Athena Sisterhood Read online

“Then convince her to stop calling Kyle names. Otherwise, she’s out the door.”

  “You’re right. I just wish it wasn’t me that always has to talk to her.”

  “She trusts you more than she does anyone else. But if you want me to talk with her instead, I will. You’re our engineer, not Switch’s baby-sitter.”

  “No, I’ll talk to her.”

  “I appreciate it.” Shea glanced at her watch. “It’s after five. Let’s get outta here.”

  Shea spent the next ten minutes closing up the shop. When everyone had left, Shea set the alarm and walked out the back door of the garage.

  The setting sun was partially obscured by a blanket of heavy clouds moving in from the west. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees from when she was outside earlier. The smell and promise of a November drizzle was in the air. Fortunately, she didn’t have far to go and could relax with Jessica and Annie for the evening.

  Sweet Betsy roared to life and Shea was soon navigating the twisting switchbacks down Sycamore Mountain. As she dropped in elevation, the temperature warmed to a more comfortable level and Shea picked up the pace, leaning harder into curves, and occasionally scraping her footpegs on the asphalt.

  At the bottom of the mountain, the terrain leveled out, stretching across scrub desert dotted with saguaro cactus. A half mile farther, she turned into her neighborhood, which butted up against a low ridgeline topped with boulders that always reminded her of the spiny back of a dragon. Cottonwoods and sycamore trees dominated the rugged yards, along with wild grasses and other native plants. No manicured lawns or decorative rock. The homes themselves were a few decades old and some in urgent need of maintenance.

  Jessica’s car was parked next to their garage because there was no room inside, a source of increasing complaints. Shea pressed the remote in the left pocket of her hoodie. Her garage opened to reveal her stable of motorcycles.

  Once inside, Shea pressed the button again. The garage door groaned and clanked as it rolled back down. She pulled off her helmet and stepped into the house. The smell of take-out hamburgers and french fries put a smile on her face. I deserve a break today, she hummed to herself.

  In the kitchen, a wrinkled McDonald’s bag rested on the counter, next to a brightly colored kid’s meal box. Shea grabbed a plate, pulled the remaining hamburger out of the bag, along with a half-empty box of fries, and sauntered to the living room.

  Jessica sat on the love seat, staring blankly across the room. A half-eaten hamburger and fries lay on a plate on the coffee table. The place was unnervingly quiet.

  “Hey, hon. Where’s Annie?”

  Jessica stared up at Shea, her arms crossed. “In her room,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Uh…did she eat?”

  “Nope!”

  Shea sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulder. “What’s going on, babe?”

  Jessica took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m losing my mind.”

  “I lost mine years ago. Don’t really miss it.”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

  “Seriously, what happened?” Shea took a bite of her burger.

  “Annie came home with a note from her teacher for calling another student the N-word.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t you dare excuse it by saying she grew up hearing that word.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. There’s no excuse for her using that word. Have you talked with her?”

  “I thought you should have the honors.”

  “Fair enough.” Shea set her own plate on the coffee table. “If it’s any consolation, I really appreciate all that you do for her. You’ve really gone above and beyond since Wendy got killed.”

  “I can’t be the only one around to deal with Annie. I have a job, too, you know.”

  “You’re right. I need to do more.”

  “I feel like the black nanny raising the kids.”

  “You’re not.” Shea took Jessica’s hand. Their eyes met. “You are my family. I love you more than anything else in this world.”

  “I love you, too, but it doesn’t change how I feel.” A tear spilled down her cheek. “You work sixty hours a week. It was bad enough when it was just the two of us, but now…”

  “I know. I hate that the shop keeps me so busy.”

  “Annie’s got some issues. This problem at school may be linked to the trauma she’s endured. She needs help. Professional help.”

  “Maybe she does, but right now I don’t have the money to pay for it. Those shrinks don’t come cheap.”

  “Maybe if you sold some of the bikes in the garage, Annie could get the help she needs and I’d finally have a place to park my car.”

  Shea sighed and pressed her forehead against Jessica’s. “I’ll see what I can do, okay? You’re important to me. So is Annie. I’ll figure something out.” She gave her a kiss on the lips. “In the meantime, I’m gonna have a talk with our girl.”

  Shea hung her hoodie in the hall closet and opened the door to Annie’s bedroom. Annie sat knees to chest on her bed with her back against the headboard. Her face was red and puffy from crying. Her pigtail braids were loose and ragged.

  “Hey, Doodlebug. I…uh…” Shea struggled for words. Having kids was never in her life plan. “I hear you had an…interesting day.”

  Annie shrugged.

  Shea straddled the royal blue, child-size chair next to the smallish wooden desk. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  Another shrug.

  “How ’bout we start with why you used the N-word at school today.”

  “Naomi Harris was mean to me.”

  “How was she being mean to you?”

  “She wouldn’t let me jump rope with her and the other girls. She said dumb rednecks don’t know how to jump rope. So I called her a nig—”

  “Don’t say it! Don’t you ever use that word again.”

  “Why? Naomi says it all the time.”

  Shea rubbed her face, wondering how to explain racial politics to an eight-year-old. “She shouldn’t be using that word either. It’s a very hateful word.”

  “I don’t hate her. I just wanted to jump rope. Besides, she called me a dumb redneck.”

  “Which she shouldn’ta done.”

  “So why did I get in trouble and she didn’t? It ain’t fair.”

  “No, it ain’t. But here’s the thing. You can’t control what other people do. All you can do is keep your side of the street clean.”

  “What street?”

  “It’s just a saying, kiddo. It means don’t do nothing bad, no matter what other folks is doing. When you got kidnapped, I did some pretty stupid things. Things I regret. Things that made the situation worse. And I had to pay the consequences.”

  “What is consequences?”

  “Consequences is what happens when you do stuff you shouldn’t. When you used the N-word, you got sent home with a note. Then Jessica sent you to your room without any dinner. That’s consequences.”

  “I don’t like consequences.”

  “Nobody does. But what you said was wrong. It hurt Jessica’s feelings.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t say it to her.”

  “Whether you meant to or not, it still upset her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I ain’t the one you need to be telling sorry. How about this: You tell Jessica how sorry you are for hurting her feelings. Then I’ll give you your dinner. Deal?”

  Annie nodded.

  “Good. Now go apologize to Jessica.”

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, Shea parked Sweet Betsy in a space between a candy-apple-red BMW convertible with a CAU window decal and a green Subaru sporting a VEGANS TASTE BETTER bumper sticker. Despite her friendship with the owner, LezBeans Coffee and Books wasn’t Shea’s kind of place.

  Inside the café, the cacophony of multiple conversations and espresso machines enveloped her like a clingy lover. The pungent aromas of pumpkin
spice and coffee assaulted her.

  What was it about fall that made every coffee shop want to flavor everything like pumpkin pie? She hated that shit.

  Her last memory of this place fueled her foul mood—the night she had ended her relationship with Debbie. Shea had told her she was too busy working on a custom bike to attend one of Debbie’s campus protests.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Shea?” Debbie had demanded. “Too busy making a buck to stand up for women’s equality?”

  Shea rolled her eyes. “That’s not it and you know it. I have other responsibilities.”

  “You have a responsibility to your sisters to stand up against the good ol’ boy network running this university and let your voice be heard. It isn’t just about you. Maybe if you showed some solidarity, women could make more than seventy-four cents for every dollar a man makes. But no, you’d rather let the fucking patriarchy continue to oppress women.”

  Shea had risen to her feet, knocking over her cup of coffee. “You want me to stand up for myself and let my voice be heard? Then hear this. I’m tired of your shit. You’re too busy organizing protests and lobbying politicians to show up for a fucking date once in a while. I can’t remember the last time we had sex.”

  “Shea, lower your voice.” Debbie’s face colored. She straightened her posture, glancing around the room.

  “Which is it, Deb? Lower my voice or let it be heard? You know what, don’t answer that. I don’t need your feminist theory answers. I grew up with the patriarchy, too.”

  “Yes, poor Shea and her troubled childhood. Turned you into a car thief.”

  “Fuck you!” Shea leaned into Deb’s face. “I don’t need your pity or your condescension. Go find yourself a new plaything. This relationship’s over.”

  Shea had stormed out, revving her engine in the parking lot before roaring off into the night.

  And now here she was years later, back in this bastion of Sapphic sisterhood, filled with androgynous lesbian hipsters chatting inanely about sports teams, the latest fashion trends, and who’s dating whom while sipping chai lattes and green tea.

  “Holy shit, if it isn’t the world-famous Shea Stevens, bike builder to the stars,” said the woman behind the counter. Despite having a bit more silver in her seventies-style fro than Shea remembered, the woman offered a gleaming smile that was as warm as ever.

  “Morning, Nita.” Shea stretched over the counter and gave her a hug.

  “I saw them bikes you built for the Pink Trinkets. Damn fine work.”

  Shea managed a smile. “Thanks.”

  “So what’ll you have? Pumpkin spice lattes are on special.”

  Shea’s upper lip curled in disgust. “No, thanks. Small cup of regular coffee’ll be fine.”

  “Iced or hot?”

  “Hot.”

  “Room for cream?”

  “Nope. Just hot, dark, and bitter.” Shea laid a fiver on the counter. “You seen Debbie in here yet?”

  “Ha! Speaking of hot, dark, and bitter.” Nita poured the coffee and popped a lid on the cup. “Don’t tell me you’re seeing her again?”

  “No. Not romantically anyway.”

  “Thank Goddess for that. Something to do with that feminist biker club she got going?”

  “Yeah, the Athena Sisterhood.” Shea gathered up her change. A woman behind her in line frowned, looking impatient. Shea stepped aside to let the woman up to the counter. “She here?”

  “Front room overlooking the street. Watch your back, sister.”

  Shea raised her cup in acknowledgment, then shuffled through the labyrinth of tables and bookshelves to the front room. Bright morning light poured through the plate glass window. Shea squinted to make out faces.

  Debbie sat in the corner reading a hardback book with a blue and yellow cover. Her makeup and wedge-cut chestnut hair were immaculate as always. A silver earring in the shape of a labrys—a double-sided battle-ax—dangled from each ear. She wore a black leather cut over a pale pink button-down shirt, like a mashup of Martha Stewart and Joan Jett.

  Two small rectangular patches, one above the other, had been sewn to the right pocket on the front of the vest. The top read LABRYS, the bottom PRESIDENT, in Pepto-Bismol pink lettering on a white background. A similar patch with the word IRONWOOD was on the left pocket.

  A wave of memories crashed over Shea. Debbie throwing her a birthday party composed mostly of people Shea didn’t know. The two of them making love in Deb’s office at the university. Marching in the Ironwood Gay Pride Parade. Shea teaching Debbie how to ride a motorcycle. The two of them arguing over Shea’s failing to live up to Deb’s ideal of what a true feminist should be and feel and think and do.

  “Hey.” Shea approached the table, forcing a smile.

  Debbie’s face went from serious to joyful in an instant. “Oh, sweetie, I have missed you.” She stood, arms opened wide for a hug.

  Shea held up her hand and backed up a step. “Not quite ready for hugs yet. Still healing from a broken collarbone.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned something about an accident.” Debbie put a hand on the side of Shea’s face and pulled her in for a quick peck on the lips before sitting back down.

  Shea grabbed the other chair and took a deep breath, ignoring the writhing ball of emotions in her gut. “What’re you reading?”

  Debbie held up the book. “By Any Means: Feminist Strategies to Winning the War Against Women. Sort of a militant feminist’s manifesto.”

  “Huh.” Shea took a sip of coffee and gazed absently out the window. Typical Deb and her obsession with politics.

  “Rachel Maddow’s raving about it.” Debbie paused. “I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Never were much of a reader, were you?” Debbie pushed the book aside and folded her hands. “What kind of bike are you riding these days?”

  “Iron Goddess 750 Custom. You?”

  “Indian Roadmaster. I’m a bit conflicted about supporting a company that appropriates Native American culture for the sake of a buck, but I have to say, it’s a comfy ride. Of course, I still commute in the Green Machine. Remember that?” Debbie asked with a devious grin.

  “I remember it being very cramped,” said Shea, recalling the times the two of them had made out in the convertible Audi roadster. The memory sent a wave of warmth into her groin.

  Debbie’s face flushed. “I hear you have a new girlfriend. What’s her name?”

  Shea shot her a wary glance. “Jessica.”

  “She hot?”

  “I think so.”

  “Any kids? Other than that moody cat of yours, I mean.”

  “My niece, Annie, lives with us. She’s rather fond of Ninja.”

  “Since when do you have a niece?”

  “My sister’s daughter. I became her guardian after Wendy got killed.” The image of Wendy with half her face blown off had burned into Shea’s memory.

  “Oh yeah. I heard about that on the news. Tragic.” Debbie paused for a moment. One corner of her mouth curled into a half smile. “Funny, I never pictured you as the mommy type. How old is she?”

  “Eight.”

  “And how long have you and Jessica been an item?”

  Shea’s nose crinkled in disgust. “Geez! What’s with the interrogation?”

  “No interrogation.” Debbie shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

  “ ’Bout six months, if you must know.” Just get through this, girl. The sooner you start hanging out with the Athenas, the sooner you can give Rios the information she wants.

  “Six months? That’s like a record for you, isn’t it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Wow, serious relationship and a kid. Never thought I’d see the day when the wild mustang Shea Stevens would be domesticated.” Debbie’s voice dripped with condescension. “One big happy fucking family.”

  Shea glanced out the window at the people walking past, resisting the urge to storm out like last time. “T
alk to me about the Athena Sisterhood.”

  “Ooh, what do you think of our cuts?” Deb stood up and twirled to show off the three-part patch on the back of the cut.

  A rounded rocker patch, emblazoned with the words ATHENA SISTERHOOD in pink letters, curved across the top of the cut. The word ARIZONA curved upward in the bottom rocker. Between the two rockers was the club’s emblem—a stylized silver owl with pink accents on the outstretched wings. A rectangular patch with the letters MC had been sewn onto the right of the emblem.

  “Pretty snazzy, huh?” Deb said as she sat down, beaming.

  “It’s nice.” Shea tapped one of the patches on the front. “What’s LABRYS mean?”

  “It’s the double-headed ax, a lesbian symbol. Damn, don’t you know anything about lesbian culture?”

  “I know what a labrys is. Why you got it on a patch?”

  “It’s my road name.”

  “Subtle.”

  “I think it fits. I am, after all, fighting for the rights of women.”

  “You get permission from the Confederate Thunder to start a motorcycle club in Cortes County?”

  Debbie’s glee faded into a glower. “I don’t need a man’s permission. I am a woman. I have the right to do what I want, associate with whom I want, wear what I want, and identify how I want.”

  “Normally, I’d agree with you. But the Thunder’s the dominant biker club around here. Starting an MC in their territory and wearing outlaw-style cuts is considered disrespectful.”

  “You think I give a shit what those sexist rednecks think? They don’t deserve respect.”

  Shea leaned in. “Deb, the Thundermen ain’t like the corporate or academic types you’re used to going up against. You go riding around on your bikes in your pretty new cuts emblazoned with a pink MC patch, there’s gonna be trouble. People are gonna get hurt.”

  “They lay a hand on me, I’ll sue them for every nickel they got.”

  Shea wiped her face with her hand and sighed. “They’re not just gonna call you dirty names. They’ll fucking tear you apart. These guys are animals.”

  “All the more reason for us to stand our ground. We have a right to the same freedoms they have. That includes starting our own motorcycle clubs. And if that means we have to fight, so be it.”