The Biker's Heart

By: Meg Jackson


You thought you hit snooze, but you actually turned your alarm clock off. You’re late now, and you didn’t do laundry when you should have, so the only clean underwear you have has a big hole in it. You can’t find any shoes that match. You brush too hard and cut your gums, and you don’t have any time to get your hair to look decent, so you just put it in a bun.

You’re halfway out the door when you realize you don’t have your keys, and you don’t know where they are. Two minutes later, you find them on top of the toaster. Why are your keys on top of the toaster, goddammit? You get to the car and the engine won’t turn. You lean your head against the wheel and think: my life is a mess, my life is falling apart.

Well, take it from me, that’s a rough morning, but your life isn’t a mess, and it’s not falling apart. Your life is probably just peachy. You don’t get to think that your life is falling apart until your biker boyfriend follows you home from Vegas, gets held at gunpoint by your dad, then admits that he’s trying to escape his own father, who just arrived at your doorstep with a horde of scary men on rumbling motorcycles. That’s when you really get to say “my life is a mess”.

Yes, when you look back from your bedroom window, out of which you can see the gang of men on their bikes, and see your crumpled panties on the floor, where the boy who shouldn’t even be in your room threw them, and realize that you’re irreversibly screwed on pretty much all accounts, then you get to think to yourself: my life is a mess, my life is falling apart.

Because at that point, it will be true.

“What are we gonna do? Boon, what are we gonna do? Holy shit, holy shit, I have to call my dad, I have to call the police, we gotta….” I said, panic hitting me like a champion heavyweight. Blood was pounding in my ears, making the whole world sound muted, muffled. My hands were shaking; hell, my whole body was shaking. I could barely focus on Boon’s figure at the window, his face pale. He turned to me and I felt his strong grip on my wrist; next thing I knew, we were running down the stairs and towards the back of the house.

“Boon, wait, stop, my dad, my phone, we…”

“No time! There’s no fucking time, Samantha! They’re not here to fucking negotiate, they’re here to fuck us up!” Boon said, propelling me through the house at a neck-breaking speed. We reached the glass doors that led to the backyard and I thought, foolishly, that Boon was going to run straight through them. He stopped and fumbled with the handle. It was locked, but in his panic Boon was just pulling at it.

“Wait,” I said, moving in front of him and unlocking the door, letting it slide open. I turned to him, blocking the exit, clarity starting to bleed into my frenzied thoughts. “We need to stop and call someone. We can’t outrun them or…”

“Samantha, I swear to God, if you never trusted me before, you need to trust me now. There’s no time.” I heard knocking on the front door: a very, very, very loud and violent knocking. “You don’t know my father. Now we have to GO!”

With that, he grabbed my hand again, pushing past me into the backyard, dragging me along the manicured lawn as I stared back into my house, hearing the knocking become a banging. This is a safe neighborhood, I thought to myself, vaguely, as Boon pulled me through the backyard. They can’t hurt me here. They can’t hurt us in my home.

Just as Boon was pulling me through the hedges that acted as a fence around our backyard, I saw shadowy figures in the hallway, rushing towards us. And then we were in the next yard over, my heart racing, my mind still foggy, Boon still pulling me along. I couldn’t see the house anymore after that.

“Jesus, Samantha, you gotta hurry up, baby, please,” he said, his voice desperate and fast. I turned back, facing forward now and trying to walk as quickly as Boon was dragging me. We came out the other side of my neighbor’s house; the street here seemed so quiet, so still and normal. But Boon kept pulling me away.

He led me across the street to a car, grabbing the handle and pushing me towards the front.

“Get in on the other side,” he said; the driver’s door must have been unlocked, because he slid into the front seat and leaned over, unlocking the passenger side. I stood in front of the car, looking at him incredulously.