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Doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation.
About six hours into our trip, Jigsaw and I stop outside Santa Rosa for dinner.
After we place our order, he leans over the table. “As your road captain, I feel obligated to warn you this trip’s a suicide mission.”
“Why’s that, genius?” I can’t meet his eyes because on a gut level, I know he’s right.
“We still have at least another ten hours on the road ahead of us. That’s why. Then you’re gonna do what? Assess the situation in a day and ride the sixteen hours back?”
I sip my beer and stare at the television over the bar. “Didn’t need more than a day to see Digger’s situation was a mess.”
“Bro, Washington’s got way more issues. We both know it. We shouldn’t even be going in there without Dex, Steer, and Pants for backup.”
“There won’t be enough time to stop in when we pass through Washington at the end of the month either.”
“Sure there will.” He presses his finger into the table. “She’s got one night in Portland.” He taps another finger a few inches away. “And a night off before Tacoma. They’re an hour from Portland. It’s an easy stop.”
“Then straight to Spokane. So same problem.”
“Yeah, but at least you won’t be exhausted from so many hours on the road.”
“We did plenty of longer runs when we were younger.”
“We did lots of stupid shit when we were younger. You really wanna play that game?”
Even though he’s right, I don’t feel like admitting it.
The waitress drops off our burgers. “Eat your dinner and stop annoying me.”
He rolls his eyes and grabs a bottle of ketchup, making a big production of splattering it over everything on his plate.
“You’re such a dick,” I mutter.
We’re both quiet while we demolish our food.
When we’re finished, he pulls out a map and spreads it out on the table.
“We’re not far from the old stomping grounds. We could always visit.” He taps a spot on the map that represents the hellscape of my childhood.
My stomach clenches tight. “Why? You wanna try to find your family?” I say casually.
Anger flashes in his eyes.
Remorse twists me up for making the dick suggestion. But he started it.
“No, asshole,” he says with murderous calm. “I thought maybe you’d like to leave some flowers on your mom’s grave.”
Ouch. Low blow. “Why? She’s not there.”
“What about Aunt Em? We’re gonna go right by there. You won’t pay your respects to her either? Your uncle?”
Now he’s just kicking all my soft spots. I sit back and blow out a long breath. “You really wanna stop in Bent Rock?”
“It’s mostly good memories.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Is it?” he snaps.
Yup, another dick comment. I glance at my half-empty bottle of beer. Can’t even blame the alcohol for the shit coming out of my mouth.
“Is Warren still runnin’ your uncle’s place?” he asks after we’ve cooled off.
“Fuckin’ Warren.” I laugh. “Yeah, he sends me updates.”
“He even turning a profit or just running the place into the ground?”
“Nah, I think he knows if he doesn’t make any money, I’ll kick him out.”
“You ever think about moving back? You have the house. The bar. There’s a charter not that far away. Hopper’s not the president anymore, so you’d be welcomed back.”
Don’t have to give that answer a lot of thought. “No. You?”
“I go where you go. Really doesn’t matter to me.”
And now I feel even worse for being a dick.
“I like what we have in New York. Especially with Z running things. It feels more like a family now. Here, it always felt like a bunch of drunk bikers committing crimes as a hobby.”
He snorts. “Good description. Maybe it’s changed.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“Maybe you can change it.”
“I’m not here to change anything.”
Not even myself.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Shelby
My palms won’t stop sweating but I don’t dare wipe them on my dress. I went with the yellow and sweaty palm stains will definitely show up.
“You look like Belle from Beauty and the Beast,” Cindy says.
“That’s what the dress reminded me of too.” I twirl around, watching the long skirt flair out around my legs.
“Careful.” She steps closer to tighten the glittering rose clip in my hair. “I’m so worried that thing’s gonna fall out.”
“It’ll be fine.” I pick up my small, beaded purse. “Can you take a picture?” I ask, handing over my phone. “I want to send it to Logan.”
“Sure. Go over by the window where the light’s better.”
She snaps a bunch of photos. I’ll post a few to social media after I leave L.A. I don’t want some freak figuring out what hotel room I’m in by the landmarks in the background or something.
“Are you sad Logan’s not here?” she asks after handing me my phone.
“Yeah,” I answer quietly. “I couldn’t make him do it, though. Not after all he’s done for me. I hate people who don’t even know him writing such shitty things. I can’t keep asking him to subject himself to that. It’s not fair.”
