Kristen Ashley: Mystery Man

I opened it but not far and moved to stand between it and the jamb, keeping my hand on the handle.

“Hey Darla,” I greeted, trying to sound friendly and pretty pleased with my effort.

“Fuck ‘hey’, is Ginger here?” Darla replied.

See!

Totally spent her days looting.

It took effort but I stopped my eyes from rolling.

“No,” I answered.

“She’s here, you better tell me,” she warned then she looked beyond me and shouted, “Ginger! Bitch, if you’re in there you better come out here, right fuckin’ now!”

“Darla!” I snapped, “Keep your voice down!”

She craned her neck and bounced on her toes, yelling, “Ginger! Ginger, you crazy, stupid, bitch! Get your ass out here!”

I shoved out the door, forcing her back and closed it behind me, hissing, “Seriously, Darla, shut up! Ginger isn’t here. Ginger is never here. You know that. So shut up and go. ”

“ You shut up,” she shot back. “And you get smart. You’re helpin’ her…” She lifted her hand, pointed her finger at me, thumb extended upwards and then she crooked her thumb and made a gunshot noise that puffed out her cheeks and made her lips vibrate. I would have taken a moment to reflect on how good she was with verbal sound effects if the serious as shit look in her eye wasn’t scaring the crap out of me.

So, instead of congratulating her on the only real talent I suspected she had, I whispered, “What?”

She dropped her hand, got up on her motorcycle-booted toes so we were eye-to-eye and said in a soft, scary voice, “D-e-a-d, dead. You and her, you don’t get smart. You get me?”

Then I asked a stupid question because the question was asked often and there was always only one answer that answer being yes.

“Is Ginger in some kind of trouble?”

Darla stared at me like I had a screw loose. Then she lifted her hand, did the gun thing with the sound effect, finger pointed at my head. Then she turned around and walked swiftly down my front steps.

I stood on my front porch staring at her. My mind absently noted that she was wearing a tight tank top, an unzipped, black leather motorcycle jacket, a short, frayed jeans skirt the wearing of which was a crime in several states for a variety of reasons – both fashion and decency, black fishnet stockings and motorcycle boots and it was around forty degrees outside. She didn’t even have on a scarf.

The rest of my head was caught up with my sister and Darla’s sound effect.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I drove my car trying to tell myself this was a good plan and knowing that my first plan, the one where, after Darla left and I went back into my house, I walked directly to the phone and called my father, was the right plan and this plan was garbage.

But my father and his wife Meredith had disowned Ginger awhile ago. It was approximately ten seconds after they came home from a vacation to Jamaica and lost their happy, island holiday mojo when they saw their daughter on her knees in the living room, her head between the legs of a bare-chested man, his jeans opened, his head lolled on the back of the couch because he was passed out and Ginger was so whacked on whatever she was taking she had no idea her activities were getting her nowhere.

And, incidentally, the living room was a disaster as was the rest of the house.

As you can probably see from this story, I was loath to bring my father into another situation involving Ginger. Especially since this wasn’t the worst story I had, it was just, for Dad and Meredith, the last. They were currently living a carefree, Ginger-free existence and I didn’t want to rock that boat.

Therefore, I didn’t call Dad.

Instead I thought of Ginger’s boyfriend, Dog. Dog was a member of a biker gang and Dog was as rough as they come. But I’d met Dog, I liked Dog. Dog was funny and he liked my sister. She was different around him. Not a lot, but at least she was palatable.

Okay, so Dog was likely a felon but, as ironic as it was, he was a good influence on Ginger and those didn’t come around very often as in never . Not in twenty-five years. So, since I was getting the hint from Darla, Ginger’s one and only friend, that Ginger’s trouble was a little worse than normal, I needed firstly to do something about it and secondly, since this was Ginger, call in reinforcements or better yet, lay the problem on their door.

Enter Dog.

I drove to the auto supply store on Broadway and found a spot on the street. Even before I knew Dog, and thus figured out this was probably a front for a biker gang’s nefarious dealings, I knew about this store. It was called Ride and I’d shopped there mainly because I could find an excuse for shopping anywhere. But Ride was awesome. It had cool stuff in there. I bought my windshield wiper fluid there. I bought new car mats there last year and they were the bomb, supreme car mats, the best I’d ever had. And when I was in my twenties and going through one of my many phases, in an effort to pimp my ride, I also went there and bought a fluffy, pink steering wheel cover and a glittery, pink Playboy Bunny thingie to hang from my rearview mirror.

And everyone knew Ride had a triple-bayed garage in the back but it wasn’t for normal cars and motorcycles. It was for custom-built cars and motorcycles and it was world famous. They built cars and bikes and they were extremely cool. I’d read an article in 5280 magazine about the place. Movie stars and celebrities bought cars and bikes from there and, from the pictures, I could see why. I wanted one but I didn’t have hundreds of thousands of dollars so that was a bit down on my List of Things I Want, right under a Tiffany’s diamond bracelet which was directly under a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.

I got out of my car and walked down the sidewalk to Ride hoping my outfit was okay. I’d put my hair in a girlie ponytail at the top back of my head, I was wearing low-rider jeans, low-heeled boots and my biker jacket. Mine wasn’t like Darla’s. It was a distressed tan leather, had a bit of quilting around the high waist, was lined with short, warm fur and it had a six-inch tuft of fluffy fur at the sleeves. I thought it was hot and the deal I got on it was hotter. However, I wasn’t sure about the fluffy fur. I didn’t think bikers were concerned with animal rights, I thought they’d think it was an affront to their brotherhood and they might garrote me.

Welp! Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I straightened my shoulders, walked into the cavernous store and turned direct to the long counter at the front that held one cash register even though sometimes the place could get packed. Since I didn’t have his cell, my intention was to ask if someone there knew how I could get hold of Dog. I didn’t expect to see tall, broad, inked-to-the max, long blond-haired Dog standing at the other side of the counter, one big, rough biker guy on his side of the counter, three on the outside and all of them turning to me the minute I walked in.

“Hey Dog,” I called on a smile, walking up and then stopped dead when his eyes sliced to me.

Uh-oh.

His eyes narrowed and his face didn’t get near to hiding the fact that one look at me made him extremely pissed off.

“Do not shit me,” he growled and I took the nanosecond before I pee’d my pants to try to remember the moves I’d learned in the one, half hour self-defense class I took.

When I made no response and didn’t move, Dog repeated, “Do not come in here and fuckin’ shit me.”

“I’m not shitting you,” I told him because, well, I wasn’t.

His brows flew up. “That cunt sent you? ”

Uh-oh again. Dog was using the c-word. I suspected that the c-word wasn’t worda-non-grata in Biker Club Land like it was in the rest of the English-speaking world but still, it said a lot.