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Before the door closes, Oz’s dad is up and then the rest of the board abandon their seats and follow my father. It’s a show of support, a show of solidarity, and it’s not a show meant to praise me. I disrespected a brother, so therefore I disrespected them.
There’s a chain of command in the club. A way of how things are done. A respect that must be given to the pecking order that’s been created. I’ve had a hard time with it for the same reason I never cared to become the leader of my group of friends. I find it challenging to follow as much as I find it challenging to lead. That’s why, as the board told me over and over again, I had the longest prospect period of anyone else in the club. I’m too unpredictable.
The door shuts and there’s two of us left in the room—me and Eli.
Eli’s eyes flicker from me to my seat. This time, I listen to his nonverbal request and sit. If only because the weight of what just happened is crashing down around me. “I want an answer.”
I need an answer.
Eli threads his fingers together and rests them on the table as he leans forward. “Four months ago, you agreed to join this club. Yeah, we had to vote you in, but you had to accept. You chose to be a part of this brotherhood. You chose to believe in this family. Are you saying those vows you made to us mean nothing?”
He’s questioning my loyalty, and maybe he should. “This is my family.”
“I know, and, Razor, you’re mine. This entire building is full of men who would die for you, but this back-and-forth—this rogue bullshit you pull when the wind blows east instead of west, it’s got to stop. You’re either with us or not. You either believe us or don’t. If you can’t trust us, we can’t trust you. There is nothing more this board wants than to trust you, but to be honest, we don’t. We voted you in because we know you love us, but we watch you with wary eyes. We don’t know what shit you’re going to pull next.”
When I was ten years old, it was Eli who came to me at Cyrus and Olivia’s before the sun had risen. Oz, Chevy and Violet had crammed themselves into the tiny twin bed I used whenever I stayed the night and each of them had curled up around me, providing a human shield from the emotional storm that had been brewing.
The three of them fell asleep, but I never slept a wink. When Eli walked into the room, he saw the four of us and lowered his head. Eli looked like the living dead himself, and when he met my eyes, he knelt and said the words that changed every thought, every emotion, every moment of my life. “I’m sorry.”
So was I. He didn’t have to tell me why Mom never arrived to take me home. I heard it in his tone. Noticed it in his eyes. My mother was dead.
“That detective,” Eli continues now, “showed to fuck with your mind. You’re smarter than him. Better than him. Don’t let him wedge a wall between us and you. Don’t let him destroy you and your dad.”
We all have choices to make; what lies we accept to believe. Since I was ten, I loved this family so much that I never questioned believing the lie that had been told to me—that Mom’s death was an accident.
But in this moment, the biggest lie I’ve chosen to believe is the one I tell myself: that I trust the Terror. I’ve always believed there was more, and the detective was correct—if I’m going to find any peace, I have to learn the truth.
“Who are you going to believe?” Eli asks. “Us or him?”
“The brotherhood,” I respond with so much ease it should scare the hell out of me, but it doesn’t. The doubt’s always been present. I’ve just now decided to no longer live in purgatory. I’m going to discover what happened. Not sure how, but I’ll die trying.
I hold my hand out and, after a second of staring at the image of Mom’s car, Eli returns my cell to me. With a flick of my finger, the photo disappears.
“It’s my mom,” I say as if that can explain away everything that went down. As if that can absolve me from any sin I’ll commit here on out with the club. It’s a low thing to say to Eli. His mother, Olivia, recently died.
A shadow passes over Eli’s face and it’s an expression that’s all understanding. “I know, and I also heard what you came home to the other night. It’s been a rough few days for you.”
He allows me time to digest his statement and I wonder how many people are aware of the promise Dad made to me...or how many are aware he broke it.
“You and your dad—you two need to find some peace when it comes to your mom and you need to find some peace with each other, otherwise the entire club is going to suffer. That shit that went down with the detective—it wasn’t right. He disrespected you and your father, which means he disrespected this club. Trust me when I say we’ll take care of it.”
I should feel justified the board is pursuing some course of action with the detective, but the truth is I might need the cop. He might be the lone person willing to inform me what happened, and in the end I’m not sure I do trust the club to follow through.
The picture of Violet on Bragger did come down, not of my doing, but by the club’s. Regardless, it’s on the web forever. Even with my computer skills, I still can’t prevent copies from popping up. But what I’m really pissed at is that the club hasn’t figured out who’s responsible yet and nailed them to a cross.
Why should I trust them to watch out for me when they can’t bring justice for Violet or look me in the eye when I mention my mother?
“Pigpen warned us the detective fucked you up,” Eli says. “But we had no idea how bad. I’ll talk to your dad, tell him that you need time and space, but you need to work through this. You need to find a way to trust the club and you need to work it out with your dad.”
I nod, and when I stand, Eli stands with me. He walks around the table and pulls me into a strong hug. One arm high to keep from hitting my three-piece patch. It’s a sign of utmost respect and I return the gesture with the same amount of emotion.
The club has been my family, my rock, my port in a raging storm, and what I’m about to do might cost me my family forever.
Breanna
WE BYPASSED MY curfew of ten hours ago. This is the first time I’ve been out this late with friends without parental guidance and I have to admit it’s exhilarating.
Shamrock’s is a hole-in-the-wall. Hole. Like a dig-through-thirty-feet-of-slime-then-let-it-fall-back-in-around-you hole, and I’m loving every single second. The music pumps from the speakers and vibrates against the walls. Every corner is dark and strobe lights create this crazy movement of people like we’re pages flipped through a comic book. The stench of sweat from too many humans occupying one room mingles with the scent of something sweet.
