“Yes?”
I turn my head and look straight into his eyes. “Do you swear I’m safe?”
“I swear it, Em. If I thought you were in danger, you would have been on the first flight home to Florida this morning with police by your side. Eli’s your biological father, but I’m your dad. I’m not asking you to stay here forever. A week. Maybe two. You decide the length, no matter what Eli thinks. I’ll miss you every second you’re away and we’ll talk as often as you want. I want you to discover your biological family, but I’m your dad and you’re my little girl. Always.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. My dad. This is my dad. “I love you.”
A kiss on my head. “I love you, too.”
“For real, how long do I need to stay?” A sickening wave of homesickness hits me. I’m not just leaving behind my parents, but dreams for an entire summer.
I was supposed to go on vacation with Trisha next week to her grandmother’s in New York. I had just discovered that I was selected to be the head volunteer at the food pantry. I had just gotten the attention of the cute guy in my math class. I was just on the verge of making some dreams a reality.
A lot of supposed-tos and just-abouts and now I’m stuck here—in Snowflake—in hell.
“Stay just long enough for you to get a taste of Eli and his family and for your mom to feel you’re safe in returning home. When you’re ready, I’ll come and get you. What do you have to say?”
What do I have to say? From across the lot, my mother focuses on us with her hands locked together as if in prayer. Eli stands in the middle of a group of men, but his attention is fixed solely on me. My gaze reaches Oz and the moment our eyes meet, he glances away; then my heart picks up speed when he looks my way again. And I have my answer. “Mom is going to lose her mind when she leaves me behind.”
Oz
NEVER BEEN THE guy to develop a nervous habit, but I’m so damned twisted inside that I’m reconsidering. Violet taps her fingers when she’s wound. Chevy rubs his hands together. Razor will take out that big blade of his and flip it around, making everyone around him jumpy and ready to call the police. Me? I go quiet. Still. And observe my surroundings.
I lean against the wall of the clubhouse and my muscles are stiff from staying frozen for so long. This building used to be a three-car garage, but as the club grew, the cars received an eviction notice and a bar now runs along the wall. When it rains, they’ll lift the garage doors and park the bikes inside, but on dry days the place belongs to the pool table, mismatched couches, bar stools, tables, chairs and the bras tacked to the walls.
It’s nine in the evening. Our caravan traveled home from Lanesville four hours ago. Olivia escorted Emily inside, Eli went into Church with the other board members and I returned home to get some sleep.
Eli texted me forty minutes ago to get my ass to the clubhouse. I rolled out of bed and hightailed it on my bike. Now I wait with my feet cemented to the concrete floor, hands shoved in my pocket and my eyes peeled on the clock on the wall over the bar.
Each passing second curls the coil inside me tighter and tighter and tighter.
Tick...tick...tick...
Razor and Chevy sit at the bar nursing the longnecks they bought twenty minutes ago. They could be here for the cheap beer since not a damn person at the bar cares they’re underage. Hell, they could be here to watch the Reds game with the other members of the club. But the brief glances they send me and the fact that neither of them has said a word to each other or anyone else informs me they’re here for support.
I messed up at the motel and tonight I’ll learn my fate with the club.
The door to the back opens and Razor’s dad, Hook, scans the room. He’s the sergeant-at-arms and there’s no doubt he’s searching for me. His eyes fall on his son, but they don’t linger. Hook would be the reason why his son had the longest prospect period in the history of the club. He refused to let Razor’s membership go up for a vote with the club until by-laws demanded it had to be done. Not sure why he did what he did, but Hook’s actions didn’t help his already messed-up relationship with his son.
With one flick of a finger, Hook indicates for me to jump and, being in the position I’m in, I walk forward in a silent acceptance of how high. I barely catch the door before it shuts. Straight would lead me to the kitchen, but I hike up the stairs.
The second floor holds a dormitory-type room with cots for any club member to crash, whether he belongs to this chapter or another. Farther down the hall are a few individual rooms for our more important guests or for couples who prefer privacy instead of doing their thing in public. Where I’m headed is the door on the right: Church.
Church, for the club, is a reverent room. It doesn’t contain pictures of dead saints or candles in red glasses, and there’s no cross nailed to an altar. What is hammered into the wall is a huge black banner with a skull in the dead center, fire dripping from the sky and flames blazing out of the eyes. The white words Reign of Terror race across the top.
I follow Hook in and let the door close behind me. This isn’t my debut visit in Church and hopefully it won’t be the last, but to each man in here, this should be my first time. No one comes in here without permission. Chevy and I snuck in here a few times as kids. Cyrus caught us the last time at eight and he wore the skin of our asses out for it. I learned my lesson, though. Respect the rules. Respect the club.
Church is set up like any conference room with a long table and chairs, but the men in here are more serious than any CEO. Each member would die for their brothers or this club. That’s what membership requires.
It’s hard not to look in Dad’s direction. He’s the business manager and has been a member since he was eighteen. Dad taught me from an early age that I’m my own man when it pertains to the club. I’m his son, but these are his brothers. I must earn their and his respect.
I fasten my thumbs in the pockets of my jeans and hang next to the wall while everyone sits. Cyrus claims the seat at the head of the table. He’s the motherfucking chief of the tribe. Eli and I are the only ones left standing.
Eli curls his fingers around the back of his chair and focuses on the mahogany wood in front of him. His knuckles are red and swollen. Two of them have been sliced open and are scabbed over with dried blood. He’s been in a brawl recently. Not a bruise on his face so that means he was the one doing the hitting.
“You’re not a member, Oz,” he says. “You’re a guest in this room and guest alone, and guest in this context does not mean welcomed or privileged.”