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In a small-town like Boulder, where violent crime is relatively unheard of, residents like Ms. Appleby are shaken.
“Hard to believe Jake’s gone,” says resident diner owner, Freddie Levington. “He’s been a pillar of the community for decades. A great man was lost.”
Police have made attempts to calm resident’s fears over the deadly situation, stating it is a one-off crime that won’t happen again anytime soon. Still, the suspects are at large, and the public wants answers.
As of right now, no leads have materialized. The one possible piece of evidence is a gray skull bandana found at the scene of the crime that allegedly belongs to the infamous motorcycle club the Steel Kings. But police claim that there are still no credible leads in their investigation.
Jacob Singer’s funeral will be held next Saturday at the Boulder Community Church. He is survived by his only daughter, Sydney.
“A Steel Kings bandana was found at the scene of the crime?” I say slowly, my eyes glued to the article.
Cash nods. “You see now why Sydney was convinced it was us. Combine that with the fact that her father was a Hellrazor and we’ve got serious beef with them. In her book, she wrote that she overheard you telling Tom about an assassination.Youwere probably talking about Curly. The guy we took out in retaliation for the Hellrazors shooting up Bush’s trailer. Butshethought you were talking about her father.”
The new context gives clarity to a few of the interactions I’ve had with Sydney. She had repeatedly mentioned feeling alone and going through a rough patch. I had assumed it was her divorce that was the cause when really, it was the death of her adopted father.
It’s no wonder she hated me. Aside from the fact that I was hostile to her, she believed I had something to do with his murder.
My mind flashes to the tears that had rolled down her cheek the other night in the club office—how she’d told me it wouldn’t matter if I killed her, because she had no one left.
Guilt begins remerging as a slow, creeping feeling…
I toss the newspaper at Cash. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
“You can’t be this heartless. This merciless. I’ve known you all your life, Mace. You’re not—”
“You don’t know shit. I’ve got more important matters to worry about than Sydney. I let her live. That’s merciful enough.”
The disappointment drips off Cash as he rises from his chair and heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob. “Just hope you know what you’re doing pushing her away. She’s the type, once she’s gone, she’s gone.”
Tension lances through my jaw. “What’s done is done.”
Cash leaves me alone with a shake of his head.
I continue glaring at the spot where he stood, fighting off the intrusive thoughts telling me the opposite of what I’ve said. These same conflicted thoughts tell me I should fix this. Reach out to Sydney and talk about all the ways we’ve gotten things mixed up.
I reach into the top drawer of my desk and pull out something nobody else knows I have—the photos that were snapped of me and Syd on the day of the fundraiser. At the time they were taken, I pretended not to like that the photos were snapped, but I’ve held onto them for a reason.
Secretly, I’ve stared at them a time or two, remembering that afternoon, and how I’d enjoyed putting Sydney on a bike. I curled my dominant form over hers and encouraged her to become more comfortable on the Harley. My lips had hovered near her ear, and I’d inhaled the most intoxicating whiff of her perfume…
You might even say that was the first real time I let myself indulge in her. The first clue I couldn’t resist her no matter how hard I fucking tried.
I stare at the photo so long there’s a clench in my chest as the guilt multiplies.
Cash wasn’t far off when he said she’s the type to leave for good. It might already be too late.
Draining the last of my whiskey, I turn off these reactions emerging, and refocus on the things I need to do as prez.
Tonight’s the night we head to Wheaton and finally get our payback against the Hellrazors.
25
SYDNEY
In a few short days,I make up my mind. I’ll be heading out of Texas for good and starting over further south. Mom and Pop had family in Florida and Alabama. Their brothers and sisters, which would be my aunts and uncles through adoption. We’ve never been close and I haven’t spoken to them in years, but possibly we’ll be able to reconnect.
I take up a very short term bartending gig at the bar across the street from my motel. Rusty’s Tavern is the same bar I’d seen Velma coming out of.
Either her presence was a fluke, or I’d been imagining things.
