home. Take me back!”
By the time Troy sat the boy back down on the tail of the Caddy, Aaron looked like a mutt cat caught in a rainstorm.
“So, is it a deal? I need to hear you say it. You signing on for option two or am I gonna bury your ass over there?” Troy gestured back towards the grave.
Aaron was overcome with the shakes. Troy figured it was only seconds before the boy fainted or puked.
“Yes,” said Aaron, but it came out weakly.
“Yes, what!” Geez, now he remembered how it was dealing with a stubborn teenage son, but Troy Jr. had balls – this one had – he didn’t know.
“Option two.”
“I’m glad for your grandparent’s sake, but now I’m sentenced to a year or two of looking after your sorry ass.”
“Troy –”
“Yeah… You getting all friendly now?”
“My parents, they like you a lot.”
“That's cool. You called them your parents. I thought they were your grands.”
“They are, but they raised me most of my life.”
“I like them, and I could – grow to like you too. I guess. But, just in case, you didn’t get my drift: at this point, I don’t give a crap for your sorry ass, but your grandparents do, and that’s all what matters to me.”
“How much are they paying you?”
“Nothing. This is no charge because I don’t want to see you go off the rails.”
“You gonna put me in the trunk again?”
“Shut up, I’m thinking.”
Troy dug through the backseat and came up with a pair of dirty jeans. He undid the handcuffs and shoved the clothes to Aaron.
“Put these on! You stink like piss and…" Troy handed him a plastic water bottle and gray soured towel. The boy headed for the bushes. Troy drew his revolver and Aaron heard the click. “You kidding me, right?” Troy shook his head and motioned with the gun like he'd caught a three-year-old trying to get away with a cookie.
“What'd I do?”
“Now’s not the time to get all prissy shy! I don't trust you far as I could throw you and that's not very far. No whining. Strip down.”
Troy stepped into Dockers, pulled on a Polo shirt, and Aaron’s eyes fixed on the tattoos drawn across his chest: split down the middle by a medieval ax was a smiling white skull, 1% was scrawled on each temple. Below, on six-pack abs, were the numerals 187 atop crossed revolvers.
“What the hell are you looking at?”
“What's the meaning behind all that?”
“It's a warning.”
“Huh?”
“Whoever has these, have nothing to do with them, unless you're with me –” The kid brightened like a Christmas tree, and Troy continued. “– which after this, is about as likely as you scratching your ear with your elbow; nonetheless, stay away.”
There was a sappy glazed look on the kid’s face.
“Don't go getting the idea we're all chummy now.” Troy stared hard at him. “Now, what are you grinnin’ at?”
“Those clothes look weird on you?”
“Not so to a cop if he stops us. Get in the damn car.”
They rode in silence to Bakersfield. Aaron’s head leaned against the passenger window. He had watched endless acres of farmland roll by before he turned to Troy.
“Seems you been a lot of good to me already,” and then he went back to staring out the window. Not another word was said during the rest of the trip back to Sacramento.
Aaron was delivered to his grandparents with minimal injuries beyond a black eye, some road rash, and the lip missing a chunk of skin which would leave a scar to remind him the rest of his life.
Aidan and Margie gave Troy a stoic but heartfelt thanks. They knew he would accept no more.
Aaron never did speak to anyone of that trip. Today he's kicking butt in law school, the pride of his parents.
THE END
Following the end is always a new beginning.
This story began its life as the opening chapter for my upcoming novel Flatline. But, one of my Beta Readers suggested it didn’t belong to the opening chapter, and I couldn’t make it fit anywhere else. The story relates to the novel and found a new life as its own short story.
Regretfully, this is the only appearance of Sam and Beadie. In Flatline, Troy is the protagonist, though.
The events and situations here and in Flatline are fictionalized accounts of things I did or stories I robbed from my friends. I’m glad I lived to tell the tale. As in the story, a local chapter of the Worlds largest motorcycle club does have its clubhouse in my neighborhood.
I appreciate you taking the time to read my tale. Hope you enjoyed.
Would you take the time to give an honest review?
Best Regards,
M
About the Author
Other than dying a slow pleasurable death from the incurable disease of writing, I am a retiree, father, and husband. After having raised four daughters who are all well into adulthood, my wife and I are now bringing up a very active five-year-old boy. We live in Sacramento, California.
Early in life, I was sidetracked by a maniacally dysfunctional lifestyle but found later that those same troubles make for great storytelling. I’ve been blessed to take a wide bite out of life from motorcycle outlaw to Pastor of a church and missionary evangelist. I have seen a lot and traveled a lot; many things I wished I'd never seen or done and some I can't wait to do again, but each and every scrap makes fantastic fabric from which to weave a grand tale. Many if not most of the events in this book I have in one form or another experienced.
My greatest joy would be that you were moved in some way by my tale, or at the very least you simply enjoyed reading it.
Peace,
Mike Matheson
Look for Flatline coming soon. As in this story, the heroes are not the good guys.
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