Long Way Home

  “Want to sit with me?”

  Definitely. “Okay.”

  The ends of Addison’s lips lift, she removes her hand from the book and reads the first question aloud.

  CHEVY

  COACH TEACHES FRESHMAN GEOGRAPHY. Multiple world maps cover the walls in his room and little else. Most teachers try to make places welcoming by adding posters of baby animals or maybe posting some sort of inspirational saying on the bulletin board. He’s got none of that. World maps put up with gray tape. That’s his best.

  It’s his planning period and I’m supposed to be an aide in wood shop—keeping the freshmen from cutting their fingers off. Parents get pissed when that happens.

  I knock on Coach’s door and he pops his head up from the pile of papers on his desk. “Tell me before I lose my mind. I taught you what the capital of the US is, right?”

  Already knew it before I took his class. “Washington, DC.”

  “Thank God. These kids are morons.”

  Considering how many of them I’ve had to stop this year from losing digits, I have to agree. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yeah.” He leans back in his seat, causing it to roll. “Take a seat.”

  The chair in front of his desk is too small for me, like it belongs in an elementary school, but when Coach tells you to sit, you sit. He’s a great guy. As big as a tank. Played football in college, then a year in the pros until he busted his knee. Gentle black man when he chooses, but on the field the man morphs into a rabid wolf, tearing hunks out of us until we break.

  He’s made teammates of mine cry. He’s run me so hard I’ve vomited on the sidelines. He demands respect, we give it and bust our asses to receive it in return.

  “I heard about what happened to you,” he says. “Want you to know that my church and I were pulling for you. We had a special prayer session for you the morning you were gone. The entire team came. I even heard that some of the guys had grouped together and went searching for you and Violet in case you had been dropped off on the side of the road. You had a lot of people thinking of you.”

  Didn’t know any of this. Something deep and unknown inside me shifts. People said prayers for me and Violet. It’s weird and welcomed. “Thank you.”

  “You doing okay? I heard you were roughed up.”

  I shrug. “About the same as playing Riverside.”

  Coach grins, but it’s short-lived. “Listen, I’m going to give it to you straight. There are some in the school’s administration who have never been happy I’ve had you on this team.”

  My skin begins to feel stretched and there’s not much I can do as I balance sitting in this tiny chair.

  “Some people argue the Terror are a gang and you know the school board doesn’t allow anything gang-related within the school.”

  Son of a bitch.

  “This is why I ride your back to make sure it appears like your loyalties are with the team and not the Terror. I take a lot of heat for sticking my neck out for you, but after this kidnapping...parents are scared.”

  “I wasn’t kidnapped by the Terror.” I cross my arms over my chest and dare him to push me on it.

  “I know. But you were taken by a rival motorcycle club. Maybe if this was fifteen years ago, things would be different, but now with terrorist attacks, school shootings and workplace shootings... Hell, insane assholes are shooting up movie theatres. People get scared. The members of this community know you’re the son of a Terror member.”

  “A man who died before my birth.” A man who might have been loyal to the people who took me.

  “And your grandfather is the head of the Terror and he’s come to every parent-teacher conference and every game. People see you, they see the Terror and some parents have expressed concern that your being on the team is inviting problems.”

  Problems. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Coach lifts his fingers in a way to indicate a who-knows. “Parents are concerned if you’re on the field, a gang war will erupt and their sons will be taken out in the process.”

  I’m being punished and judged based on someone else’s mistakes? “This is bullshit.”

  “I agree, but the parent making the most noise has got the ear of someone on the school board. Until the board meets again, I’ve been told to bench you.”

  “Bench me?” I repeat.

  “You aren’t thrown off the team. Just have to sit out games until we get this figured out.”

  “I’m not Terror. I’m not even a prospect.”

  “As I said, I know. You’ve been given permission to sit with the team. Wear your jersey to games. They don’t want you to feel entirely left out. They said they want to do what’s best for the greater good.”

  Fuck this. I stand, the small-ass chair banging against the floor. “Because if I dress out and play, that’s when the shooting begins, but if I sit my ass on the bench, everyone’s safe? How does that work?”

  “It doesn’t.” Coach rises to his feet, his hands in the air in a sign for me to calm down. “Between me and you, this is politics, son, and it’s higher than my pay grade.”

  Politics? I run through what Coach said and my head falls back when the answer hits me like a freight train. Some parents raised concerns, but he said there was one loud bastard with the ear of a board member. The kid who’s my backup if I get hurt hasn’t played much this year and his father’s been an asshole about it, shouting at Coach from the sidelines at practice and during games.

  This kid’s dad’s best friend? He’s on the school board. “Ray can’t catch a damn ball and move his feet at the same time. He can’t remember his routes under pressure.”

  “I’m aware. We lost last week. Eighteen to zero.”

  To a team we should have easily beaten.

  “Their defense knew we didn’t have you and they know Ray can’t play. They shifted their defense to the boys who can. Without you there, we couldn’t get down the field. Our defense saw the game falling apart and they fell apart. Our team needs a leader and that’s you. I need you back on that field.”

  “Sounds like that’s not up to me.”

  “It’s not. I’ll speak to the board. So will some of the other coaches and teachers. I know Cyrus won’t want to hear this, but he and the Terror need to stay clear. Them showing up will only hurt, not help.”

  That conversation with the board will go over well.

  “What I’m about to ask requires a better man, but I’m asking because I know you’re a great man.” His pause causes my blood to run cold. “Chevy, I need you to come to practice and help Ray. I need you to teach him how to cover the routes. Boost the kid’s confidence. We lose one more game and we lose our shot at regionals.”

  I stretch my fingers and resist the urge to tell him where to shove helping Ray or the team because no one is helping me.

  “Don’t answer now,” Coach says. “Take some time. Think about it, but I have a feeling you’ll show. As I said, you’re the better man.”

  Without saying a word, I turn and walk out.

  Violet

  I’M JEALOUS OF my mom’s happiness. I’m quite aware of how awful and bitter that sounds, but it’s tough to know her happiness is due to my kidnapping. The real jealousy is that she’s just happy. There’s a smile on her face and pure joy radiates from her as she places the third round of hot buttered bread on the table in Cyrus’s kitchen. She’s plain happy and I honestly forgot how happy feels, so for a moment I wish I was her.

  Found another note this morning in my math folder:

  Want you to know we understand your situation. Can’t expect you to get what we want if you aren’t home, but we hear you’ll be home once certain people are back in KY. By the way, number fifteen is wrong. You need to divide instead of multiply.

  A s
talker and blackmailer who is checking my math homework. My brain is slowly separating into tiny pieces and it’s going to be a very short trip to become a resident in the land of gone crazy.

  But my mom? My mom’s happy. It’s Wednesday evening and the cramped kitchen is full of hungry men in black leather Reign of Terror vests and too-loud conversations. They were all drawn in by the scent of freshly baked bread and lasagna. I’ve got to admit, Mom makes a mean lasagna and she bakes bread you sort of think was created in heaven.

  “No one can have any more lasagna until Chevy gets in here and makes his plate,” Mom announces like everyone in the room is her child.

  I’ve eaten more than my fair share tonight, yet I’m considering the corner piece of lasagna with the burnt edges. Those are my favorite and I think I might still have room in my stomach for more. But with the way Pigpen’s eyes are flickering between that piece and me, I might have to stab him in the hand with a fork to get it.

  “It’s mine,” he whispers. “Go for it and you’re going down.”

  Despite my best intentions, I smile and his eyes shine with the win.

  Cyrus walks into the kitchen from the back door and at the same time Chevy comes in from the hallway. His hair is dark and damp from a shower and his T-shirt clings a little too tight. Butterflies race in my stomach at the anticipation of waiting for his eyes to meet mine.

  But Chevy doesn’t look at me—he watches Cyrus and the butterflies give way as I frown. Cyrus isn’t doing anything unusual. He washes his hands at the sink, makes a few comments here and there to the guys, but Chevy is seeing something else, something no one else sees.

  Finally, he does tear his eyes away from Cyrus to me and he smiles. That pirate one, the gorgeous one, the dimpled one, the one that makes me very aware he has something up his sleeve. He eases into the chair beside me, holds out his empty palm, fists it, then magically produces a coin. Within seconds, he’s rolling it over his knuckles in a movement I’ve never been able to mimic.

  Chevy’s not the only one who can read people. I’ve known him for too long. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I can read you better than you think.”

  “Really?” His eyes wander along my body and I turn pink. “What am I saying now?”

  I reach out to steal the coin, but it falls into his palm, and when he reopens it, the coin’s gone. He waves his fingers as he waggles his eyebrows. Yeah, he’s hiding something and it’s not the coin.

  Pigpen passes the pan of lasagna in Chevy’s direction and he takes two squares for himself, then deposits the corner piece on my plate. I smirk at Pigpen and he scowls back at me.

  The moment Chevy has enough salad and bread on an additional plate to feed a developing nation, the locusts descend and take the rest of the food. Mom stays by the sink and has this pride and satisfaction on her face that I once again find myself envious over.

  “Maybe you should have been a cook,” I say, and the guys quiet down. I talk now, but not a ton.

  Mom blinks several times. “Are you talking to me?”

  I nod with lasagna in my mouth, then swallow the Italian goodness. “Maybe you should have been a cook in a fancy restaurant. Your food is that good. Did you ever think about it? Cooking school?”

  Mom seems surprised by the compliment and accepts it with a good-natured grin. “I don’t need a restaurant when I have all these growing boys.”

  Rumbles of male laughter and my own glow dies. Mom notices and her smile wanes. Why can’t anything just be about her? Why does it always have to involve the Terror?

  “I stopped by your practice today,” Cyrus says, and Chevy, who had been absorbed in his food, lowers his fork. “Why was Ray running your routes?”

  The air catches in my throat and my head turns to Chevy. In fact, every conversation ceases and all eyes are on him. Chevy mixes his salad around his plate, then uses his bread to push the lettuce onto his fork. “I’m benched.”

  He shoves the food into his mouth as Cyrus stares at him like he announced he has leprosy. “Why? For this week? Because you missed practice last week?”

  A shrug and a drink of water. “Indefinitely.”

  “What happened?”

  Chevy finishes chewing, then tosses his fork onto his plate of half-eaten food. “I was kidnapped.”

  “And?”

  “The school board has decided since I was kidnapped, then I must be involved in gang activity. Until it’s proven otherwise, I’m benched.”

  My heart stops, and I reach out and touch Chevy’s shoulder. Football is his life. It’s his release. It’s his everything.

  Guys are cursing, saying words full of malice, but all I can do is focus on Chevy, wishing he’d look in my direction, but he’s locked in a stare with Cyrus. Neither of them speak, don’t even blink.

  Cyrus breaks first and scoops lasagna onto his fork. “I’ll talk to your coach. Get this cleared up.”

  Chevy pushes away from the table and my hand falls from his body. “Coach said he’ll get it cleared up. No need for you to get involved.”

  “No way. You’re family and we take care of our problems.”

  “Coach specifically told me he doesn’t want you involved. He said you talking to the school’s administration, the board, will only hurt my case, not help.”

  Cyrus goes red and his fork clanks against the table when he throws it down. “You’re my family and we will take care of it as we see fit. The Terror will stand behind you.”

  “Not on this. Let Coach handle this.”

  “We know how to handle the school board. We know how to talk to them to get them to understand.”

  “No!” Chevy snaps, and I shake with his voice. He never raises his voice. Not like this. Chevy doesn’t lose control. “The football team—it isn’t your world. It’s my world. It’s completely separate from you, from the Terror, from this house. You don’t get a vote on this. If I say Coach is going to take care of it, he takes care of it.”

  Cyrus shakes his head, opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but Chevy mutters, “Fuck it,” snatches his jacket off the back of a chair and goes for the back door. It creaks open, then slams shut.

  When Cyrus goes to stand, I smack my good leg against the table, rattling everyone’s plates, as I struggle to get to my feet first. “Let me.”

  I fumble with my crutches in haste as Chevy can move faster than me when I have two working legs. The men maneuver out of my way, and Man O’ War opens the door for me. I’m out, frantically scan for Chevy, and he’s already halfway across the yard, moving toward his bike.

  “Chevy!”

  He turns, and when he sees me, he stops. I’m hobbling as fast as I can, the crutches digging into my arms. As if he realized I wasn’t a dream, Chevy stalks in my direction, and when he comes close enough, I let go of the crutches and fall into him, knowing he’ll catch me. My head to his shoulder, squeezing him as tight as I can. “I’m sorry.”

  Chevy hugs me back, in a bear sort of way, his body encompassing mine, his arms steel bands, his nose nuzzling into my hair as if he can’t find a way to get close enough.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper again. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Come with me?” Chevy asks.

  I press tighter to him as if there was actual space between us. “Anywhere.”

  “All I got is my bike.”

  And my knee is bad, plus I haven’t been on the back of a bike since Dad died.

  “But I won’t go far. I promise.”

  My throat knots. The back of a bike, but it’s with Chevy and he needs me. “Then let’s go.”

  The air rushes out of my lungs when Chevy leans down and swings me up in his arms. He walks fast for his bike, probably wishing that no one from the Terror is watching us. That for a few minute
s, we can find a way to be completely alone in our grief.

  His Harley is a beautiful piece of machinery. It’s the bike his father rode and it was given to Chevy the day he turned sixteen. He cares for this bike with the same loving care he shows when he touches me.

  Chevy sets me on the ground, draws his leather jacket off his shoulders, places it on mine, pulls his keys out of his pocket, and the moment he’s on, he offers his hand to me.

  Countless times, Chevy has given me his jacket, but I don’t remember it being so warm or the rich scent of spices so thick and comforting.

  I accept his hand, ease onto the seat so I don’t place weight on my bad knee, then swing the good one over to the other side. Even though I haven’t ridden a motorcycle in months, I’m still a biker girl at heart. Because of that, I have never stopped placing a hair tie in my pocket just in case.

  I tie my hair at the nape of my neck, then wrap my arms around Chevy’s stomach so I can hide my face in his back. He doesn’t need to see the wince as I position the foot of my bad leg on the rest.

  Chevy starts the bike, the engine rumbles beneath me and in seconds we’re gone. I lift my head and enjoy the wind on my face, my hair rippling in the currents, the way my body vibrates with the powerful machine. The feel of Chevy’s strong body beneath my touch is heaven and the poetic memories of freedom that only being on the back of a bike bring flood to my mind.

  There’s a spark within me, a jolt of hope and joy. Happiness. It’s there, it’s almost within reach. Chevy tackles the curve at breakneck speed as if we’re chasing happiness down with all we’re worth.

  I rest my chin on his shoulder, then turn my head to kiss Chevy’s neck. He reaches back and squeezes my thigh. I love you, Chevy. I love you so much it hurts. I love you so much I’m not sure I’ll ever love anyone as much as I love you.

  I don’t say any of that, but I do press my lips to his neck and kiss him again.

  CHEVY