The cassettes are in the back, and he nods for me to go ahead. “I need to speak with the owner.”
While this is certainly the strangest morning I’ve had since we came home, it’s also the best one. I find myself smiling for the first time in days as I peruse the store’s collection of cassettes. I gravitate toward the Ks in the Hard Rock section and squeal when my fingers brush over Kickstart: Throttle Down. I pull that cassette out and continue to the V section. Vicious Vandals has at least four albums in their catalog. Impressive. I slide one out of its slot and laugh at the picture on the front. The whole band’s wearing mean, scary faces and Andrew’s shirtless, of course. I check the dates and decide to buy their most recent one. The W section has one lone Wishing Well tape, and I stick out my tongue at it.
Stump’s waiting for me at the register. I’m expecting him to laugh at my choices, but he seems more sad than amused. He glares at me when I reach for my purse, so I watch as he hands the cashier a twenty.
“Thank you,” I say outside.
“Chaser used to spend hours here.” Stump turns and gives the building another look, before motioning for me to get in the car. “At least you’re decisive.”
More like heartbroken.
“Can you find your way back to the clubhouse?” Stump asks.
“Uh, I think so.”
“Show me.”
I mentally go over the streets and landmarks we passed on the way here.
“I’ll get you a map, but I want you to know how to get to the clubhouse without it.” He taps the ashtray, which I now notice is filled with quarters. “In case you ever need to stop and use a payphone.”
Touched by his thoughtfulness, I thank him.
“Go on.” A sigh follows his gruff order.
I manage to find my way to the road that leads to the clubhouse, only to almost miss the driveway. Stump grins as I shift into reverse and back up a few feet to make the turn. “Good job.”
More bikes line the side of the clubhouse than were there when we left this morning. Stump searches the lot and asks me to park next to the garage. When I shut the engine off, he takes the keys from my hand. “Listen to me, Mallory.” He waits until he’s sure he has my full attention. “What we talked about this morning stays between you and me. Anyone asks you what Chaser’s up to, tell them it’s club business and you don’t know anything about it.”
Under his intense stare, I mutter, “Of course.”
“Good girl.” He pats my arm and opens his door while I turn over his words. “Oh,” he turns and hands me the keys again. “One more thing. This car is yours. No one drives it, but you or me. Chaser asks to borrow the keys, you tell him no.”
“I—”
“Tell him no and then come tell me. Can you do that?”
“Okay.”
Done giving me orders, Stump hauls himself out of the car.
Two young guys I don’t recognize are hanging out by the front door.
“Prospect!”
Both snap to attention at Stump’s harsh voice. “Yes, pr…er, Yes, sir.”
Stump rests his hand on my shoulder. “This is my son’s old lady. She needs something, you get it for her. We clear?”
Their scared gazes only stray from Stump long enough to give me a quick scan. “Yes, sir.”
I’d protest, but I know better than to contradict Stump in front of anyone. Or at all.
A battered, green Ford pick-up truck rattles into the lot and parks next to my car. Stump’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second. The corners of his mouth curl up. Not sure I should stick around for whatever sinister business he has in mind, I open my mouth to excuse myself.
He snaps his fingers at me before I can sneak away. “Come here, Mallory. Someone I want you to meet.”
“Uh, okay.”
“What’s with the cage?” Stump calls to the man who steps out of the truck.
“Hey, Prez.” He jerks his head toward the truck. “Hauled all that old carpet and shit to the dump.”
“Good. Got another job for you.” Stump pushes me forward. “Mallory, this is Tally, the club’s Treasurer.”
Tally has a head of curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a warm smile. He holds out his hand to me. “Hey, Mallory. We’ve met in passing, I think.”
Unsure of what Stump has in mind, I shake Tally’s outstretched hand. “Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” Stump rubs his hands together. “Now that you’re acquainted, Tally, I need you take Mallory down to Abbott’s and let her pick out some furniture for the house.”
Tally opens his mouth, but I beat him to it. “I don’t—”
“Just the living room and master bedroom for now,” Stump cuts me off. His voice softens. “You can do that for me, right, sweetheart?”
“Uh, I guess.”
“Carpet too.” He lifts his chin at Tally, who’s still standing there with his mouth open. “Have them put it on my account.”
Done handing out tasks, Stump turns and marches into the clubhouse, leaving Tally and I staring after him.
Well, this is awkward.
A nervous smile twitches over my lips. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s no problem.” He stretches his arm toward the truck and bows. “My chariot awaits.”
I don’t know him well enough to decipher if that’s supposed to be comedy or sarcasm. The poor guy probably had better things to do with his afternoon than take me shopping.
Climbing into the cab of the truck in my skirt is awkward, but I think I manage not to flash my butt. Tally slams the door once I’m inside. I take in the faded dashboard, gravel dotted floor mats and cracked vinyl seats.
“Work truck,” Tally says as he hops in the other side. “You mind if we swing by the house first and get some measurements?”
“No, of course not.”
The awkwardness is thick enough to slice with a steak knife. Finally, Tally breaks the silence.
“How long you guys staying?”
“Not sure yet.”
“What’s Chaser up to?”
I shrug. “Club business, I guess.”
He hmms and nods.
“I wish Stump wouldn’t go to so much trouble. Unless he’s fixing up the house for himself.”
“Doubt it. More like Prez is hoping to fill it with some grandbabies.”
“Ugh.” I’ve never known so many men with baby fever.
He chuckles. “Not your thing?”
“Not for another ten years at least.”
He flicks his gaze over me again. “Not my business.”
“Finally,” I mutter.
“Prez can be real direct, huh?”
That’s one way to put it.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chaser
The coke I’m able to scrounge up here is so diluted, I’ve been back to the same dealer more than once. At least potency is the excuse I use for why I’m too weak to get myself under control.
Feeling marginally functional this afternoon, I step into our room, expecting to find Mallory. Not that I want to face her when I’m fucked up. Again.
My quick sigh of relief when the room’s empty is cut off by a meaty hand around my throat.