Sunday Morning (Damaged #7.5)(5)
“That he did,” Kirk said, caressing my cheek. “Did you want him to die?”
“I really wouldn’t have cared either way. Kristi is a shitty friend, but Carvin busts her upside the head a lot.”
“I don’t like hitting women. You know why?”
“They hit back?” I asked.
Kirk smiled. “No, they cry.”
“Carvin’s crying.”
“Yeah and that’s why I don’t like hitting pussies either.”
“What would I have to do to make you hit me?”
Kirk considered my question. “Try to set me on fire. Or bury me alive. I wouldn’t sit still for that shit.”
“But slapping you around or stealing your heart would be non-hitting offenses,” I teased, nearly laughing.
“I’m tough. I could take you kicking my ass.”
“I’d probably cheat.”
“Oh, no doubt about that,” he said, gesturing for me to follow him off the porch. “I’ll walk you home.”
I paced myself and passed three trailers before speaking. “I want you to know that if Carvin got the upper hand with you, I would have jumped in and saved you.”
“Without your bat?”
“I would have used your rocking chair as a weapon.”
Laughing, Kirk reached over and played with my loose hair. He didn’t turn the touch into anything more, though.
We stopped in front of my trailer where inside Robin blasted Bon Jovi.
“You behave until you’re old enough for me to worship.”
“I promise nothing,” I said, hating to leave his side.
Kirk might have heard the sadness in my tone. He reached out and softly brushed my cheek with his thumb.
“I’d say something to fix the look on your face, but I don’t know what that something might be.”
I nodded. “Thanks for talking to me.”
Kirk stepped back. “I’m glad you came by and entertained me, but you probably shouldn’t do that again. The club isn’t safe.”
My heart wouldn’t let me nod at his warning. I needed to see Kirk again. He was too special in a world full of crap. I didn’t know how long it would take, but I would know everything there was to know about Kirk.
3 - Kirk
Sunday mornings changed once I got older. I wasn’t sure exactly when it happened. I woke one Sunday without a hangover or a strange woman in my bed. I got up earlier and drank coffee rather than chasing my last buzz. I stood in the cold morning and thought about the forty-two years that led to that moment.
I never wanted much from life. My parents couldn’t raise me. I ended up shuffled between relatives who didn’t want me either. Once I was old enough, I got stuck in juvenile hall where I finally fit. I met people who later hired me for work that made me solid money. Years passed, and I stumbled onto the Chesterfield Vandals. They were a young, bratty club full of boys playing men. I was like their f*cking dad, but I wouldn’t have been proud of a single one of them if they really were my kids.
After I lost interest in drinking and started waking up sober on Sundays, I got handed the job of tracking down my club brothers from wherever the booze and drugs finally dropped them. Most were around the Bounce House strip joint where we did our business. I usually found Jimmy in the parking lot, half under a car. Toby often crawled into someone’s truck bed before crashing. Anyone not at the Bounce House was likely in the Princess Farms Trailer Park next door to the club.
Sunday mornings were probably the only times the park wasn’t rocking a Morton Downey, Jr. Show vibe with unsupervised kids, drunken arguments, and blasting TVs. Whenever I got nostalgic for my childhood, I took a ride through Princess Farms and saw the lack of parental attention.
Sometimes, the bullshit got to me like when I intervened with a stoned mom wailing on her kid. No doubt she returned to beating the shit out of him as soon as I drove off. There was no fixing what was wrong with the trailer park. The only solution was to burn it down and hope something worthwhile came from its ashes.
Everything about Princess Farms pissed me off until I caught sight of a pajama-wearing Jodi swinging her bat at a wasted Gordy. The chick raged on him, and I nearly burst into laughter. I knew how she felt. These younger guys in the Chesterfield Vandals Motorcycle Club often made me homicidal.
They didn’t know how to keep their asses focused. The cops in Chesterfield were a joke, but they weren’t the only law enforcement *s keeping an eye on us or the Memphis outfit pulling our strings. If I were in charge, our operations would run tighter and leaner. More work, fewer parties. Except I wasn’t in charge, and I didn’t see the benefit of taking on the pressure. Not with these guys or in this town.
I’d done my time as the guy with the plan. A decade earlier, I worked ugly jobs for powerful men in Memphis. I made connections, and I could have moved up in the organization. That life didn’t interest me. Fancy f*cking cars and playing handshake with other *s wasn’t nearly as fun as riding hogs and enjoying a hot afternoon with a cold beer.
Pressure was for other men. I wasn’t a follower, but I sure as hell didn’t want to be a leader. Hell, I didn’t want much of anything those days. Life was stable.
Then I looked into the pissed-off blue eyes of a raging teenager and wanted someone I shouldn’t have. Someone I couldn’t have yet knew was mine. This chick was it for me, and I didn’t even know her name.