I have backstories for all my characters, but Sisco’s demanded to be written and completely grabbed my attention. A short story wasn’t even close to enough, so it’s a novella (albeit a pretty long novella—around 100 pages) and it’ll be the next thing I publish. I don’t have a date yet, but some time during the summer. That being said, I’m pretty far along on ‘Center of Gravity,’ too, so don’t despair.
This isn’t really an MC-book, it’s not even a romance, it’s just Sisco’s story, and here’s the teaser.
Present day, Greenville, Arizona
SISCO DIDN’T NEED TO hear more than the first few tunes out of the speaker to know what fucking song it was. As always, his heart stopped, and he closed his eyes but knew three heads in the crowd snapped in his direction the second they recognized the song, too. The three Bs: Brick, Bear, and Bull.
By reflex, his hand moved up to stroke his right chest and the tattoo he had there. He couldn’t help it. That’s when someone changed the song, but it was too late, and not a full minute later Brick was seated next to him.
“Sorry, brother. Was a hang-around.”
“S’okay,” Sisco said with a shrug. “Just wasn’t ready.”
He wondered when the fuck he would be ready for it. When the fuck it wouldn’t tear him apart just to hear a damn song. But he knew it always would, because the song always reminded him of Trudy, and he would never get over her. The sheer force of his memories of her always caught him by surprise when they hit him.
He knew no one got more than one shot like that in their life. One chance to meet someone who was created just for you. It didn’t mean an ever-loving bliss of calm and understanding. Trudy wasn’t like that at all. She was a damn hurricane, and they fought like insane people at times, but she was still his perfect fit. He’d known it, and he still knew it, so he’d never get over her. Most of the time, he didn’t even want to. That stabbing pain that came unexpectedly, or those tugs to his heartstrings—he wanted them. Because the next thing he remembered was always the good things, like her smile, how she felt lying next to him, or just her laughter. It was often her laughter.
He’d been thinking about her a lot lately, probably because Vi, one of the club kids, was pregnant. Pregnancies always made him think more about Trudy, but Vi was special. He was happy for her, but it had made a lot of the shit he’d pushed back resurface, and he’d missed Trudy more than usual lately.
It hadn’t been a conventional relationship in any way, but it had worked for them. Sisco didn’t do conventional, and nothing with Trudy was—not even how they’d met. Or rather, how she’d picked him up…
Decades earlier, Seattle, Washington
SISCO DIDN’T CARE MUCH for feminism or feminists. Not that he had anything against them, it simply wasn’t something he spent a lot of time thinking about. But he’d somehow ended up in the middle of a party full of angry, man-bashing bitches, and he had no idea how the fuck that happened.
Or, he had a general idea. Someone at the party had called him for some pot. When he dropped it off, he’d been invited. He’d sort of dodged the women, but was secretly pretty pleased with the number of bra-less tits he’d spotted on his way through the house. He’d also seen a woman in the living room doing some spoken word thing, yelling shitty poetry about hating men taking up space in her bed. He didn’t understand spoken word stuff, at least not that kind. It just made him giggle, so he’d continued down into the basement.
He sat down on a couch, lit a joint, and opened the beer he’d taken from the fridge.
“So,” a girl next to him said, “what unsigned, super cool band I just have to hear are you in?”
He turned and looked at her and wondered how the fuck he’d missed her when he sat down, because she was hot, and she had the most awesome sarcastic smile on her lips.
“I’m not in a band.”
“Really? Because the flannel, beard, and greasy long hair is usually a dead giveaway.”
He shook his head with a laugh and offered her his joint as he took a closer look. She had straight, light brown hair with bangs, and a lot of eye-liner. She wore jeans, a gray t-shirt, and Martens of course, but no bra. The lack of bra revealed the cockiest fucking nipples he’d ever seen. They were standing at attention, just daring him to pinch them.
“No. Used to be a roadie until about six months ago.”
“Any band I’ve heard of?”
“Probably not. They don’t exist anymore and mostly did squats in Europe.”
“Squats?” she asked and handed back his joint.
“Yeah. People take over some shitty old house, build a stage, and invite bands to play.”
“You get paid for that?”
“Sort of. Usually get a cut of the door fee, but sometimes it’s just gas and beer. It doesn’t pay well.”
“Bet you had a lot of fun,” she said with an even bigger smile that revealed a slight gap between her front teeth. Not big, just a small, really cute one.
He handed her the joint again, and once again she accepted it.
They’d had a lot of fun and a lot of shitty times as well. Like when he’d ended up decking his best friend, Pete, just outside a small German village in the middle of the night, since he was high as a fucking kite and kept trying to climb up on the roof of their shitty van—while he was driving. It was funny when he thought about it now, but at the time he would’ve shot Pete if he’d had a gun. Thirty hours without sleep while driving shitty roads, getting lost in a country where no one spoke English, all with Pete behind him who just wouldn’t shut the fuck up—it wasn’t fun while you were in the middle of it. But they’d had a lot of fun, too. Definitely.
“So what do you do now?” she asked after another drag on his joint. She’d inhaled deeply, and when her chest expanded, his eyes got stuck on her nipples for a few seconds too long.
“Uhm,” he said and tore his eyes from her tits. She winked at him, very aware of where his focus had been. “Not much.”
She stood up, took his beer, and emptied it! Just downed the almost full beer. Then she put it down on the table and held out a hand.
“Wanna get the fuck out of here?”
“You don’t even know my name,” he laughed.
“What’s your name?”
“You can call me Sisco.”
“As in Cisco the Kid?”
“No, as in a small commune on Corsica. It’s Sisco with an s.”
She stared at him. “Fuck! I bet there’s a really good story behind that.”
“Not really. I was arrested in Sisco after peeing on the Chapel of San Michele.” He took a deep breath. “You really wanna leave with me?”
She looked at him and laughed. “Do I wanna leave this boring party with a guy who was arrested after peeing on a chapel? Hell yeah!” She took his hand. “Come on!”
“Girl,” he said as he stood up, “has anyone told you you’re butt-fucking crazy?”
“Admit it, you think that’s the most exciting part about following me out of here.”
“Since I think it pretty much ensures me getting laid—absolutely.”
As she lead him out of the house, he was still shellshocked, and it didn’t hit him until they were at the end of the block that he’d left his bike outside the house. He grabbed her hand more firmly and halted her dragging him along.
“Hey! I got a bike.”
She turned around. “As in a Harley?”
“Wow! Sisco, you might be the first guy in years that gets to know my name on the first date.”
“Sounds better than ‘first fuck.’”
Sisco was trying to determine if this girl would get him laid or stabbed, because she was obviously a complete nutjob, but she was the most interesting bitch he’d come across in months, maybe years, and he figured it was worth the risk.
“You don’t tell guys your name?”
“I hate my name.”
They were at his bike, and he handed her his helmet. “Where to?”
“Wherever you live, Sisco with an s.”
He shook his head in a laugh. Miss Cocky Nipples was definitely the craziest chick he’d met in a long while, and he was glad he found before she followed a serial killer to his house to get chopped up and dumped in the Green River, because it seemed likely that’s how she’d end her days.
It wasn’t her first time on a bike, that much was obvious, and when they stopped outside the house he shared with Pete and another guy, she jumped off and handed him the helmet.
“Just to make sure,” he said as they walked towards the house, “how old are you?”
He didn’t want to find out later she wasn’t legal. That would totally suck. She didn’t look sixteen, but she didn’t look all that much older, either.
“Nineteen,” she said and took his hand. “You?”
“Twenty-one and such an impressive beard!”
“Yeah.” He unlocked the door and opened it. He still had a hard time wrapping his head around this actually happening, but there was nothing in the house she could steal—his stash and money were locked away. The only thing she might get was the couple of hundred in his pocket, but he suspected she might be worth it. “Wanna tell me your name?”
“Not yet.” She pulled off her t-shirt, and her nipples were even better than he’d expected. “Where’s your room?”
He lifted her up, and she latched her legs around him. “I think I’m in love,” he mumbled and gave her a kiss.
With one hand holding her ass, her sucking on his tongue, and his other hand slowly stroking her side up towards her cocky nipples, he carried her up the stairs to his room.
Sisco’d always liked music, especially the music from the late sixties and early seventies—albums he’d found in his dead grandpa’s long forgotten album collection. He’d wanted to go to a concert, but a lot of touring bands skipped Seattle and the Washington area back then.
He and Pete had decided to go to a festival called Bumbershoot, because a band called U-Men were playing. The festival was a family thing, but they figured it was better than nothing, and Pete had seen U-Men earlier. He’d talked about the female bass player and how cool she was. Like some punk rock Marilyn Monroe with huge boobs, and had explained in detail to Sisco how she’d knocked guys in the head with the neck of the bass if they got too close.
At first, Sisco was kind of disappointed that the punk-Marilyn wasn’t there, she’d apparently quit the band, but he still thought it was really fucking good. Then it happened, during what was to be the band’s last song, and he’d never fucking forget it.
The singer came running from behind one of the amps holding a damn torch, which Sisco thought was kind of cool, but it got even better. In front of the stage was a water-filled moat. He dipped his burning torch into it. They must’ve prepped it somehow, because the entire pond exploded, and a fucking wall of fire went up in front of the stage. It looked like the entire stage caught fire.
He and Pete just stared, and then started to jump around to the music while laughing, and they weren’t the only ones. It was like he for the first time really felt like they weren’t living in a dead town. Shit could fucking happen there, too. Cool shit.
A lot of musicians he met over the coming years had been to that gig. If he had to pinpoint when the entire music thing took off in Seattle, he’d say it was then. Others said it was a Black Flag gig the year before, and they probably had a point, too. That’s when they learned that heavy didn’t necessarily have to mean fast.
He’d gotten involved in the music scene after that. Never as a musician, he’d quickly realized he was much too talentless, but still involved. Mainly because of Pete, because he was an amazing talent, and he always wanted Sisco around for gigs or just rehearsals.
Since the mid-’80s, there had been one huge scene of musicians working together, creating their own world, influencing and supporting each other. It had been great, and since he soon had a lot of friends who were musicians, Sisco pitched in where he could. Usually as something like a roadie. He turned out to have a talent for fixing things, whether it was repairing an old shit amplifier or getting some joints for the guys. His size and looks also made him handy in case some promoter tried to rip them off.
The hair bands and the commercial music scene didn’t mean shit to him. He didn’t get it. It was all fake macho with a ridiculous, decadent, overblown attitude. To him, it felt like fucking jocks pretending to be rockstars with silly fucking songs about wanting girls to be their desert—probably so they could use their make up. It was all about surface, about looking the right way.
The Seattle bands weren’t about that. It wasn’t as technically perfect as the thrash or speed metal bands—some of which he actually liked—but it was more punk rock leaning towards the British heavy metal of the late seventies and early eighties. The bands in Seattle were about simplicity and rawness—like an open fucking wound. It was honesty, and it was heavy.
No one thought it would ever turn into something real, something that would be noticed by anyone but their friends. It was just a bunch of guys playing for themselves, it didn’t matter what they did, they wouldn’t become commercial success or sell anything anyway, so they just did what they felt like. Even the records they released were just for themselves and their friends. If they managed to sell a thousand copies it was considered fucking awesome.
When Pete said they were going to try out squats in Europe, Sisco tagged along. He didn’t have anything else to do, and it sounded like a good way to get away from Seattle for a while.
They took anything they could find, and squats were a pretty big thing, especially in Germany, but one of the very oldest places was in Norway, so it was quite possible to tour through most of Europe. He had no idea how the venues got away with it, but none of the gigs had been stopped by the cops, and some of the places, like in Berlin, had been right smack in the middle of the city.
They’d been there for almost two years. Not touring the entire time. Sometimes they stayed in a city for a few months and helped at the local squat venue. In some ways, it was a long road trip through Europe.
After two years of eating punk stew—pasta with tomato sauce and some vegetables if you were lucky—Sisco concluded he’d rather eat lukewarm poo, and that he missed the US. The rest of them felt the same way, so they went home.
They found Seattle pretty much as they’d left it. Sisco was soon a part of it all again, and he spent most nights at one venue or another, helping bands set up. That was another part of a scene were everybody worked together. It wasn’t gigs as much as just a party among friends at a venue with one of the groups on stage. Pretty much any day of the week, he could find at least one gig to go to, listen to some guys he knew playing some really nice stuff, and then have a beer with them and any other friends who were there afterwards. He soon got a reputation of being able to supply good pot, and started selling it on a bigger scale. Which was how he ended up at the feminist party.
Miss Cocky Nipples had turned out to be one of the best fucks he’d had in a long time. She was fun, wasn’t scared of laughing while they fucked, and she wasn’t shy at all. Sometimes it felt like a girl was spending her time trying to look good rather than enjoy the fuck, and she wasn’t anything like that. She made demands, and he much preferred a girl who told him what she wanted, than one who later told him he didn’t understand shit. He wasn’t a fucking mindreader. He needed to be told what a chick liked, because even if playing with the clit was a pretty safe bet, they didn’t all like the same things.
She was lying next to him on her stomach, resting her head on his chest. He lit a joint, and she turner he head to look at him.
“Gertrude,” she mumbled and took the joint from him.
“That’s my name. Gertrude.”
He looked at her. “Baby, you’re not a Gertrude.”
She got up on her elbows with a smile. “Then what am I?”
He took a long, good look at the beautiful, crazy chick. “Trudy. You’re a Trudy.”
“With an ie or a y?”
“Trudy with a y, like The Charlie Daniels Band song,” he said and took the joint back.
“I’ve never heard it. Sing it to me.”
He laughed. “Okay… uh…”
He tried to recall the lyrics and was surprised when he actually remembered most of it, but it had been one of his grandma’s favorite songs, so he’d heard it quite a few times. By skipping the lines he couldn’t remember, he got through most of it. She laughed at ‘I met a peroxide blond in a bar on D-ville, I was flying high and feeling mean’ and applauded him when he was done.
“You can call me Trudy,” she giggled and leaned down to give him a kiss. “I like it.”
“Is this where you wait for me to fall asleep and then take off with all my possessions?”
“No.” She looked around. “Besides, you hardly own anything, but if you don’t mind I’ll fall asleep next to you.”
“I’m fine with that.” He turned to the side and put his arm over her. She smiled and they kissed. A long kiss. “Gotta say, Trudy, you’re the craziest and sexiest chick I’ve ever met.”
“I think that’s a good start.”
“To you thinking I’m the most amazing chick, ever.”
“Are you gonna go crazy stalker on me, baby?”
“No,” she said and threw her leg over him. “I’m going to lure you in with sex and sweet words.”
“Lure me into what?”
“Staying with me forever,” she giggled.
“That’s a little scary considering I’ve known you for, like, three hours.”
“I know.” She nuzzled closer. “You’ll get used to me. I’m an acquired taste.”
“Just so I know, how often do you do this? Drag guys home and tell them shit like this.”
“Want the truth?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I drag guys home on a regular basis, but I don’t tell them shit like this.”
“Okay.” He kissed the top of her head
Definitely crazy. It was very possible she’d stab him in his sleep, but he still liked her.