“Shirl—” Harper starts, and that’s where she does wrong.
Shirlene’s eyes flash. “Not a word from you. Not a word.” Shirlene holds up a finger, and she turns back to Cheyenne and Danielle.
“I know what I want to say.” She points at me. Her thin arm’s shaking. “You all think you’re tough? You pull some hair when you’re drunk, you think you’re bad? This girl—” She chokes up. “This girl is tough. You don’t need to know what she’s been through. It’s not your business. But this girl has picked herself up and dusted herself off more times than I can count.”
My eyes burn. I grit my teeth so my chin won’t wobble.
“This girl rescued herself when all of you turned your backs on her. This girl gets knocked down, and she comes back, fighting for what she wants. For better. She’s got heart.”
Shirlene turns her gaze to Harper, her mouth screwed up in disgust. “What are you fighting for, Harper? You fucked around on Charge, traded up to Des Wade, but that’s fine, that’s forgivable, ‘cause it’s you, right? You walk around that clubhouse like you own it, terrorize these girls, talk like you do it all for the club, but what are you fighting for, Harper? You’re drowning in a bottle, and you seem to think if you throw up enough drama, we won’t notice. Friend, everyone notices. What are you fighting for, Harper? What’s all the manipulation and plotting for? ‘Cause you ain’t fighting for yourself.”
Harper is a statue. Her cold, gray eyes are locked on Shirlene’s.
“You’ve got no heart, Harper. When you get knocked down, you’re not gonna be able to get back up again.”
In the ensuing silence everyone can hear my straw when I run out of my drink.
“I need more tea,” I mumble.
“Ask Shirlene,” Fay-Lee murmurs back. “Look like she’s got it all.”
There’s an odd moment when Shirlene and Harper seem to take each other’s measure and come to some unspoken accord.
Shirlene sniffs and says, “I’m gonna go get some suntan lotion.” And she shuffles off into the house.
“Harper? Annie? You need anything for those burns?” Fay-Lee snickers.
Now that the tension’s broken, Danielle opens her mouth like she’s gonna spout off, but Harper raises a hand. I wouldn’t say she looks chastened, but there’s a thoughtfulness to her plastic face.
“The old bitch has a point.”
We all wait.
Forty steps closer to me, casts me a worried look. I give him a small smile. I’m okay.
Finally, Harper sighs, having figured out something in that spider-webbed dark pit of a brain.
“Come to the clubhouse, Nevaeh. The past is the past. You’re family now.”
And she turns on a red sole and stalks back the way she came, taking her posse with her.
“You okay, baby?” Forty eyes me uneasily.
“Yup.” I flash him a big ol’ fake smile as I tug down my tank top. It’s black with an elaborate sequin skull across the tits. I paired it with a pair of black leggings ‘cause denim irritates my wound, and I finished off the ensemble with thick-soled shitkickers. In case I need to kick some shit.
Gnarly butterflies are careening around my belly. I’m nervous, and that’s pissing me off. I don’t need these people to like me.
After Harper’s visit, I said I’d come. Just because she and I are cool doesn’t mean the brothers have changed their minds. The President still hates my guts. It’s not exactly a welcoming feeling.
“Let’s head on in.” The clubhouse doors are slid wide, air conditioning spilling out into the hot-as-hell late summer evening.
A wall of music, voices, and smoke rolls toward us. We head in and bodies part. The place is packed. There are a lot of SBMC cuts and familiar faces, but they’re outnumbered by other folks. I see some Smoke and Steel cuts from the support club based in Shady Gap. Creech’s crew is here in all their sideshow glory. My eyes are dragged from a fully tattooed head to a girl with dermal piercings down the back of her neck.
I catch sight of Lou by the pool tables. He’s only got eyes for Bucky. They’re playing each other, and it looks like it’s down to the eight ball. Bucky’s showing Lou how to line up a shot. Well, that’s interesting.
Forty’s ushering me through the crowd, hand firm on my lower back, and my nerves ease a bit. There are so many people here, I might go the whole evening without running into an unfriendly face.
And then I realize where Forty’s steering me. There’s a table by the bar. Unlike every other inch in this place, there are no bodies smashed together within several feet. Like there’s an invisible rope. Heavy’s sitting at the head.
Nickel’s to his left, Story on his lap. Charge is there, but his old lady Kayla’s nowhere to be seen. She has a young kid. She’s probably home. Harper’s across from Charge. She greets me with a subtle chin lift.
Scrap is the only one not staring at me. His eyes are glued on Crista, working the bar. Annie Holt’s perched on a stool, Bullet Nowicki’s hand on her ass.
There’s an empty chair at Heavy’s right hand. Right between Heavy and Harper.
Oh, hell no.
I stop in my tracks, and Forty’s hand on my back kind of propels me forward. I trip. He grabs my elbow, steadying me.
Great. Very smooth. My face burns.
I shake my elbow free.
Pretty much everyone is staring at me now. Heavy lounges back in his chair, a head taller than everyone else at the table, black hair wilder than mine. I feel like a peasant come to beg at the foot of the king.
Let me back in.
Like me.
Decide I’m worth something.
Fuck that.
I’m the hero of this story. Not the victim. Not the villain.
How do I get one of these assholes to fight me? I took a bullet. I’m invincible.
I ball my fists as I look for a drink to throw. And then Harper pushes up from the table.
She’s always dressed to the nines and perfectly made up, but she’s dialed it up to a hundred tonight. Her smoky eye makes her gray eyes look like mirrors, and pearl combs hold her hair back.
“Well, folks. This reconciliation promises to be emotional and all, but I’ve got a date with destiny.” She tugs up her black bandeau top. It’s made to look like a bow. I’m one hundred percent into Forty, and I hate her, but I’d untie her given half a chance.
Heavy’s chair screeches, and a hush falls. He is truly a freakishly-sized individual. I don’t know what the exact qualifications are for a giant, but he’s got to be close.
“You don’t have to be the one who goes.”
Harper glances around at all us listening and raises her eyebrows. There’s a definite sense that these two are speaking out of school. “We decided.”
“Are you packing?”
“Where would I fit a gun in this outfit?” She smooths her hands over her round hips. She’s wearing her trademark palazzo pants. You could totally fit an ankle holster under them.
“Harper.” It’s one word, and it’s the most vulnerable I’ve ever heard Heavy Ruth sound. “I’ll go.”
“You don’t send a man to do a woman’s work.” Harper pops her bright red lips. “And this is woman’s work.”