Page 24 of Storm

“Do you?” I question him back.

“Never thought about it really. I’m not sure how good a father I would be, if I’m bein’ honest.”

“Well, I don’t think I’d make a good mom either,” I say. He shrugs.

“Maybe not. Maybe you’d be great.”

“Doubtful.”

“Can’t you take a compliment?” He asks, finishing off his water before tossing the bottle in the trash. We’ve been training a lot more lately, and I think I’m getting better.

“That’s what that was?”

“Fuck, Kenz,” he laughs.

“I really like this training we’re doing,” I tell him, getting off the subject.

“Yeah? You gonna keep up with it after all this is over?” he asks.

“I think so. Maybe find a gym and keep going.” He nods.

“That would be good for you. Gives you somethin’ to look forward to.”

“What about you? What are you doing when this is all over?”

“Same thing I’ve been doin’. Livin’ my life. Bein’ the best brother I can be. Givin’ a hundred percent to this club.”

“Is this all you’ve wanted? The club?” He seems to think that over for a long second before pulling up a chair and sitting down next to me.

“When I was little, I saw this man on a bike. He looked like a complete badass with all the patches and shit on his cut. I remember watchin’ him for hours when he’d work on his bike. He invited me over one day, and I sat by watchin’ and learnin’. Those were the best fuckin’ days of my life.”

“What happened to him?”

“Killed by a rival. He wasn’t a Soulless Bastard, but he was close to them. That’s how I met the club. I started hangin’ around with them after that, and when I was old enough, I was a prospect. Back then, they patched in at sixteen. That’s what I did right before I went to prison.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, not knowing what to say.

“Don’t be. Like I said, this is what I am supposed to be.”

“You never wanted to be anything else?”

“A cop,” he laughs now.

“No shit? A cop?” He laughs harder.

“Yeah. Can you believe that shit? I was really young, though. As soon as I saw that bike, it was like everything else clicked into place. What about you, death worker?” Now I laugh at his choice of words.

“Death worker?” I laugh again. “I wanted to be a member of the club when I was young. I wanted to be exactly what my dad was.”

“So how did you get into this work?”

“I don’t like people,” I laugh. “Once my dad died, I knew I wanted to do more, help more. I wasn’t good at talking to people and I don’t deal well with funerals, but I can do the makeup.” There’s a hitch in my voice that I don’t like. He notices, reaching over and resting his hand on top of mine. He gives me a squeeze.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Yeah.”

“How didn’t they find you?” I want to choke up. I want to cry and crawl inside myself and hide from the old pain that I still have inside of me. I swallow hard and pull my hand free from his grasp before standing.