I huff.As though it’s that easy.
“Talk to her,” Loki reiterates. “The right thing to do is to let her speak, and to listen.”
“I’ve done that.”
“You’ve heard her. Sure.” He turns the can in his hand. “But did you actuallylistento what she had to say?”
I guess not.
Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing out here in the fucking cold air, wondering what I need to do to earn her trust. Pondering if I’m capable of such a thing.
And trying to work out why the fuck it even matters so much to me.
THIRTY-ONE
JENNA
Every timeI get settled and believe I’ve found somewhere relatively private to try to call Dad again, another unfamiliar face walks past. The Minnesota branch of the Kings of Anarchy is by far not the busiest place I’ve been, but it never fails to amaze me just how many individual members, prospects, and hangarounds pass through the halls—people I see one day but not the next, and vice versa.
I head past the secondary bedrooms outside, side-eye an ominous-looking wooden shed that has a thick padlock on the door, and then venture further into the property. The signal drops a bar, but stays enough that I should be able to make the call.
I spent the night ruminating over what I’d say. Lost hours of sleep rehearsing the imaginary conversation in my mind, and woke up this morning no better off than I was when I started.
Just more frustrated.
Tall pines flank the gently worn track; a desire path to somewhere deeper in the copse of aromatic trees. I follow along, scouting for a fallen log or rock—something suitable to use as amakeshift seat. My feet skid to a stop atop the bed of brown pine needles, skin prickling when a wonky cabin comes into view.
It doesn’t look used. At least, not lived in. But I get the distinct sense it’s somewhere I’m not supposed to be.Is this where they go every time they get together?Is this their church? Curiosity has me step closer, skirting the left side of the tiny building.
The window is blacked out, crudely covered with what appears to be spray-paint.
Definitely somewhere I’m not supposed to be.And most likely somewhere I won’t be disturbed. For the next five minutes or so, anyway.
I continue to the back of the cabin and hunker down on the rear stoop, partially sheltered by the crooked, shale roof overhead. The phone’s warm from my pocket, and I spend a few minutes simply exploring what’s on the device and how much rope they gave me. The factory apps are all there—the things they can’t remove. But the browser is locked, as is the App Store, limiting my ability to access social media or other networking tools.
I punch Dad’s digits into the keypad and then stare at the number, bold with the bright contrast of black on white.
How do I start this call? If I lie and say I’ve found a way to use insider access to the Kings in our favor, would he believe me? Would they, when they invariably listen to the call afterward? The last thing I need is the Kings of Anarchy mistakenly thinking I double-crossed them. And even if he did believe it and it kept me on Dad’s good side, how then do I twist it to getting him to come here?
Go with the truth.
My stomach knots. I’m not afraid of the man; that’s not what has me hesitant to call. I’m afraid of understanding him better. Of telling him I’ve found a way to end the Devil’s Breed skintrade and have him reveal his true colors when he backtracks on the promise.
I’m scared I’ll find out Mom was right—my father is nothing but a monster. Afraid of how that’ll make me feel.
Because if I can let the one person left in my life hurt me this much before I decide to fight back, what chance do I stand going it alone? Just how bad am I willing to let things get before I admit the truth: I do this to myself.
As terrible as my father can be,I’mthe one who chose to help.
I’mthe one who chose to stand by and watch as he tied my mother to him with a debt she could never repay in her lifetime.
And I’m the one who let that loyalty put me in a position where it was kill or be killed.
I had so many opportunities to walk away, and I didn’t.
My face crumples, confusion rife as I tap the button to dial his number.Why?It’s that question, that part of my self-discovery that finally has me make the call.
“You back inside?” His voice is hushed, as though he doesn’t want to be overheard.
