Page 7 of Catcher's Lock
“I’m an asshole who recognizes my own kind. Don’t go painting me as some type of hero.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Ever the optimist, Alex makes his way to the bathroom with a significant look at Josh. Me, he blatantly ignores.
“Don’t,” I say, but my high is wearing off, and I’m not sure who I think I’m saving anymore. Josh sighs and grabs his jacket as he slips from his stool.
“You’re buying my drink,” he informs me. “See you next time.”
There won’t be a next time. I need to get the fuck out of Bakersfield. Unconsciously, my eyes track to the north, following the gut tug of instinct I’ve been battling since I left Albuquerque. Drawn unerringly toward the guy I spent years torturing and more years running away from.
I thought it might be weird being back in California after over a year away. Instead, I’m filled with a familiar charge of being back in the same state ashim—the feeling conversely soothing and dangerous, like the murmur of the crowd through the curtain before the start of the show. The coke from earlier fizzes in my bloodstream, just starting to mellow with the third drink.
A misguided vigilante.
Except vigilantes try to help people. I can dress it up however I want, but allI’mtrying to do is punish myself.
It doesn’t matter that he’s still my best friend, or that once upon a time, I was his. He’s far better off without me, and I’m an idiot for thinking I can fix anything with booze and drugs and brutal fists.
And a selfish asshole for dreaming I deserve to be fixed.
Three drinks later, and I’m drunk enough to know I shouldn’t get back on my bike, but I fix that with a couple more lines in the bathroom. The whole time I’m cutting them out, I’m half expecting Alex to pay me a visit, but when I get back to the bar, he and his cronies are gone.
Swallowing the drug’s acrid drip, I pay my tab—including Josh’s single rum and Coke—and let myself out into the night.
They’re waiting for me in the parking lot, one of them lounging against my Triumph with a familiarity that makes my teeth itch. I guess in a bar filled with jocks and sorority girls, the leather jacket gave me away.
“I see you’ve met Bonnie.” I keep my voice friendly enough but pull my hands from my pockets and shift my weight onto my toes. Looks like I’m getting some action tonight after all.
“My boy here says you tried to suck his dick,” the Bonnie molester says, tossing my helmet between his hands.
“Oh, I did more than try. He loved it too.” I wink at Alex. “Told me I had the prettiest mouth.”
Predictably, said mouth takes the first hit.
I duck the second swing and get in a good gut shot and an elbow to the nose of the guy closing in behind me before they’re all on me, and then the world goes hazy and red. As always, my wasted state protects me from the worst of the pain, but my reflexes are slow and my spirit’s not in it. I’m on the ground too soon, arms curled around my worthless head in a last-ditch attempt at self-preservation, when a cowboy boot to the side sends a flash of real pain through the fog.
It’s been a while since I busted a rib.
There’s asphalt under my cheek and blood in my mouth, and it must be starting to rain because my vision is all halos and smears. The sharp smell of gasoline burns my already abused nostrils.
I put up a last feeble fight when one of them rips at my jacket, but when a muscle threatens to tear, I give it up. I can ride with a bruised rib, but not a dislocated shoulder.
Who knows how long I lie there after they leave, sucking shallow breaths through my mouth and blinking up at the light pollution.
I miss the stars.
They were so close in the desert, sprawled in three dimensions across the vastness of the sky. So elusive in Mendo, a hidden tapestry peeking through the trees to wink at two boys in a hammock.
Move, asshole.
I roll my head to the side, bracing for the inevitable agony of pushing my bruised abs to work against my protesting ribs. Bonnie is on her side, leaking from her own cracked carapace, and something is wrong about the angle of the back wheel.
Bastards. Taking out their homophobia on an innocent machine.
My jacket is gone, and with it, my wallet.
I guess a robbery is easier on the conscience than a hate crime, but damn, the Triumph is fucked, and since I’m strictly cash only these days, I’m equally screwed without my wallet. At least I still have the keys in my front jeans pocket and my phone digging into my hip, hopefully unbroken.
