I swallow, and it gets stuck in my throat.
Harper saunters over, bottle dangling from her hand, and they shuffle back, make room for her.
“Who let the dog out?” Cheyenne calls over her shoulder. A smattering of drunk voices woof in response.
I can’t take all four of them. A decade ago, I got in a few decent licks before Annie and Harper left me curled up in Finnegan’s parking lot with chunks of my hair missing, but I haven’t been brawling much these past few years. And all four of these bitches are taller than me. Cheyenne outweighs me by fifty pounds, easy.
Annie cracks her knuckles. “I say we drag her ass up these stairs, throw her back down, and tell Forty she tripped.”
“Good plan,” Cheyenne says as she grabs my collar and yanks. I jerk back, try to get loose, and strangle myself. Panic rises as I fight for air, focusing my glitchy brain like a spotlight operated by a drunk guy.
Harper has inch-long, almond-shaped blood-red nails with Swarovski crystal flowers at the cuticles.
I scrabble at the hand on my collar, flashing back to Carlo, those fingers squeezing, and a surge of pure fear steals the rest of my breath. I swipe wildly for Cheyenne’s eyes.
“Let her go.” Harper lays those nails on Cheyenne’s forearm. Cheyenne shoves me back, and I fall on my ass on the bottom stair.
“Stay down,” Cheyenne widens her stance and sneers down at me.
I tug the neck of my hoodie until it loosens all the way, and I drag in a deep breath.
My body screams at me to run, fight through these bitches, or turn and bolt up the stairs, but they’re a solid wall, and some animal part of me knows I won’t make it an inch.
And besides, I can’t tear my gaze from those nails. Harper wraps them around the neck of her wine bottle and takes a swig.
She’s still smiling. Shivers shoot down my spine.
“Cheyenne, be a dear and go get my purse, will you? It’s on the bar.”
Cheyenne shuffles off; Annie and Danielle spread out to block the opening she left.
Would they go after me if I sprinted up the stairs? If I threw a few punches, maybe grabbed Harper’s wine bottle, I could get the element of surprise.
Who am I kidding? I’m in the middle of a football huddle of drunk biker bitches. I’m not getting the upper hand. I’m gonna take a beating.
Whoever throws the first punch, I’m going for Annie. Harper’s the ringleader, but Annie’s her muscle. Also, I kind of hate her for letting Crista fade away after what happened to her.
I brace myself, waiting for it. Instead, Harper says, “Hey, Annie?”
Harper’s smile widens. She stares down her nose at me with her gray cat eyes. I swear she blinks a tenth as often as a normal person. It’s unnerving.
“Yeah?” Annie snaps her gum.
“Do you remember when Forty left for Basic, and Nevaeh here tried to fuck every loser and Rebel Raider from here to Pyle?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Remember when Forty finished Basic? How you and Bullet and Eighty flew out for Family Day and graduation?”
“Yeah. Nevaeh should have been there, but you know—” Annie shrugs. “Slut.”
“Remember when he deployed? The first time?”
“Yeah.” Annie flashes me a smile oozing spite and malice. “We sent him a picture of all us ladies with our tits out. For morale, you know.”
“All of us but Nevaeh,” Danielle adds.
“Because Nevaeh had long since bailed. At the end of the day, she didn’t care if Forty lived or died,” Annie spits. “He wasn’t around, so she had no use for him.”
“Ernestine put his name in the book of intentions at church, so everyone would pray for him,” Harper says.
“Shirlene and Deb sent him care packages.” Annie’s eyes grow shiny. Guilt collects thick in my chest. Smothering. Sapping away the adrenaline I was operating on.
“When he came home, we had that huge party,” Danielle says as she makes room for Cheyenne who’s returned with Harper’s purse. “You and me and Story and all the girls from The White Van gave him an evening he won’t forget.” She winks at me.
My stomach lurches.
“I know I’m never gonna forget. The Army did that man’s body good.” Cheyenne smirks and licks her lips.
Harper takes a step forward until the pointy toes of her high heels are almost touching the rubber of my sneakers. The others shuffle forward, and lean over me, crowding as close as they can without touching, their hair dangling like curtains.
My blood pounds in my veins. I’m about to take a beating, and I keep getting stuck on random details—Harper’s nails, the freckles on Cheyenne’s chest, how Annie’s rubbed off the blue eyeshadow on her left eye—while my broken, record-scratch brain tries to handle the guilt. The shame.
“Remember when he came back after the accident?”
“He was in so much pain.”
“He could have died.”
“He almost got addicted to those meds.”
“He kind of gave up there for a while. Until Heavy took him and the boys on that camping trip up the mountain.”
“We weren’t gonna let him give up.” Annie’s crying now.
“Where were you, Nevaeh Ellis?” Harper bends at the waist and rests her index finger on my chest, flicks the tie to my hoodie with one blood-red nail. “Getting internet famous for cat fights in your panties? Joy riding in stolen cars? Seeing how close you could get to mobsters before you got burned?”
She waits for an answer.
She can keep waiting.
I don’t owe Harper Ruth shit.
But damn if everything she says doesn’t crank open that spigot of self-loathing wide, and I’m cowering on this bottom step while in my head, I’m flailing around in a flood of all the horrible things my brain accuses me of whenever I stop long enough to listen. Dirty. Foul. Weak. Coward. Ruined. All your own fault.
“Forty was risking his life for his country. What were you doing, Nevaeh?” Harper cocks her head. “Yeah. I’d have nothing to say for myself if I were you, either.” She grabs her black leather purse from Cheyenne, roots around in it for a second, and pulls out a set of keys.
“Heavy says he offered you a Ford Focus and fifty thousand?”
I grind my teeth so hard they ache.
“He’s so smart, but he doesn’t understand women. Here. Take my Audi. It’s parked out front. Drive wherever you want. Sell it. Keep it, if you want. It’s paid off. It’s a gift. To make starting over easier. But it’s not a payoff.”
Harper drops the keys into my lap and crouches until she can speak directly into my ear. “‘Cause you’re not going to leave because I asked you to. You’re going to leave because you know Forty Nowicki deserves better. He deserves someone who cared whether he lived or died. And he deserves better now than a lying little attention-whore who vandalized her own car.”
She steps back. My heart’s slamming against my chest. I can barely swallow past the shame in my throat.
“There’s about a quarter tank of gas left. Registration’s in the glovebox.”
Then, she spins on the ball of her red-soled shoes and struts off to the bar, swinging her wine bottle. Cheyenne swats the side of my head, and then turns to follow, Annie and Danielle on their heels.