Rising Heat (Outlaw Biker Boys) Read online

  I shook my head as I stared out the grimy windows of my loft, wondering what the hell I’d been thinking, but even more curious as to what had given me my wake-up call. The fact that thirty was another birthday closer? That I was tired of the people I hung around?

  Correction. Used to hang around.

  I’d recently left the Outlaw Biker Boys motorcycle gang. We weren’t a gang like the Hell’s Angels or anything like that, and we weren’t your typical gang bangers. Just a group of misfits who had found camaraderie because of our dysfunctional lives, our bad attitudes, and our “I want it so I should have it” mentality. At least that’s how it started.

  I glanced down at myself and shook my head. Tattered jeans, biker boots, and an old leather belt that I’d had for I don’t know how long. At the moment, I wasn’t wearing a shirt. Emblazoned on my chest were two thick, black tattoos that spanned my torso at chest level. Two strands of barbed wire, one between my nipple line and my collarbones, the other just below the base of my pecs. My first and only tattoo. Got it at the age of seventeen. I’d gotten drunk with a friend from high school, took one look at the image samples in the fat notebook at the tattoo parlor and pointed to the barbed wire. At the time it seemed to encompass how I felt about my life.

  Trapped.

  Being drunk and stupid, we had each gotten a tattoo. The barbed wire went on me and, my friend — I couldn’t even remember his name now — had gotten a skull with fangs on his shoulder blade.

  I tried to think back, trying to determine exactly when my rebellion erupted. Junior high school? I’d always had the reputation of being a bad boy, a troublemaker, the one pushing the boundaries and breaking the rules. A sorry bid for attention, I supposed. But things had gotten out of control during high school. The deeper reason, one I deliberately pushed from my mind, niggled around the edges of my consciousness.

  I guess people who thought of me, if they did, considered me the product of a dysfunctional family, scarred by demons, not the least of which was the burden of overwhelming criticism I’d felt by every one of my family members. I can’t remember how many times my father, the one and only Harold Bascom, financial mogul and major asshole, told me that I was damaging his reputation and I had better cease and desist, or else. My mother, who after the incident couldn’t seem to look at me without that goddamned expression that, to her credit, she tried to hide but couldn’t.

  And my twin sister, Lacey, who tried to be my supporter, my confidant, until I managed to push her away too. So pathetic. I tried to think back to what the family had been like before the accident, but I couldn’t really remember. Were we ever normal? Were we dysfunctional even before the tragedy that turned our lives upside down?

  The snake forgotten, I leaned my head against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling, not seeing the old ventilation or the crisscrossed copper water pipes. I looked past the ancient wooden braces that creaked and snapped every winter, doing their best to hold onto the roof when the spring winds blew, the rain poured, and the weight of snow that fell on it every winter.

  Lowering my gaze to the walls, the windows, anything to distract my mind from what it wanted to remember. Becky. Becca to me. My little sister, younger than Lacey and me by two years. I was sixteen, she only fourteen that day she begged me to take her for a ride.

  I had just gotten my driver’s license. My dad was as some board meeting, but my mom was puttering out in the backyard, tending to her prized roses. She liked to garden; always said that digging in the dirt and smelling the freshly turned soil renewed her spirits. I thought that was incredibly corny at the time, considering she only spent her days volunteering for charity events and playing bridge, but now I think I understood what she was trying to say.

  Unwilling, but now distinctly meandering down the path toward memory lane, I relived that day, recalled every sound, sight, and smell. The smell of burning rubber on the asphalt as I peeled out of the dirt driveway of our home and onto the highway. The delighted squeal of my little sister as she hung onto the car door handle with one hand, clutching at my arm with the other. We were both laughing. Becca. Sweet, innocent Becca. Always smiling, always finding the good in people, always able to make my father smile and my mother’s face soften with affection.

  I swear to God I hadn’t had anything to drink before I got into my brand new Mustang that afternoon. I hadn’t smoked a joint, was not driving recklessly, nothing. Yes, I was going over the speed limit, but nothing outrageous. We flew down the two-lane highway just outside of Charlotte, North Carolina, the windows down and the wind tugging at Becca’s hair. I’ll never forget the startled cry that erupted from her throat when the front passenger tire blew; a loud bang that took us both by surprise. I’ll never forget the wrench of the steering wheel as my fingers automatically tightened around it.

  In my mind, I told myself not to over-correct, don’t over-correct… but the next thing I knew, the two right tires found the loose dirt at the side of the highway and the two left tires had lifted off the ground. Neither one of us were wearing seat belts. I should’ve known better. I should’ve insisted. I should’ve—

  My chest rose and fell as the nightmare once again roared through my mind. The smell of the shredded tires, the smell of oil. The grinding sound of metal crunching as the car rolled. Once. Twice. Then I lost count. Shattering glass. The groan of stressed metal ripping and tearing. I tried to grab for Becca, to cushion her within my embrace, but to my horror, she was no longer in her seat. The breath was knocked out of me, my head slammed against something… the window frame? The steering wheel? I barely remembered the pain, but I did remember the horror.

  And then the car had come to a stop at the bottom of an incline. Upside down. I lay sprawled on the roof of the car, amazed that not only was I awake, but that I was alive. Glancing down at myself, I saw that all my limbs were intact, another miracle. My head hurt. Warm blood streamed down into my eyes. I impatiently swiped it away and tried to call out for Becca, but no sound issued from my throat.

  No sound but that of a wheel still spinning on its axle, and then the whoosh of flames as something sparked the fuel line. I wanted to just lay there. I really did. I couldn’t see Becca. I knew what that meant. She had been thrown from the car. I didn’t know where she was or how badly she was hurt. All I knew was that it was my fault.

  I moved, then slithered like a snake through the busted glass of the windshield. I squeezed my way from beneath the crumpled remains of my dad’s car and staggered to my feet just as flames erupted from the rear.

  My heart pounded with a myriad of emotions I couldn’t even identify let alone acknowledge as they raced through my body. I was shaking so bad. Adrenaline. I once again wiped the blood from my eyes, scanning the trees, the shrubs, the sandy soil looking for Becca.

  I saw the swath that the car had made as it rolled down the hill, gouging the small sapling pines, crushing the underbrush, leaving deep gashes in the sandy slope. And there, near the bottom, lying still on the incline was my sister, sprawled facedown. I raced toward her, my stomach in my throat and my heart thumping in terror. She must’ve been thrown from the car on the first roll.

  “Becca!” I screamed. The sound was filled with anguish, guilt, and fear.

  She didn’t move. I fell to my knees beside her, placed my hand on her back as I brushed the hair from her face. Her eyes were wide open and staring. Beneath her a large pool of blood had begun to spread. I lost it. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as I began to turn her over. Then, after I got a look at her chest and abdomen, I realized it was too late. Blood everywhere. I glimpsed intestines. Massive injuries. Fatal injuries.

  I lifted the body of my dead little sister into my arms and screamed, shouted, and wailed in protest. Several moments later, a car drove by, screeched to a halt, and then people were running toward me. A haze of grief enveloped me. My head swam. I didn’t pay much attention to what happened after that. My ears were ringing so loud I didn’t hear them calling for the p
olice or an ambulance, but soon the side of the road was crowded with flashing lights.

  Covered in blood, most of it Becca’s, it took two highway patrol officers to pull me away. And then I watched, numb and disbelieving, as the ambulance technicians came and checked for a pulse in her neck, shook their heads, and then covered my sister with a yellow tarp provided by one of the highway patrol officers.

  I blacked out after that and woke up in the hospital. My parents were there, as was Lacey, their eyes red-rimmed from crying, my father looking horribly broken and my mother pale and confused. Lacey was the only one to reach for my hand as I lay in the hospital bed wondering why I was still alive when Becca was not. I don’t remember either of my parents ever hugging me after that day.

  I knew they blamed me. Why shouldn’t they? I blamed myself. If I hadn’t gotten into that car…

  The sound of a vehicle pulling up to the converted warehouse caught my attention. The brief flash of headlights blinked against my windows before they disappeared. I pulled myself out of my waking nightmare — the nightmare that never left me. My penance. My burden to bear.

  I stepped to the window and watched as my downstairs neighbor left his car and headed for the metal door at the opposite end of the building.

  I don’t know how much time had passed, but I figured that the lady from the pet store would be arriving any minute now. Probably some middle-aged fuddy-duddy who thought she was a big fish in a small pond. At least that’s how I saw most managers. Self-important. Self-absorbed. Those who often abused the power they wielded not only over their employees, but customers.

  I had to admit that I was a bit surprised that she agreed to bring a new tank to my loft. Most managers, assistant or not, male or female, would have told me to go fuck myself, especially after the way I’d acted. Now I was intrigued and more than a little curious as to who would show up, and if she’d be bearing the mace she promised.

  I refocused my thoughts on Alice. I’d always been fascinated by snakes, but Alice was the first I ever owned. Just before my phone call to the pet store, I’d seen her slithering off toward my bedroom area. I headed that way. I should’ve known better than to let that fat-ass manager talk me into a fish tank for my ball python anyway.

  “Sure, a fish tank is perfect for a python,” the manager had assured me. “We have quite a selection and they don’t cost much. If you want something bigger, we’ll need to special order.”

  I’d never owned a snake before, but I’d read a few care sheets for ball pythons. “It doesn’t have a lock,” I pointed out.

  “You don’t need a lock,” the manager said, shaking his head. “Just put something on top so it can’t lift the lid.”

  I had been doubtful, but the tank looked like it would be easy to strap onto the back of my bike. “Is it moisture resistant?”

  The manager shrugged. “It doesn’t leak, if that’s what you mean.”

  I should’ve known. The guy was looking for an easy sale and like an idiot, I let myself be talked into it just because I was in a hurry. I bought the tank, despite my reservations, a heat lamp, and a few other things. It hadn’t taken long for my snake to push against one corner of the tank, break the seal, and escape, leaving shards of glass all over my floor to greet me when I got home that afternoon.

  So, yes, the lady from the pet store was bringing another fish tank, but that was just a temporary solution. I would get online later and do what I should’ve done in the first place. Get a proper python enclosure.

  I stopped halfway toward my bedroom area and glanced back at my messy living room, then spied a t-shirt laying over one arm of the sofa. I grabbed it and clutched it in one hand, not caring whether it was wrinkled or even stained with grease as I headed down the hallway. In my spare time — who was I kidding? All I had was spare time — I liked to tinker with my bike, and that was my work shirt. My boots echoed loudly against the hardwood floor as I kept an eye out for my snake. With my luck, it would be hiding under my bed. Great.

  Stepping inside the bathroom, I flicked the light switch and glanced inside. Nothing. I turned to leave, but then realized that the snake might have gotten into the bathtub. I brushed aside the shower curtain and looked. Nope.

  Turning from the tub, I caught a glance of myself in the mirror and grimaced at my reflection. I needed a haircut. Shoulder length, wavy brown hair. I glanced down at the countertop, pulled open a drawer and retrieved a rubber band. I quickly pulled my hair into a ponytail. I didn’t want to scare the pet store woman away before she even got inside. Although as I stared at my reflection, I realized that I probably would.

  I rubbed my palm over the stubble on my cheeks and jaw line. Not only did I need a haircut, I needed a shave. I glared into my blue eyes and my eyebrows furrowed further. Seemed like I was always frowning. Don’t ask me why. I always looked mad, even when I wasn’t.

  I needed to shake this bad mood off before the pet store lady came. What the hell did she say her name was? I tried to smile, but my lips pursed into an assessing frown. No, that wouldn’t do. I tried again. Better. At least my teeth were white and straight. In fact, the smile made me appear less threatening. Then I frowned again. What the hell did I care what I looked like to the assistant manager?

  I shook my head, muttered under my breath, and left the bathroom, my thoughts focused again on Alice. Where the hell had she gone? Sometimes she was hard to see because of her coloring; dark brown, like coffee with gold splotches. At her thickest, she was about three inches in circumference. She was fairly docile, but if she felt threatened, she would bite.

  The buzzer blaring from my door downstairs pulled me away from my thoughts. A narrow stairway connected my loft door to the thick metal door downstairs. I snatched the crumpled t-shirt off the bathroom sink, still holding on to it while I hurried toward the loft door. Despite the fact that I was angry about the tank, I realized I couldn’t take it out on this poor woman. I tried to tamp down my anger and frustration as I reached for the door, turned the knob, and quickly took the stairs two at a time.

  At the bottom, lit by the glow of a bare lightbulb hanging from a thin chain, I unlatched both of the deadbolt locks and pulled it open. The woman standing on the other side was not at all what I expected. She wasn’t middle-aged, far from it. I don’t know why I thought an assistant manager at a pet store would be middle-aged, but there you have it. She was young, maybe early twenties. Blonde, shoulder-length hair worn loose. Her baby blue eyes widened as she gaped up at me. I realized I still hadn’t put the shirt on.

  “Sorry,” I said as I stepped back and gave her room to enter. She seemed hesitant to do so and I could imagine why. I was about to offer to take the tank from her arms when she lifted her chin. Without a word, she quickly walked past me and began climbing the stairs.

  I followed. Once at the top, she took a wary look around, stepped back, and gazed up at me.

  “You can put that on the coffee table,” I said, gesturing toward the free-standing wall to my left. My voice sounded gruff and once again, she hesitated. I couldn’t blame her. She was probably more than a little concerned about walking into a strange man’s home, especially a man who looked like me. I tried to put her at ease. “I should have just waited ‘til morning and talked to the manager.”

  Holding the fish tank in her arms like a barrier, she turned to me, her gaze passing from the top of my head to my chest, lingering on the barbed wire tattoo, then down my torso to my boots and then back again. I wasn’t expecting my body’s reaction to her perusal. That gaze only lasted a second, and yet…

  “A little late for that now, isn’t it?”

  I frowned at how abrupt she sounded. She swallowed and took another step back. Clearing her throat, she walked around the wall and placed the fish tank onto the coffee table. She turned around, ready to head for the door.

  “The manager won’t be in this weekend,” she said, then spied the remains of the broken tank on the table to the left of the sofa, looked at my setup f
or a moment or two, and then turned to me with a frown. “You really shouldn’t keep a ball python in a fish tank, you know. They need a hot and a cool area in their enclosure. They’re cold-blooded and need heat from an outside source to maintain their internal temperature.”

  “I know that,” I said, pointing. “The heat lamp is right there.”

  “That kind of heat lamp is not at all suitable. They may be okay for lizards or iguanas, but not for ball pythons. They need belly heat. This lamp provides basking heat. Ball pythons don’t bask. They don’t lie on top of rocks in the afternoon like you see a lot of other reptiles do. In fact, during the daytime, they like to hide under rocks or branches where it’s darker, soaking up the heat from the ground.”

  I was impressed by her knowledge. She lost some of her wariness as she warmed up to her subject matter.

  “Do you know that when they’re wild, they pretty much hide all day? Even in captivity, your snake should do the same. No, you need an under tank heater. You can create the belly heat from beneath the tank using heat pads, heat tape, or heat cables, but they should be regulated with a thermostat.”

  “Is that so?”

  She nodded and licked her full lips. “You also have to be very careful about humidity. While you can create humidity in a fish tank, in order to get the proper level, you might have to spray the interior with water at least three times a day.”

  “You don’t say.”

  She nodded again and actually smiled this time, the gesture transforming her face. “Your ball python is a tropical snake. Did you know that they’re also known as the Royal python? They’re from sub-Saharan Africa, and some of the smallest of African pythons. Does your python curl up into a ball when you hold it?”

  I looked at her in surprise, then nodded.

  “That’s because it’s scared,” she said. “They curl into a ball when they’re scared or they’re stressed, just so you know. Males tend to be shorter than females.”