My father stormed out of the clubhouse after they disappeared into the chapel and concocted a plan of attack. They looked like a pack of wild animals running out of here. The whole lot of them, the men in leather and the pretty boy mobsters with the tight t-shirts that promoted a gym called Xonerated on their backs.
I tried isolating myself, staying locked up in Blackie’s room until the dreaded news came but, the door flew open and Nikki Pastore came barging into the room. She froze in her tracks once she spotted me on the bed, and smiled sheepishly—which was comical since it was obvious this girl didn’t have a shy bone in her body.
“Shit, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was up here,” she cocked her head, glancing around the room. “Is this the Bulldog’s room?” She questioned as she walked over to the dresser and started to search for something.
“No, it’s not,” I said, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed. “Is there something you need?”
I started towards her, as she shamelessly moved things around on Blackie’s dresser, pausing to lift a picture frame. She turned around, holding up the frame as her eyes questioned me.
“Why is it all the hot guys are either married or gay?” She asked as I stared at the photo of Blackie and Christine on their wedding day.
“Where did you find that?”
“Right there,” she tipped her chin at the dresser. “Under the mountain of black clothes,” she replied, glancing down at the picture. “As my Aunt Gina would say, that’s a fine piece of ass right there,” she added.
“Blackie doesn’t like people touching his shit,” I informed her.
“Blackie?” She turned around and placed the frame on the dresser, standing it up so that the happy couple was rightfully displayed.
“The guy whose room you’re ransacking,” I explained, tearing my eyes from the photograph to meet hers.
“Does Blackie smoke?”
“What?”
“Look, Lacey right? I’m having a nicotine fit,” she stuck her arm out toward me, lifting up the sleeve to expose her nicotine patch. “This shit doesn’t cut it, so again, does this Blackie character smoke?”
“Sometimes, but not usually,” I crossed my arms. “There are no cigarettes in here.”
She raised an eyebrow as she stared at me for a moment then walked over to the bed and dropped onto it.
“Bummer,” she said. “I guess it’s up to you then.”
“Excuse me?”
“I need a distraction,” she explained, rubbing her arm where the patch was.
“What? No. What’re you doing?”
“Who’s the hot guy with the bride?”
“Shouldn’t you be downstairs helping your mother and that other lady turn this place into a trattoria or something?”
She smiled.
“A wise ass just like your dad,” she mused.
“Did you just call me a wise ass?”
“I did,” she affirmed.
“How do you know my dad?”
“He helped me and my boyfriend out one night. My ex-boyfriend shot up my father’s nightclub and your dad took me and my Mikey to a safe house,” she explained, leaning back on the bed. “Good times.”
“Your ex-boyfriend shot up a night club?” I asked, wide-eyed as I sat next to her.
“Yeah, that prick bastard,” she snarled. “Anyway, your pops… he came riding to the rescue, and drove me and Mikey to a cabin in the middle of nowhere. He slipped me a pack of Marlboro’s and became one of my top-five favorite people.”
That caused me to smile. There weren’t too many people around my age that genuinely liked my father. Growing up me and my friends didn’t spend much time around my dad, they barely knew him. They heard of him, knew his name, his club and made assumptions. Some of them feared the big bad motorcycle man—others thought it was cool to have a dad who was a biker but, they didn’t get to interact with him. Nikki was the first person to tell me she was fond of my father and not because of the patch but because he was just a cool guy who helped her out of a jam and gave her a pack of cigarettes.
“So, who is Blackie and why are you here hiding out in his room?”
I was pulled from my thoughts, turned my eyes to her and shrugged my shoulders.
“He’s the vice president of the club,” I answered, looking away. “He came to get me, to take me here, when your father’s pal showed up and took him,” my words trailed.
“I didn’t see the girl in the picture downstairs,” she said, tipping her chin to the frame.
“Because she’s dead,” I lifted my eyes to the photograph, staring at the smile on Blackie’s face and realized even the few times he smiled at me, his smile differed from the one in the photograph.
He was different back then.
He was happy.
“That’s fucking awful,” Nikki whispered, looking back at me.