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Why was he in my house?
Why was the second one waiting outside?
“MARY CATHERINE! What was that noise?”
“My front door. I-I, someone, I, he—”
“Speak English.”
“Stop being a bitch,” I retorted, but, much as always, she calmed me down.
The new guy didn’t notice me, but I couldn’t avoid noticing him. He sucked the oxygen from the air itself, much as my mother did when she was in one of her tempers.
As terrifying as his wrath was, what stole the breath from my lungs were the similarities between the biker and my grandfather.
“What the hell?” I whispered with a shaky exhalation.
“What is it?”
“This guy just came out of my house. He’s the one who slammed the front door closed. He’s an exact replica of my grandad.”
“The Vietnam veteran?”
“Yeah.”
We had pictures of Grandad fresh from ‘Nam: head shaved, eyes haunted, body rippling with muscles but somehow gaunt too. As if something were eating him alive.
This guy was the same.
It was even stranger because his current facial expression, as well as his features, were all my mother’s. Which, to be frank, would explain the matching tempers if nothing else.
Finally, he glanced at me, but there was zero acknowledgment there. His dismissal was more abrupt than his friend’s.
Unlike the other guy, I didn’t mind escaping his attention.
Yet, as I wondered who the hell he was and why he was storming out of my house like he’d left a fire in his wake, he was jumping onto his bike, kicking his foot against the stand, and a second later, the engine was roaring to life with the iconic rumble that could only be…
“Was that a Harley?” Sarah blurted in my ear.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” the guy shouted, riding off.
That was when I saw the back of his leather vest which declaredSatan’s Sinners’ MC, Mother Chapter, West Orangeto the world.
The other guy tucked his cell phone away and, without a single glance at me, took off as well.
With faint wistfulness, aware I’d never see him again, I watched the guy go, noticing that his vest sported the Sinners’ patch too.
West Orange? I knew that town.
“When you said he looked like Charlie Hunnam, what you really meant was that he’s Jax Teller in the flesh,” she teased.
“A brown-haired one,” I muttered as the world returned to normal around me.
“Can’t believe you didn’t send me a picture,” she said with a pout, but I ignored her.
In under five minutes, the boring ‘burbs had been stirred to life before the vibrancy of the unusual faded away, shifting it back to the perpetual state of deadly dullness.
Of course, when I thought about that biker’s wrathful expression,deadlymight be more apt than I realized.
