3. Double Taco
I knew Jax had taken the long way. It had nothing to do with what Hale had told me before, it was rather... a hunch. A sensation that invaded my body as soon as I sat on the motorcycle and the roar of the engine deafened reality.
With my hands wrapped around Jax's waist and wind-blown hair, I saw the tents and houses pass by as we drove away, devouring miles with the wheels of the Harley. I was not wearing a helmet, so we went out onto the freeway, but walked around the neighboring streets like an exhalation. He, with his leather vest and all the bad intentions shining in a smile that the mirror reflected me and I, in sneakers and without caring whatever the fate of that ride.
We stopped at a traffic light, and as I removed my right hand from the handlebars, Jax stroked my fingers, gripping her stomach. He turned his face a few inches, so that his voice was audible.
—Are you okay, darlin'?
I nodded, because the sensation that filled my throat and caused me furious heartbeat had created an immediate addiction.
—Do not stop! —shouted to make myself heard. Jax responded with a smile and a powerful acceleration.
—Those are the two words every man wants to hear in a woman's mouth.
The green light gave us permission, and we took the rest of the driveway with frenzy.
I had ridden on a motorcycle before, but there was nothing to compare to grabbing Jax as he zigzagged through the cars and moved over that tremendous Dyna as if he had been born to be seated at the controls. They were one, his Harley and him. With confidence, softness and the right touch of power, man and machine, biker and vehicle, they ran for Charming as if it were their private stroll.
After a few minutes, I recognized that we were coming back on our steps, and in the end, Jax stopped just before the barbershop. With the feeling of floating, I jumped down, looking at him with a dazzling smile that he gave back to me.
You have not been dizzy or complaining, you have not stuck my fingers in the ribs to stop it a little... —Jax took a cigarette from his inner pocket, and before proceeding, gave a puff, exhaling the smoke from his nose. —I have to say you're made to ride a bike, lady.
—What can I say? I was born to be wild.
Jax laughed so hard she ended up throwing her head back. The blond hair slipped from the edges of the waistcoat and the afternoon air, stirred him. I was frightened by the cravings I felt for caressing him, and I wondered, with his stomach contracted, what would he do if I approached and touched him.
—Is that why you're here? To make Charming your jungle?
—Actually... —I teased nervously. I did not want to discover too much, not yet. –I ran away of some bad experiences. A despotic boss, a somewhat individualistic mother and...
—Is that and for a guy? —Jax lifted his chin, staring at me through his sunglasses. —Did he hurt you?
—Let's just say ... I've covered up my quota of bad boys for this life.
Then Jax made a strange grimace. I'm not sure why, but it seemed to me that her slight smile was becoming... melancholy. It only lasted a second, then he threw the cigarette butt on the floor and stepped on it with his white slippers. Carefully, very slowly, she lowered her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and stared at me, for the first time, her eyes.
They were blue, and condemned me just by looking at them.
—I'm sorry to have to tell you, babe, but I'm afraid your radar to get out of trouble is flawed. —pointed to himself, pulling the vest back to reposition it. —Because you've hit the mark as soon as you cross the border.
—Oh yeah? —I followed, believing that it was all just a game. An innocent flirtation with a handsome biker he would never see again. —Are you a dangerous man, Jax?
He smiled at me in a way that made my skin goosebumps, but I could bear it. The worst part was when he got off the bike and came up to me, his sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt. He extended his hand, rubbing my arm with such a lightness that all my epidermis reacted to the contact, sending chills to areas of my body very feminine, which apparently had decided to come back to life in the presence of such ... is a specimen An appropriate adjective?
—Dangerous? He came closer. And then he kept coming closer, until he lowered his head and I could see that his eyelashes, too, were blond. —Darlin'... you have no idea.
I was sure she was going to kiss me. Do not ask me why. A throb, an impulse, a pinch between the thighs... everything told me. My brain sent out alarm bells, and a second later, all my defenses pleaded for an immediate surrender. Was crazy? Was Jax's effect on me normal? I knew him from the equivalent of a couple of motorcycle laps and several sly smiles. How many girls had he caught with techniques like that? How many girls would have fallen? I would tremble, feeling the legs of jelly as I watched him go away for the next sunset.
Of course, he had no way of knowing that something was happening to him, that he was as attracted, as lost and doomed as I was. Romantic, right? Well... it was not at all. In fact, maybe if we had known all the evidence we were going to have to go through, we would never have come that way.
If Jax had had the faintest idea how much it would cost him to get off the bike, to touch my arm and bring his mouth close to me, he would probably have gone on his way, without looking back or stopping to refuel.
—You know? I think I'm going to call you princess, —said in a whisper. I was so close that his breath hit my face every time I spoke. He looked at my lips, then his eyes fixed.
—And this is because…
—Because you seem to be wanting the bad guy in the story to save you from the boredom of sleeping with the prince at night.
I saw the edge of his tongue moistening his mouth. I looked at his beard, and I was already wondering if I would feel it scratch the skin of my cheeks with strength or softness, when a lady, who was walking with her son about us, caught her breath at the sight of us and literally crossed the street without looking to get away from us.
I opened my mouth, confused, but then I realized that I was glancing at Jax, putting special interest in his suck. He waved at the kid, who gave him the most emotional gesture as the mother hurriedly pulled him away.
The moment had broken.
—So... will you be around for a while?
I nodded, begging the earth to open and swallow me, or at least to have a cold breeze lower my blush on my cheeks.
—Are you coming for something? —Jax asked, no doubt displaying an intelligence that perhaps many did not attribute to him. —All this about... the village of your mother's childhood, the companion of high school ... does not seem to have anything to do with you.
—I ... I suppose I try ... to connect with a part of her, even if it's from the past. —I shrugged. Why did he tell her the truth? Why was it so easy to do? —We're not close, you know.
—Actually ... it's a strange situation for me. My mother and I ... —Jax smiled, looking up at the sky as if he were looking for a kind way of expressing what he thought. "I'm her only son and she's ... very attached to me. And with very attached I mean ... very, very attached.
—I envy you. As the daughter of a mother who taught me to eat alone before walking so as not to have to spend all my time with the lunches and dinners.
—Damn, —Jax he laughed, then raised his hand in apology. —Sorry, sorry. It sucks, especially if you want things to be different. But believe me, you would not envy the shit I have with my mother. It's complicated.
As I did not want to delve deeper into the subject, for fear of asking questions about parenthood and what I was doing at Charming as the main instance, I decided to address the first point on my list of existential doubts. I pointed to his suck, unable to hold on to the temptation to ask. Ever since I'd seen them and him and the other bikers standing at the traffic light, the image of that grim reaper, the patches and those words ... pounded in my brain, as if trying to tell me something I could not understand.
—So... Vice President? — I asked, nodding appreciatively. Jax opened his arms, embracing himself with a feigned humility that, again, aroused very inconvenient corners of me. —And of what?
In response, he turned his back on me, pointing to the back of the vest. Remember, I screamed something in the head. Where have you seen it before?
—Of the Sons of Anarchy, California branch. — The pride in his voice was palpable. Whatever it was, no matter what it meant to him, it was very important. Something more than an eccentric garment. A symbol of belonging. An union.
—And what is... or what are the Sons of Anarchy?
Jax's expression changed. His face turned angelic when he made a negative gesture, as if to say "nothing to worry about." Ja. In the future, whenever I heard that phrase, I would do just the opposite.
This is a personal advice, in case any of you, ever, is related in any way with a Son. Always, I repeat: always, there will be reasons to be worried. And when you spend a lot of time without any serious worry ... then you should worry even more.
—We're just enthusiastic Harleys mechanics, —he said in a voice that shouted to the four winds, which was a learned phrase. —Motorcycle conventions, buying spare parts, swapping hard-to-get assembly manuals ... that kind of harmless shit.
Ja. Again.
—You seem to take it seriously. By... leather uniforms and all that.
—We are a club with history. We honor our founders and keep the spirit alive. We are a brotherhood. A family.
He took another couple of steps toward me, but his phone began to vibrate. A message had come in. With an apologetic gesture, he took it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. It was a strange phone ... an old model, with a lid and a button keyboard. It struck me as odd, though perhaps Jax, the motorcycle enthusiast mechanic, was not the kind of guy who was thrilled by a touch Smartphone.
Shit... I have to go. —He buckled his helmet again and climbed into the Harley, who purred when he turned the knobs. —See you around, princess.
He desappeared, at full speed.
I saw him leave, stop at the approach. I remembered Hale, his tension and his attempts to get me out of there. I remembered that strange conversation ... had they said anything about an explosion in a warehouse? And what could be a weapons depot?
—It seems too complicated for motorcycle enthusiasts ...
As the amusement was over, I crossed the barbershop doors and greeted Floyd at last. As he was an extremely elderly man with few words, he merely nodded when I mentioned Sherry and the rental agreement we had reached. He handed me the keys, indicating that the floor was accessed through the back portal, and he reminded me, while paying attention to the hurried shave to which he subjected a man who was seated in his armchair, who had to water the plants every pair of days.
That was it, so I went back across the street to my Beetle and began to travel, carrying my meager but heavy belongings. I put a couple of suitcases in the apartment, which consisted only of a bathroom with shower and a diaphanous surface with a bedroom and kitchen, separated only by half a brick wall.
I packed the boxes on the bed, trying to remember if I had worn sheets or if I had to spend the first night sleeping on the mattress. I found a couple of kitchen utensils in the cabinets, several dishes and a couple of cutlery. I left the refrigerator open to isolate the smell and close a calendar sheet, dated the previous year, to write down items of first necessity to buy in the first supermarket I found.
When I took the last trip, I parked the car and closed the door, letting myself fall to the ground, surrounded by boxes. The clothes were wrinkled and my cell phone was poking somewhere in the back of my purse, begging why the battery charged.
Among all the slope I had left to do, I decided to start with that incessant hammering of my head. Throwing everything I could find to the floor, I emptied boxes and bags until I found a worn shoebox. I stirred inside her, my heart racing as I knew I was getting closer to what I was looking for, and finally, when I feared that the rush of the trip was going to play the trick of forgetting what was most important, I found.
A photograph of more than twenty years ago, quite unfocused and taken in black and white, showed me three men who seemed to speak among themselves, oblivious to the objective that captured the moment. I held her with reverence, barely resting my fingertips on the image so that not even my footprints could blur that piece of my past. The memories crowded into my mind, uniting the few pieces my mother had given me to formulate a complete picture of that tremendous story. I did not have enough ... but something important to start.
—That's why It look so familiar to me, —I muttered to myself, staring at the men in the picture. The three of them wore leather vests with embroidered patches —so the I knew that I had seen them before, engraved in another vest. In... his vest.
Before me, and throwing a new wave of unanswered questions, was the only image I had of my father. My mother had claimed that she had been tempted to break it a thousand times, but she had preserved it to never forget the face that had cost her the trust placed in the man who had given me life. I had met him at a vulnerable time, he said ... full of silly illusions and blind confidence that ended with a secret pregnancy and a rush. She kept the picture, probably taken by herself, as a reminder not to seek comfort in anyone else.
Not even me.
I turned it slowly and read the words that were written on the reverse in neat black ink:
PINEY WINSTON, CLAY MORROW & JOHN TELLER.
INDIAN HILLS, NEVADA.
—My father is a Son of Anarchy. —I looked again at the scene, running my finger over the surface, imagining that I was touching those suckers and extracting from them the information I needed to fill the empty voids of a lifetime.
One of those faces corresponded to the name my mother had given me. One of them, he had to stay in Charming, living on the side that after taking that picture, he had fathered a daughter from whom he knew nothing. What would have been of his life? Would you be willing to meet me? And me? Was I ready to knock the closed circle of SAMCRO and make my presence known?
At that very moment, and as I experienced the anguish and exaltation of feeling as close as ever to the presence of my unknown father, Jax braked with his motorcycle at St. Thomas Hospital, facing his own dose of paternity.
The next morning, a little more recovered by the impression that I had supposed to stumble across the image of my father and the other members of the Club, I decided to start being practical so that I could move around Charming.
The first thing I did was go down to the supermarket that was on the same street. I needed to find a job, something that I could use part of my time, that would generate income and help me to go unnoticed, something like having a low profile that did not arouse suspicion. Before I stood in front of the man responsible for begetting the seed in my mother, I had to be someone useful to that community, I could not look him in the face, knowing the only reason he had thrown me on the road. I did not want to give him a desperate impression.
Above all, because I wasn't sure of wanting to reveal my identity to him, when I finally managed to find him.
My job options were limited, I had not taken my resume and I doubted they could ask credentials from my previous bosses. It's what happened when you fled, even if it was to try to go forward. The things that one left behind, sometimes they insisted on following us wherever we went, and I was not interested in some people knowing where I was and what I intended to do.
I thought, while holding some cereal with one arm and the basket with milk, eggs and some fillets packed in the other, that would ideally find a simple job that would keep me, somehow, near my father's radar. That we both saw each other and become accustomed to the presence of the other before lifting the hare would be just what I needed to get an idea of the type of man he was.
But again, with no demonstrable experience or too much personal information to offer... what kind of job would I get?
Just imagining myself sitting in an office, photocopying papers, made me sick.
I'm sorry Mrs. Winston, we can not accept your check.
The queue waiting for the box shifted and I was about to stumble with the person in front. The attendant was approaching a woman, who at that moment spent her purchase, bewildered. She, who had a petite, thin figure and her hair in her hair, gossiped and immediately offered cash, but apparently... she did not have enough for everything she had left on the tape.
For a few agonizing minutes, everyone present witnessed how the cashier was discounting basic necessities until the total became a ridiculous figure that the poor woman could afford. Stuffed, she carried her bag and left the supermarket with her shoulders low and her eyes on the floor.
—Give me of all that Donna has left, honey. I'll take it.
I turned my head from my position, three people from behind. The new client was in her fifties, wearing porcelain nails, hair with locks, tight jeans and a leather jacket. She smiled and had kind words to everyone who came across her and seemed really comfortable with the anticipation that her appearance had raised. He could have climbed into the box and started dancing, which no one would have found strange. She was one of those people who attracted attention naturally.
The two couples behind me kept whispering about her and the inadequacy of her clothes and attitude. But what the hell was wrong with them? She was going to pay for the rest of the other woman's purchase, in a disinterested and incredibly friendly gesture, how could they criticize her for that? Southern hospitality... I thought, smiling a little smile in the direction of the box, that should be a good example.
When I finally left the supermarket with my bags, there was no trace of Donna or the good Samaritan. The sun was high and life made its way into the shopping streets. I took things to the apartment above the barbershop and when I went downstairs I ran into Charming Sheriff Wayne Unser, who was freshly shaved by Floyd's deft hands.
—So it's you? —He asked me with a smile, putting on aviator sunglasses to protect himself from the clarity. "Floyd told me that he'd finally rented Sherry's old apartment.
—I'll be here for a few weeks. Looking for my roots and... all that.
Unser nodded, though I could not read whether his expression was annoying or curious. Apparently, Charming did not like outsiders, even though they had no intention of causing trouble.
—I'm looking for a job, — I said at once, thinking that the chief of police should have some general information on the business situation of the town he ran. —I can do whatever... housework, childcare, accounting review... anything. It will be eventual.
He scratched his head, running his fingers through his bald head, then glanced toward the barbershop, exchanging a look of circumstance with Floyd.
—There's not much demand for that around here. The people of the town do not find it easy to trust the newcomers. With her hand on her hip, she glanced at the street, carefully assessing the information. —That you're Floyd's tenant speaks well of you, is a respected member of this community, but still ... who did you say is your mother?"
—O ... she ... just been here for a summer, after finishing high school. —Give names would lead to ... give more names. — And I did not want to reveal too much at the moment. Though perhaps... a push would finally lead me in the right direction. —I've been advised to talk to Clay Morrow. Do you know where I can find it?
The mention fell like a bomb, razing everything. Floyd set the scissors in the air, staring at us through the window. I must have had a fantastic ear to catch what I said, but I did not have time to analyze that, because Unser turned the body and faced me, imposing his authority despite the fact that I took out at least one head high.
—Who gave you that name?
—A woman in the supermarket. This morning. I said I was looking for a job and…
—Clay is the owner of the TM, in outside of Charming. It has lots of employees, I do not know if there will be vacancies for someone like you.
A sure thing: go in the opposite direction and do not look back, would have been less obvious than his words. However, and as it usually happens when we are warned about something we must let go ... my curiosity, only grew.
—Who knows? —I claimed, taking the keys of the Beetle out of my pocket and making a kind gesture of farewell to indicate that the conversation was going to remain at that point. Maybe I'm lucky.
I crossed the street and started, heading to the shop with my head fumbling with possibilities.
The photograph was so many years old that I expected substantial changes in the lives of those men, but at least I knew that Clay Morrow was still alive and in Charming, just as my mother had predicted. "He will not leave that place ever" was all he told me, cryptic and little given to useful information, as always.
In fact, I knew so little, that I was unable to reconcile each name with the men portrayed, so even if I knew the name of my father, I did not know his face, nor knew anything about him. Except that he belonged to a club of motorcycles that, apparently, had a certain fame.
—I hope he's not disappointed that I drive a car, —I mumbled, nervous for an acceptance I had never intended to have.
I found the workshop easily. A huge sign indicated the name of the establishment in large yellow and red letters, located behind large gates. There was a row of motorcycles parked on one side, all black Harleys with serigraphs relating to the Sons, the Parca, and the acronyms of the Club. I saw a crane, a van, and several enclosed spaces, which I imagined would be given to the shop and office areas.
I parked and walked slowly, approaching carefully to the open doors, not wanting to make an intrusion but making it clear, just in case someone noticed me, that I was visiting. I craned my neck, astonished to see that, in the distance, there was a boxing ring and what it looked like ... a grill. A place of work and, apparently, also of recreation.
The images of the Club, the letters of SAMCRO and the disturbing face of the Reaper were represented on every corner.
—Are you looking for someone?
I was scared when I realized there was someone in front of me. A young boy, slightly shaking, his bangs falling on his forehead. The first impression was enough to define in three words: withdrawal syndrome. He wore a brown work shirt on whose front he could read an ID: Lowell.
He smiled at me, showing a pretty decent denture and a gesture of kindness that I thanked him for. He seemed nervous, but not for me but ... for something internal, as if the uncertainty were his natural state.
—Hello. I'm looking for a job and ...
Lowell pointed to the area where the bikes were parked. Two men sharing a conversation had just appeared. Apparently that seemed enough, because before I could even thank him for the strange indication, he disappeared in the direction of the workshop, leaving me standing there, without a single word.
With the sun in front of me, I walked slowly. One of the men was gray-haired, wearing sunglasses and slightly bent. The other, with black hair, was leaning on one of the bikes and eating a little chocolate in large bites.
I made gestures with my hand, but they were too caught up in their conversation to pay any attention to me, so I had to keep coming closer, catching a few strokes of what they were talking about.
— ... the stomach of lye. Goodbye DNA, —said the brunette, with a carefree gesture that made the other, shake his head.
—But what kind of fucking things did your mother do to you?
Confused, the Black-haired Son, he slowly denied.
—What do you mean?
—Hello? I interrupted, causing both of them to turn their heads towards me. Vests. Patches. Serious expressions of "what the hell are you doing here." —Sorry, I did not want to go in like this, the mechanic told me ... —shit, shit, shit. I picked up air a couple of times, gave my name and went back to say hello. —I'm looking for Clay Morrow.
—Are you a cop? —In the brown man's vest, he thumbed his mouth at the end of the chocolate bar was read Sergeant of Arms. I swallowed. Weapons? What weapons? —You do not look well, but the undercover never have it.
—Um ... I'm not a cop. I look for work and in the supermarket they told me that maybe here I could find something.
Arms crossed, wearing the big tattoos of his biceps, the gray-haired man smiled in my direction. His jaw was square and his body strong. He seemed to me a soldier, and by the age he looked, he probably would have been. It was not hard for me to realize that he was one of the guys on a motorcycle I had seen the day before I arrived, and he was one of the ones from the photo my mother had given me.
—I am Clay Morrow — he said to me, cutting my breath in confirmation of my suspicions. —and I don't know what the people told you about me, but I'm very picky about my workers. Do not be ofended lady, but you don't seem yo know how to remove a wheel.
—I know who to call to be remove for me.
Clay laughed and my own lips curved into a smile. He gave a sympathetic grimace, shrugging his shoulders at the other guy, who was staring at us in silence.
—What do you say, Tig? Do you think we could find something for the clever lady?
—I'm always open to a couple of new hands, If you know what I mean —said the Sergeant of Arms, in an obscene gesture that made me frown.
—Well, you can close it now, because that is not gonna happend. Ever. —I blurted out, prompting Clay to emphasize his smile.
—I like the girl, —he said, rubbing his hands full of rings.
Mi father likes me. Something in my chest fluttered, but I discovered, confused, that it was not pure joy, but... that it was mixed with something else. There was uncertainty, and as Clay took off his glasses and looked me in the face, a tense regret gripped me.
I knew who it was. And now, what would happen?
N.A. Thank you so much! For mark this story as favorite, for de followers and de reviews. Please, send me questions, sugestions or everything, I'll be happy to answer
So… our girl is a Daughter of Anarchy, what do you think about that? What Clay thinks? And… What Jax thinks? We know all of that, very son. See ya'