Calm

I’m used to riding motorcycles.

I ride every day. Rain. Heat. Cold. Hangovers. Gunfire. Court dates. Tuesdays.

Doesn’t matter.

Two wheels and bad decisions have been my preferred method of transportation since I was old enough to lie about my age and dumb enough to believe I’d live forever.

Which is why it means something when Dirty Deeds manages to scare the hell out of me.

He takes me on what I can only describe as a suicide run through downtown Paradise.

Traffic lights?

Suggestions.

Stop signs?

Decorations.

Speed limits?

Government conspiracy.

We weave between cars, trucks, buses, pedestrians, bicyclists, one confused priest, and what I’m reasonably certain is a woman walking three alpacas.

Dirty rides like the road belongs to him and everyone else is only leasing space.

I hold on.

Mostly with my right hand.

Every turn knocks my broken pinky against the back of Dirty’s jacket. By the third red light, it develops its own pulse.

Not that I’m scared.

I simply enjoy keeping my organs on the inside.

By the time we screech into the gravel lot behind Tabitha’s Guns, Ammo, and Things, my legs feel like boiled noodles and I’m doing everything in my power not to vomit on Dirty’s back patch.

I climb off his bike nice and casual.

No shaking.

No stumbling.

No dry heaving.

Dirty Deeds looks over his shoulder and grins.

“You good, Gene?”

I straighten my shirt.

“Never better.”

He nods.

“Liar.”

Fair.

A second bike slides in beside us.

Carnival Boy.

Kristy Lee climbs off the back of his Harley laughing so hard I think she might pass out.

Not polite laughter.

Not nervous laughter.

I’m talking doubled over, hands on her knees, tears streaming down her face.

Carnival Boy looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“And that”—he points at her—“is why the porcupine had to stay in its cage.”

Kristy howls.

I walk over.

“What’s so funny?”

She tries to answer.

Fails.

Tries again.

“Nothing—”

More laughter.

“Carnival Boy was telling me how he got his name.”

“Sounds educational.”

Dirty pulls alongside us.

“It ain’t funny.”

He jerks one thumb toward Carnival Boy.

“Now he’ll be telling that story all week because he made some pretty girl smile.”

Carnival Boy tips an imaginary hat.

“Worth it.”

Dirty snorts and peels out.

Carnival Boy looks at Kristy.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

They exchange a series of fist bumps, handshakes, finger snaps, and what I’m pretty sure is either a secret biker greeting or the beginning of a minor cult.

Then he takes off after Dirty.

Kristy wipes the tears from her eyes.

I fold my arms.

“Seems like you two bonded.”

She looks up at me.

Smiles.

“Why?”

A beat.

“You jealous?”

I shrug.

“Nope.”

She steps closer.

“That sounded jealous.”

I nod toward the road.

“That sounded like motion sickness.”

She laughs, wraps both arms around my waist, and kisses my cheek.

My ribs object.

I don’t.

“Don’t worry,” she says, leaning against me. “There’s only one man I want to keep almost dying with.”

I look down at her.

“Picking up the sarcasm.”

“Good.”

We share a quick kiss.

Then she looks up at the enormous faded marquee above us.

TABITHA’S GUNS, AMMO, AND THINGS

She raises an eyebrow.

“What are we doing here?”

“I have a friend.”

She grins.

“Is her name Tabitha?”

I open the door for her.

“Actually…”

I smile.

“Yeah.”

Walking into Tabitha’s is a little like walking into a fever dream designed by someone with access to military surplus and recreational drugs.

It takes your senses a minute to adjust.

Lavender incense.

Gun oil.

Dust.

Leather.

Cigarette smoke.

Old vinyl.

New ammunition.

The smell of a desert gunfight and a hippie commune sharing the same zip code.

You can buy:

A Smith & Wesson.

A kayak.

A Bowie knife.

A nurse’s uniform.

A Polish customs jacket.

A Grateful Dead bootleg.

A lava lamp.

Three boxes of buckshot.

And a scented candle called Moonlight Seduction.

I once watched a nun buy incense while a militia guy debated between two shotguns.

Nobody found it strange.

That’s Tabitha’s.

Kristy stops dead in the doorway.

“Wow.”

I nod.

“Gets weirder.”

She smiles.

“I like weird.”

“I noticed.”

We make our way toward the back.

Past bomber jackets.

Past crates of vinyl.

Past a mannequin wearing combat boots and a flower crown.

And there—

Behind the counter—

Sits Tabitha.

She looks like somebody’s grandmother.

If that grandmother bewitched half the county, buried three husbands, survived four biker wars, and once convinced a state trooper to write himself a ticket.

White hair.

Tattooed arms.

Reading glasses.

Pall Mall hanging from the corner of her mouth.

A little white poodle sleeps on the counter beside her.

Poochie opens one eye.

Sees me.

Growls.

Tabitha lowers her magazine.

“She only growls at the bad ones.”

I reach toward the dog.

“What are you talking about? I’m a good guy.”

Poochie snaps at my fingers.

Tabitha looks over her glasses.

“Sure.”

Kristy reaches down and scratches behind Poochie’s ears.

The dog rolls over and practically proposes marriage.

Traitor.

“See?” Kristy smiles. “She likes me.”

Tabitha looks her over.

Then nods.

“Smart dog.”

She wheezes, coughs, and lights another cigarette from the dying remains of the first.

“What can I do for the two of you?”

I lean against the counter.

“I need tear gas.”

She nods.

“Masks?”

“Two,” Kristy answers.

I look at her.

She doesn’t blink.

I turn back to Tabitha.

“Two.”

“Anything else?”

I look toward the back room.

“Access.”

Tabitha smiles.

Mean.

“Still got lockers.”

The nook behind Tabitha’s looks like a bomb shelter built by a paranoid librarian.

Old shelves.

Old books.

An army cot.

A rotary phone.

Dust.

Memories.

And lockers.

Not one.

Four.

Numbers that make no sense.

Twelve.

Thirty-three.

Fifty-eight.

Eighty-two.

Kristy follows me down the row.

I open twelve.

Cash.

I open thirty-three.

Guns.

I open fifty-eight.

Burner phones. Passports. Driver’s licenses. Enough identities to confuse the federal government and at least two ex-girlfriends.

My broken pinky catches against the metal door.

Pain shoots through my hand.

I pretend it doesn’t.

Kristy whistles.

“You always this prepared?”

I shrug.

“I have trust issues.”

She smiles.

Then stops.

Locker eighty-two.

Locked.

She looks back at me.

Oh no.

“What’s in this one?”

I push away from the wall.

“Nothing you need.”

She reaches toward the handle.

I move faster and slam my palm against the locker, rattling the entire row.

Silence.

She looks up at me.

“Secrets?”

I hold her eyes.

Then look at the locker.

“Past mistakes.”

Her expression softens.

“You don’t have to hide that from me.”

I shake my head.

Small smile.

“Not hiding.”

A beat.

“Moving on.”

She studies me.

Then smirks.

Of course she smirks.

“It’s a girl.”

I fold my arms.

“You telling me there’s no Mister Right buried in your past?”

She shrugs.

“A few I thought were.”

A beat.

“Never locked one in a locker.”

I point at her.

“I didn’t—”

Her hand lifts toward the handle again.

“Don’t.”

She studies me.

Then lets her hand fall.

“Okay.”

No argument.

No joke.

Just okay.

Something inside me loosens.

I look at her.

She looks at me.

Suddenly the lockers, the money, the guns, the fake names, and the plan don’t feel important.

I kiss her.

For a little while, the world stops asking anything from either of us.

Later, we lie tangled together on an army cot that has absolutely no business holding both of us.

Kristy rests her head on my chest with one leg draped across mine. Her fingers draw lazy circles against my ribs.

Neither of us says anything for a while.

Then I remember something.

“You know I still owe you for doping me.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“I charge interest.”

“I assumed.”

Silence settles again.

Then—

“You ever think about having kids?”

I stare at the ceiling.

“You’re the second woman to ask me that this week.”

“Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something.”

“The universe needs a hobby.”

She lifts her head.

“I’m serious.”

“Why?”

A beat.

“You want to practice some more?”

She smacks my chest.

My ribs file a complaint.

“Maybe later.”

I smile.

Then her voice changes.

Softer.

“No. Seriously.”

I look down.

She isn’t joking.

She nods toward the front of the store.

“When I watched you building that definitely-not-a-bomb in front of thirty drunk bikers…”

She smiles.

“I thought—that man would be good with children.”

I laugh.

“Pretty sure the Devil’s Angels wouldn’t appreciate being described as children.”

She smiles but doesn’t let me dodge.

“So?”

I stare at the ceiling for a long time.

Then—

“Why would a guy like me have kids…”

I look at my hands.

“…doing what I do?”

She props herself on one elbow.

“Maybe you don’t do that anymore.”

I look at her.

Really look.

Then smile.

“Maybe.”

She kisses me.

Eventually, she falls asleep.

I wait until her breathing changes.

Then carefully slip out from beneath her.

Because love is wonderful.

But war still needs planning.

By sunrise, Kristy Lee and I are dressed from Tabitha’s racks.

Black.

Practical.

Expensive enough that I count out cash and leave it beneath the register.

Malachi arrives as the first sunlight touches the windows.

Tall.

Rail thin.

Nervous.

Like anxiety learned to walk upright and wear denim.

Benjamin walks beside him.

Benjamin is a bullmastiff roughly the size of a refrigerator and somehow better adjusted than his owner.

Parked behind them—

My motorcycle.

I stop.

Blink.

“What…”

Benjamin sits proudly in a sidecar.

Wearing goggles.

Kristy walks up behind me, places both hands on my shoulders, and smiles.

“That is adorable.”

I stare.

“Destroying a man’s bike should be a felony.”

Malachi smiles nervously.

“Your bike was lonely. Benjamin can’t straddle the gas tank.”

He looks at Kristy Lee.

“Big paws.”

“I’ll say.”

“How did you get my bike?”

“A bartender named John called me.”

Of course he did.

I look at Benjamin.

Benjamin looks at me.

Completely unapologetic.

I hate how much I respect him.

I pick up the duffel bags and hand one to Kristy Lee.

The rest I sort.

Cash.

Weapons.

Phones.

Identification.

One life packed into canvas.

“When you see Tabitha, tell her I left money beneath the register for the clothes.”

I adjust the weight of the bags.

“I have enough on my plate without her putting a spell on me.”

I give the largest bag to Malachi.

“The Village.”

He hefts it.

His eyes widen.

“My friend…”

A beat.

“Are we buying the Village?”

“Rebuilding it.”

He zips the bag closed.

I hand him the first envelope.

“Trashy’s. There’s a man who hangs around there. You’ll know him.”

The second envelope comes next.

“The bank. Give this to Vick. His cut is three percent. Not a penny more. If he takes more, I’ll know.”

The third already has an address written across the front.

“Mail this. No return address.”

Malachi nods.

Then he looks at me.

Really looks at me.

Maybe for the first time.

“Gene…”

A beat.

“Should I tell them goodbye?”

I sling my duffel over my shoulder.

Don’t look up.

“No.”

A beat.

Then I smile.

Small.

Tired.

Real.

“Tell ’em I was exactly what I said I was.”

Malachi swallows.

“What’s that?”

I head toward the door with Kristy Lee beside me and morning sunlight pouring through the glass.

I smile.

“A bona fide good guy.”