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“No, that’s great. Let’s hear it because I’ve been racking my brain and coming up with nothing.”
“How about Bruised Not Broken?” she offers. “Your logo could be a bruised apple – you know, for Tobin?”
“Wow. Bruised Not Broken? Finding your place and purpose in MC brotherhood. I think that could be perfect. How did you come up with that so fast?” I ask her.
“I’m glad you like it. And you just wrote the tagline that says it all, what you’re trying to do – give these vets a permanent place where they’ll never doubt if they belong.”
“That’s a surprising statement given your opinion of motorcycle clubs,” I can’t help but point out.
“No matter what personal issues I have for biker clubs, not even I can deny that they’re an unbreakable family.”
“They really are. When I came back, I didn’t think I had anything in common with my own brothers I grew up with, lived with, fought with. Then we formed the club, and it was like we all had a goal – protect each other, the other members, and do the right thing, even when it may be considered wrong by society.”
“That’s my dear old dad and his club, all right. He crosses lines all the time, telling himself it’s for a good cause, but…”
“But what?” I ask when she pauses.
“But I still blame him for my mom’s death.”
“What do you mean? How did she…”
“A traumatic brain injury was the official cause of death,” she tells me. “The cause of which is she tried to break up a fight, or a fight in the bar got out of control. She fell and hit the back of her head, never woke up again.”
“Jesus, Lyla. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. That woman went through hell.”
“What do you mean?”
I freeze for several seconds after nearly saying too much. “It sounds like she went through hell, you know, at the end. She didn’t even get to say goodbye to anyone.”
“No, she didn’t. Not that I would’ve remembered. I was only one or two. Laurel was three. Neither of us were old enough to remember anything about her. I’ve seen photos, videos, but it’s not the same. I would’ve given anything to have a mother growing up. My grandmother is the best, but she wasn’t her, the woman who loved my father and gave birth to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please stop apologizing. I’m sorry for throwing a pity party during your big, important epiphany. That’s what we should be focusing on right now and only that.”
“Only that?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
“That and morning, noon, and night sex, of course.”
“I’m sorry it’s been so frequent. We don’t have to keep up that same pace.”
“No, it’s fine. I want to whenever you do, maybe even more often.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s like you’re paying me for my help with orgasms, which are even better than cash.”
“You sure that’s not making it like prostitution?”
“Absolutely sure. I’ve been nothing but happy with our arrangement.”
“Me too. I love having you here.”
“I love staying here,” she says with a smile that doesn’t last as long as I would’ve liked.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
