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Eli digs into the leather jacket that’s under his cut and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He cups his hand to his mouth as he lights one. “We need you out on the road.”
“They told me they’ll send my official diploma next week.” I was supposed to walk in graduation tomorrow, but Olivia’s wake is the priority. Not caps and gowns. “You tell me when to start and I’m ready to go.”
“Good.” He cracks a rare grin. “Heard that we might be adding a new prospect this weekend.”
The answering smile spreads on my face. Becoming a prospect is the initiation period before the club votes on my membership. I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life.
Eli sucks in a long drag and the sleeve of his jacket hitches up, showing the trail of stars tattooed on his arm. “Keep an eye on your dad. He cracked the hell out of his head when he hit the pavement. Blacked out for a bit, but then shot to his feet. When his bike began swerving, I made him pull over and double with me.”
“He must have loved that,” I say.
“Practically had to put a gun to his head.” Eli breathes out smoke.
“Was it the Riot?” The Riot Motorcycle Club. They’re an illegal club north of here. I’ve heard some of the guys talk when they think no one else is listening about how our peace treaty with them is fracturing.
Eli flicks ashes then focuses on the burning end of the cigarette. “As I said, we need you on the road.”
Our club and the Riot have had an unsteady alliance from the start. We stay on our side of the state, they stay on theirs. The problem? A new client that the business has contracted with resides in the Riot’s territory.
“This stays between us,” says Eli. “This new client we signed is skittish and doesn’t want the PR related with possible truck jackings. We need this business and I need people I can trust with those loads. I need you in.”
“Got it.”
“Two of those truck jackings were bandits, but the other three...”
...were the Riot. The shit has to be thick if Eli’s talking to me so freely. “If you choose to start working with us, there won’t be much room for a learning curve. You’ll have to be vigilant at every turn. We haven’t had trouble with the Riot in years, but when we did, they had no problem making it personal.”
Meaning they don’t have a problem hurting people—like my dad. Meaning I have to play it smart with them and be okay with the danger, which I am. I’d much rather be on the road protecting my family than sitting at home with Mom.
“The moment you give me a cut, I’m in.” I throw out the question, not sure if Eli will answer. “You had his back, didn’t you? You pushed Dad to the ground.”
A hint of a smirk plays on his lips and he hides it with another draw. He blows out the smoke and flicks the cigarette onto the ground. “Be out here at six in the morning. I’ll pick you up in the truck and we’ll go get your Dad’s bike before the wake. I want him to sleep in.”
Hell, yeah. “You going to let me drive his bike home?”
“Fuck, no. I’m bringing you along to drive the truck back. No one touches a man’s bike and in desperate situations only another brother can. You know better than that.” Eli pats my shoulder and his expression grows serious. “See you tomorrow, and be dressed for the wake when I pick you up.”
Eli starts his bike and rocks kick up as he drives off. I watch until the red taillight fades into the darkness. Through the screen door, I spot my mother still caring for my father. She uses special care as she tapes gauze to his head.
Mom smooths the last strip of medical tape to his skin and when she goes to close the kit, Dad tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. They stare at each other, longer than most people can stand, then she lays her head on his lap. Dad bends over and kisses her temple.
They need a moment together and, having nothing but time, I sit on the top step and wonder if I’ll find someone who will understand and accept this life like my mother. Mom loves Dad so much that she’ll take on anything. His job, this life and even the club.
Emily
I’LL ADMIT IT. I’m freaked.
Freaked that the flight from Florida to Kentucky was nothing more than a turbulence-ridden nightmare. Freaked that the man beside me on the plane puked three times. Freaked that June in Kentucky means severe storms. Freaked because I’m sweating through my favorite black dress and it’s dry-clean only. Freaked because I’ve been in this poor excuse for a cab for over an hour, with no air-conditioning and a driver who refuses to speak. Or maybe he’s mute.
Or maybe he murdered the real cab driver, picked me and my parents up at the airport and is taking us to our final destination before he chops us into Kibbles ’n Bits. Maybe...but probably not. We entered the small town of Snowflake a few minutes ago and if this guy was a mass murderer bent on a little fun, he’d find somewhere more original than here.
“Did you say Richard’s Funeral Home?” the cab driver asks. Wow, the man talked.
“Yes,” Dad answers. We flew into Louisville in order to be relatively close to Snowflake. The rental-car company botched our reservation and paid for the taxi.
The cab driver eases into the left turn lane and stops at the red light. Blood pounds at my temples in the rhythm of the car’s blinker when I spot the funeral home. It’s no different than the ones at home in Florida, except this one is surrounded by oak trees instead of palms and is one stiff breeze away from being condemned.
“You’ll be okay.” Dad squeezes my hand and I wrap my fingers around his before he can withdraw. “Keep breathing and try not to overanalyze it.”
