things they bought me at the mall are stuffed inside one of Easy’s saddlebags. I’m having them take it home with them and when I’ve moved out into my own place, I’ll reclaim it. The silky lingerie, the chaps that I modeled for them the night before, the tight T-shirts and even tighter jeans will all be mine soon.
When they drop me off at the parish house, the lights of the house are off. There’s a note that says Father is with a parishioner tonight. I have a sudden yearning to call up the guys and tell them I’ll be right over, but instead I go upstairs to my childhood bedroom. I hide the helmet under the bed and hang the leather jacket in the back of the closet. Then I sit at my little desk and wonder what I’m going to tell my father.
Neither of them wanted to leave me, but I need to do this by myself.
Turning my hands palm up I stare at the leather cuffs that Easy and Michigan gave me. Each one is different but they both have the flaming skull of the Death Lords burned into the leather. Easy had placed his on the counter at the Brew Ha Ha telling me that if I put it on, I’d be accepting his invitation—or rather his claim. Tricia from the coffee shop told me that these were claiming cuffs and as long as I wore them no one would touch me. Together they mark me as property of the Death Lords—Michigan and Easy’s, to be specific. Michigan gave me his when he took my virginity.
The memory sends shivers all over me.
Regretfully I take them off and tuck them into my desk drawer. If it weren’t for the flaming skull, I’d wear them but the symbols are ones that Father would say are demon-like. It will be hard enough to tell him I’m leaving home, getting a different job, so even though not wearing the cuffs makes me feel naked and lonely, I’ll hold on to the thought that I’ll be able to wear them all the time soon.
***
The next morning I wake up with a bad feeling. I can’t pinpoint the cause but my chest feels tight. If there was ever a time I wish I had a mother, it is now. For as long as I can remember she’s lived in a commune in Northern Minnesota where they live off the grid. No electricity, no telephones. I finger my cell phone and then dial a number impulsively. I can only leave a message at a local coffee shop which is owned by a relative of one of the commune members so I won’t be able to talk to her today but maybe she’ll call back soon.
"Hello?"
"Hi, this is Annie Bloom. I wondered if I could leave a message for Sonya Bloom."
There's a hesitation on the other end and the silence lasts for so long I wonder if my connection has been broken.
"Is anyone there?" I ask.
"Um, yeah, sorry. Annie, your mother left the group about three years ago and moved out to Seattle."
"Seattle?" I ask dumbly.
"She never told you, huh?"
"No," I reply, hot embarrassment flooding me. "She never said a word. We haven't had much contact in the past few years." Actually, none.
"Sorry, hon. She's always been flighty but I think your old man knew. They've had some contact."
"They have?" I feel like a stupid parrot.
"Yeah, sorry, I have to go."
Anger fuels me down the stairs and out of the house. I march across the short yard to the side door that leads into the church office. I can’t believe he has kept this from me. I’m an adult and I deserved to know.
Father is sitting behind his massive oak desk, a relic from the early 1900s when the church was first built. I think they built the house around the desk.
"Why didn't you tell me that Mom had moved away from St. Paul? Where is she now? When did she move? Did she try to call you?" I pepper him with questions before he even registers I'm inside the room.
He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. "Sit down, Annie. Ask your questions like my daughter and not a wild person who was raised in some barn."
I clamp my mouth shut at the admonition and sink into one of the hard-backed chairs in front of his desk. He forces me to sit there for at least five minutes, ostensibly cleaning his glasses. They weren’t dirty when he started wiping them down. This is a punishment for bursting into his office without prior notice and assaulting him with questions. I shove my hands under my legs to keep from pounding them on the desk and bite my tongue hard.
Finally he says, "Why are you asking me about this now?"
"I called her—or I called the phone number that she'd given me once."
"I didn't know you had contact with her."
I feel myself flush a little. He had never forbidden contact with her but I knew he hadn't wanted me to be in touch. Still, she was my mother and I didn't have anything to feel guilty about—a
t least not in conjunction with her. "I had a little, but not much."
"I wish you would have told me, Annie. This is why secrets aren't a good thing. If you had told me you were in contact with her, I could have explained some things."
"Why didn't you tell me you were in contact with her?" I can’t keep the accusatory note out of my voice.
He sighs and answers me slowly, as if I’m a child and have trouble understanding. "I only heard from her sporadically. Would you have wanted me to tell you that she called and never asked about you?"
"No. Yes, I mean, I don’t know," I admit. I'm sure he didn't mean for his words to be hurtful yet the idea she never wanted to speak to me, never asked about me, causes my heart to tighten nonetheless.
He lays his glasses on the desk. "This is what I'm trying to protect you from. Your mother was never meant to have children. She simply wasn't suited emotionally for such a task. When she left, it was better for both of us, don't you agree? We’ve made a good team, you and I, and while I’ve made my mistakes here and there, we’ve knocked around quite well."
I nod numbly.
“Now that we’ve taken care of that, how was your librarians’ trip? I didn’t realize that Pippa Lang did not attend all the days with you. How did you get back into town?”
This is my opportunity to tell him I’m leaving and that I’m going to find a new job but the thing with my mother has left me reeling. Instead I blurt out, “Easy—I mean Van Beasley asked me out and I said yes. I just wanted to tell you.”
“Van Beasley?” he says sharply. “Isn’t he a member of that gang?”
“It’s not a gang, Father. It’s a group of men that enjoy motorcycles.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“What does he do for a living?” Now he’s the one peppering me with questions and I feel as if I’m under attack—or at least my decisions are.
“He works for the munitions plant.” What he did for Mallory’s Manufacturing, I didn’t know.
“Hmmm.” He purses his lips. “Why don’t you have him come over for dinner tonight?”
“Tonight?” I squeak. I don’t know if I’m ready for the two of them to meet. I cringe inside at the conflict of having Easy in my house with Father, who will undoubtedly criticize everything about Easy from his tattoos to the leather cut he wears to the motorcycle he rides and the “gang” he belongs to.
“Is that a problem?”