Long Way Home

  My stomach sinks. Eli also has a hole in his soul left unfilled, but... “I’m not your daughter...and I’m not looking to replace my dad.”

  “I’m aware of both of those things and I would never insult you with even suggesting that, but what I am saying is that I was there the first time you took the stage. You were eleven and you played the bells in your school’s band concert.”

  I snort-laugh because that was my first and last band concert. I totally forgot my parts, so I just rang the crap out of the bells until the song was over. Eli was one of only a few people who gave me a standing ovation. The other people were also part of the Terror.

  “I know Chevy wasn’t your first crush, but I know he was your first kiss. I know what makes you cry and I know what makes you laugh and I know I would be the sorriest replacement for your father so that’s not what I’m offering. But what I am telling you is that I know you and you know me and that has to be worth something.”

  Worth something? It’s worth a lot. More than silver. More than gold. More than he could comprehend.

  “Your dad dying changed us both. Those people we were—they don’t exist anymore, but I want to be here for you and I would do anything for you to rely on me again.”

  I rub at my face, my eyes—this is the man who carried me from my hospital room to Chevy’s. The man who took the pictures of me, Dad, Mom and Brandon at my eighth-grade graduation. The man who brought me a rose from my father’s casket and, on bended knee with tears in his eyes, asked for my forgiveness.

  I didn’t forgive him then, but I do now. I can’t carry this burden of hate on my shoulders anymore. I can’t blame him for my pain when he grieves just as badly. “If I hadn’t made it out of the basement, would you have taken care of Brandon and Mom?”

  It’s a strange response to all that he’s said, but it’s also the most honest. Eli looks me over as he thinks over my words, and though they seem innocent, that statement is full of the trust he’s searching for. It’s also full of the danger he sixth-sense feels lurking outside his door. “You know I would have.”

  Good. “So if something was to happen to me, you would still take care of them?”

  His forehead furrows and his eyes darken. “Has something happened? Are you in trouble?”

  “No,” I lie, then wave my hands around my head as if to explain the chaos that has controlled my mind since the kidnapping. “What happened in that basement messed me up. Makes me think of things.” Like how when I die, the people I love will be grieving all over again.

  “I was thinking that...” I needed to come up with something plausible. “If I went away to college next year, maybe you would look after them for me so I wouldn’t have to worry. You said I could trust you, and if that’s true, there’s nothing I love more than Mom and Brandon, and trusting you with them...”

  I fall off because the pang in my heart at the idea of leaving them behind causes me to be unable to breathe. But with all Eli and I have been through, I trust him with them and there’s no greater compliment I could give him than that.

  Eli’s watching me, closely, like he’s attempting to see past my skin and bones and into my soul. “I will always look after them. Just like I will always watch over you.”

  “If we’re really talking and if we’re both really listening, can I say something to you and have you understand I’m saying it without the intention of starting a fight?”

  He nods, continuing to try to decipher me and my words.

  “You enable Mom and Brandon and I understand why you do. They have been through so much and they hurt so much and you want to make something better and easier for them, but you aren’t making them better. It’s like handing a sobbing woman a single piece of toilet paper and then walking away because you don’t want to deal with the emotional meltdown. Mom needs to learn how to take care of herself. I know Dad left her money and that if she budgets she won’t have to work ever again, but that’s not the point.

  “Mom needs something or she will fall apart at every turn. She needs to see she is capable. If she doesn’t want to work a job, fine, but she needs a hobby, she needs a focus, she needs to learn how to depend on herself for something. She can’t keep putting her happiness on other people because people make mistakes, people leave, people...” Die. “People, despite their best intentions, fail, and Mom needs to learn to be happy with just being her. And Brandon...”

  God, I love Brandon and leaving him behind causes my entire body to flinch.

  “Brandon can function in this world. It won’t be easy, but it’s never easy for any of us. He’s so smart and funny and friendly, but he’s scared. Each and every time you do something for him because he’s scared, you are teaching him to give in to the fear. Don’t make him scared. Make him courageous. I’m not asking you to set him up for failure by placing him in all new situations, but I am asking you to stop doing everything for him and help show him how to be a functioning adult in a world that doesn’t understand him.

  “As much as you want to, you can’t take all our pain away. Hurting, it’s a part of life, and if you try to stop any of us from being in pain, that means you’re not allowing us to actually live.”

  Eli bows his head, and when he looks back up, I don’t see demons or charm, but a man stripped to the core. “Is that how you feel? Even before the kidnapping? That I’m not letting you live?”

  I bite my lower lip, then give him the truth. “Yes. I don’t know how to fit into your world while being me and I like me. I’m who my father helped me figure out I am, but I hurt you and I’m tired of hurting all of you.”

  “This club was meant to be a place where people can be themselves. I’ve failed somewhere if that’s how you feel.” The sting in his voice causes me pain.

  “Maybe you’re not the only one who’s made things difficult.” God, I want to peel my skin off. “Maybe I’ve had a hand in that, too.”

  Eli’s now the one who grins. “Maybe?”

  I kick his shin, he chuckles, and at the roar of motorcycles, I turn my attention back to the window. A large group of Reign of Terror bikes pulls into spots in front of the diner and one by one men slide off and some of them wait to help off the woman behind them. Chevy enters first and I tilt my head when he smiles at me.

  Oz and Razor walk in behind him followed by Pigpen, Man O’ War, Rebecca, Dust, and then I lose track. Our waitress walks up and places a huge stack of blueberry pancakes in front of me and on top of it is a lit candle.

  “Chevy reminded me that we forgot something special,” Eli says, “and I want you to know I’m sorry. For a lot of things, I’m sorry. But regardless, happy belated birthday, kid.”

  Chevy squeezes into the booth beside me, kissing my cheek, and I barely have the attention span to kiss him back as I crazily try to take in what’s going on.

  “How did you know we’d work things out in time?” I ask Eli.

  He relaxes back into the booth, a cocky smile on his face. “I didn’t. I assumed we’d be fighting and told the guys to show so I wouldn’t ruin one more meeting between us.”

  I don’t know who started it first, but soon the diner is filled with a chorus of voices, most of them singing off-key, but singing loudly and they are singing “Happy Birthday” to me.

  CHEVY

  “DON’T YOU THINK we’re going to be tight on time?” Violet asks as she plays with the radio of her father’s Chevelle. It’s the original radio—the type that requires turning a knob to find a station. I’m driving, she’s on the passenger side and I’m not as worried about time as I am about breaking down on our way to Louisville. No way I want to explain why Violet and I aren’t doing homework in Snowflake.

  “Scared you’re going to miss your party?” I glance at her out of the corner of my eye to gauge her reaction.

  Tonight, the clubhouse is going to be full
and the entire night is in honor of her turning eighteen. We’re a few weeks late, but at least the club is owning their mistake. I expect Violet to frown, to go into an eloquent rant that includes curse words that would cause a sailor to blush, but instead she looks like she’s contemplating the possibility of being okay with it.

  “I want to hang out with you, Oz and Razor,” she says. “Like we used to.”

  A prick of pain in my chest. Like we used to before her dad died. I reach over and take Violet’s hand. The squeeze is meant to show the way I want to love her through all that hurts her. The twining of our fingers is to keep me from turning the car around and sticking my head back in the sand. It’s time to find out the truth about my dad. It’s time for me to make some informed choices.

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  “Last I checked, when I’m the guest of honor, we don’t have to sneak beer anymore or watch the party from branches in trees.”

  “You know you want to play hide-n-go-seek in the woods.”

  She laughs and the sound warms my soul. “What if I do?”

  “Then we’ll do that, too. We’ll make Razor be it.”

  “He hated being it.”

  “That’s why he’s going to be it.”

  GPS tells me to take a left and that our destination is on the right. We fall silent as we creep past the decrepit and decaying car garage. The place isn’t much, but it’s on par with the rest of the area. Gray, broken and on the verge of collapse. My instincts flare. Bringing Violet was a mistake.

  Instead of making a U-turn, I flick the turn signal to head back to the expressway, but Violet gently squeezes my knee. “It’s just a garage.”

  “What if it’s a garage for the Riot?”

  “Then we’ll tell them we found the account numbers and we’ll get a jump on that meeting time the detective wants so badly.”

  “I’m serious. They hurt you once. I can’t let them hurt you again.”

  “It’s not a Riot garage. The bay doors were open and there wasn’t a motorcycle in sight. A few cars and two people inside working on them.”

  With a grunt, I make the U-turn. And I’m supposed to be the observant one. “I didn’t see any of that.”

  “No, you were too busy seeing the basement to notice what was right in front of you.”

  Her words ring so true that I can’t acknowledge them. I pull into the parking lot of the garage and a girl with blond hair tied back into a braid straightens from over the hood of a red nineteen fifty-something Chevy. It’s a beautiful piece of machinery and the girl lets her fingers slide over the car as if she’s in love.

  “I can see how you find this place intimidating,” Violet mocks. “She screams badass.”

  She’s about our age, in a T-shirt, but wears designer jeans and has the presence and face of a beauty queen instead of a greased-up mechanic. “Looks can be deceiving. No one would have guessed Emily’s half Terror, half Riot.”

  “That’s because Emily grew up normal and away from this madness.”

  Before I have a chance to edge into a parking spot, the girl waves us forward into the empty bay next to the car she’s working on. I enter at a snail’s pace, scanning the garage for any threat.

  There’s a one-room office to the side, but other than that the place is bare except for the car, the girl, workbenches and the tools. “I thought you said there were two people.”

  “There were, but one could have gone in the back. People do that you, you know? Normally leave one room for another. Plus you’re here to see a guy, remember? Isaiah Walker. We want him to be here, or have you forgotten?”

  Haven’t forgotten. “Have you forgotten we were kidnapped?”

  “I wish I could.”

  So do I. “If I ask you to stay in the car, what are the odds of you following directions?”

  “Exactly what you think the odds will be.”

  Zero.

  I turn off the ignition and Violet’s opening her door before I have a chance to place my fingers on the handle. The blonde checks out Violet’s car like Pigpen checks out the legs of my English teacher—like a dog in heat.

  “Holy crap,” she says. “I’ve never worked on a Chevelle before, but you shouldn’t worry about that. Isaiah has worked on everything. Everything.” She overpronounces the word.

  “But I saw you first and I let him work on the last car, so I get first dibs. Don’t let him convince you otherwise. He’ll try to steal this from me. I heard your baby when you pulled in.” She pets the hood of the car like it’s a bleeding puppy in need of medical care. “I’m betting spark plugs. Let me guess, the engine sputters while driving? Sometimes stops working or just won’t catch when you try to start it?”

  Jesus, the girl’s a walking car encyclopedia. Violet and I share a look and she raises her eyebrows with a faint smile. Yeah, she doesn’t know what to think either.

  “Yes,” Violet answers. “To all that. This is my car.”

  I catch the way Violet’s voice cracked on my, but I’m proud she’s accepting that her father would have wanted her to feel like his car is now hers.

  The blonde extends her hand to Violet. “I’m Rachel, and you are?”

  Violet accepts it. “I’m Violet and this is my boyfriend, Chevy.”

  I can’t help the smile. First time I’ve heard her call me that in months. Rachel beams. “I love that name.”

  “Thanks.” The way this girl is talking, she’ll have the Chevelle turned upside down, inside out, then fixed before I can get a chance to ask about this Isaiah Walker. She mentioned him, but I’d like more than a mention. I need to meet him, talk to him.

  “I’m here because of a recommendation,” I say.

  Rachel tears her gaze away from the Chevelle and looks at me for the first time. She goes on the verge of death white. Even Violet moves toward her as she must believe the girl is going to pass out and crack her head on the concrete floor.

  I throw my hands up in the air in a show of submission. “Are you okay?”

  Rachel stumbles back as if I’m holding a gun and my heart picks up speed as I scan the room, then glance over my shoulder to see if someone is holding us up. There’s nothing. Rachel’s back hits a workbench and she places her hand over her chest as if that can help her catch her breath. “Who are you?”

  With the way her gaze is locked on me, there’s no doubt she’s lost interest in the Chevelle and Violet. “My name is Chevy McKinley.”

  “McKinley?” she repeats in a whisper.

  A door farther back squeaks open and a large guy comes stalking in. He’s tattoos, earrings, and he tinkers with a car part in his hand. “I pulled this from one of the junk cars in the back. We’re going to have to mess with it first to get it to work. Hate having to buy a new part. Logan’s been short on money and—”

  “Isaiah,” Rachel says, and his head snaps up at the shaky sound of her voice. He’s switched from relaxed to dangerous in less than a second. He now holds the car part in his hand as if he’d use it as a weapon.

  He surveys the room just like I would, and when his eyes land on me, I know his stomach is dropping, his mind is stalling out and then it feels like something significant in the universe has died and we’re experiencing the aftermath of the pulsating quake. I know this from the way his eyes blink, from his stunned expression, and because it’s exactly how I’m feeling.

  In front of me is dark hair shaved close to his head, eyes that are gray, a foreboding man of muscle and height, tattoos and earrings, but the important part is his face. Except for his eye color, this guy is a replica of my father. Spitting image of the pictures I’ve seen. Some of my mom sneaked into my genetics, but I’m a McKinley, and if this guy has looked into a mirror, he knows he’s staring back at a part of him.

  Rachel slowly walks over to
Isaiah as if she’s scared to spook him. “He says he’s a McKinley.”

  Recognition flashes over his face and my gut twists that he somehow knows my last name.

  “Chevy,” Violet says. “I think we all need to sit down.”

  “What’s wrong with the car?” Isaiah asks, ignoring Violet.

  “Spark plugs,” answers Rachel. He looks over at her and holds her gaze. Just like me and Violet, they have an entire conversation without saying a word.

  “Start the car,” Isaiah says. “I want to listen to it.”

  “Tell me how you know my last name,” I push.

  “You walked into my garage, so I’m feeling like you already know the answer. As I see it, you’ve got two options—leave or start the car.”

  I pull Violet’s keys from my pocket and keep the car door open as I start the engine. He calls for me to pop the hood. I do, and after a minute of him asking me to press the gas and then to take my foot off, he tells me to cut the engine.

  “Spark plugs,” he confirms as he keeps his eyes glued to the insides of the car. “My mother told me James McKinley was my father. Did you know him?”

  Was. He’s aware James is dead. “Not personally.” Everything inside me warps and it’s damn painful. “He died before my birth, and according to my mother, he was my father, too.”

  “Ain’t life a bitch,” he mumbles.

  True. I have a brother and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Scratch that—I do and it tastes bitter like betrayal. “You have a family. A huge family. They’ll want to know about you.”

  “What did you come here for?” Isaiah asks. “From the look on your face, it wasn’t me.”

  He’s right, but telling him about the Riot, about the police, about everything is a risk. “A detective told me to come here and ask for you. He knows I’m looking for answers about who my father was before he died.”