A tattoo said Fearless on her right arm. She was everything but. Took off with some motorcycle gang when she was seventeen. The young redhead liked the way they worshipped her. Like she was some kind of goddess. A virgin hand picked by Zeus to satisfy their needs.
They rode all over America. Her green eyes shined in the night. Glowed against camp fires in Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, on in to California. They’d let loose on Highway 1 all the way down to Tijuana where they’d drink cheap tequila and ramble off into whore houses. Leaving her behind. Sitting on a barstool taking drags from Marlboros. She didn’t belong to just one man. Shorty belonged to all of them.
That’s why she didn’t cry. No one could claim her. Tossed around like a sack of pure white flour every other night. Riding on the backs of Harleys. Confederate flags waved in the air from the handle bars. She felt free. But, not fearless.
Other women in the gang felt the same way. A tough act, but, inside they were just scared little girls. Leaving one abusive father for another. They’re right when they say freedom isn’t free.
Freedom bites you. It kicks you in the stomach. Makes you feel like you want more. More air blowing in your face. More punches taken. Anything to prove you’re fearless.
The tattoo on her right arm said fearless. You decide.