DIESEL DADDY Read online

  “You know I have. Right.” I sit up, gripping the arms of the chair, finding this whole conversation absurd. He’s talking to me with an intensity wholly unwarranted. We work together. He’s not my boyfriend, or my brother, or my father, or anybody to me. “I don’t want to talk about this, Peter.”

  “I’m just talking!” He takes a deep breath, and then lets his hands drop. “Okay, I’m sorry. I know this must seem weird.” He takes another breath. “I just don’t want to see you getting hurt. I saw a biker drop you off two streets down a couple of days ago, and it got me wondering who he was. If he’s your boyfriend, just say and I’ll drop it. But I am concerned about you, Willa. We all know that these fires and bikers are linked, and I’d hate for you to get caught up in it.”

  His concern is real enough. I can see it in his eyes, even if they are colorless.

  “You don’t need to worry about me,” I say. “I’ve been looking after myself for a decade now.”

  “But I do worry. That’s the point. As your boss, as your friend.”

  And despite everything, it’s nice to hear. When you’ve lived your life as a shadow, a ghost, it’s good to know that somebody sees you as real. And … well, and Peter isn’t an arsonist. But I’m not attracted to Peter, not one bit. Looking at him all I see is Diesel, bigger, stronger, more handsome, and with something inside him that calls out to me. Peter has none of that.

  “You really don’t need to,” I say. I want to be with Diesel, to have Diesel expressing this kind of concern. Apart from that night when I got too drunk and told him about Mom and Dad, Diesel hasn’t exactly been emotional with me. “I’m just … I work for you, Peter.”

  “You don’t work for me,” he says. “Is that really how’d categorize it, that you work for me? You work for the station. I’m just the head of department.”

  I want to tell him that that isn’t as big of a distinction as he perhaps thinks it is, but I want to get out of here more. I never should’ve agreed to the coffee. I let my defenses down and he’s grabbing hold of the opportunity. I need to get out of here, find Diesel, but then … Why should I find Diesel anymore desirable than Peter? Once you get past how big he is, how muscular, how cool, there are just as many complications with Diesel as with Peter, maybe more.

  “Okay,” I say.

  I need to be alone. I need to think. I remember a few nights ago when I was in bed—Diesel was in the next room, on the mattress he set up—and I got so angry I could hardly think. I clenched my fists until my palms stung with the bite of my nails and went to the wall, staring at the place I imagined Diesel to be. I was furious with him because he was making me question myself, over and over, question my morals and question who I am.

  “Okay?” Peter makes one big fist with both his hands, gripping them together so that the knuckles turn white. “Is that all you have to say? What about staying with me?”

  “Staying with you?” I giggle, and then the giggle turns into a harsh laugh. I cover my mouth with my hand quickly, killing it when I see the look of pain on Peter’s face. Suddenly I feel absurdly cruel.

  “Wow. Okay.” He finishes his drink in one sip. When he places the mug on the saucer, it rattles as his hand shakes. “I was just trying to be kind to you, Willa. That’s all. I didn’t realize the idea would be so unbelievably funny.”

  “I have a place to stay. I wasn’t laughing at you.”

  This is exhausting. The idea of returning to work after this makes my bones tired. And yet as I look into Peter’s offended face, I feel so bad, so mean. I didn’t have to laugh at him, I suppose.

  “With the biker?”

  I sigh. “I don’t have to tell you where I’m staying. It isn’t affecting my performance at work, is it?”

  “No,” Peter allows.

  “Then why do you want to know so badly?”

  “Who ever said I wanted to know so badly?”

  I stand up, gesturing at the clock. “We should be heading back.”

  Without waiting for a response, I walk to the door and stand in the street, praying for a kiss of wind to relieve some of this heat. It doesn’t come. I’m left standing, boiling, waiting for Peter to come and join me. I want to head for the office right away but I’m afraid that might seem too much like storming off.

  “You know I think you’re a great person,” Peter says, as we round the corner to the office.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “And I know I can be a bit forward at times. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, Peter.” I nod, relieved. “Thank you.”

  When I return to my desk, I’m confused. I want Diesel. He’s an arsonist, a criminal. Peter is a weirdo; he’s way too forward … he’s nice, and he’s genuine. Contradiction after contradiction, making me wish people could just be simple.

  Chapter Nine

  Diesel

  A couple of days after the apartment fire, Grimace called me into his office. I think of it now, as I lie awake late at night listening to Willa tossing and turning in the next room, as the fan blasts me with warmish air. I went by the club and played cards with some of the guys, and then Grimace came lumbering out and nodded to me. I’m six four and not exactly easily intimidated, but Grimace always makes me feel like I’m half my age. He’s the closest to a real dad I’ve ever had. Maybe that’s why. Or maybe it’s because when he says jump, I ask him how high. Maybe I’m just a lackey.

  He nodded to the seat opposite and dropped into his own. Laying his hands on the table, he smiled at me. When he smiled, his beard lifted, the hairs doing strange wiggling motions. Behind Grimace’s chair there’s a photograph of me and him at a bike rally a long time ago. I used to feel proud when I looked at that photo, used to think, it’s right there, in the president’s office, for all the men to see when they meet with him. But as I sat there that day, I didn’t feel proud about it. I didn’t feel much of anything about it.

  “That fire.” His smile got wider. I thought about what it’d be like if I’d accidentally killed Willa in the fire he was smiling about. I clenched my fist under the table. “Really good work, Diesel. Really damn good work.”

  I forced myself to say the words: “Thanks, boss.” They were what men in that chair said, after all.

  He leaned across the table and patted my forearm. I remember all the times my real old man patted my forearm, except he’d grip it in a vise-like hand, and drag me into the basement, and cut, and lash, and punch …

  I close my eyes, listening to Willa, focusing on Willa. I can’t sleep, dammit.

  Touching my forearm, Grimace said, “We’re making some progress with Chino. He’s an animal, and we’re going to put him down.”

  “I know,” I said.

  He withdrew his hand and that was the sign for me to leave. I wanted to go back to cards but for some reason I was too amped up. I felt like riding, so I rode out to the beach and just sat there for a long time staring at the sea and thinking. I didn’t know what’d gotten into me. The sun had set by the time I figured it out, or I think I figured it out, anyway. I’ve never spent much time looking inside myself so it’s hard to know.

  I got onto the idea that maybe Willa had something to do with me feeling this way, with me feeling at all. I wanted a kid before I met Willa, but since she came into my life it had become all I could think about. And thinking about having a kid and going out and setting fire to buildings didn’t sit well together.

  Lying in bed now, I laugh. Didn’t … it still doesn’t. Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change. I’ll always be the big brute who burns shit to the ground, and Grimace will always smile at me for the trouble. Willa will leave soon, pushing me away since she never pulls me close, and I’ll be on my own again. Maybe I should just get with some club girl, have my kid on her, but then I’d still be in the life, my kid’d grow up in the life. They might end up just like me.

  I go into the kitchen and get myself a beer, and then return to the room I’ve half-made into a bedroom, my mattress resting under the sha
dow of piled-up boxes. The room smells of old oil and metal.

  As I drink, I remember the beach, walking down near the waves and wondering what I should do. Loads of crazy shit went through my mind. I thought about going back to the clubhouse and slamming my fists on Grimace’s desk and telling him I’d never burn another goddamn building for him again. I thought about setting my bike on fire and walking into the sea so I didn’t have to think about anything anymore. I thought about taking Willa and riding to New York, leaving the west behind forever. But when it came down to it, I felt—feel—like I owe Grimace too much.

  I think of the night Willa told me about her past, how it seemed to make us closer for a little while. But then that passed. We kiss, we touch. Once I had my hand down her panties with my fingers on her clit, rubbing, her pussy so wet I thought nothing in the world could stop her. But if the fire between us is strong, the real fires are stronger. She can never get past them. I haven’t even admitted that it’s me who’s setting them, but she isn’t stupid.

  Soon the sun is rising. I go into the bathroom, groaning as I splash water in my face. It’s never a good idea to drink in the early hours of the morning and get no sleep. I stretch out my body and go about my morning workout, dragging the free weights box from under the couch. Willa comes out as I’m doing bicep curls. I’m only wearing shorts and I see her eyes move to my chest. When she first looked at me like that, I thought she was looking at the scars. But now I know she’s looking at my body, just as I look at hers. It’s crazy … two people who want to fuck this badly and yet haven’t.

  She pads to the bathroom and turns on the shower. Unlike me, she locks the door.

  When she comes out, I’m sitting on the couch eating some cereal and watching TV. I’m starting to think she’s going to move out soon, or she’s thinking about it. Last week she would’ve said hello, smiled, come and sat with me. Now she just powerwalks from the bathroom into her bedroom without so much as glancing at me. I wonder if she’s seeing some guy at work and my blood turns cold. It has no right to, I know that, it’s not like I’ve got any claim on her, but if she’s staying here and we’re kissing almost every damn night, I can’t stop my blood from going cold.

  I’m annoyed at myself when the thought occurs to me that I should just ask her. I’ve never been that sort of guy. I’ve never gotten involved in that petulant relationship stuff. But that’s because before I didn’t care enough. I care now. So when she comes out of the bedroom wearing a work dress and heels, her hair bound up in her Viking style—and when I think of some asshole with his hands on this woman—I can’t stop myself.

  “Willa,” I say.

  “Yes.” She pauses halfway to the door.

  “What’s going on? This morning, last night … you’re different.”

  “I’m pretty sure we kissed and then I sent you to your room last night,” she says, voice high-pitched for some reason. “Isn’t that what happens every night?”

  I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s just her prissy tone, the way she’s talking to me like I’m an annoying pet. Or maybe it’s a whole combination of things. The cereal bowl shatters against the wall, milk and cereal going everywhere, splatters distorting the TV screen image.

  There’s absolute silence for a few seconds, and then Willa says, “Wow, just wow.”

  “Wow,” I repeat, turning to her. “Don’t ever talk to me like that again.”

  “Why, will you throw something at me next?”

  “I’d never do that.” My voice is trembling. It’s hard to stay still. I pace up and down near the couch. “Just don’t fucking talk to me like that.”

  “Don’t swear at me, Diesel.” Her voice has become cold, detached. I can see some hint of emotion in her eyes, but her exterior is ice. “If you talk to me like that, I’ll have to leave.”

  “Leave where?” I go to her, standing close enough to touch. But I don’t touch. “Where would you go? Tell me that.”

  “Get away from me.” She places a hand on my chest. “You’re an animal.”

  “Is that right?”

  I lean down. She leans up. All at once we’re doing the same dance we’ve done this past month or so. I grab her ass, lift her off her feet, and she wraps her legs around me. Damn, but she feels fine, finer than fine. Her ass is firm and round, the sort of ass a man can imagine bouncing up and down on his cock. I move my hand between her legs, sliding up her tights, pressing down on her panties. She moans in my ear. Her breath is warm, the sound sweet. We’re lying in bed when she pushes away from me, rolling aside.

  “Stop it, Diesel,” she pants. “I—I have to get to work. This is so fucked.”

  “What’s fucked?” I stand up, following her into the living room. My balls are aching like crazy, like they’ve been aching every night for weeks. I need to come inside this woman. I think I’ll die if I don’t.

  “This.” She gestures at me and then herself. “This situation. It’s … it’s messed up.”

  “Where would you go? If you left, where would you go?”

  She bites her lip, eyes flitting all over me except into my eyes. “I have to get to work.”

  I follow her to the door, closing it firmly when she tries to open it. “What is this, Willa? What the fuck’s going on here?”

  “I wish I knew, Diesel. I really wish I knew. Let me go, please.”

  I step back, letting her out of the door because there’s not much of an alternative. When she’s gone, I sit on the couch, elbows on my knees, looking at the fragments of the broken bowl and wondering what the hell’s gotten into me. Everything’s messed up. My head is a mess. That’s the goddamn truth. I used to be strong-headed, steel-headed. Nothing could get in to mess around with me. But now Willa’s broken through and brought all the bullshit of life through with her.

  I’m almost glad when Grimace calls me and asks me to come by the club. At least it’s a distraction.

  The clubhouse is on the outskirts of the city, a squat building nestled between low hills. Above the door, a skull rides, and in the club itself there are pictures everywhere of old club members, dead club members, and some current ones, too. A few men are drinking and playing cards in the corner. As I make my way to Grimace’s office, Johnny Smith jumps in my way. He’s a short man, skinny as a handlebar, with a mustache to match. He looks ridiculous in Skull Rider leathers but he’s a good worker as far as I know. His hair comes down past his shoulders in lank sheets.

  “Big man,” he says, smiling, showing too much gum. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine,” I mutter.

  “I bet!” Johnny laughs, and then leans in too close. He reeks of whisky. I’m guessing him and his pals have done an all-nighter. “Listen, if you ever need any help, you let me know, all right, big man? I’d be happy to come along.” He winks. “Bet it’s pretty exciting, eh, big man?”

  “If you call me big man one more time, I’m going to force-feed you your teeth.”

  I push past him into Grimace’s office. I’m too tired for this. The headache fades, leaving behind a band of tension in my forehead, constant but dull. Grimace is clipping his mustache with a set of scissors which look childlike in his massive hands. I wonder if that’s how I look to other people. I know I’m bigger than him. But looking at him sometimes it’s hard to believe. Maybe it’s because he was bigger than me once.

  “I have another job for you,” he says, holding up the pocket mirror.

  I stop myself from sighing. “Okay,” I say.

  “It’s a laundromat. Should be easy enough. Closed at night. Semi-detached, with a takeout place next door. You might need to consider that.”

  “Okay.”

  I’m at the door when I turn around and return to the desk. “And what if I didn’t do it?” I ask. “What then?”

  “What do you mean?” Grimace lays his scissors and mirror on the desk. “Why wouldn’t you do it?”

  “Humor me, Grimace. What if I didn’t?”

  Grimace rests his chin on his kn
uckles, crushing his beard. “Then I’d send one of the other guys to do it. But I’ve gotta say, kid, I don’t like this attitude. The fuck has this come from? Don’t forget who you’re talking to. I’m the goddamn president, remember? And don’t forget all I’ve done for you, either.”

  I growl, clench my fists, and then unclench my fists and back out of the office. “How could I?”

  The day is only getting started and I’m already dog-tired, so I go back to the apartment and slump down on my bed. Not the oil-smelling mattress, but my bed, which smells of Willa. I press my face into the pillow and breathe in the smell of her, perfume and hair and woman, a smell that chases me into my dreams.

  My real work won’t start until this evening. That’s when I’ll take another piece of my soul and burn it to ash. That’s when the idea of me being a dad will seem all the more laughable.