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They were meeting at the Haddons’ because the rental wasn’t very well appointed for a party—or clean, despite Cooper finally hiring a housekeeper to keep the vermin at bay once a week. The place had a transient vibe, and Zach was glad he was staying with Lyra.
Standing beside him now, holding his hand, Lyra fidgeted, tossing her hair and rolling her shoulders. “I’m nervous,” she muttered, so softly he nearly missed it under the storming thunder of all those engines.
“They are going to love you, I promise,” Zach assured her.
The bikes made the final turn, and Zach grinned. Pop was riding up front, side by side with Eight Ball. Behind the formation of Bulls and their Harleys was a convoy of SUVs and extended-cab trucks—at least six. Wow. Everyone really had come.
A few of the Haddons’ neighbors peeked out their doors or came all the way out to stand on their porches or their driveways, but nobody looked especially scandalized. These people knew Ben; they were used to loud bikes. Probably not to this degree, but they seemed to be taking it more or less in stride.
When Pop stopped his trike at the curb, Zach didn’t wait for Cooper or Ben or anybody. Still holding Lyra’s hand, he crossed the lawn, his grin big enough to make his cheeks ache, and went straight to his old man.
“Hey son,” Pop said and set his helmet on the seat. He opened his arms, and Zach released Lyra’s hand and dove in for that hug.
“Hi, Pop.”
Pop was the one who was going to squeeze him till he popped. “It’s good to see you lookin’ good, boy. Scared your mother and me crazy.”
“Sorry.”
Pop slapped his back. “Don’t be sorry. Worry is part of the gig. Don’t make it easier when it’s your kid, but it’s not somethin’ to be sorry for. You were born to this life.”
Truer words never spoken. With one more squeeze, Zach backed out of his father’s embrace. “Pop, this is Lyra. Lyra, this is my dad.”
With the smile he had for animals, children, and young women, filled with paternal affection, Pop held his hand out. “Hello, Lyra. I’m Rad.”
Her smile was shy as she slipped her slim hand into his father’s leathery mitt. “Hi, Rad. I’m really glad to meet you.”
Pop said something else, but Zach didn’t catch it. His attention had locked elsewhere: his mom was standing a few feet away, staring at him, her eyes flooded with unshed tears.
He walked around Pop and spread out his arms. “Hi, Mom. See? I’m okay.”
His mother began to sob, and Zach pulled her into his arms. She leaned in, clutching the back of his kutte, and sobbed against the front.
He felt sad for her tears, and sorry to be the cause of them. But one thing he didn’t feel? Finally? Guilt. He knew he’d made the right call, and he knew his parents understood.
“I’m okay, Mama. I’m okay. I promise.”
She nodded. “I know,” she said through waning tears. “I can see it. You look good. But son of mine, mygod. Both my boys shot before they hit twenty-six.”
He tried a joke. “Yep. We got it out of the way early.”
She laughed. “I fucking hope so!” Her tears over, she leaned back, swiped the stragglers away and looked up at him. Then, with no prelude whatsoever, she stuck her hand in his kutte, grabbed his t-shirt, and yanked it up, exposing his belly.
“Mom! Here?”
“Right the fuck here, kiddo. Let me see.” Suddenly all nurse, she leaned in and pushed around on his scar. “They used staples. You didn’t tell me that.”
“Was it important?”
“Staples heal better than stitches. They hold better and prevent infection better. It’s good. The scar looks good. That should fade to nothing more than a faint line in a year or so.”
He’d be sorry not to have a noticeable scar. He’d been shot, after all. Seemed like something that should leave a memento.
“What about the back? It was a through-and-through. What’s the exit wound look like?” She started to walk around him, lifting his shirt as she went, but enough already.
He yanked his shirt down and turned to face her. “Mom! Later! Don’t take my clothes off on the street, please.”
“Since when did you get precious about public nakedness?” she asked with a smirk. But she did give up the undressing thing.
