Long Way Home

  “Jesus,” he mutters.

  “This feud with the Riot, it has to change. It has got to end. I need it to end.”

  He watches me as he processes my words. “How do you think it should end?”

  “With every single member of the Riot in jail.”

  The detective smiles and it could rival Pigpen’s crazy one any day. “I can’t guarantee them all, but we’ll get the main ones. Got an idea of how to do that, but it’s going to take some guts on your part. How do you feel about that?”

  For the first time in weeks, like I’m alive. “Bring it.”

  CHEVY

  RAZOR AND I sit on stools at the clubhouse bar and we’re both working on math.

  I got in from Louisville around nine and my plan to hang and talk with Violet went wayward when she packed up and headed home. A quick hug and a kiss and she told me she’d see me tomorrow.

  Too jacked in the head to return to an empty condo, I stuck around here, playing pool, playing darts, watching the MMA fights with the other guys from the club, and then when Razor settled in to do his homework, I did the same.

  We’ve been doing this since we were kids. Papers sprawled out along the bar during quiet weeknights. There’s a reddish glow on the pages from the neon signs on the wall, a low hum from the refrigerator that holds the longnecks, the background noise created by whatever sport is on TV, and the cracking of pool balls and murmur of low conversation that keep us company.

  Back in elementary school, we were doing coloring sheets and seek-and-finds. Now Razor is working on college-level math. I do well in school, but don’t hold a candle to him in the brains department.

  Razor absently rubs at a healing wound on his arm, then goes back to his pencil flying at a hundred miles per hour. Razor’s a genius at math. He’s also a genius at technology, writing programs and cracking computer code. Actual life skills that will help him in the future.

  Me? Razor’s phone on the bar vibrates. He goes for it, stretching his arm, and his elbow collides with an open beer. It falls off the bar. In a second it’s in my grasp, then back near Razor and not a drop spilled. Yeah, Razor’s got brains and I’ve got fast hands.

  As long as I was playing ball, there was a usefulness for my fast hands, but now, with football gone, I’m feeling lost in my purpose.

  Razor blinks several times. “Reflexes of a ninja.”

  I shrug and close my math book, today’s homework and most of what I missed last week now completed.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “You border on superhero with how fast you can move.”

  “Not like it helps me.”

  Razor’s cold blue eyes flicker over my face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  To be honest... “I don’t know.”

  I shove my math book and folder into my pack and open my English folder. Staring at me is my makeup assignment.

  Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both. Instructions: Write an essay explaining how you’ve handled two roads diverging in your life. Use parts of the poem to explain how you made the decision of what path to take.

  I hate English. “You do this yet?”

  Razor gives a grim nod.

  “What did you write about?”

  He takes a slow drink from that longneck, then sets it back on the bar. “I wrote about Breanna.”

  Punch to the gut. It’s been a few weeks since her parents sent her to a private school far from here. “You don’t mind our teacher reading something personal?”

  “I don’t care if she knows I love Breanna. Besides, the lady hates me and probably won’t read it anyhow.”

  “Still haven’t heard anything?” Breanna’s parents have forbidden them to have contact.

  “The club has reached out to her parents, though. They’re trying to make things work so they’ll let her talk to me again.” He peels at the label on the beer. “Can’t help but wonder if by being away she’ll figure out she’s better without me. Find somebody else.”

  Razor’s not one to talk feelings. Not one to talk much at all. He must be hurting. “I saw the way Breanna looked at you. That was love.”

  “Violet loved you.” His response stings, but it’s true.

  “We’re figuring things out.” She told me she loved me, and for a brief minute, all was right in my world.

  Something dark flashes in his eyes. Everyone in the club was cool when Violet and I started dating, but Razor was the one who was hesitant. He and Violet were best friends growing up. No feelings or attraction. Just friends, and Razor’s protective of his friends, especially her.

  “She’s not happy in the club, so how exactly are you figuring that part out?”

  “We haven’t.”

  He rolls his neck. “Be careful with her.”

  “I will.”

  “Chevy.” He waits for me to meet his eyes. “Be careful with you.”

  I nod. Razor doesn’t want to see either me or Violet hurt.

  My phone rings and my forehead furrows when Stone’s face pops up on the screen. It’s after eleven and past his bedtime. Quick swipe to accept, then phone to my ear. “Hey, Stone.”

  “Chevy?” Don’t care for the quiet nervousness in his voice.

  “It’s me. You okay?”

  Razor’s now watching me like a bear ready to tear into a stranger for throwing rocks at its young. If something is going down at Violet’s, he’ll be in that mix alongside me.

  “I tried calling Eli, but he didn’t answer.”

  I slip off the stool and go deadly serious myself. “Eli’s in Church. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Eli told me to keep an eye on Violet and to call him if anything strange happened.”

  “Is she okay?”

  Razor’s now on his feet and digging his keys out of his pocket.

  “I think... It’s just that she’s downstairs in Dad’s office going through drawers. Everybody went to bed, and I fell asleep, but then I thought I heard a door open and shut. Then I heard footsteps and I was scared, but I thought of how you protected Violet, so I forced myself out of bed. Violet saw me and told me everything was okay and that she was hanging out downstairs. Then she went into Dad’s office. We don’t go into Dad’s office. Nobody goes in there.”

  I wave Razor off, then rub my neck to ease the tension that had built there. “Maybe she’s always gone in there and you didn’t know.”

  “No.” Stone hardens his tone. “She doesn’t. Violet doesn’t go in there. Mom doesn’t go in there. None of us go in there. Something’s wrong.”

  “I get it.” But Violet’s expression when she received her Dad’s cross broke nearly all of us. Bet she’s feeling sentimental tonight, especially with this being her first official night home after the kidnapping. “I’ll swing by and check on her. Will that make you feel better?”

  “Yeah, it would. Should I tell her to get out of there? Dad didn’t like us in there without him. That was his rule.”

  “Leave her alone and I’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay.”

  We share goodbyes and I’m the one digging out my keys, but Razor’s still on alert. “Everything okay?”

  “Violet’s missing her dad.”

  Razor sits back on the stool, pencil in hand and already figuring out a problem. “Tell her if she needs me, I’m there.”

  “Will do.”

  * * *

  I’ve been in a cage too much lately and I’ve missed the wind on my face, the vibration of my bike beneath me, the feeling of complete freedom. My headlight illuminates two prospects hanging near their bikes at the end of Violet’s drive. As long as Violet, her mom or Stone are in that house, someone from the Terror will be watching over them.

  Using my feet, I
back up my bike and park it next to theirs. It’s close to midnight, lights are out in the house and I don’t want the roar of my engine to wake Violet’s mom.

  I exchange a few words with the prospects, then walk up the long drive. The guys didn’t ask why I’m here. Besides the fact I’m a McKinley, everyone, even the new guys, knows Violet was my girl. To the club, she’ll always belong to me.

  She will, but not the way they think. Violet is a part of my soul, but it’s up to her if she wants me in her life. I’ve watched as man after man has treated my mother like an object. Violet’s not an object. She’s the girl I love.

  Stone opens the front door before I jog up the stairs to the porch. He’s dressed in an old T-shirt with Star Wars pajama bottoms and his hair points in a million different directions. With shaking hands, he runs his fingers through his hair. Now I know why it’s a mess.

  “Violet’s still in there,” he whispers, and I remind myself to keep my voice low.

  Stone lets me in and closes the door behind me. Their house is exactly how I remember. Perfection. Hardwood floors, formal living room to the right with fancy furniture and fancy fragile things behind glass. To the left is the kitchen. Like it’s a model home, the counters are clean and there’s not a piece of paper or dish towel in sight. From there, it’s a straight shot to the family room and closed double doors that lead to their father’s office. Light creeps out from underneath. “Why don’t you go on upstairs to bed? I’ll take care of Violet.”

  “We have school tomorrow. We aren’t supposed to have people over after nine on a school night.”

  “I promise you won’t get in trouble if your mom wakes up.”

  “But—”

  “Rules have changed.”

  “Because of the kidnapping?”

  “Yeah.” No use lying.

  “Okay. ’Night, Chevy.”

  “’Night.”

  In socks, Stone runs up the stairs and a door clicks shut on the second floor.

  I’m not worried about Violet’s mom waking up. When we were staying at Cyrus’s, she went out of her way to give us her approval on my staying the night with Violet. On the way home from Louisville, she went on and on about how happy she was that Violet and I are back together and that I could stay the night with Violet at their house if I wanted.

  That kiss in the police station, to Jenny, confirmed everything.

  Razor’s right. Violet and I are still complicated, but Violet’s mom is 1950s, an old-school biker wife. To her, Violet is my property, and Violet and her mom are oil and water. Jenny used to brag to people how Frat owned her. Violet would cut open my artery and leave me to bleed out if I used that term involving her.

  Rebecca, Oz’s mom and wife of Man O’ War, is the same. So was Olivia, Cyrus’s wife. Both are strong women in the club and neither would allow their men to use the word owned in reference to them. Neither of them would take crap from anyone at any time, but that’s not how Violet’s mom rolls.

  Her mother’s attitude used to drive Violet insane. The idea of being owned crawled under Violet’s skin and it crawled under Jenny’s skin that it pissed Violet off. Their relationship was rough before Frat died. Now it’s got to be a testing range for nuclear bombs.

  And Violet’s been dealing with it alone. Not only her mom, but the problems with her brother, her issues with people at school and her grief. She pushed me away, pushed everyone away, but I’m done being pushed.

  I stop outside Frat’s office and memories come rushing back. The sound of Violet’s laughter as she sat on her father’s wooden desk, legs dangling, as he was telling her stories of him riding with the club. His office wasn’t what people would associate with a biker. It was dark wood, many shelves lined with book after book and a black leather sofa where Violet would lie for hours as her father worked just so she could be in the same room as him.

  Walking into the room, I sometimes felt like a man about to face a firing squad. Violet would give me that wicked smile, then wink when she waltzed out the door after Frat told Violet to give me and him some time alone.

  One time, he had caught us kissing behind the clubhouse and my hands were in places he wasn’t happy about. I shuffled into the office like I had swallowed a bowling ball. Frat wasn’t full of smiles and laughter as he shut the door and schooled me on how I was to treat his daughter.

  She was his princess. The pride and love that shone from his eyes when she walked in the room could light up the dark. And he was her whole life. She worshipped her father like it was her own personal religion.

  Frat was a great man. Taught me how to work on cars, helped me piece together my bike, and during the multiple times he schooled me on his daughter, he also spent time getting to know me. Talked to me about football, about the club, about my mom, about choices.

  He always told me the choices were mine. I wish Frat was still here. He was one of the few who at least acted like he understood push and pulls. He used to make me feel like it was possible for me to come out on the other side of eighteen still intact.

  Still intact.

  My shoulder still aches from the kidnapping. Violet’s knee is still in a brace.

  Wonder what Frat would say now about surviving to eighteen.

  Sadness washes over me. Violet is eighteen and my stomach drops as I remember the expression on her face when she saw her father’s cross. The girl I love is in pain and I need to make her better. I turn the knob, open the door, and an ache ripples through my chest.

  Violet’s in the middle of the room, in pajamas consisting of a red tank top and checkered bottoms. She clutches photos, and while sitting up, she’s curled into a ball. Don’t have to look at the photos to know who’s in them. Don’t have to ask why she’s alive, yet dying.

  Her head snaps up and her face pales. “What are you doing here?”

  “Stone called and told me you weren’t okay.”

  “He what?” She clutches her hair and pulls as if physical pain can wipe away the devastation on her face. “Never mind. You need to get out of here.”

  My neck tightens and I roll it. She’s trying to shut down emotionally and push me away again, but that’s not going to happen. “Your mom isn’t going to care I’m here.”

  Violet winces as she stands and places too much pressure on her bad leg. As I go to help her, she throws her hands out for me to halt. “Go, Chevy. You need to go.”

  “Let me help you.”

  When she steps forward, she slips and I spring toward her. My hand grabbing her arm, and as I look down to make sure she’s steady, I spot files. Lots of files. Private documents that have the name of either the club or the security company and the papers within those files are strewn about. My blood runs cold and then I stop breathing when I spot her phone—the camera app on.

  A muscle in my jaw jerks and Violet is the one now grasping. “It’s not what you think.”

  I tower over her. The anger pumping through me so strong it’s hard not to shake the hell out of her. I left her alone with the Riot. I left her alone and they let us leave. “Did you make a deal with the Riot for our release?”

  “I was going through the files to search for pictures. Just pictures.”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “It’s just pictures, Chevy. Calm down and I’ll show you.”

  It’s not just pictures. She wasn’t just looking for pictures. Violet made a deal. She found a way to set us free and she’s willing to betray the club to do so.

  I release Violet, then run a hand over my face. Cyrus—damn. Cyrus needs to know. So does Eli. Both of them will be crushed. Screw that—I’m crushed. “Why couldn’t you trust us? Why couldn’t you trust me?”

  Because this is a betrayal. A betrayal they’ll never forgive. A betrayal I’m not sure I can forgive.

  “Chevy!” she sh
outs. “Look at me! See me!”

  I swear aloud, then do what she asks. Head to toe. Once, twice and on the third time my mind goes numb as if I was hit in the head. Violet holds two fingers pressed against her thigh. The sign we created as children that we need to pay attention. Our sign that something is wrong. Signs we made up while we played, but continued to use because the adults in our lives are often complicated. My vision blurs, then returns with a clarity that’s deadly.

  She’s in trouble. Violet’s in trouble and she’s not safe.

  My pulse beats in my ears and my eyes flicker about the room, searching for the threat.

  “Chevy,” she whispers. “Dad mentioned once he kept pictures of us in the front of his file folders because it would remind him why he worked so hard. I thought of that tonight on the ride home and I wanted to see those pictures. Wanted to remind myself why he worked hard.” Violet extends the pictures in her hands to me. “I found them.”

  She continues to hold them out, encouraging me forward, and each step I take toward her is an echo in my mind. Violet’s not safe. Not safe. For how long? Since the basement? Before the basement?

  “What’s going on in here?” Eli walks into the office, and while he’s playing it cool with his slow stride, his glare’s so sharp it could cut glass.

  Violet lowers her arm, then rolls her neck. “Why does everyone think they can waltz into my home at any time of night like they live here? There’s this thing called privacy. You both need to learn about it.”

  “Your brother called me.” Eli points at the hallway, then back into the room. “And so you know, the moment you crossed the threshold of this office, you entered my world.”

  “This is my house,” she spits.

  “But those files on the floor are my property.” Death. It’s there in his expression and I instinctually step toward Violet to be in the line of fire to protect her.

  “Really? Your property?” Violet tosses the photos in her hand in his direction and they fall around him like confetti. “Didn’t see you in a single one and he called you his brother.”

  Violet turns her back to him and that’s when I see it. Her intake of air, the rapid blink of her eyes as moisture fills the bottom rims and the slight shaking of her hands—fear. Same fear as the basement. Same fear seconds before she charged a man holding a gun point-blank on me. Same fear that has lived inside me since the moment we were taken on the side of the road.