Forty had that look when he came over the other night, too. Our mouths were moving, and we were spouting our stupid, angsty bull crap, but I swear I could read his eyes. Hey. There you are.
My mom never cared that I was hanging out with Forty. Correction. She hated him, and she hated that I was friends with bikers and girls who cussed and wore belly shirts. But she didn’t care enough to give me a curfew or anything.
Maybe she thought the less time I was home, the better. In a way, she was right.
I ended up crashing at Shirlene’s a lot if Forty was away on a bike run or something. Shirlene, for whatever reason, had a “no boys in the bedroom” rule. Shirlene Robard, who dealt marijuana for medical purposes before it was a thing. Shirlene, who has a half sleeve tattoo of the Army emblem in the middle of a burning American flag. Shirlene had a no boys policy. People are complicated.
Anyway, one weekend night I was sleeping over at her place. Forty had been away on a job. Heavy’s dad had them doing stupid shit. Running black market cigarettes, stuff like that. I was asleep in the guest room under an old quilt. I’d left the window open ‘cause I love the feel of being warm under the covers while the night breeze nips at your nose and the tips of your ears.
I was in the middle of a dream when Forty slipped under the quilt with me, scooping me to his chest, dropping kisses down my neck.
I’d told him no boys allowed. He said he wasn’t gonna disrespect Shirlene.
He held me all night long, listening to me deliriously ramble on the edge of sleep, for hours it seemed. We were the only two people on the planet, and he could follow what I was saying no matter how tongue-twisted I got, and whatever happened to make him so wild-eyed and spooked when he crawled into bed, I made disappear. When the sun rose, he’d let himself out the window the way he came.
I haven’t thought about that night in forever.
What did happen that scared the shit out of him?
Whatever it was, he never told me. His brothers knew. They were definitely there when it went down.
I guess we weren’t the only two people on the planet after all.
The water’s turned lukewarm. I pop the drain, and I squeeze the water from my hair, wrapping it in an old Budweiser towel. I use a Cap’n Crunch towel to wrap around my body. Guess Mom didn’t leave any linens when she left for Florida.
I wash my face with some witch hazel wipes, and I grab my phone. I’ve still got my ear buds in, although all music is background noise once my brain starts cranking.
I head for the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal—the power of subconscious suggestion—and when I round the corner into the living room, I freeze in place. Dripping on the carpet.
The entire Steel Bones Motorcycle Club is in our house.
Forty’s here. He’s in the dining room. Heavy and Pig Iron are with him, staring at something on the table. A map?
Big George is by the sofa. Charge and Nickel are leaning on the wall by the kitchen.
They all look up at me in unison.
I clutch my towel, even though it’s tucked tightly around my boobs.
I search Forty’s expression for clues as to what’s going on, and I watch as he shuts down his face. His eyes go blank. His jaw tightens. He turns away.
Oh. Guess whatever this is, it’s not about me.
That’s when Lou grabs my elbow and hustles me back down the hall. I pluck out my earbuds.
“Why is Forty here?”
“Club business.”
“Why is there club business in our house?”
He shrugs and pulls me into the room I’ve been crashing in. “Here.” He reaches in his wallet and takes out a twenty. “Go into town and get yourself a few drinks. Gimme a call in a few hours. I’ll let you know if the coast is clear.”
“Why am I leaving my house for Steel Bones’ club business?”
“You’re not.” The vein at Lou’s temple tics. “You’re leaving my house because I asked you nicely.”
“I can’t believe you pulled the my house card!”
“You were the one who left. You were the one who cut Mom and Dad off.”
And there’s another choice. Tell or don’t tell. Take the twenty and go get beers or ruin Lou’s memory of his dad. I take the bill.
“I need a minute to get dressed.”
“Go out the back.”
“I’ll go out whatever door I want.”
Lou waves his hand at me and goes back to whatever drama’s going down in our dining room. I take my sweet time pulling on skinny jeans and pink crop top. I tug my hair into a ponytail—the dryer’s in the bathroom—and then I leave. Out the back.
Then I creep around the house to the dining room window.
The sun’s gone down, and the lights are blazing in the house, so I can see everyone clearly. Nickel looks like he’s about to punch a wall. Charge seems to be talking him down. Big George is pacing, yakking on the phone.
Forty, Heavy, and Pig Iron are still leaning over the table, pointing at the map or whatever like generals in an old war movie. Forty and Heavy seem to be disagreeing. They’re something to watch.
When I left town, Heavy was an impressive guy, but he wasn’t this oversized character of legend. He used to be kind of nerdy for a redneck. He was so hulking, he was always careful not to bump you. He walked like a waiter holding a full tray.
Now, he’s an extra on a Viking series or video game hero with superhuman strength.
Forty’s changed, too. In a different way. He’s a machine. It’s not only how he carries himself, which screams soldier. It’s not just his ability to shutter his face and dismiss me or go toe-to-toe with a behemoth like Heavy without flinching. It’s everything.
There’s no fear in this man. Not a second of hesitation. Not like there was with me the night behind Sawdust on the Floor.
I can’t imagine this man snuggling anything but a gun.
I do know him. And he’s deeply unhappy. Like me.
Whoa. Epiphany.
In the dining room, Pig Irons rolls up the map. I should get out of here before I get busted for spying.
Forty’s giving orders. Heavy’s getting on his phone. I creep toward my car.
There’s no way that man in there is going to swallow his pride and come after me. Not unless he has a reason. Or an excuse.
Whatever’s going on in the house, it definitely has to do with the Rebel Raiders.
I eye the hood of my car as a crazy idea pops into my head, and like all my crazy ideas, I know it’s going to blow up in my face, but I’m also fully, enthusiastically committed.
If Forty Nowicki won’t come for me, I’ll come for him.
5
FORTY
“This table is fuckin’ ridiculous.”
My dad, Eighty, leans back in his leather office chair, hocks, and spits under the twelve-foot, custom granite conference table.
“Show some respect. This is a ten-thousand-dollar table.” Pig Iron slaps Dad on the back of the neck and shuffles past him to his customary seat. He sets the three longnecks he’s carrying down in a line. Guess church is gonna run long tonight.
“Waste of money,” Dad grumbles.
“Cost of doin’ business.” Pig Iron cracks open beer number one.