Read Online Bike Week Blues by Mary Clay - Free Book Online

through the restaurant and the old
friend’s body being discovered less than a hour later. The look on
Ruthie’s face said she was thinking the same thing. Surely, it had
also occurred to Penny Sue.
    “I can hardly believe all of this. Rich
seemed so kind and gentle,” Penny Sue said.
    “He’s into motorcycles,” Ruthie said
quietly. “Some of the motorcycle crowd are pretty rough.”
    “Yeah, but they’re a minority,” Penny Sue
said defensively. “It’s always a few bad apples that give the bunch
a bad name. Like Muslim fanatics—everyone from the Middle East
isn’t a terrorist.”
    Fran nodded. “All Italians aren’t in the
Mafia.”
    “True, but all bikers don’t hang out with a
Vulture,” Ruthie said.
    Penny Sue looked at her lap, crestfallen
“You’re right. I just can’t imagine Rich is involved in this. He’s
such a sweetheart.” She glanced up, tears rimming her eyes. “He’s
my soul mate.”
    I swallowed. Lordy, I’d heard that line a
million times before. Best I could tell, Penny Sue had been in a
harem in several past lives, and everyone was her soul mate. Still,
the tears threw me. I’d seen more tears from Penny Sue in the last
two days than the last twenty-five years.
    Penny Sue tugged on Carl’s shirtsleeve. “Are
you sure that man was a friend of Vulture’s?”
    “Positive. I’ve seen them together at the
Canaveral Park several times and at the Pub, too. It’s definitely
the same guy.”
    “What in the world were they doing at the
park? Surely not sightseeing.”
    “Paintball battles.”
    Penny Sue recoiled. “They’re Klingons?”
    Carl scowled. “No. Paintball battles are all
the craze. Lots of people play them. Corporate team building
seminars even use them.”
    “Yeah, and Muslim terrorists use paintballs
to train for jihad.” Ruthie, our news junkie, jumped in. “There was
a big article about it in the Washington Post .”
    “I always suspected Vulture and his crowd
were training for a conflict. Like I said, some people say he’s an
anti-government extremist.”
    “Rich is not an extremist. I’d stake my life
on it.”
    “I’m sure you’re right,” I said with more
conviction than I felt. I hoped Penny Sue’s faith was justified. I
was beginning to like my new single life and hated to stake it on
anything.
    * * *
    The telephone rang at seven o’clock the next
morning. I bolted upright, heart pounding, struggling for air. I
was right in the middle of the damned dream about Zack. The
nightmare I’d had over and over since I discovered his secret life.
The wrenching horror that my divorce decree had not silenced.
    I was sitting in the garage waiting for my
husband. My feet were propped up on a carton of wooden figurines
identical to the ones Zack claimed to have carved. I’ll never
forget the moment I found that box marked Country Originals hidden under his workbench. In a flash I knew and felt like
my heart had been ripped out. It must have been the same sensation
suffered by virgins in Aztec sacrifices when the priest savagely
severed her heart, and ate it, still beating.
    The utter emptiness in my chest was almost
more than I could bear, yet it was peanuts compared to the feeling
of abandonment I felt when I confronted Zack. He callously brushed
me off and categorically refused to give up his girlfriend. I
couldn’t believe the man I’d slept next to for so many years, the
man I’d put first in almost everything, had so little regard for me
and our marriage! Dumped for a strip club dancer hardly older than
our own daughter.
    The shock was more than my system could
stand. I started to hyperventilate, from pain, back then. Since the
divorce, I heaved from rage. A rage that spurted from my chest like
a ballistic missile. A furor so fierce it could destroy Zack, me,
and the entire planet.
    The shift from pain to rage happened shortly
after I moved from Atlanta to New Smyrna Beach. Alone, away from
family and friends, it worried me. Should I consult a