Hard Corps (Selected Sinners MC #7) Read online

  Shit.

  I probably shouldn’t have cussed, huh? My bad. Rewind. Okay, keep him healthy, and I’ll keep him happy. Pound it. Thanks for everything. Show me the way. Keep us safe out on the road. Shiny side up and all.

  That’s all I got.

  Karter out.

  I opened my eyes and began sorting through the piles of mail which had collected for almost the entire time I had known Jak. He had immediately consumed my entire life, and although it was in a good way, it was also a bit overwhelming looking at it from an outsider’s point of view. As I flipped through the envelopes, one thing became immediately apparent.

  The Sedgwick County Courthouse wanted to get ahold of me.

  Desperately.

  No less than six letters from the Sedgwick County Courthouse were amongst the mail I had inventoried. Frustrated, and assuming I had a warrant for my arrest, I grabbed my knife and cut the envelope open. I pulled the one-page letter from the envelope and read it.

  Mrs. Wilson,

  Pursuant to case number SG-2436-17A, please provide proof of ongoing aftercare. If such proof isn’t provided by August 28th, 2014, actions will be taken by the court.

  Be reminded breach of the agreement set forth in the above referenced case may include fines, imprisonment, or both.

  Circumstances of the case and of the agreement are available from the Clerk of the Court by providing the case number.

  Respectfully,

  The Prosecutor’s Office

  I tossed the letter on the counter.

  Fuck.

  I opened one of the other envelopes. The exact same letter with a different date was inside. I opened another. The same thing. Frustrated, I sat and stared at the newspaper I had just finished reading. I had been required by the court to attend no less than three Alcoholics Anonymous meetings as aftercare to my treatment. If not, I could be determined mentally incompetent by the court, and placed in an institution or in jail.

  I shook my head, wrapped my hands around my coffee cup and thought of what my options were. I looked down at my cup and closed my eyes.

  God,

  Seriously?

  I opened my eyes and shook my head. I glanced at the pile of mail and closed my eyes softly to close my prayer.

  Karter out.

  The August date had long since passed. Without a doubt in a short period of time, if not already, a warrant for my arrest would be issued. Frustrated, I picked up the phone and called the Prosecutor’s Office. After three different people and twenty minutes of begging, I had authorization to attend three meetings in three weeks.

  Thank God.

  No pun intended.

  A call to the treatment center revealed what I already knew. There were daily morning and afternoon meetings, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Praise the Lord and pass the wicker basket. I decided to send Jak a text and tell him the truth. He understood the importance of what I had to do, and we decided to meet for a late lunch afterward. After a quick shower and a wet ponytail I was on the elevator.

  I got off the elevator and looked at my new bike. It was a relief to have the old one long gone. It reminded me of my mother each time I thought about it. It was really the last thing that tied us together, and being rid of it would truly allow me to live a life free of any thoughts or attachments to her. I pulled my helmet on and fired up the bike. The rumble from the 1690 cc motor was totally different than the 1340. This bike was just like me.

  Bad ass.

  The ride through mid-morning traffic was without incident, and within fifteen minutes I was at the treatment center. After exchanging niceties with the counselor, I flopped down at the almost empty table, set my helmet on the floor, and looked around the room.

  Three, including me.

  I looked at my watch. It would be fifteen more minutes before the fun began. I rolled my eyes, looked up at the ceiling, and began counting the ceiling tiles. Generally, simple math would satisfy me when computing the size of a room. Considering my level of interest in being there, I decided I would count them individually to waste a little more time. When I reached 107, a familiar voice caught my attention.

  “Nice to see you back, Karter.”

  I looked down from the ceiling.

  Bill the bullshitter.

  “Mornin’ Bill,” I sighed.

  I leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling.

  Where was I?

  Fuck, now I have to start over.

  I saw the outline of Bill’s body as he got a cup of coffee and sat in the same seat he was sitting in the day we met for the first time. I considered the fact he was at my very first meeting, he didn’t attend any of the other meetings during my treatment, and now he had returned for my random assed unscheduled meeting. I began to wonder if he was following me. Not in a necessarily paranoid manner, but in a what the fuck is the deal with this dude manner. I stopped counting ceiling tiles at tile number 143, and shifted my gaze to Bill.

  “So, Bill. Did you ever remember the name of the nineteen-year-old boy you slaughtered?”

  He looked up from his cup of coffee and across the table. His eyes were filled with sorrow. Real sorrow. He nodded his head slowly and his lips began quiver as he started to speak.

  “As a matter of fact, I did. It’s been a tough week for me. It’s why I’m here. I didn’t rightly want to end up drunk again, so I decided it’d be better to come here and talk about it,” he said softly.

  I stared at him and began to feel sorry for him. But, without a name, it was still bullshit.

  “What was his name?” I asked.

  With a shaking hand, he lifted the coffee cup to his mouth and spoke over the top of the cup, “Well, I can’t remember the last name, but I’m pretty sure I got the first. It was an odd one, just took some thinking to remember it.”

  Still bullshit, dude.

  “And?” I asked, beginning to feel annoyed.

  “Anderson. His first name was Anderson.”

  An immediate pain developed in my chest. My eyes welled with tears. I didn’t immediately understand what was happening, but after a moment, I came to the realization Jak’s father’s name was Anderson.

  In my very first meeting, Bill said he had the wreck on June 6th, 1976.

  Jak was born in 1976.

  In January.

  I pushed myself from the table and stood. My eyes were swollen and full of tears. I stared at Bill. Without speaking or remembering to grab my helmet, I stumbled to my bike, fired it up, and twisted the throttle as far as it would go.

  And the wind against my face dried the many tears of pain from what I was afraid to be the truth.

  JAK. “So I’ve never asked, but lately I’ve started to wonder. Respectfully, I’d like to ask a personal question. Permission?” I chuckled.

  “You ain’t in the military anymore, boy. You ain’t got to be askin’ me permission to speak. Step away from the doorway so the man don’t see ya,” Oscar grinned as he waved his hand to the side.

  I stepped into the shop and away from the door.

  “Go on and speak your mind. What ya got?” Oscar said as he leaned against the golf cart and pulled a cigar from his pocket.

  “Well, I was wondering. Is your wife still alive? Are you still married?” I asked.

  “Well, thems two separate questions. She’s gone, Jak. She died four years past. She died by the hand of a man who had one too many drinks on the eve of the new year. Makes that day a doozie for me. But the other question?” he paused and lit the cigar.

  “Yessir. I’s still married to her. Always will be. That’s when you know it’s true. When you stay married long after they’s gone,” he nodded as he pulled the cigar from his lips.

  “I’m sorry,” I sighed.

  I had asked for other reasons, but knowing a little more about Oscar pleased me. He was a fine man, and brought a little more joy into what had become a wonderful life for me. Sharing time with people like him allowed me to understand the value of war. Goo
d people fighting against the belief of evil for what they believed to be good. War was and will always remain terrible, but seeing the good in the world through the people in it provided me hope the fighting wasn’t all for not.

  “The reason I asked,” I paused and walked toward the golf cart.

  I opened my arms and smiled, “Thanksgiving is coming up. I was thinking if you had nowhere to go for the holiday, you could spend it with us. My mother, Karter and me.”

  “Thanksgivin’ dinner. Whooooeeeee. Been a spell since I had me one a those. A real one. White folk eat turkey?” he asked.

  “Yes, we eat turkey,” I laughed.

  He puffed on his cigar and widened his eyes comically, “You eat yams?”

  “Yes sir.”

  He raised one eyebrow and stood erect, “Stuffin’?”

  I nodded my head and laughed, “Yes, we eat stuffing.”

  “Hmmm. Well, if there’s to be a certain pie at this gatherin’, you might count this ole black man in. I likes me some peeee-can pie. Any a you know how to make a good peeee-can pie? You gots to make ‘em with the Karo syrup, or you fuck ‘em all up, ya see,” he lowered his cigar, raised his chin slightly, and looked into my eyes.

  “It’s the only way my mother makes them. As much as I hate to admit it, this will be my first Thanksgiving at home in twenty-one years. Karter and I would love to have ya,” I smiled.

  “Your mom let nigga’s in the house?” he asked dryly.

  I slumped my shoulders and shook my head in disbelief, “Well, I’ll explain a little about my mother to you. If you use that word in her home, she’ll escort you to the door. Everyone in my mother’s home is equal. Everyone. If she hears that particular word fall from your lips, she’d politely ask you to leave. I feel the same way. So to answer your question, no. She doesn’t let them in her home; because to her, and to me, they don’t exist.”

  “I was kiddin’ about bein’ a nigga. Well, kinda. People have strange beliefs. Some of ‘em, anyhow. I like you an’ Miss Karter fo’ sho’. You’s good people. And I thank ya for askin’. If you’s serious I’d sho’ like to attend,” he nodded.

  “Well, consider it a date. My mother’s expecting you. I told her about you some time ago, and she asked the other day. I said I’d ask.”

  “Miss Karter got a family?” he asked.

  I shook my head, “I thought I told you. No, she doesn’t. She’s alone.”

  He shook his head and stared at the floor, “Maybe that’s why I like her so much. I had me a little boy, Albert. We just called him Al. He died at fifty years. Same way as his momma. He was back east. Lived in Boston. Makes me kind a sick, so I don’t drink me any of the devil’s juice.”

  “I don’t either, and you won’t find any in my mother’s home. I’m sorry about both your losses, Oscar,” I said as I patted him on the shoulder.

  “They’s in a mighty fine place now, Jak. You God fearin’ people?” he asked as he looked up.

  I nodded my head sharply.

  “Well, that’s good. I’ll say the prayer,” he smiled.

  “Sounds perfect. Well, I better get. I’ve got to meet her for lunch,” I said as I rubbed my palms together.

  He extended his hand and smiled. As I took his hand in mine and shook it, I tried to remember if we’d shaken hands before. As he released my hand, he grinned.

  “I’ll be seein’ ya, Jak.”

  I smiled and walked to the door. As I passed the threshold, I tilted my head rearward.

  “Not if I see you first.”

  KARTER. I’d used the microfiche machine at the library many times. I had tried to find out about my father when I was young by reading old newspapers on it in the library. Potwin, Kansas has no newspaper, and the news in Potwin wasn’t of much interest to the people in Wichita, so there was nothing for me to find out about my mother or really anything regarding the small town I was from.

  As I frantically searched though the film, I came across the June 6th newspaper and found nothing. It was a Sunday. As I moved to the film to the next day, the front page of the Local/State section stopped me from looking any further. A photo of the scene of the accident sent chills down my spine.

  Two police officers stood beside a truck. The photo was of the old Kellogg Avenue. One officer stood in front of the truck and one beside it. The caption above the photo read Drunken Driver Drags Man to His Death. It wasn’t the caption that caught my attention, it was the truck in the photo.

  It was Jak’s truck.

  Holy mother of all things sacred.

  Jak was still driving his father’s truck. He had told me he used to drive the same truck in high school. Although he never spoke of his father, I knew he had died when Jak was young. His mother described how much she loved him, and Jak explained how he grew up without a father, but I never knew what happened for sure. And Jak never offered. Now I knew.

  Bill killed Jak’s father.

  I sat at the machine and cried. I cried for Jak, for his mother, and for Bill. The thought of something happening so quickly, and how it could change the lives of so many people became very heavy in my chest. I sat and stared at the article on the screen blankly, not even caring to read any further.

  As I wiped the tears from my eyes, I realized although I had solved a mystery of sorts about Jak’s childhood, his past, and the death of his father, I could never share my findings with Jak. Keeping a secret from him wasn’t something I really wanted to do, and even lying about my mother made me extremely uncomfortable. After much consideration and thought, I decided some things need to be kept secret to prevent further harm to those the secrets are kept from. When Jak was ready to tell me, he would. If he didn’t, I’d take this knowledge with me to my grave.

  Without removing the film from the machine, I stood and wiped my eyes. I left the light switch turned on and the article about Jak’s father’s death on the screen of the monitor. As I walked away, I did so with hope. Hope someone else would read the article and gain from it. If one drunken person took a taxi home instead of driving as a result of reading the article, the world would be a better place.

  A much better place.

  JAK. I sat across the table from the most beautiful woman in the world. As she picked her teeth with blade of her knife, I further realized just how extraordinary she truly was. If she were anything but one of a kind, she surely wouldn’t fill all of what was broken within me with such precision. Karter was placed on this earth to make me whole. I further believed I provided her with the same satisfaction. As I admired her eye color choice for the day, she looked at the tip of her knife with disgust. A small piece of what appeared to be chicken hung from the blade. After wiping it on her jeans, she leaned into the center of the table.

  “You ride like a pussy,” Karter whispered.

  I heard her clearly, but chose to respond as if I had not.

  “Say again?”

  “Say again,” she repeated in a mocking tone.

  “I crossed my arms and tilted my chin upward, “What did you say.”

  “I said you ride like a pussy. And you still have a long fucking ways to go to be a biker, new beard or not. Oh, and your ears are getting weak, old man,” she half shouted.

  It seemed as if the entire rear portion of the restaurant turned around to see what the commotion was about. I lowered my chin and wrinkled my nose, “Old?”

  I raised my hand to my chin and rubbed the four days growth of what was to be a new beard, “Pussy?”

  “I knew you heard me,” she said as she pushed her plate to the side and burped.

  “Through these old ears?” I shrugged.

  “Mmmmhhhhm,” she mumbled.

  “You’re pushing your luck,” I assured her.

  “Oh really? What are you going to do? Punish me? By fucking me? Please Jak, please. I hate fucking you. Don’t fuck me Jak. Please no. Not the sex. Anything but the sex,” she said in a high pitched voice.

  “That’s it,” I said as I slapped the table.


  “You want me to bend over?” she asked.

  I smiled at the thought of it. Karter was by all means the best thing to ever happen to me. She allowed me to understand just how simple living life could be - with the right person. I hadn’t even attempted to imagine a life without her for some time; only what our future could and would bring us. Karter had taken me from wallowing in the guilt associated with war and breathed life into my lungs. I yearned for the arrival of June and our ability to officially be man and wife.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Get your ass in the bathroom. I’ll be right behind you,” I stood from my chair and removed my wallet.

  “Seriously? The bathroom?” she squeaked as she pointed her finger over her shoulder and to the rear of the restaurant.

  I cleared my throat and pointed to the bathroom, “Now, Karter. Go!”

  She lowered her head, stood, and walked toward the bathroom. I dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the table and covered it with my glass. I looked up and watched as Karter walked toward the hallway which led to the bathroom. As she walked with her shoulders slumped, I felt bad for acting stern. Surely she realized I was joking. As she entered the hallway, and was away from the view of the restaurant, she turned to face me and removed her shirt and bra. Now twirling them above her head, she took off in a dead run to the bathroom.

  I shook my head and walked toward the bathroom. As I knocked on the door, she answered from the other side.

  “Who is it?”

  “Let me in,” I said softly.

  “Sorry, it’s occupied.”

  I scanned the empty hallway. I beat my hand against the door sharply, “Open the door.”

  “Sorry, it’s occupied,” she said in an elevated tone.

  I beat against the door with my clenched fist, “Karter, open the damned door.”

  She opened the door slightly. Naked, except for her sneakers, she stood on the other side of the door.

  “Oh, I thought you were someone else. Well, hurry up before someone sees me,” she said as she waved her hand toward the large bathroom.

  I stepped inside the door and locked it behind me. Her clothes were neatly folded on the sink. I reached toward the towel dispenser and smacked it sharply with the back of my fist. The hinged cover immediately fell open. I removed the towels, looked at Karter, and dropped them into the toilet.