Sunday Morning (Damaged #7.5)

 

“Son, I’m not in the mood to dig a shallow grave,” he calmly said.

 

“Then get out of the way. You won’t want that whore anyway. She’s all talk and no action. Won’t put out even if you beg.”

 

“Then she isn’t much of a whore, is she?” Kirk said, walking slowly toward Carvin. “If I hit you, you’re not walking away easy.”

 

“You’d be doing the world a favor by killing him,” I said, still pissed about Carvin calling me a whore. “No one would miss his ugly ass.”

 

Kirk glanced back at me and shook his head at my goading. Even though he didn’t see Carvin rush our direction, Kirk had no trouble landing a punch to the younger man’s jaw. I swore I saw teeth fly out of the asshole’s mouth.

 

Dropping on the ground, Carvin screamed in pain. Kirk looked at the other bikers.

 

“You were flirting with the girl. You finish this.”

 

“Shallow grave?” the biker asked Kirk.

 

My hero glanced back at me and considered the question. “No, just make it harder for him to cause trouble.”

 

The other guys dragged a crying Carvin behind the club while Kirk stepped onto the porch where I waited.

 

“You’re a troublemaker.”

 

“He called me a whore.”

 

“That he did,” Kirk said, caressing my cheek. “Did you want him to die?”

 

“I really wouldn’t have cared either way. Kristi is a shitty friend, but Carvin busts her upside the head a lot.”

 

“I don’t like hitting women. You know why?”

 

“They hit back?” I asked.

 

Kirk smiled. “No, they cry.”

 

“Carvin’s crying.”

 

“Yeah and that’s why I don’t like hitting pussies either.”

 

“What would I have to do to make you hit me?”

 

Kirk considered my question. “Try to set me on fire. Or bury me alive. I wouldn’t sit still for that shit.”

 

“But slapping you around or stealing your heart would be non-hitting offenses,” I teased, nearly laughing.

 

“I’m tough. I could take you kicking my ass.”

 

“I’d probably cheat.”

 

“Oh, no doubt about that,” he said, gesturing for me to follow him off the porch. “I’ll walk you home.”

 

I paced myself and passed three trailers before speaking. “I want you to know that if Carvin got the upper hand with you, I would have jumped in and saved you.”

 

“Without your bat?”

 

“I would have used your rocking chair as a weapon.”

 

Laughing, Kirk reached over and played with my loose hair. He didn’t turn the touch into anything more, though.

 

We stopped in front of my trailer where inside Robin blasted Bon Jovi.

 

“You behave until you’re old enough for me to worship.”

 

“I promise nothing,” I said, hating to leave his side.

 

Kirk might have heard the sadness in my tone. He reached out and softly brushed my cheek with his thumb.

 

“I’d say something to fix the look on your face, but I don’t know what that something might be.”

 

I nodded. “Thanks for talking to me.”

 

Kirk stepped back. “I’m glad you came by and entertained me, but you probably shouldn’t do that again. The club isn’t safe.”

 

My heart wouldn’t let me nod at his warning. I needed to see Kirk again. He was too special in a world full of crap. I didn’t know how long it would take, but I would know everything there was to know about Kirk.

 

 

 

 

 

3 - Kirk

 

 

Sunday mornings changed once I got older. I wasn’t sure exactly when it happened. I woke one Sunday without a hangover or a strange woman in my bed. I got up earlier and drank coffee rather than chasing my last buzz. I stood in the cold morning and thought about the forty-two years that led to that moment.

 

I never wanted much from life. My parents couldn’t raise me. I ended up shuffled between relatives who didn’t want me either. Once I was old enough, I got stuck in juvenile hall where I finally fit. I met people who later hired me for work that made me solid money. Years passed, and I stumbled onto the Chesterfield Vandals. They were a young, bratty club full of boys playing men. I was like their fucking dad, but I wouldn’t have been proud of a single one of them if they really were my kids.

 

After I lost interest in drinking and started waking up sober on Sundays, I got handed the job of tracking down my club brothers from wherever the booze and drugs finally dropped them. Most were around the Bounce House strip joint where we did our business. I usually found Jimmy in the parking lot, half under a car. Toby often crawled into someone’s truck bed before crashing. Anyone not at the Bounce House was likely in the Princess Farms Trailer Park next door to the club.