Long Way Home
Katie McGarry
Seventeen-year-old Violet has always been expected to sit back and let the boys do all the saving.It's the code her father, a member of the Reign of Terror motorcycle club, raised her to live by. Yet when her dad is killed carrying out Terror business, Violet knows it's up to her to do the saving. To protect herself, and her vulnerable younger brother, she needs to cut all ties with the club—including Chevy, the boy she's known and loved her whole life.But when a rival club comes after Violet, exposing old secrets and making new threats, she's forced to question what she thought she knew about her father, the Reign of Terror and what she thinks she wants. Which means re-evaluating everything: love, family, friends…and forgiveness.Caught in the cross hairs between loyalty and freedom, Violet must decide whether old friends can be trusted—and if she's strong enough to be the one person to save them all.
Seventeen-year-old Violet has always been expected to sit back and let the boys do all the saving
It’s the code her father, a member of the Reign of Terror motorcycle club, raised her to live by. Yet when her dad is killed carrying out Terror business, Violet knows it’s up to her to do the saving. To protect herself, and her vulnerable younger brother, she needs to cut all ties with the club—including Chevy, the boy she’s known and loved her whole life.
But when a rival club comes after Violet, exposing old secrets and making new threats, she’s forced to question what she thought she knew about her father and the Reign of Terror and what she thinks she wants. Which means reevaluating everything: love, family, friends...and forgiveness.
Caught in the crosshairs between loyalty and freedom, Violet must decide whether old friends can be trusted—and if she’s strong enough to be the one person to save them all.
Chevy whispered, “Do you trust me?”
Of course I did. Trusted him to be the first boy to hold my hand. Trusted him to be the first boy I kissed. Did I trust him with my life?
Chevy sits with me in the backseat. Our legs are pressed tight together and he hooks one of his fingers with mine. He slides his finger up and down in a reassuring caress. Not too fast, not too slow. It’s like a heartbeat.
A promise.
We’re going home.
He’s here with me.
It’s going to be okay.
I want to believe him, but I’m not sure if I can...
Long Way Home
Katie McGarry
Praise and Awards for Katie McGarry (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
“[A] star-crossed love story.”
—Booklist on Walk the Edge
“A thrilling escape.”
—School Library Journal on Nowhere but Here
“Everything—setting, characters, romance—about this novel works and works well.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Dare You To (starred review)
“A riveting and emotional ride!”
—Simone Elkeles, New York Times bestselling author of the Perfect Chemistry series, on Pushing the Limits
“An intoxicating and unforgettable story that kept me glued to the page.”
—Kami Garcia, #1 New York Times bestselling author, on Walk the Edge
Summer Kids’ Indie Next List Pick
YALSA Teens’ Top Ten
Goodreads Choice Award Finalist
KATIE MCGARRY was a teenager during the age of grunge and boy bands and remembers those years as the best and worst of her life. She is a lover of music, happy endings and reality television, and is a secret University of Kentucky basketball fan. She is also the author of Pushing the Limits, Dare You To, Crash into You, Take Me On, Breaking the Rules, Chasing Impossible, Nowhere but Here, Walk the Edge, and the novellas Crossing the Line and Red at Night.
Katie would love to hear from her readers. Contact her via her website, katielmcgarry.com (http://www.katielmcgarry.com), follow her on Twitter, @katiemcgarry (https://www.twitter.com/katiemcgarry), or become a fan on Facebook and Goodreads.
Contents
Cover (#uf9720629-3fca-5045-917f-a324860407e5)
Back Cover Text (#u8463797f-a5cf-5de4-94e7-96f754c04a29)
Introduction (#u88482b0c-9685-500b-8939-7b7d378df4e5)
Title Page (#ua2608209-a774-5491-a0ad-d90f906fe2ef)
Praise and Awards (#u4763bafb-b678-551f-9c3a-f61b07342bc6)
About the Author (#uf5eec0f7-ef7f-58ba-a925-a5e1380d4f66)
Chapter One: Chevy (#u479752aa-08ef-5927-bdf2-8339a9f741d1)
Chapter Two: Violet (#u91687d50-1295-5392-bf16-952a28d41ca2)
Chapter Three: Chevy (#ue42c5ec2-d792-56ac-94b0-5faaa5d648c7)
Chapter Four: Violet (#u9ad09475-9e0d-51a2-a143-e7a9cca38bfd)
Chapter Five: Chevy (#u60a16b2e-3008-5a68-b97a-3bfbc414ee43)
Chapter Six: Violet (#ueaa20a1f-aaa1-5a25-a5d4-e98ce91d9d70)
Chapter Seven: Chevy (#uc199ceb7-5db7-5528-891d-5d872405b09e)
Chapter Eight: Violet (#u57d2d736-a972-5148-8f81-3bb0d2996182)
Chapter Nine: Chevy (#u45da6487-1b26-5cb9-92f5-3e86dd252689)
Chapter Ten: Violet (#u5d6ac96c-ad6f-52e7-8b65-cf33bcc69c72)
Chapter Eleven: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Nine: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-One: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Two: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Three: Chevy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Four: Violet (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Playlist for Long Way Home (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHEVY (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
THE INSTRUCTIONS OF the English homework I didn’t do hang out from the top of my folder: Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both.
Story of my life.
According to my football coach, I chose wrongly on the two crap paths I had to face last week. I just ran into Coach on the way to English, and he ripped into me for my sorry decision-making skills when it came to me choosing to stand up for the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club instead of a member of my football team.
I didn’t just get my ass chewed out, his tirade made me late for English with no tardy note. Which is great, since my English teacher hates late students like I hate riding my motorcycle in forty-degree weather while it rains.
I round the corner, then peek through the small window in the door of my class. Ms. Whitlock stands in front of her desk in her patented white button-down shirt, gray pencil skirt and dark-rimmed glasses. From the back row, my best friend Razor meets my eyes and shakes his head. Damn. That means she’s in one of her moods where she’s refusing to let anyone in.
I’m not a tail-tucked-between-my-legs type of guy, but this lady is one of the few who can reduce me to begging. If she doesn’t let me in, then she’ll mark me as absent, the front office will think I skipped, and that means I won’t be able to play at tonight’s football game.
The window rattles when I knock. The entire class turns their heads in my direction, but Ms. Whitlock doesn’t. The muscles in my neck tighten. She is one of the hardest core people I know and my grandfather is the president of a motorcycle club. That says something.
She starts for the whiteboard and I knock on the door again. This time Ms. Whitlock does look my way and she grants me the type of glare reserved for people who kick puppies. I got it. I’m late. I’m the scum of humanity, so let my ass in so I can play football.
There’s this guy in my club, Pigpen. He’s about the same age as Ms. Whitlock, late twenties, and he’s a walking hard-on for this woman even though she would never give him the time of day. He practically runs into walls when she’s around because he’s too focused on checking her out. I don’t see gorgeous—all I see is seriously pissed off and the person standing between me and playing.
Ms. Whitlock points at the clock over her desk. She’s telling me I can wait. If I’m lucky, she’ll open the door after the quiz that I’ll receive a zero on. If I’m not so lucky, she won’t open the door at all.
Two pathetic paths and I could only travel one. Nowhere in that stupid poem did it mention there was good and bad to both paths and that sometimes it’s best not to choose, but to set up camp at the fork and do nothing at all.
I slam my hand into the nearest locker, almost relishing the sting.
“Feel better?”
A glance across the hallway and I freeze. Doesn’t matter how many times I see her in a day, she still manages to take my breath away. Violet leans against the lockers as beautiful as ever. Red silky hair flowing over her shoulders, a pair of ripped jeans that look like they were tailored for her curves and enough bracelets around her wrists that they clank together when she moves.
Do I feel better? Not really, but I nod anyway as I try to judge if being alone with Violet causes more pain than having my balls ripped off. “Didn’t hurt.”
“Yes, I can see how slamming your hand against a locker didn’t hurt at all.”
My lips tilt up because she got me, and on top of that, Violet made a joke. Since she broke up with me last spring, things between us have been tense. On her side and on mine. Some people, like me and Violet, aren’t supposed to break up. Some people, like me and Violet, don’t know how to be near each other when we do part ways. “Are we talking now?”
“I’m locked out of class. You’re locked out of class. I could ignore you if that’s what you want.”
It’s not. Her ignoring me is never what I wanted. “Why are you late?”
Violet presses her lips together and looks away. A sixth sense within me stirs. Something’s wrong. I’ve known her my entire life. We were born only a few weeks apart and we learned to crawl on the sticky floor of the Reign of Terror clubhouse. We were friends, always friends, until one day, we weren’t just friends anymore. We became more until we lost it all.
“Late’s not your thing,” I say. Violet’s unconventional. Marches to her own drummer, but she’s not the type to be late to class. It’s a respect thing for her, something her dad taught her, and Violet may never listen to another living soul, but she listened to her father. “What’s going on?”
She’s silent and frustration rumbles through me. Violet used to tell me everything. Used to see me as someone who could help solve her problems. She doesn’t see me like that anymore and it pisses me off. I’m angry at her for making us this way. Angry at myself for not figuring out how to fix us.
“You being late wouldn’t have anything to do with Stone, would it?” Stone’s her brother and the question’s a shot in the dark, but I don’t want to miss the chance to keep conversation with her going.
“Why are you late?” she replies as a nonanswer, and my head snaps up. Guess sometimes blind shots do hit their mark. Violet was late because of Stone.
“What happened?” I push.
“I’m not talking about it.”
“Vi—”
She cuts me off. “I told you how to help me and my brother six months ago and you told me no.”
By running away? No again to that insane solution.
“Tell me why you’re late,” she says. “If you don’t, then you need to stop talking, because the last thing either of us needs right now beyond missing a quiz or possibly being marked as absent is detention for getting into a shouting match. At least it’s the last thing I need, okay?”
I back up to the lockers across from her and lightly hit my head against the metal. Yeah, I don’t want to talk about why I’m late either. I shove a hand into my pocket and try to think of a change in subject. Telling Violet I’m late because my football coach tore into me for hitting a guy who was causing problems for the Terror, a guy who had been causing problems for her, won’t help me and Violet stay civil. She’s mad at the club, which makes her mad at me.
Violet’s watching me, and her expression is a lot like someone trying to figure out a word problem for math. Unfortunately, she knows me as well as I know her.
“Being late is going to cost you, isn’t it?” she asks. “You can’t play tonight if she marks you absent, can you?”
I meet her blue eyes, and my chest hurts at the sympathy I find there. I’d willingly miss tonight’s game if I could rewind back to a time where I could talk to Violet with ease and that’s not the type of trade I’d normally make.
Football is my life. So is the motorcycle club. The Reign of Terror are my family—the blood kind and the bonds of brotherhood kind. I don’t know who I am without the Terror, but to be honest, I don’t know who I am without football either.
Lately, I’ve been torn between the two, just like that poem, and everyone in my life has chosen a side. Violet used to be the person I could talk to, but then she walked.
Six months ago, Violet asked me to run away with her. She was driven by grief, driven by something she wouldn’t tell me about. When I told her no, that we needed to stay home, to be near our family, to be near the club, Violet returned the next night and announced I was choosing the club over her and that we were done.
Being a running back, I’ve taken more than my fair share of hits over the years, but I’ve never been as blindsided as I was that night. Never experienced the type of pain her leaving me created.
The door to the classroom opens and a sense of relief washes over me. I’ll have to bust my ass to bring up my grade thanks to that zero on the quiz, but at least I’ll be able to play tonight.
Ms. Whitlock steps out and sizes me up, then Violet. “I’m only letting you in if you have a note, otherwise you can head to the office and hope they give you one.”
Screw me. There’s no way I’ll make it to the office, get a note and return in time. Right as I’m about to kick the hell out of the locker, Violet glides past me and hands in her note. “This is Chevy’s.”
My head whips in her direction. “It’s what?”
“Yours.” Violet meets my eyes. “Thanks for offering it to me, but it’s not right for me to take it. I’m the one who didn’t have a note, and I’m the one who needs to make it right.”
She begins walking backward, and my short-circuited brain sparks back to life. I can’t let her do this. “Violet—”
“Have a good game tonight,” she says, then disappears down the stairs.
“Are you joining us, Mr. McKinley, or not?” Ms. Whitlock demands. Never met a person I hate as much as this lady and it takes everything I have to force one foot in front of the other.
Everyone watches me as I stalk down the aisle, then drop into the last seat in the row, the one next to Razor. He’s calm, cool, blond hair, blue eyes, and he’s watching me like an owl who’s considering whether it wants that unsuspecting mouse for a snack now or later.
Ms. Whitlock is lost in her own world as she continues babbling about poem interpretations and people who died too long ago. I can do little more than open my folder and stare at the top of my homework.
“Chevy,” Razor whispers, and I glance over at him. He points to the paper on his desk and in his messy handwriting is You okay?
Yes, because I get to play football tonight. No, because Violet sacrificed herself for it to happen. Hell no, because the world’s messed up and I don’t know how to fix it. Worse no, because I don’t know if I should read more into what Violet did—if it means somewhere deep inside she still thinks we have a chance.
I shake my head, Razor nods and the two of us stare at the whiteboard. Two roads. One path. Can’t take both. The guy who wrote it acts like the choice should be easy. It’s not. And he also didn’t mention what happens when people like Violet shove you onto a path regardless of your thoughts.
“So how many of you liked the poem?” Ms. Whitlock asks.
The entire class raises their hands. Almost everyone, except for me and Razor.
Violet (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
QUICK—WHAT DO YOU get when a dentist marries a seamstress?
Don’t know?
Answer: A badass man who joins a motorcycle club.
Don’t get it?
It’s okay, neither do I.
I’m completely lost as to why my father joined a motorcycle club. He wasn’t born into the lifestyle like so many members are. My grandparents were as middle class as they come. My grandfather was a dentist with a struggling practice and my grandmother was a dressmaker.
They got married and had my dad and he lived a very normal, boring life. Even grew up in a modest two-story house with a finished basement, white picket fence, MTV playing on the Zenith, and chalk drawings on the sidewalks.
As Dad got older, he played football, dated the cheerleader (my mom) and landed a partial scholarship to college. He went on to become an accountant. Happy middle class—that was my dad. Joining an MC didn’t make sense, but he did join and because of that decision he died.
As I watch the others standing in line laughing and chatting with their happy middle-class families, all I keep thinking is, that could have been me. I could have been the girl in the fuzzy blue sweater giggling with her jeans-on-dress-down-Friday-wearing father.
But it’s not me, and I doubt I’ll ever understand why.
The crowd on the bleachers erupts into cheers, and an air siren wails into the cool mid-October evening. The home team, my high school team, scored a touchdown. Standing in line beside me at the ticket booth, my brother, Brandon, bounces on his toes while shoving his hands into his jeans pockets as he strains to see the football field.
He’s one of the many people I love so much that it’s painful. He’s also one of several people in my life I can’t seem to stop hurting.
“Do you think that was Chevy who scored?” It’s the first words he’s said to me since we left school this afternoon. He’s mad I dragged him into the school’s office and showed the vice principal the bruise and cut on his arm caused by some jerk at lunch. My brother is a joke to most of the boys at our school, and Brandon can never understand why I can’t leave it alone.
It’s because of what happened at lunch that I was late to English today. Brandon was bleeding and I took him to the nurses’ office. The nurse gave him the option of calling Mom and going home, but I talked him into returning to class because Brandon has to learn how to keep his head high. Guys like the ones who hurt him will keep causing problems if they believe they’re getting to him. But guys like that also deserve to be punished, hence why I dragged Brandon into the vice principal’s office after school.
“I asked if you think it was Chevy who scored,” Brandon repeats.
“I don’t know.” I breathe out the ache Chevy’s name creates. Chevy used to be my boyfriend. He used to be one of my best friends. He’s also one of the people it hurts to love.
“I couldn’t hear who they said scored,” my brother continues. “Everyone was cheering. Do you think we can find out once we get in? Do you think someone will tell us? Can you ask?” Brandon scratches his chin twice, and his cheeks turn red against his naturally pale skin.
The line is long, and he’s flustered we’re late. The late part is my fault. Part of it on purpose, part of it beyond my control. Either way, Brandon’s angry at me. It’s not new. Brandon’s natural state of emotion with me is anger. I’m the one who sets rules and boundaries, while everyone else in his life is bent on either babying him or having fun.
Life is not fun and no one is doing either him or me a favor by trying to act differently.
Still, I love Brandon, and I hate that he’s mad at me, so we’re here to watch my ex-boyfriend play football. As I said, life isn’t fun. But Brandon deserves a moment of happiness, especially since there are so many people at school determined to make him sad.
It’s midway through football season, and tonight our small-town team is playing a big-city school. Two powerhouses battling for dominance. Though I seem to be immune, the excitement around us appears to be contagious. A sea of blue sweatshirts, smiles and high fives.
We move up in line, and seeing we’re two people away from the ticket window, I pull money out of my back pocket and offer Brandon a five-dollar bill while keeping a five for myself.
Brandon’s eyes widen, and he pushes the glasses sliding down his nose back up. “What’s the money for?”
“To buy your ticket.” I flash a smile, hoping he’ll see I’m calm and then he’ll remain calm. My brother is fourteen, a little over three years younger than me. I’m a senior and he’s a freshman. While there are many things we have in common, like our pale skin with freckles, our crazy bright red hair and our father’s blue eyes, there are also so many ways we’re different.
Our minds tinker differently. Not better. Just differently. Brandon’s a little slower on some things, a lot faster on others, and he’s often very anxious around people and in social situations.
“Can’t you do it for me, Vi?” Of course I’m Vi to him now, meaning I’m officially out of the doghouse, and I almost consider folding.
Almost. My brother needs to learn how to handle simple situations on his own.
“You can do it,” I encourage. “Just hand her the money, ask her for one student ticket, and then she’ll hand you your change along with the ticket. The whole exchange will take seconds.”
Brandon shrinks, and even though he’s as tall as me, he reminds me of when we were children and I held his hand as we rode the elementary bus because he was scared.
“I don’t like the way the lady at the ticket booth looks at us. I’ve seen her around town and she makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t.”
My heart sinks, and my fingers play with the bracelets on my wrist. “Any dirty look she gives is for me, not you.”
That’s only partially true. The woman working the ticket counter enjoys giving both of us her evil eye. I could claim that’s her resting bitch face, but when she doesn’t notice me or my brother, she actually smiles.
We live in a small town. Brandon’s the weird kid, and after a picture of me making out with a guy made the rounds on social media, I’m the town whore.
Before the infamous picture, I had forever been labeled a child of the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club because my father was a member. I can’t decide if in the ticket taker’s eyes whore is better than Terror spawn. She probably assumes the two are related.
“Vi,” he starts again, but my muscles tense as my patience wears thin.
“It’s just a ticket.” This time the calm in my voice is forced and so is the smile. “I need you to be able to buy a ticket.”
Brandon’s shoulders slump forward, and I hate that I snapped, but if he can’t buy a ticket to a football game, how can he buy himself food when he grows older?
There are months remaining until I graduate from high school, and even if I figure out how to take him with me when I leave, I won’t be around to take care of him forever. He needs to learn to take care of himself. It’s what we all have to learn.
The people in front of us walk off with tickets. A mom, a dad, a brother, a sister. Middle class and grinning from ear to ear. I seriously hate each and every one of them for being happy. I know, that makes me bitter, but sometimes bitter happens.
“You can do this.” I take Brandon’s hand in mine and give a reassuring squeeze. “I know you can.”
Brandon swallows hard, but nods. A combination of nervous energy and pride rushes through my veins as he grasps my hand in return and fists the cash in his other hand. He’s going to face his fears. The lift of my lips is genuine now. My brother believes in himself, and I believe in him and maybe we’re both going to be okay.
Right as Brandon takes a courageous step forward, two black leather vests slip in front of us and staring back at me is a half skull with fire blazing out of its eye sockets.
The world surrounding me turns red, and my blood begins to boil. “There’s a line and you just cut.”
Eli, one of my father’s once best friends, glances over his shoulder and winks at us as he pulls out his wallet. Like always, he has dark hair cut close to his head, plugs in his ears and a huge grin like we should be glad to see him. “I got you covered.”
Fabulous. Here comes the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club riding in on their black Harleys determined to save the day of people who really need to learn how to save themselves.
“No, really, we got this,” I insist.
I try to muscle my way past to pay, but Eli’s right-hand man, Pigpen, plants himself in front of me like the towering sack of testosterone and annoyance that he is. Then he’s on the move and I somehow find myself away from the ticket booth.
“Surprised to see you here, Violet.” Pigpen is in his late twenties and thinks he’s all handsome with his blond hair and big muscles. Because he was a Navy SEAL or Army Ranger or something outrageous like that, he also thinks he’s awesome, but he doesn’t impress me. “Surprised you’re here, but happy to see you. You haven’t been at a game all year.”
“I’ve been busy,” I say.
“Is that what you call avoiding anyone from the Terror? Busy?”
“Works for me.”
“Hi, Pigpen!” Brandon is lit up like a firefly who was convinced the rest of his species was extinct. Eli, of course, enjoying the role of savior, has his arm around Brandon’s shoulders as they join us.
“Hey, Stone.” Pigpen calls my brother by the stupid nickname the club created for him. “How’s it going?”
“Good. They bought our tickets, Vi!”
“Yep, they sure did, because little ol’ me couldn’t handle the big ol’ ticket booth on my own.” Heavy on the sarcasm and then a hard glare at Eli. “Brandon was going to buy his own ticket.”
Eli rolls his neck like he’s the one who owns the right to be annoyed. “Most people say thank you.”
“You’re missing the point.”
Eli pats my brother’s back. “Why don’t you head in with Pigpen? I’d like to catch up with Violet.”
Brandon bounces like a damn puppy dog given a treat and then rushes off into the stadium, leaving me with Thing Two. And to think my brother called me Vi. The little traitor.
“Pigpen,” I call out. “Don’t leave him.”
I forced my brother to tattle today, and while the football game will make him smile, I’m also taking a calculated risk that the people he told on won’t be here. If they are here, I’m betting they won’t mess with Brandon as long as I’m around.
“You worry too much,” Pigpen answers without glancing back.
When it comes to my brother, they don’t worry enough about the right problems.
Eli watches as Brandon and Pigpen go into the stadium. Instead of taking a left for the bleachers, they go right for the concession stand, and I’m contemplating how to stab Pigpen in the jugular. Concession food brings my brother into a near state of euphoria, and because of the crappy day my brother and I had, I wanted to be the one who made him happy with a hot dog, nachos and a slushy.
Motorcycle men around the world, as far as I’m concerned, can just plain suck it.
Eli turns to me, and my heart aches. Good God, he reminds me of Chevy. An older version, but still the relation is clear. Like Chevy, Eli’s a McKinley. Chestnut hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders. I’ve often wondered if Chevy will be Eli’s clone when he grows older. Eli is Chevy’s uncle. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if Chevy resembled Eli as he aged, but it’s the fear of Chevy becoming the warrior and convict that Eli is that drove Chevy and me apart.
Eli eyes me warily as he pulls on the plug in his ear. Still, the man has that grin he uses to try to convince people he’s easygoing. But I don’t buy it. Not even God could count all the demons dancing in his soul.
To be fair, Eli used to be one of my favorite people, but he and I haven’t gotten along very well since my father’s death. In fact, I haven’t gotten along with anyone associated with the Terror since Dad died a year ago.
“Hi, Violet.”
“Brandon was going to buy his own ticket.” I work hard to keep my voice steady. “You can’t keep swooping in and doing things for him. He’s got to learn how to fend for himself.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” Eli says like I never spoke. “I’m glad you brought Stone. I know how much that kid loves to see Chevy play.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me, so I’ll try to be a little more direct,” I say. “Stop butting in with my brother. You don’t help. None of you help.”
“How’s your mom?” Eli continues, once again like the conversation on my end isn’t happening.
“Moping around like always. Know what would help her? A job or a hobby or a purpose. None of which she will get as long as you guys keep popping in and taking care of her.” I’m sensing the theme, but doubt Eli will. Logic complicates his thinking process.
The glint of frustration in Eli’s eyes gives away that he hears me, yet he keeps up the charade. “Tell your mom me and some of the guys from the club will be over to help with the house. Mow the yard. Pay the bills.”
A dangerous anger curls within me. “I’m tired of explaining to you we don’t need the Reign of Terror’s help. In fact, we’d be better off without any of you.”
“Is it impossible for us to talk without fighting?” Eli snaps.
And there it is. Eli finally showing his true colors. “This isn’t a fight. My voice hasn’t risen high enough to draw a crowd, and I have yet to say fuck, so we’re still in the land of civil.”
Eli opens his mouth to respond when his cell buzzes. He reaches for his phone, checks the text, and a shadow falls over his face. I’ve seen that look hundreds of times growing up and that expression means whatever is going on in his precious club is more important than me, more important than staying.
It’s the look my father had right before he left me for the last time.
Why don’t I want the club involved in my life or Brandon’s? Because Brandon doesn’t need people who promise they’re going to stick around to take care of him but then abandon him the moment their cell pings. My brother deserves better than that. I deserve better now, and I deserved better when Dad was alive.
“Gotta go?” The bitterness drips in the singsong sway of my voice.
The black gaze Eli shoots me is his confirmation. “This conversation isn’t over.”
Yes, it is. “I’ve got to take care of my brother while you guys go off and play.”
I walk away from Eli because someone in Brandon’s life has to be responsible. Someone has to be the grown-up, and considering the other people in Brandon’s life are determined to stay irresponsible, the burden falls to me.
CHEVY (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
DAMN IF I understand why girls like getting flowers, but their faces light up, their lips will tilt upward and their eyes will glow as if you handed them the world. Hell, maybe it’s only the girls I’ve been around who react this way. Maybe their lives are so messed up that the idea of any guy offering them anything without expectation of payment blows their mind.
It’s sad, but it’s true, and I don’t mind being the person who can bring them one second of happiness.
Shamrock’s newest employee accepts the two daisies I “magically” made appear. I stole them—two tables down from a bouquet an army boy’s holding. Guess he plans on giving it to one of the cocktail waitresses. He didn’t notice I swiped the flowers and neither did anyone else. Fast hands, a distraction, and the world belongs to me.
“Thank you.” She glances away and my heart drops for her. She’s pretty. Early twenties. Could do well working here at the bar, but with that attitude, she won’t make it through the night. There’s no room for modesty or shyness or emotion in order to make money at this joint.
“Pretty girl like you,” I say with a wink, “will knock ’em dead.”
“Do you work here?” she asks.
The bar’s manager and Mom’s best friend smacks me on the back of the head before I can answer no. “Stop flirting with my girls.” Brandy gestures at me while looking at the new girl. “Watch out for him, he thinks he can con anyone into loving him.”
“You love me,” I say.
“And I regret it most days.” But she says it with a smile. Brandy then offers her hand to her newest employee. “Come on, let me show you where the real magic happens.”
“My magic’s real,” I call out, and Brandy’s only response is a loud laugh. I can’t help but chuckle with her because she’s going to be pissed in a few minutes when she realizes I lifted her watch...again.
The new girl waves as she glances at me over her shoulder. I nod in response. The twenty in my pocket says she won’t be here when I pick Mom up later. Being a waitress here requires an iron shell.
With a thud, Mom props her overly large purse on the bar, slides off my leather jacket and hands it to me, revealing her low-cut tank and what she refers to as her jeans-that-make-her-money. She asked me to drop her off early, since the other bartender called in sick.
I usually drive Mom in her car as she hates motorcycles, but her already pieced-together Ford from the 1980s died again this morning, and I haven’t had time to figure out what broke.
Mom sighs heavily when I slide Brandy’s watch to her. “Will you please stop stealing from people?”
“It’s not stealing if I give it back.” I grin, then grin wider when Mom’s lips twitch. Everyone’s born with a gift. My gift is fast hands. Too bad my only career options with it are street magician or thug pickpocket. Some days, my feet are as fast as my hands and that’s what makes me one hell of a football player.
“Tonight should be a moneymaker.” Mom uses her phone to check her makeup.
I case the dimly lit place that’s occasionally brightened by the beams of colored lights bouncing off the dance floor and the stage where the DJ mixes music. Being near the army base is great for business, but can bring in a mix of a crowd.
Because it’s too damn cliché, the place crawls with army boys. Most of them too loud, too cocky and too lonely. A gang of boys with frat symbols on their T-shirts take up three tables near the stage. Odds are they’re under twenty-one, so that’s why they drove the forty-five minutes from their school.
The bouncers don’t give a rip who’s here as long as they pay to get in and pay for their beer. All those guys watch the girls on the dance floor. Most of them like starved wolves in search of raw meat.
Friday and Saturday nights make me nervous, so I offer to drive Mom, and when she doesn’t accept, I don’t give her a choice. There’s a lot of psychotic bastards in the world and most of them seem to gravitate to bars late at night in search of those who drank too much and are easy prey.
“Why do you do it?” Mom leans in so she can hear my answer over the pounding music. It’s nearing ten, about an hour before this place will be wall-to-wall shaking and shimmying bodies. “Why do you always give the girls around here flowers?”
Because they often walk out of here with a vacant expression and hollow eyes. Exhausted from being on their feet and having to pretend they’re someone’s fantasy so they can make more money from tips. “Question should be, why don’t more guys do it?”
Mom goes into one of those blinding smiles that reminds me how young she is—early forties. If she wanted, Mom could still marry and pop out a new, normal family. Create the American dream of two kids, a dog and a white picket fence. That is if the American dream means working at a bar and already having a soon-to-be eighteen-year-old son.
She grabs hold of my chin and guides me down to her short height so she can kiss my cheek. “You’re one of the good ones, Chevy. Never forget that.”
Mom sees enough bad ones to know the difference. That’s why I drive her to and from work on the weekends. Why I don’t just drop her off, but also come in and get the lay of the land. I eyeball a few guys so they can spread the word to the others who might be thinking of going too far with my mom that I’m their personal grim reaper.
“Hell of a game tonight, Chevy!” Mike, the bouncer, bellows from across the room. A round of claps and cheers from the locals and then an echo from people who have no idea what we’re celebrating.
“Nobody plays like my boy!” Mom shouts. She’s been to every game I’ve had since I started in third grade.
I’m a running back for my high school team. Scored three touchdowns tonight, took a hell of a lot of hits, and I got a bruised shoulder to prove it. It’s October and we’re halfway through regular season games. With the team kicking ass like it has, we’ve got a decent shot at going to state. I don’t miss the fact that the reason we won, the reason I played was because Violet made a sacrifice.
My cell pings twice and Mom’s proud smile morphs into a frown. From the number of pings, she knows it’s from Eli, my uncle, my father’s brother, and the most respected man in the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club.
Eli: You need to stay off the road tonight. Confirm receipt. This is my third text about this. Don’t make me text you again.
Not what I need. I crack my neck to the side. When the club thinks there’s trouble from a rival club, they warn me off of being visible.
I’m a senior in high school and not yet a full member of the MC, but being a child of the club, I often get crap from people in town and can have a target on me from other MC’s. But no way was I letting Mom drive herself. No way was I leaving her to be on her own.
“Club stuff?” Mom asks like she’s not pissed as she rifles through her purse. The Reign of Terror and my mother have a complicated relationship. Between her and them, I’m constantly the knot in the middle of a tug-of-war rope.
“Eli’s checking in.” I shrug my jacket on and dig out the keys to my motorcycle.
“Sure he is,” she mumbles, then goes behind the bar. Mom’s black hair falls forward when she places her purse in the safe. When she stands, she tucks the strands behind her ears, showing off the hoop earrings I bought for her birthday last month.
Mom and I don’t look much alike. She’s short with a small frame and has an olive complexion, while I’m built like a McKinley: tall, strong shoulders, brown hair and eyes. According to pictures, I favor my father. Mom never says much about him. The MC thinks he’s a saint. I do my best to stay neutral.
Across from me, Mom taps her finger on the bar. “Have you thought about what I said?”
The muscles in my back tense. I’m reaching a tipping point in the tug-of-war game. When I turn eighteen, the MC will expect me to continue the blood legacy of the Reign of Terror and become a prospect. Eli’s a key member of the club, my grandfather is the president and my father before his death was on the fast track to being a board member.
There’s no doubt the board will take me, but there’s a rhythm to becoming a member and I’m expected to play along. My prospect period is the initiation time frame where the club decides whether or not I should be a full-fledged member. It’ll be a lot of me cleaning toilets and doing whatever the board says when they say it.
“There’s no reason to rush this,” Mom continues. She’s asked me to push off becoming a prospect for the MC until I graduate from high school. “Once you’re in the Terror, you’ll always be in the Terror. Why not be a normal high school kid for a few months? Find a nice girl. Go to prom. Go to keggers like other boys your age, not clubhouses. Let me live the fantasy of being mom to the jock who has the high school sweetheart. If you’re bound and determined to hang out with outlaws, at least have the decency to be arrested for cow tipping the first time I have to bail you out of jail.”
Haven’t told Mom yet the football coach is unhappy with me over the Terror. After that monologue, I’ll keep it to myself indefinitely.
“Last I checked, it’s his life,” comes a familiar gravelly voice. “Not your life and not your call on how he makes his choices. And to clear up any misunderstandings, the club decides when we offer prospect, not Chevy.”
My grandfather and president of the Reign of Terror, Cyrus, sidles up beside me at the bar. Mom tenses like a cat on the verge of attacking, and Cyrus merely strokes his long gray beard as he looks at me. “Club’s been trying to reach you.”
“Must have never turned my phone back on after the game,” I lie and try to balance the power struggle between Mom and the club and that means deflection. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just some bumps. Heard you had a hell of a game tonight.”
I nod. If Cyrus heard I had a good game, that must mean something major is going down. Like Mom, he’s always there, unless something with the club is about to go to hell.
“I heard Violet was at the game with Stone,” he says, and my head pops up. Despite knowing better, there’s a flicker of hope within me. I’ve got to cut that crap out or my heart will be hurting again.
“Don’t guess you knew that,” Cyrus continues.
No, I didn’t and it’s hard not to glance over at my mom to gauge her reaction. She, more than anyone, is aware how the breakup with Violet has gutted me.
Cyrus tilts his head to the exit. “Why don’t we go back to the cabin, and you can fill me in on what I missed. Some guys might be at the clubhouse. Bet they’d want to hear about the game, too.”
“Or he can go home,” Mom butts in, and she twists a dish towel as if she’s imagining strangling his neck. “His home. The one that has his room. His bed. His things. His home.”
I hitch my thumbs into my jeans and wish I could disappear. Give me a mirror, the fine art of distraction, and I could make you believe I did fade into the nothingness, but right now, I’ve got nothing. “Give me a few minutes with Mom?”
Cyrus is as big and bad as they come. Sixties. My height. Monster of a man. He proudly wears the Reign of Terror leather cut on his back: the half skull with fire blazing out of its eyes and balls of fire raining down around it.
My grandfather scares the hell out of most people, and he’s put me in my place more than once. He’s raised me, just as much as Mom. Half my time has been spent with him. Half my time with her. I love him, just like I love my mom.
He walks away, and before Mom begins to revel in her win, I lean onto the bar and say, “He’s right. It is my life and it is my call.”
She slams her hand on the bar and sets her hardened green eyes on me. “Then start acting like it. You can’t keep walking this line between the real world and the club for much longer. It’s one or the other, Chevy. Turning eighteen, you know it means you can’t have both.”
My jaw twitches. Before his death, before my birth, my father didn’t choose her. He slept with Mom, had some sort of relationship with her that neither she nor the club will talk about, but at the end of the day, he never claimed Mom as his girl and, because of that, my mother remains an outsider.
Because of my blood, I’m an insider. The club, it’s a legit club. They don’t sell drugs, guns, or dabble in prostitution. Yeah, they color outside the lines at times, work well in gray areas, but we do our best to stay away from flat-out illegal.
The club owns a legit security company that travels alongside semi-loads of expensive goods to guarantee that the truck makes it to point B from point A without any problems. People don’t know it, but trucks being jacked for their loads happens more often than one would think. The security company is a ride-along bouncer.
Most of the members of the Terror work for the security company. Other members, they work “normal” jobs within the community, but Mom’s right. Members and family members of the Terror, we stand out and we are our own world.
As long as I stay underage, I’ve been able to walk the line, and when my birthday hits, I don’t know what I’m going to choose.
“Chevy,” Cyrus calls near the entrance. “We need to talk.”
Damned knot in the tug-of-war rope and I’m starting to feel frayed. Mom doesn’t blink as she waits for me to say something. To tell Cyrus he can wait. To tell her what she wants to hear. But as much as I love her, I’m also drawn to the club. She’s right, I do want both.
“I’ll be back to pick you up later,” I say.
Mom throws the towel she had expertly throttled into the sink behind her, walks to the other side of the bar, and the strobe light casts a red haze around her. If I didn’t know her better, I’d buy the flirty smile and the way she giggles in happiness as she leans on the bar to take a drink order. But that’s not her real smile and that’s not her real laugh. It’s part of her job, part of her act, because that’s what working here requires—performing.
With a kick to a bar stool, I head for the exit. Cyrus walks out into the night and I follow. Once outside, Cyrus turns to me and his warm breath creates a cloud in the cool night. “We’ve had some trouble tonight with the Riot.”
The Riot would be a motorcycle club north of us in Louisville. They’re pissed at the Terror for myriad reasons, the main one being we’re a legit club and they deal in illegal. They’re also angry at one of our main members, Eli. They feel he stole their daughter and granddaughter from them. Eli didn’t steal a thing. Can’t call someone’s free will in walking away from crazy a crime.
Life sucks for the Riot and I’m fine with that. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Everyone’s safe, but we’ve had word that they’ve ridden past the boundary lines we set with them a few months back. It’s all rumor and no one on our side has confirmed it. Could be someone’s overactive imagination, but I’ll feel better knowing you’re off the road.”
I’m under eighteen, still a kid to him. Cyrus used to act this way with my two best friends, Oz and Razor, but both are eighteen and full members of the club now. The babysitting twists my gut, but then again, I’m not ready for the decision eighteen will bring. “How about Violet?”
“I’m on my way now to look for her. She’s also not answering her cell.”
Yeah. A lot of that going around. “If she took Stone to the game, she would have headed straight home. I’ll check on her on my way to Mom’s if you want.”
This gives me the excuse I need to see Violet. Because I won’t be able to sleep without knowing she’s okay. So I can thank her for what she did for me with the note. To gauge whether or not Violet is waving the white flag.
Cyrus lays a hand on my shoulder. “I’d appreciate that. I need to head back to the clubhouse to take care of some business. I’m serious about what I said, though. Me and a lot of guys would love to hear about the game.”
I know they would and I’d enjoy being with them, but Mom’s already sore that I walked out on her to talk to Cyrus. “I’m beat. After I check on Violet, I’m crashing.”
Cyrus gives me a fast pat and a hug. We both mount our bikes and start our engines with a growl. My grandfather takes the lead and I follow him as long as I can before taking the path that leads away from him and toward where Violet lives.
Violet (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
DAD’S CROSS DANGLES over the engine of his Chevelle while my other necklaces stay tucked inside my shirt. I’ll admit, I don’t have a clue what I’m looking for and using the flashlight app from my cell has done nothing to help. Maybe if I stare at the inner workings of the car long enough a magic fairy will pop out and tell me to smack this, turn that, jump in a circle three times naked and then the engine will wondrously rev to life.
I’d perform the act if that would make Dad’s car run again. Who am I kidding? I’d do it if it would make anything in my life work again.
Behind me, Brandon paces and the rocks crunch under his footsteps. We’re two miles from home and off to the side of a quiet country road. Thank God there’s a full moon as my brother can be terrified of dark places. Dad used to tell Brandon that a full moon is nature’s night-light. I’m banking on Brandon remembering that tidbit of fatherly wisdom because, unless steam rising from my engine means my car is about to evolve into some next generation of superpower vehicle, we’re stuck.
“We should call the club,” Brandon says. “They’d come. They’d help fix your car.”
With strings made out of spiderwebs. The Reign of Terror would suck us in and then suck us dry. It’s how they work. You don’t get something for nothing with them. “If you remember, Eli and Pigpen tore off from the football game because they had business to take care of, meaning we wouldn’t be high on the priority list. Besides, Mom’s on her way.”
She’s put out, but she’s on her way. Mom will take her time to prove how annoyed she is with my “careless behavior” of driving at night without the protection of a man. That’s how Mom thinks. Girls, to her, are the weaker and fairer sex waiting for a man to save them, and Mom is constantly annoyed that I don’t play up my femininity.
Yeah, that’s complete bull.
I straighten and the bracelets on my wrist clink together and hit Dad’s bulky Rolex. It’s one of the many things Mom was mad about today. She tolerates me wearing Dad’s cross, but she’s adamant that I leave the watch alone. Dad always wore the cross and the Rolex, and today I needed both so I could find the strength to keep breathing in and then out several times a minute.
If I was alone, I’d head home on foot, but Brandon walking along the woods in the dark could cause problems I’m not giddy to deal with. At least he feels somewhat safe next to the car.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “I didn’t eat all my popcorn at the game and you can have what’s left. I should warn you, most of it is burnt.”
“The club would send somebody if you called,” he mutters. “If you called Chevy, he’d come. At least he’d come for me.”
Knife straight to where I’m weak, and I lose the ability to breathe. Yeah, Chevy would come, but what girl wants to play damsel in distress and then be saved by her ex-boyfriend? “I can’t call Chevy.”
It wouldn’t be fair to Chevy, and it wouldn’t be fair to me. The love I had for him was consuming and powerful and raw. I briefly close my eyes as memories of Chevy’s hands on my body and his lips on mine cause warmth to curl in my bloodstream... Even when we fought, we never had problems with attraction.
My breakup with Chevy hasn’t only hurt me, but my brother, and I’m not sure if he’ll ever forgive me. I’m not sure if a lot of people will forgive me, but none of that matters. My single goal in life is to get as far away from this town as I can, as fast as I can. Graduation. That’s my town of Snowflake expiration date.
A motorcycle rumbles in the distance and it’s weird how my heart still flutters at the sound. When I was younger, I used to sit at the window in the living room and wait for that beautiful growl. The moment I heard Dad’s motorcycle, I used to skip through the house telling my mom and brother that Daddy was home.
I’d burst out the front door in time for him to swing off his bike and then he’d catch me and toss me into the air. I’d squeal, then end up in a fit of giggles as he would tickle me in his big, crushing hug.
Those days are long gone.
The motorcycle engine grows louder. A single headlight breaks over the hill of the road that leads to town. Most sane people would be terrified at being alone on the side of the road at night with an approaching motorcycle, but I’m annoyed and slightly relieved.
If someone from the Terror wants to stumble upon me and help make Dad’s car move, I’ll suck up the animosity long enough to get my brother home. But at the same time, accepting their help will only make them want to go dictator over everything else in my family’s life.
Anything offered by the Terror comes at a price. My father paid with his life.
I step back from the open hood and the motorcycle slows to a stop behind my car. I blow out a rush of air. Why does my life have to continually suck? I would have taken Eli or Pigpen over this. But I didn’t get Thing One or Thing Two. I got my ex because I’m that incredibly unlucky.
Chevy slips off his bike and grimly assesses the car. More than once he’s been under the hood of this Chevelle. Chevy and my dad were close. A part of Chevy was also destroyed when Dad died.
“Mom’s on her way,” I say. “You’re fine to move along, since she’ll be here soon.”
Brandon rushes past me so quickly that his arm smacks mine. He doesn’t bother looking back to confirm I’m still standing; no, my brother is too busy welcoming Chevy like he’s a hero.
Brandon is all words, most of them tripping and running into the other, as he attempts to express his excitement and undying love and loyalty. “We were at your game and Pigpen bought me a hot dog and Eli bought my ticket and I didn’t see your first touchdown, but I saw your second and third and you plowed right through that line and I’m so glad to see you.”
Because Chevy is patient, more patient than most grown men, he stands in front of my brother with his thumbs hitched in his front pockets and that sexy slouch of his like he’s prepared to listen to every single word Brandon could ever say or think to say.
As long as I’ve known him, Chevy’s kept his hair trimmed, but today strands of his dark brown hair slightly cover his forehead and it’s incredibly endearing. The type of style that’s teasing and begs to be swept away.
A wave of unwanted jealousy rages through me. I used to be the one who could touch Chevy. Last I heard, I’d been replaced with a revolving door of girls who have lined up to spend the evening with the school’s star running back and waterfall of muscle.
Brandon’s still gushing, Chevy’s still listening, but then, as if our relationship had never been interrupted, his gaze strays in my direction. Eyes straight to mine and I can’t breathe. Returning his gaze is a lot like coming home after a long night and falling into bed.
I fell into way too many things with Chevy. The suck part about falling is that eventual crash landing. I tear my eyes away and force air into my aching lungs.
Thank God, Brandon’s still going. “Dad’s car broke down and Violet wouldn’t call you, but I said we should call you. I told her that you’d come—at least you’d come for me. I told her to call the club, but she wouldn’t.”
Twice in one night my brother decides to go traitor. See if I take him to a football game again.
“Did Violet bring you to the game?” Chevy asks.
Brandon’s forehead wrinkles. “What?”
“Did Violet bring you to the game?”
“Well...yeah.”
“Then you should be grateful she did. Not all sisters care.”
My bracelets clink together when I shift, uncomfortable that anyone is taking up for me, even if it is Chevy. Since Dad died, Chevy joined the ranks of people thinking I’m the devil because I’m trying to break free of the Terror.
“Your car’s broke.” Chevy glances in my direction again, and there’s a softness in his eyes that I hate and love. It’s the same unguarded look as when we whispered our most intimate thoughts into each other’s ears.
I hold his gaze for as long as he can handle. “Thanks for the update, Captain Obvious.”
Chevy mimics tipping a hat that isn’t on his head. “My pleasure.”
The right side of my mouth edges up. Damn him for being so charming.
“Stone,” Chevy says. “Have you made big plans for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Violet turns eighteen.”
Chevy and I had so many plans for eighteen. Spent too many nights in each other’s arms planning out how we were going to celebrate this year. Dinner out of Snowflake. Prom. Laughter with friends. Midnight and dancing on a blanket in our field.
“Mom’s mad at Violet and she said we might not do anything because of Violet’s attitude,” Brandon blurts, and he scratches his chin twice. “Violet cut class and the school called Mom to tell her. Mom’s really angry. She yelled. A lot. And Violet wouldn’t yell back. Violet always yells back, but not this time.”
Chevy’s adorable smile falls into a frown and it’s really a shame. Brandon looks over at me for confirmation that I’m not mad at him for spilling about my fight with Mom, because I’ve reminded him several times that personal conversations should stay personal, and I step toward him, then briefly squeeze my fingers around his wrist.
My brother isn’t trying to tattle, he’s nervous being out in the dark and upset over the fight Mom and I had before we left for the game. He has a problem with letting negative emotions go. They circle his brain like vultures do with roadkill.
Headlights shine in the distance, and my shoulders relax. Last thing I want to do is get into a discussion with Chevy as to why I didn’t tell Mom that I handed Chevy my note. This has been an awful day, and I’m ready to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed for days, maybe weeks.
I step out onto the road, and using the flashlight app, wave to signal Mom. This isn’t the first time Dad’s car has broken down, and unfortunately, it won’t be the last. Mom has passed us before. Though I’m not convinced those times were a mistake as much as Mom attempting to teach me another lesson of how unsafe I am in the world.
Footsteps against the rocks and Chevy eases beside me. The car weaves in and out of the center lane, and my arm hesitates in the air as unease tiptoes through me.
Chevy places his hand on my biceps and forces it down. “That’s not your mom’s car.”
It’s not. Mom would never drive like that and those aren’t the headlights of a minivan. Those belong to something with some muscle. A scary sixth sense creeps along my skin.
Growling engines, then three single beams appear. Motorcycles. Those motorcycles aren’t chasing the car, they’re following. My stomach lurches as I stumble back. Chevy steps forward and he draws his knife out of the sheath.
I swallow as my hands begin to shake. The Terror never come from this direction unless they’re driving to see me and none of them have a muscle car they would be following. “Brandon, get back in the car.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
My internal warning system blares like a foghorn, and instead of slowing down, the car picks up speed. I grab Brandon’s arm and I shove him toward the passenger side. “Get in the car, lie down on the floorboard in the backseat and don’t pop your head up until I say.”
Brandon moves with me and slides in when I open his door, then close it behind him.
“Get in there with him, Violet,” Chevy demands. “In the backseat, on the floorboard.”
“They’ve already seen me,” I hiss. “Odds are they didn’t see Brandon. We have to protect him.”
Chevy glances over his shoulder at me, his expression that of the grim reaper ready to take someone’s soul. “Then in the front seat. Doors locked and call the club.”
“Chevy,” I begin, about to ask him to join me, but he cuts me off.
“They’re looking for someone and I’ll be it. I’m the first wave of keeping them off Stone. You’re second. Call the club. Get me backup.”
Absolute fear seizes my body. I can’t leave Chevy to stand on his own. For the same reason I gave him my late note today. I care too much for him.
“Get in, Violet,” he demands.
But as the headlights draw closer, I remain cemented to the ground.
“You and I can’t take them alone. I need help. Get me help.”
That, I understand. My pulse races as I dash for the driver’s side. The engine of a Camaro roars as it pulls in front of us. Half of the car sticks out into the road, the other half blocks us in as if my car could actually move. The grille of the Camaro so close that the heat from the engine slams onto my legs.
I open my door as two doors on the Camaro open and two looming figures emerge. Nervous adrenaline crashes into my veins and I curse as I frantically roll up my window. The hand crank type, made in the ’70s, and it doesn’t go fast enough. By pure will alone, the window rises with a whine, and when mine is finished, I glance over to Brandon to reassure him we’re safe in the car, when terror seizes my lungs. The passenger-side door is unlocked.
The car shakes as the open hood crashes down. A towering man with weathered skin slams his hands onto my car and stares straight at me. He has on a leather vest, and I briefly close my eyes at the patches. Nausea roars through my gut and I fumble for my phone. This is the Riot Motorcycle Club, and we’re in serious trouble.
“Get out of the car,” the man shouts.
Chevy protects the passenger-side door and he’s surrounded, but he’s not backing down. His arms are stretched out wide, knife in his right hand. Fighting past the fear, I select the contacts on my phone, and right as I’m about to press Eli’s number, there’s a crash to my left.
My hands cover my head as a man takes a lead pipe and hammers it against my window. The glass cracks and he shoves the lead pipe against it again. Brandon whimpers, and I suck in a breath as I try to refocus on the cell, and it’s hard to do as shards of glass rain down over my head and into my hair. I push the call button, praying Eli answers.
“Get out of the car or we’ll drag you out!” the man in front of my car yells.
A scuffle, someone springs toward Chevy, his knife slices in their direction, but then two more guys join the mix. My eyes fall to the unlocked door, and I lunge. My fingers brush along the lock as the door swings open. Fear shakes through me when big meaty fingers shoot in and grab me. From the floorboard in the backseat, Brandon seizes my hand, and my heart pounds when I spot the horror in his eyes.
It’s going to happen again, and I promised him it wouldn’t. Months ago, bullies from school beat him until he could no longer lift his head. These men—they’re going to hurt him over something neither Brandon nor I have control over. Over politics of a club we have never belonged to.
They are going to hurt him, not like the bruises from earlier today, but like what happened to him months ago or maybe worse. Like those bullies, these men are going to make him bleed, and I promised him he would never hurt like that again.
The man pulls at me, and I release Brandon, my only hold to staying in the car, and drop my phone next to him. Without Brandon grounding me, I’m yanked from the car, and as I struggle with the man, I kick the door shut.
“Get on the ground!” a man shouts.
I struggle, wrenching myself from side to side. My arm breaks free and I swing hard. My fist connects with a face and there’s swearing. Pain through my knuckles, then pain from my scalp as my head is pulled back by my hair.
I gasp and fight to not make a sound and then scream when my legs are kicked out from under me. A blinding white lightning strike to my kneecaps and my vision doubles. Snapping, and then another wave of revulsive agony.
My shins hit the ground, and my heart beats frantically as I glance up at the older man with the weathered and dirty face. He has a blue bandana on his head and a gun in his hand and I can’t decide if I’m scared or numb.
Don’t find my brother. Please don’t find my brother.
On a warrior’s shout, Chevy strikes one man with a punch to the face and then Chevy is moving, pushing off two people, and my blood grows cold when the man with the blue bandana points the gun at me.
“I’ll shoot her.” The man doesn’t yell it, but he says it loud enough that the scuffles stop.
My mouth runs dry, and I find just enough courage to peek out of the corner of my eye to see Chevy hold his hands up in compliance. His knife is gone. Not sure if they took it or he lost it in the fight. Guess it doesn’t matter. Maybe none of it matters. Maybe Chevy should still be trying to fight his way out. Maybe they’re going to kill us both anyway.
Chevy looks at me and I tilt my head, worrying my forehead. They can’t get Brandon. We can’t let them have my brother. I will Chevy to hear my thoughts, to understand what I need. As if he can read my mind, he moves his head a fraction of an inch in agreement. Chevy voluntarily goes to his knees.
“You’re Reign of Terror,” Bandana Guy says to me.
My tongue feels too swollen to speak, but I shove out the words regardless. “I’m not Reign of Terror.”
“She’s not,” Chevy says. “I am. Leave her alone and deal only with me.”
“I know who you are, and I’ll be dealing with you soon. We only dish out the best for a McKinley.” A smile twists his lips as he keeps staring directly at me. His patch indicates his road name is Fiend, and I bet he’s real proud of his title.
With two other men standing on either side of me, Fiend crouches and I resist the urge to shudder with disgust as he pulls on a lock of my hair. “And you’re Frat’s girl. Red hair, crazy eyes. You have a brother. Where is he?”
Defiance swirls into my bloodstream, and I raise my chin. “He’s at the clubhouse.”
Fiend studies me. “Is he?”
Frat was my father’s road name and people used to tell me when he was in difficult spots, he was insane. When I was younger, I used to beam with pride at the idea of my daddy being the man who could look fear in the eye and laugh.
As I got older, I lost some of that appreciation, but in this moment, knowing my brother is in the backseat of the car, knowing a gun could be used to settle a score I have nothing to do with, I smile. A crazy-ass smile that could probably rival any level of insanity my father could have had. “Why don’t we go to the Terror’s clubhouse and find out?”
Fiend chuckles. “Nice try. Cuff them and let’s go.”
No. The guys around us move and my heart explodes, beating so rapidly I can barely breathe. A calloused hand on my wrist and I flinch, attempting to roll away, attempting to hit and kick. Another man joins the mix, grabbing hold of my other arm, pinning my head to his chest, and I dry heave at the smell of body odor. Tears prick my eyes and a million horrible thoughts crash in my mind. I’d rather die than have them rape me. I’d rather die.
Cold metal against the flesh of my wrists and then I’m pulled to my feet, my knees giving at the weight of the situation. I’m being pushed forward, to the car. A man opens the backseat door and he exerts pressure on my neck to force me in. My head whips around, my eyes so wide the wind burns them. “Chevy!”
“Hurt her and I’ll fucking kill you.” There’s a coldness in Chevy’s tone. He’s on the other side of the car. His biceps straining as his body leans in my direction, but the men surrounding him are shoving him past the door and someone pops open the trunk.
My face heats and my palms grow clammy. Dizziness overwhelms me as I realize we’re being taken, and we’re being separated. That I’m being kidnapped. “Chevy?”
His dark eyes meet mine. “It’s okay. We’re going to be okay. Keep your mouth shut. Say nothing. I promise it will be okay.”
He can’t make that promise. No one can.
CHEVY (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
THEY STOLE MY KNIFE. Swiped my cell. The handcuffs I can ditch in thirty seconds. The trunk of the car—I could have open in less than a minute. But leaving Violet behind unprotected isn’t an option. Escaping just isn’t the goal—the endgame is to escape together.
Dark doesn’t bother me. Neither do cramped spaces. What’s drilling a hole in my brain was Violet’s expression as they shoved her into the back of the car. It was the impact of her struggles hitting against the seat, it was her screams for them to stop.
To stop what? My gut twists, and I breathe out to try to gain some control in the madness. I got my wish. Violet stopped struggling. She stopped screaming. Turns out the silence wasn’t what I wanted. Violet safe—that’s what I wished for. Silence doesn’t mean safe.
The car slows, and I brace myself to keep from ramming into the walls of the trunk. We’ve been driving for too long. An hour. Maybe more. I tried counting, tried to gauge how far from Snowflake we were taken, but worrying over Violet killed my concentration.
The engine shuts off, and the stillness causes my skin to crawl. They hurt her, I’ll hurt them. Doesn’t get much simpler than that. I gave up earlier to save Stone, to save Violet. Gun to the head ends all debate, especially when that gun’s on Violet.
Doors squeak open. The car shakes. Doors slam shut. Movement outside, but nothing else. Beats of time pass and my already strained patience is on the verge of snapping. I angle to my side so I can reach my belt. I’ve got a small lock pick hidden there. It’s not normal, but it’s how I roll. Fast hands sometimes need assistance.
Footsteps and I return to my back.
“We’re going to open the trunk,” comes a deep voice. “We’ve got a gun trained on you, and we’ll shoot, so be slow as you get out.”
The trunk opens, and a spotlight shines in my direction. My eyes snap shut, and when I attempt to open them, all I see is black spots. I’m blinded. Fingers on my arm and I’m pulled out. My feet hit the ground, and no matter which way I turn my head, the light follows me. Smart bastards. With the dark night, the spotlight keeps me from seeing my surroundings, from identifying additional faces, how many people will be thwarting my attempt at escape.
We go forward, into a building; the door looks like one that could belong to a house. Inside, it’s pitch-dark, and I drop my head, studying the floor to keep the light from continuing to blind me. The flooring is linoleum, like I would find in a kitchen. White squares with black diamonds in the middle.
Pushed and we’re heading down stairs that groan. Wooden ones with no backing. The air temperature drops with each step, and the stench of mold and mildew fills my nose. At the bottom, my boots land on concrete and then men fall away as I’m being pulled ahead. We stop. A hesitation. And then I’m released.
The light turns off, darkness engulfs my vision, rapid footsteps. I pivot on my heels to find a way to escape, and a door is slammed shut. My heart beats in my ears, and I glance around as I blink to adjust my eyesight, but there’s only darkness. No natural light.
A rustle in the corner behind me and I spin. “Violet?”
“Chevy?” Shifting of fabric. “God, Chevy, I’m here. I can’t see. They blindfolded me.”
“Not much to see. It’s dark. Keep talking so I can find you.”
“My hands are still bound,” Violet continues. Never knew so much relief could be found in hearing her sweet voice. “I’m sitting. In a corner. Felt safer that way. I can stand if you want.”
“No. Stay sitting.” I keep blinking, an instinctual movement so my vision can adjust for light, but there’s only the black hole. The tip of my boot comes into contact with something solid, but with give. “This you?”
“Yeah.”
I crouch, then lean my back against the wall beside her, letting my hand brush the exposed skin of her arm. As a gesture of comfort, to reaffirm I’m here and she’s safe. Violet’s cold to the touch, and she trembles. She’s in shock. Why the hell wouldn’t she be? I rap the back of my head against the concrete wall. Fuck the Riot. Fuck them for all of this. “You okay?”
She inches closer to me and our legs touch. So do our arms. I move my head in her direction so I can inhale her scent. Violet smells like honey. It’s a perfume her father bought her for her fourteenth birthday and continued to buy for her every year after that. Until this year.
I purchased it for her the other day, but I wasn’t sure if I would have the guts to give it to her. We’ve been like two rabid dogs trapped in a cage. I was afraid she’d throw it back in my face and wasn’t sure I could stomach more rejection.
The perfume sits on my dresser stuffed in a birthday bag. Somehow, in this moment, my lack of courage seems pathetic.
“Violet?” I’m slow asking because I’m not sure I can control my reaction if she gives an undesired answer. I’m already walking a tightrope, and I’m not the kind, at least when it comes to her, who can keep my balance. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Fear she’s lying whirls inside me. “You were screaming and then you stopped. I need to know if they hurt you.” I need to know if I’ll be able to sleep again.
Silence on her end. Each quiet second that passes causes my body temperature to rise with the growing rage.
“Violet,” I urge, barely able to keep the anger from leaking out in my voice.
“The guy in the backseat backhanded me,” she says in a small voice, as if that confession is something she should be ashamed of.
I’m going to kill them. I’m going to kill every single one. “How bad?”
“Are you okay?” She attempts to drag the conversation in another direction because she knows me. Knows I’m on the verge of losing my mind.
“Violet.”
“He hit me and we’ve been kidnapped,” she snaps. “Isn’t that bad enough?”
No. They hurt her. No part of me is okay with that.
“Are you okay?” she asks again. “They hit you. I saw it.”
And I hit them back. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Violet’s entire body quakes in a small fit and the stream of air being pushed through her lips as she tries to control herself is audible. She’s killing me, and she needs to know she’s not alone. Not physically. Not mentally. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. The club’s maybe, but not yours. This is what the Terror is, Chevy. This is why I walked away.”
This is the Riot’s fault, not the Terror’s, but I’m not in the mood to argue. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you better at the car.”
“You did exactly what I wanted you to do.”
She’s referring to protecting Stone. Violet shakes again, and I edge closer to her, wishing I could comfort her more. “I promise I’ll protect you now. I won’t let them touch you again.”
“I know you’ll try.”
I can do more than try. I lean forward, fish for the lock pick I’d stuck in my leather belt and begin the task of freeing myself from the cuffs. Can’t remember the first time I picked a lock. Cyrus said I was breaking out of baby gates and jimmying safety latches before I was two.
“Can you do it?” she whispers, so quietly I barely hear her. She’s probably frightened someone’s listening. Won’t lie, I’m itchy wondering the same. The rest of this dark room seems empty, but I won’t feel good until it’s fully explored.
“Give me a few.” I work at the handcuffs. There’s something about how my mind ticks and how my fingers move with the puzzle. The way I can hear the metal shifting. The gentle vibrations a lock gives right as it’s about to pop.
And it does pop and a much-needed adrenaline rush floods my veins. I slip off the cuffs, careful when setting them down not to create noise, then gently move my fingers until I find Violet. I make contact with her knee first, and she flinches as if that caused her pain.
Damn bastards. I skim up her leg, up her side, her arm, then to her face.
Material is wrapped around her head. I lift it off her eyes, then press on her shoulder for her to angle forward. She does, and with steady hands, I pick the lock, then set her handcuffs on the floor.
Violet’s hand catches mine and she squeezes. I thread our fingers together, lower my head and nuzzle her hair until I find her ear. Memories of doing this hundreds of times flash in my mind, but each of those times was a moment to be cherished. This—this is comfort, but it’s also survival.
“Stay here,” I whisper into her ear. “I’m going to move around the room, make sure we’re alone. See if I can feel a way to get out.”
Violet reaches up, her fingers caressing my cheek, and a pleasing shiver runs through me when her lips brush against my ear as she speaks. We haven’t been this close in months. Not even in the last few weeks of our relationship. “Let me help.”
“I want to make sure we’re alone. I need you to stay still and silent. Two of us moving around won’t help.”
She sags, resting her forehead against my temple. Can’t understand the chaos inside me. Can’t give names to the swirling emotions, but the one thing I do comprehend is the instinct to survive, the instinct to protect her. The need to gather Violet in my arms and carry her out. Yeah, I gave in earlier, but they’ll have to take me down before they reach her again.
I bunch her hair in my hand, kiss her forehead, then pull away.
There’s a buzzing under my skin as my fingertips slowly inch their way across the wall. A sense that I’m being watched. That the hourglass has been tipped and I’m running out of time. My fingers slide up and down the concrete, searching for a window, a tool, anything I can use to defend us or for a way out. With each centimeter searched, any hope I had of busting out evolves into desperation.
My heart stalls when my fingertips collide with cloth. I press and beneath it find something solid. It’s barely above my height and I run my hands along the length, then width. Excitement grows within me. It’s a window. It’s a way out.
I yank at the fabric and it tears as if nailed in, and the more I pull, the more of it gathers into my hands and falls to the floor. A tiny ray of light leaks from a crevice. Between me and freedom are wooden shutters.
A simple latch lock. I flip it, draw the shutters open, dim light floods the room and I curse as I lower my head. Bars. There’re fucking bars on the window. I grab hold of them and shake, but there’s no give. We’re stuck. Fucking stuck, and when I rise up on my toes, all I see are bushes.
I round and survey my surroundings. Hoping for another window. Hoping for another way, but all I see are two concrete walls, two walls made of drywall, the door and Violet still huddled in the corner.
She’s watching me, expectation and hope fighting on her face over the reality of our situation. Violet’s praying I have a solution, and when I meet her eyes, I mash my lips together and shake my head. My heart shreds as she lowers her head into her hands.
My fists tighten at my sides and the urge is to pound the wall, but that won’t help Violet. Won’t help me. I gotta stay smart, gotta fight the emotion. Logic is what’s going to keep us alive.
With a roll of my neck, I cross the room, slide my leather coat off my arms and offer it to her.
Violet glances up at me and my entire body seizes. Her lip is fat and blood is smeared across her cheek. Some of it from her mouth, some of it from her nose. If there was more light, I bet her cheek would be bruising. She told me she was backhanded and I was somehow able to compartmentalize that, but now...
“It’s cold in here,” Violet says, “and the jacket is yours.”
It is cold. The bitterness already biting at my arms, but I’ll be damned if I’m warm and she’s not. To avoid the argument, I drop beside her and toss the jacket like a blanket over her shoulders.
“Chevy,” she starts, but I cut her off.
“Just take it.”
Silence on her end and I feel like a dick for snapping at her. I raise my knees to rest my arms on them and stretch my fingers like doing so could release the anger, then tension. “I couldn’t stop them from taking you. I couldn’t stop them from hurting you, but I can keep you warm. Let me do this. It’s not much, but it’s all I got.”
Violet slowly turns her head in my direction, and it’s damn hard not to stare at her damaged lip. The light falling into the room is weak, but bright enough to highlight a strand or two of her red hair. I try to focus on that and how I used to lie with her and run my hand through her hair for hours. Better times. Happier times. What I sure as hell hope we can find again after we escape.
“I was going to say we could try to share your jacket.” She hesitates. “That I don’t mind being close to you.”
My brain freezes, and I hear more than what she’s saying. Hear her fear, hear there’s more to what happened in the backseat of that car, hear that she needs me.
I straighten my legs and Violet eases into me. Her shoulder, leg and arm pressed to me as she attempts to cover both of us with my jacket. I wrap my arm around her and briefly close my eyes at how soft she feels. It’s been a long time since I held her, and each night without her has been torture.
Violet rests her head on my shoulder, and she reaches up to try to make my jacket stay on my other shoulder, but it falls. “You’re not covered all the way.”
She’s covered and that’s all I care about. “I’m okay.”
“No, you aren’t,” she whispers. “You should be home. I should be home. We should be nowhere near here.”
She’s right, but instead of replying, I lean forward, slip my arm under Violet’s knees and gather her onto my lap. Violet stares at me, eyes blinking, a bit bewildered, and I shake my head slightly to let her know I’m not fighting with her. I’m not claiming some stake in our future. I just need her, maybe more than she needs me.
She exhales. It’s a long one and then she lifts her hand. I stop breathing when she brushes her fingers along my cheek. “They hit you. You’re bruising. Everywhere.”
And I’d go through each and every hit again to protect her. My only regret is that we ended up here.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know how else to protect Brandon.”
“We did what we had to.”
Violet rests her head into the crook of my neck, and when she raises my jacket to my shoulder again, it stays. I weave my arms around her and rub my hands up and down her cold arms, almost like I’m trying to convince a dying fire to stay burning.
“Why is this happening?” Her breath tickles my neck, and I wish we were anywhere but this damp, cold prison.
“I don’t know.” Yeah, Cyrus had warned us off the road, but I don’t know why they would target Violet. Why they would target me. Odds are it’s me. My grandfather’s the president of the Terror and my uncle is the man the Riot hates the most. The Riot feels Eli stole their daughter and their granddaughter even though Meg and Emily left Eli, too.
Maybe the Riot decided to play out an eye for an eye, and I’m the closest Eli has to a blood child in the state. “Guess it was me they were after and you were caught up in it.”
“The Riot hasn’t kidnapped anyone before.”
Beat the hell out of members of our club? Yeah. Killed people belonging to our club? That, too. But I agree, at least from my limited knowledge, kidnapping wasn’t their style. “If they wanted us dead, we would be.”
She snorts. “You need to work on your comforting skills.”
My lips slightly turn up. “Noted.”
She settles further into me, her arm curving around my body. “What do we do now?”
Not much. We stay alive and... “We wait.”
“For?”
She’s not going to like my answer. “The club will figure this out. Eli and Cyrus will get us.”
The way her body tenses under mine is a confirmation of her disbelief that the club will make the situation better. I want her to have faith in them. I want Violet to be part of our family again.
“Waiting is its own form of torture, isn’t it?” she says. “I’m not sure if waiting and thinking of all the horrible things that can happen is worse than what will actually be done.”
I cling tighter to her as my own demons and nightmares awaken. The what-if’s messing with my mind are the torture she speaks of. Anything happening to me isn’t the problem. I’m plagued with thoughts of what will happen to her.
Fear.
I’ve never been scared by much. Never believed in bogeymen living under the bed. Magic and sorcery belong to people like me who have fast hands and can deceive the human eye. It’s hard to believe in evil locked in closets when you realize at an early age it’s all made-up stories to explain what people think is unexplainable.
It’s not unexplainable—only mere men manipulating shadows and mirrors.
But there’s a bitterness in my mouth now. A metallic taste I don’t like much. A coldness in my blood and a freezing in my bones at the thought of what the men outside that door could do to Violet.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
Me, too.
I strain to hear anything beyond her breaths and my heartbeat in my ears. Occasionally there are footsteps overhead. Muffled voices. The sound of the ascending and descending of the old wooden staircase. Violet curls closer into me whenever there is movement outside the door, and I keep up a steady caress up and down her arm.
My gut tells me we’re in here for a while. Tells me that they want us to be tormented by our own thoughts before the next round.
“Do you think Brandon’s okay?” she eventually asks.
I pray he is. I pray harder he kept his courage and called Eli for help. Faster the club gets involved, the faster we’ll be out of this mess. “Yeah. Your brother is a fighter.”
“No, he’s not. He’s scared of the world and most everything in it.”
I know, and Violet loves him more than she loves anyone or anything else in the world. Family first is a priority I understand. “He’s all right. You saved him tonight.”
“We saved him.”
We. It’s not a word Violet has used in a long time for us. It’s a soft kiss and a ripping of a Band-Aid at the same time.
“They took my bracelets and my necklaces. They also took Dad’s watch.”
I hug her tighter. The bracelets and necklaces—it’s not their worth that means something to her, it’s who gave them to her, the sentiment behind the gift. Some from me, some from Cyrus, most of them from her father. Losing them and her father’s watch would be like losing a part of her soul.
“We’ll get them back.”
She doesn’t argue, but doesn’t agree either. “You think it’s after midnight?”
After midnight. Damn. This isn’t right. None of this is right. “Happy birthday, Violet.”
“Eighteen,” she whispers.
We had so many plans. “Eighteen.”
“I want to go home.”
“We will.” I’ll walk through hell to make sure it happens. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Try anyhow. At least doze. We both know you can be awake and asleep at the same time. Do that. There’s no telling how long we’re in this for and we have to keep sharp.”
Violet nestles into me like she might try to sleep and I move my hand from caressing her arm to rubbing her head. That always made her sleepy, always made her fall asleep in my arms.
“Thank you for sacrificing yourself for Brandon,” she murmurs. “He loves you.”
“I know.” A lot like he loves her. A lot like I love her, too.
Violet begins to sing. Not loudly, softly, under her breath. She has a beautiful voice. When I was a kid, I used to think that’s what angels would sound like. Violet used to sing all the time when we were younger, but less and less as we got older.
Last time I heard her sing was the night her dad died. I held her that night, too. We lay in her bed, her head on my chest, and she sang in a soft tone until she fell asleep.
Broke my heart then. Breaks my heart now. But like then, I’m helpless and do only what I can, hold her and pray.
Violet (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
THE BEAMS OF sun warm my skin and I stretch lazily on the blanket. I’m at my favorite place on earth—the back field of my house. Walk long enough and eventually I’d wander onto Cyrus’s property. Dad would let the grass grow high here and he’d have it cut several times throughout the summer and sell the hay, but he would leave this small portion untouched for me.
I loved the wildness of free-growing grass, trees with long limbs and branches heavy with leaves. Beside me, Chevy’s propped up on one elbow and he’s watching me. Chevy always watches me.
“I’m dreaming,” I say.
He smiles, shifting from fourteen to seventeen, then back to fourteen. Can’t decide which one I like better. He’s handsome either way, but at fourteen, Chevy couldn’t make up his mind on whether to hold my hand. Confused about how he felt, since we had been raised to love each other as siblings, but we were more than brother and sister, more than friends. The two of us always shared a special connection.
At seventeen, he broke my heart. I blink and Chevy is sixteen and I loved sixteen. He did way more than hold my hand then and we were light-years away from him shattering my soul.
I’ve always been able to do this. Be aware when I’m dreaming, but there’s a cost to it. Sometimes I become paralyzed. Powerless to move my body. My mind awake, my muscles asleep and I’ll panic at the thought of never being in control again. To never speak or walk or run.
I hope this isn’t one of those dreams. To be sure it isn’t, I focus hard and I’m able to twitch a finger—not in the dream, but in reality. Coldness rushes into the heat of the day and I pull back from my conscious mind and return to the dream, but a sense of dread washes through me.
“We aren’t safe,” I say to Chevy. “I shouldn’t be asleep.”
“I first kissed you here,” he replies like that’s an appropriate response, but it’s a dream and I go with it.
“We did a lot more than just kiss here.” Happiness swirls within me at the memories of stolen moments I thought would last forever. We did a lot of firsts in this back field. Too many to count. None of it rushed. All of it slow. Teeny, tiny baby steps because I was never ready for too much too fast and Chevy was patient, always patient as if he was just as scared as I was to go any further than we had before.
Chevy’s smile widens and it’s that mischievous dimpled one that continuously dared me to go along with one of his crazy schemes. Smuggling hot cookies out of Olivia’s kitchen when we were seven. Lifting Cyrus’s Reign of Terror cut when we were ten. Pickpocketing Eli’s keys so we could go joyriding in his truck before we had our licenses.
Can’t take much credit. Chevy was the mastermind with the fast hands. I was the lovely assistant who helped with the distraction, but I loved being part of the action.
I reach out, stretching because I miss touching him so much, but his smile fades and his expression darkens. “Violet, wake up.”
Fear seizes my lungs as storm clouds gather in the sky. Chevy grabs ahold of my arms and yells, “Wake up!”
My eyes snap open, a haze of morning light barely lightens the basement room and the air is knocked out of me as I’m being shoved to the concrete corner. Scuffed black boots in front of me, and when I look up, Chevy has his back to me, arms out, the handcuffs dangling from his fingers.
Nausea races up my throat. They’re returning and this is all Chevy has for weapons.
I push off the floor, and as I stand, Chevy presses back so I’m flush against the wall. “Stay behind me.”
I rub my eyes to wake myself as four men enter the room. All of them from last night. Fiend marches in behind them like a victorious general. Two men fan to the left, the other two to the right. Fiend stays near the door in the middle and sizes Chevy up. “I heard you were wily, but I had bet you couldn’t bust out of cuffs. Guess I was wrong.”
Chevy says nothing and Fiend makes a show of leaning as he looks at me. “Have a nice sleep?”
I don’t break eye contact as I follow Chevy’s lead on staying silent.
Fiend hikes up the waist of his pants. He has a belt on, but his gut is overbearing. “This is how it’s going to play out. McKinley, you’re coming with us. We need to talk about your club.”
“I’m not a member, and even if I were, I don’t speak for the Terror.”
“Your grandfather is the president of the Terror. I have faith you can handle this negotiation.”
“Nothing I do or say holds any weight in the club.”
“I disagree. President’s grandson does hold weight. Especially when it’s his life on the line.”
“You got something to say, say it,” Chevy spits out. “But I’m not leaving her.”
Fiend’s eyebrows rise. “You mean Violet? We know who she is and who her father was to your club. Just like we know who you are and what she means to you.”
My gaze snaps to Fiend’s and he catches it, then winks. Chevy shifts, obviously uncomfortable with the exchange. Uneasiness gathers in my stomach in rolling waves. In the car, Fiend kept reaching over like he was going to pull down my shirt. Twice he almost succeeded. He stole my bracelets. Stole my necklaces. Stole Dad’s watch. Touching parts of me I wished he hadn’t in the process. I suck in a breath in order to contain the dry heave.
I went full-on crazy when he touched me and I kicked the hell out of him. Then Fiend hit me. Several times. I tried to fight back, but he was bigger than me and I thought he was going to keep going until I died, but the man in the front seat barked an order at Fiend to back off, for me to shut up, and the asshole retreated to his side of the backseat and went silent.
It’s funny how my body throbbed, but I felt no pain. How blood trickled against my skin, but there wasn’t an ache. I don’t know what any of that was about, but I do know both men scared me, I’m still scared and I want more than anything to go home.
I didn’t tell Chevy all that really happened. He’s already sacrificed enough to save my brother. I’m not sure if I’ll ever tell Chevy. Not sure if I make it out of this I’ll ever tell anyone. I just want to leave here and pretend none of this happened.
“This can be easy,” Fiend says. “You come with us and she stays here. If it becomes hard, it’s because you made it hard. Anything that happens to you is by your choice.”
Such a bullshit answer. “My choice is to leave.”
Fiend offers me a fake sympathetic shrug. “Not my call to make. But I’ll tell you what, if it makes you feel better, I’ll stay behind to keep you company. Finish what we started last night.”
Heat rushes to my face, dizziness overwhelms me and, this time, I bend over when I can’t contain the dry heave. An arm around my waist, and when I glance up, dark concerned eyes meet mine. It’s Chevy, and as he takes in my reaction, stone-cold anger replaces the concern. He quickly returns his attention to the men who stepped closer at the lowering of his defense.
“I’m okay,” I whisper and shove him away from me. To protect him. To protect us.
“Let’s go, McKinley,” Fiend demands.
Chevy stretches out his arm again. “No.”
Fiend nods, the men are in motion and Chevy backs up, pinning me to the wall again. Fiend reaches to his back and all the air rushes out of my body. There’s a gun in his hand and he’s pointing it at us—at Chevy.
“Move or I’ll shoot you,” Fiends says like he’s bored. “That leaves her alone with us. Your choice.”
My pulse pounds violently in my veins. Chevy promised to protect me, but I don’t want him dead. “Go with them.”
“No.”
“Go with them, Chevy,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
And I need him alive. If he cooperates, they’ll let him live. It’s obvious they have a message for Chevy to give and I’m just the person they’re using to control him.
The guy to the left lunges at Chevy. He raises his arm to fight, leaving an opening, and I watch as Fiend keeps the gun trained on Chevy, but aims it lower, to Chevy’s leg. Maybe Fiend’s going to injure Chevy, ruining his chances of walking, playing football, and if that doesn’t bring him to submission, Fiend will then torture me to make Chevy break.
I’m stronger than this. Bigger than this. If this is how it’s going to be, I’ll go down fighting. I’ll be the wild and crazy girl my father loved. My throat burns at the thought of him. At the thought of leaving behind my mother, my brother. Not sure how the two of them will exist without me there to push them along.
The club will take care of them. The club might never let them learn how to survive on their own, how to be their own person, so my mother and brother will never thrive, but they’ll eat, they’ll sleep and I hope to God the club will learn their lesson from what happens to me and Chevy and they’ll protect the people I love the most.
Chevy’s throwing punches and they’re throwing punches back. He’s losing, he’s bleeding and he grunts in pain. Chevy hits a man so hard that he falls limp to the ground, but then two other guys tackle him and Chevy’s head hits the concrete. His head rolls forward with the impact and there is red streaming from his skull.
The blood drains from my face, but I push my feet forward, toward Fiend. Hoping somehow I’m faster. Hoping somehow I can turn the tables.
Fiend’s eyes widen as he realizes I’m heading for him, and he turns the gun—in my direction. Chevy screams my name and right when my eyes close, as I understand I’m not going to be fast enough, there’s a loud bang and I suck in a breath.
Then oddly I let out that breath in the silence. My heart beats in my ears. Again and again and again and I inhale, the air feeling cold in my lungs. I reopen my eyes and look down at my body. Expecting to see blood, waiting for the pain, but there’s nothing.
“What the hell is going on?” a raspy voice demands. An older man with gray hair, a real-life Mack truck with legs, barrels into the room. He heads toward another new man with a scar on his face who has Fiend pushed up against the wall. His hands around Fiend’s throat like he’s willing to crush the life out of my enemy.
The gun is out of Fiend’s hand and the man with the scar offers it to the older man.
The old man points the gun in Fiend’s direction like it’s a finger and not a loaded weapon. “Did you just shoot a gun at her? Are you insane? She’s Frat’s girl.”
My feet become strangely planted while my head floats as if it’s curiously light. As I turn my head to find Chevy, the entire room spins. Is the enemy of my enemy my friend?
“Let him go,” the old man says.
I throw my arm out, searching for a wall to stay upright and instead discover a warm hand. A solid arm around my waist and then there are beautiful dark eyes. “I got you.”
My hand goes to Chevy’s face and I gingerly touch his eye that’s swelling, the bruises forming on his face, the blood flowing near the corner of his lip. “I’m sorry.”
This is my fault. Maybe we gave up too easy at the car. Maybe we should have run into the woods. Maybe I should have yelled at Chevy when he stopped his motorcycle to help. I should have pushed him away then. I should have known that I’m cursed and that I’m only capable of hurting everyone I love.
“Get him out of here,” says the old man.
The guy with the scar lets Fiend go and the two men who were fighting Chevy grab Fiend and drag him away. I blink several times and lean into Chevy’s body as my mind has fractured.
“What’s going on?” I whisper to Chevy, but he only shakes his head. His fingers tap twice to my side and I straighten. Two fingers tapping. It’s a childhood code. He’s telling me we’re in danger, and considering the past few hours, it scares the hell out of me that we’ve somehow fallen into a deeper hole.
The old man hands the gun back to the guy with a scar on his face, then scans me and Chevy as if he’s perplexed. His blue eyes tell me he sees all, knows all—a god to many in his world. “I’m going to apologize, but I know it won’t sound like much. I’m—”
“Emily’s grandfather,” Chevy cuts him off. “You’re the president of the Riot.”
Realization causes me to curl my fingers into Chevy’s shirt. This is the man whose daughter, Meg, left him to be with Eli when she fell in love with Eli over eighteen years ago. The man who has tortured the Terror since the day Meg left. Then when Eli’s life in the club proved too much for Meg, she left Eli for good as well, taking their daughter, Emily, with her. This past summer, Emily and Eli reconnected, and Emily and my best friend Oz fell in love. Those newly cemented relationships burn the Riot up and they’re holding a grudge.
The old man cocks his head. “I am. The name is Skull and I know who both of you are. There’s been a gross misunderstanding, and I only learned that you had been picked up by Fiend about thirty minutes ago. Came straight here when I found out. I had no idea about the conditions you were taken under or how you were being held. Again, my apologies.”
I don’t believe him and obviously neither does Chevy. “Then let us go home.”
“We will,” he says. “But why don’t we get you upstairs first. Let you clean yourselves up, get you some food and then me and you will call Eli together. How’s that sound?”
Sounds like heaven, but by the way Chevy and I grasp each other, we’re both aware that we’re mere steps away from descending into hell.
CHEVY (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
MY ENTIRE BODY THROBS, but I ignore it as I watch Violet enter the bathroom. She’s slow going in. Shuffling her feet. Most of it in reluctance to face what’s waiting for her in there, also could be because they kicked the hell out of her last night by the road in order to make her kneel. She has a limp and I can’t help but wonder if they did damage to her knee.
I don’t think she notices. I don’t think she feels any of the pain from the bruises on her body. Too much in shock. Too damn headstrong. What the hell was she thinking gunning for a man ready to shoot her? I rub the back of my head, feeling my own head wound. I know what she was thinking. She was trying to protect me, trying to take on the world on her own...again.
Violet’s knee gives, she trips and I shift to the balls of my feet to catch her, but she remains unaware, recovers and keeps moving. Not sure if I’m grateful Violet’s numb to the pain or if that scares the hell out of me more. If we survive this, how are either of us going to snap back mentally?
Violet looks behind the bathroom door, then hobbles to the bathtub and peeks behind the light blue curtain. We’re upstairs now, but there’s no window in this bathroom. Still no escape.
She glances at me to let me know that, at least in the bathroom, she’ll be safe.
In the basement, Violet dozed in my arms, did that thing where she dreams but stays somewhat conscious. Could tell by the way she jerked and murmured. Even with the seminap, the circles under her eyes are black against her pale skin and the bruises are overpronounced.
“You can take a shower if you want.” The president of the Riot, Skull, is by my side, acting like we’re out-of-town guests. “Towels are under the sink. You’re safe now.”
“Take your time,” I say, meaning if there’s a lock on the door to use it, shatter the glass of the mirror and use it as a weapon and hide in the bathroom until help hopefully arrives.
“I’m not taking a shower.” Violet holds eye contact with me. “Just using the bathroom.”
“Take your time,” I repeat, and Violet nods before shutting the door. There’s the click of a lock. Good girl. Got to admit I could pick that lock in seconds, but it’s better than nothing.
Skull inclines his head down the hall, away from the bathroom. “Why don’t we go in the kitchen? Give her a few minutes to regroup, get you some food.”
Considering we were kidnapped, he should be offering to call the police. I’m not stupid enough to mention that. Not stupid enough to think this scenario is over. There are no pictures in the hallway. No personal touches in the kitchen we passed on the way here. No color to the walls. This place is nothing more than a dump house—a place to lie low, a place to hide, a place to take people you kidnap or want to kill. “I’m staying here.”
“Come to the kitchen and we’ll call Eli. Faster we make that call, faster you two go home. You and I both know she’s not coming out unless she knows you’re on the other side of that door.”
I want ten-foot-thick concrete walls between Violet and the Riot. For now, a door will do. I knock on it. “I’m going to the kitchen. Stay in until I come back.”
“Okay,” comes her muffled response.
Skull goes first, I follow and weigh my odds of making it out of here with Violet if I were to knock the hell out of him from behind, but figure there’s a wall of cuts surrounding the house. We enter the kitchen and I’m surprised when no one else is there. House feels too empty and that’s eerie.
“Take a seat.” Skull pulls out a folding chair from the cardboard table.
I choose to lean my back against the corner that leads to the hallway so I can keep an eye on Violet. “I’m good.”
He shrugs. “Your choice. Before we call Eli, there are a few things we need to discuss.”
Skull looks over at me as if waiting for my permission to continue, but I say nothing. He eases down at the table in the compact kitchen and kicks out his legs. “Look, I did send out my guys to find you, but they misunderstood my instructions. I told them to tell you that I needed to talk to you. To convince you to come with them. Not kidnap. Just for us to talk.”
My eyebrows rise and the action causes a slice of pain. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”
Skull sighs, then leans forward, drawing his legs in and rubbing his hands together. “Son—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You turn eighteen soon,” he talks over me, ignoring my response. “And the way you’ve been groomed, I’m betting you’ll have the shortest prospect period in the history of your club or you’ll have a full-blown cut on you by the time the clock strikes midnight on your birthday.”
Not seeing how that’s his concern.
“Before that happens,” he continues, “I only felt like it was right to let you know some pertinent information. There’s a detective from Louisville who has been digging into our past and he seems intent on talking to your club, too. Because of that, I think you should know before your club does. Give you a chance to protect yourself.”
He’s talking in code, in circles, verbally waving his right hand to keep me from looking at his left. My eyes flicker down the hallway and the bathroom door is still closed, light still peeking out from the cracks.
Some of what he’s saying is true. There’s a Louisville gang detective who’s been trying to nail the Riot MC and the same detective talked to some members of the Terror in hopes of us being able to supply them with information. I’m in the dark on whether or not the Terror can or have helped.
“I liked your father, Chevy, and for what he did for us, you deserve to know the truth before you have the Terror’s colors on your back.”
Did for them? There’s a ringing in my ears as my world narrows in on him. My dad died before my birth, and I’ll admit to not knowing much about him other than family ramblings about Thanksgivings and Christmases, but I know my father was Terror through and through. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your father may have had Terror colors on his back,” says Skull, “but he was loyal to the Riot.”
Violet (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
CHEVY WANTED ME to stay in here, but each second of silence is maddening. I sit on the edge of the bathtub and my hands shake. I don’t know why they shake. The rest of my body feels oddly calm, sort of like I’m drunk, but I haven’t drunk in weeks.
I’ll admit to getting wasted more than I should have this past summer. Upset over some pictures some idiot guy had taken of me at a party, upset he blackmailed me into dating him—because that’s the way to make a girl care for you—upset that my dad wasn’t alive to protect me from the real-world monsters.
But the pictures are no longer an issue, and neither is the guy. Razor’s to thank for that and the only thing he asked of me in return was to stop drinking around people who weren’t the Terror. I decided to stop drinking, period. The drinking didn’t help anyhow. Didn’t make me forget like TV and movies said it would. It only made my crazy emotions crazier, made the sadness sadder, made me fall into dark places when I already couldn’t see daylight.
I roll my neck and try to focus. Try to make out any sounds outside the bathroom door, but it’s been hard. My mind keeps wandering. Goes to random places, but then returns to the way my heart slammed in my chest as I ran for the gun, the way my stomach sank when I heard the bang, the bullet that missed, and then my thoughts wander off in weird directions like to this past summer and how I’d give almost anything to push rewind and get a second chance.
A second chance—will I have one going forward? Will Chevy?
Focus!
I suck in a deep breath and try to listen, but I hear nothing. How long have I been in here? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Did they take Chevy out of the house? Are they hurting him? My eyes burn and I quickly stand, not wanting to let visions of him bruised and bleeding enter my mind.
I stare at the door and will it to open. Will Chevy to be standing on the other side, offering me his hand and telling me that we’re safe and that we can leave. But nothing happens. No noise. No turning of the knob. Nothing.
My entire body quakes. He’s been gone too long, and I need to find him. I need to know if he’s okay, but what if he’s not okay? What if I open the door and there’s another gun pointing at me?
I shake my head. What if there is? If I’m going to die, I’m going to die. At this point, it could be a relief compared to thinking of how this is all going to end.
The three steps to the door are the longest of my life, and when I turn the knob, I quit breathing. The hallway right outside the bathroom is empty. I step out, I turn my head and Chevy’s down the hallway, leaning his back against the corner of the kitchen, and he swings his head in my direction.
I blink. Something’s wrong. This whole situation is wrong, but his expression...
“Kenneth’s talking with Chevy on some club business.” A woman appears to my left. She’s older, in her sixties maybe, but she has blond hair, blue eyes, jeans, a purple sweater, pearls in her ears and a gold cross around her neck.
My hand goes to my father’s cross. It should be buried beneath my shirt, pressed against my skin, but Fiend stole it along with my bracelets, Dad’s watch and my other necklaces.
“Sweetheart, do you hear me?” she asks.
I died. I died and I’m in some sort of hell.
“Kenneth is Skull,” she continues. “My husband. I’m Jenna. We’re both sorry about how you were treated. I’m sure Kenneth explained it was a misunderstanding.”
Sure it was. “Then let us leave.”
“Chevy and Kenneth are calling Eli now. We’ll figure out how to get you home safely without entanglements.”
She means police. If what she says is true, I’m not sure why she thinks we won’t call the police the moment we’re free, or why Eli wouldn’t call the police if he hasn’t already. We were kidnapped. Me and Chevy. Two people who haven’t blood-pact-pinkie-sworn to be part of an MC.
“Why don’t you come in here and give Chevy and Kenneth the time to work out details?” She waves her hand toward a bedroom diagonal from the bathroom and farther away from Chevy. “I have something to drink ready for you. Tea. It’s warm and can help calm your nerves. There’s also something to eat in there if you’d like.”
As if I could eat, but I swallow in an effort to ease my dry mouth. I follow her, and once I reach the doorway, I jerk back. The man with the scar stands in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Don’t freak,” he says. “If you remember correctly, I’m the one that kept that bullet from going into your body. And as a public service announcement, I’m not into seventeen-year-old girls nor am I going to hurt one in front of my mother.”
The scar across his face—that’s from Eli. I’ve heard about this my entire life. Eli fell in love with this man’s sister, Meg. Meg left with Eli, had a baby with Eli, and when she refused to return to her family, this man tried to force Meg to come home and Eli came to her rescue. The bad part of the rescue is that Eli became so violent, he almost killed this man and Eli went to prison for attempted murder.
Scarred Guy’s mother sits on the bed and crosses her ankles. “See? Justin confirmed you’re safe.”
They aren’t using road names. They’re trying to make me feel like they’re normal, like I’m safe. I glance down the hallway at Chevy again and he looks as lost and bewildered as me.
Chevy cocks his head to the kitchen, then gestures with his chin for me to remain where I am. He returns his attention to whoever is speaking to him. He’s okay and he doesn’t want me to be a part of what they’re talking about. If he’s okay, maybe I am, too, for the moment.
I rest my shoulder against the door frame of the room.
Jenna and her son share a look because—shocker—the kidnap victim isn’t cooperating.
“I’m ready to go home,” I say.
Jenna mashes her lips together. “I’ll tell Kenneth.”
She leaves, goes down the hallway to the kitchen, and then I hear the door to the outside open and close. Funny how I didn’t hear her make a peep to Kenneth.
Scarred Guy Justin still stands in the corner, still has his arms crossed over his chest, still watches me. Chevy wants me to stay here and I don’t.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Justin says. “We weren’t after Chevy. It was you we wanted to talk to, but our guy got out of control. He thought he had you alone, he was ordered to convince you to come talk to me or Dad. Fiend didn’t know Chevy was going to be there when they pulled up, and when that kid started swinging, our guy lost his mind.”
“Well, gee, I guess that makes everything okay.”
His lips edge up but then fall back down. “Fiend will be punished, so there’s no need for you and Chevy to go all crazy and cause legal problems for us later.”
“I feel so much better,” I say drily. “Besides, you’re full of crap. Chevy’s the one with the possible power play, I’m nobody.”
“We’ve been watching you for a while,” he continues. “You’re the one that brought Emily to us this past summer.”
I readjust as the need to shed my skin overwhelms me. I did bring Eli’s daughter to Louisville, but in our defense, neither of us knew at the time that her grandparents were Riot royalty. She thought she was meeting her long-lost normal grandparents, at a time when she really needed some normal and some answers in her life.
“You lost your dad, and I’m sorry. Frat was a good man.”
Anger wells up in me from the tip of my toes and then explodes out of my mouth. “You know nothing about my father.”
“Untrue. Your father was the one reason why the Riot and Terror never went Apocalypse Now. He had a steady head. Smart as hell. If he was still around, none of what happened this summer surrounding Emily would have happened. He would have figured out a way for Eli to see her, for us to see her, and she wouldn’t have been caught between us, trying to figure out who’s good and who’s bad.”
Easy. If I had to pick, they’re both bad, but the Terror are annoying-little-brother bad and the Riot are serial-killer bad. No-brainer.
“Your father wanted peace more than anything else. Did you know he was on his way to meet me when he died? Once every three months, he met with me and he listened to our list of grievances with the Terror and he’d tried to explain how we somehow had done the Terror wrong.”
I straighten away from the door frame. “Are you saying you killed him?”
Justin’s face screws up. “Fuck no. I respected the hell out of Frat, regardless of whose colors he had on his back. He wanted peace. Our club wants peace. His death was an accident. Trust me, we looked into it just as much as your club did. We weren’t sure if your side was trying to take him out because he was the one person who was able to see both sides and tried to keep us all from killing each other.”
I roll my eyes and Justin catches it. “You don’t believe me?”
“No. I may not know much, but your club is the one always pushing on the Terror to pay for riding through your territory and your club is always the one hurting Terror members.” I hold out my arms in a “hello.”
“There are rules, ways things are done, and the Terror think they’re above it.”
Maybe they do, maybe they don’t, but regardless... “Your politics have nothing to do with me.”
“It does.”
He’s delusional. “It doesn’t.”
“All that stuff I mentioned, we could possibly get past it, but what we can’t get past is Eli. He took my sister, turned her against us, and because of him she’s not in our life. My niece isn’t in my life.”
Emily is the one person I envy more than anyone else. She’s a blood child of the Terror and the Riot and she grew up far, far away from both clubs.
My temples begin to throb. I’m tired and I’m ready to fall to the floor in exhaustion. “Why are you talking to me?”
“As I said, we’ve been watching you. You’re not happy with the Terror. You’re not happy with Eli. What if I could offer you an opportunity to do what your father always wanted? What if you could bring peace to the clubs? What if by doing so, we’ll help you get the Terror out of your life and help get you out of your town?”
I’d be lying if I said he didn’t have my full attention. “If you want peace, all you have to do is leave the Terror alone.”
“We will leave the Terror alone, once we have Eli out of the way. He’s hurt too many people we love for him to be around. We can’t kill him. My mother still has hopes Emily will want a relationship with us someday. If Eli dies, she’ll blame us. But if Eli happens to be caught doing something illegal, caught betraying his club, caught by the police in the process and sent to prison, then we’ll be happy and we’ll pretend the Terror never existed.”
My blood freezes in my veins, and I shake like I’m having a seizure. “Why are you telling me this?”
Justin looks straight into my eyes. “I want to frame Eli. Make it look like he’s been embezzling money from the club’s security company and from their clients.”
Eli may not be my favorite person, but... “No one will believe that.”
“Leave the belief up to me, but in order to frame Eli, I need account numbers. The club’s account numbers, the clients’ account numbers, as many numbers as I can get my hands on.”
The throbbing in my temples increases. “What is it you think I can do?”
“Your father was the accountant for the club and for the security business. We’ve heard how your mother is having a hard time dealing with his loss—not moving on very well. Even heard his clothes still hang in her closet.”
There’s a burst of painful fear in my chest and it steals my breath. He’s been in my house. This man has been in my house.
“I bet everything of your dad’s is still where he left it. If you search hard enough, you could find something. Some old files. Maybe search around on his computer.”
A cold tingling in my bloodstream. I may be mad at the club, but I’m not a traitor. “Why didn’t you just look for it while you were there?”
Justin smiles and it’s the type that causes you to fear the devil. “Me, in your house? That would mean breaking and entering. Plus, or so I’ve heard, your mom doesn’t leave the house very often. I’m hypothesizing here, but it would be hard to get things done when she’s around.”
Bile rises in my throat.
“Just to make this situation move faster rather than slower, if you’re wondering if the Terror clubhouse is a place where little birds can’t see, you’d be wrong. Birds have a way of looking through all windows. Even ones that belong to the Terror. Hiding there brings vultures to your doorstep. Your home—it’s like hanging out with songbirds.”
Dear God, I’m not safe anywhere.
“Think about it, Violet.” He uncrosses his arms and uses my name as if we’re friends. “You can bring about the peace your father always wanted between our clubs. You want out—we’ll help you get out. Help pay for college, help you find a job—whatever you need. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut to the police about this whole misunderstanding, search around the house for some numbers that really mean nothing to you and then sit back and watch your father’s lifework come to fruition. What do you say, are you in?”
My stomach cramps, and when I look down the hallway, Chevy’s nowhere to be seen. Eli is like a father to Chevy, he used to be my father’s best friend, but he’s also brought so much heartache to the club. It’s because of his past garbage that I’m standing here today. It’s because of his past garbage my dad was on the road that night.
But still, am I capable of being a traitor? “What if I’m not?”
Justin slides his hands into his pockets and his blue eyes go cold. The hairs on my arms stand on end and I rub at the bare skin as if that would grant me warmth. “Just so we’re clear, I wasn’t there last night when Fiend took you. Because if I were, I would have put a stop to it. We all have our boundaries and I don’t kidnap kids, but let’s say I heard things.
“I heard how you had an argument with your mom in your house and then left with your brother to go to the football game. Heard how you had a fight with Eli outside the game over tickets and how you wanted him and the club out of your life. Heard how your brother was with you when you broke down and how the reason Chevy probably didn’t kill one of my guys was because your brother was in the backseat of the car and you two were protecting him.”
“You heard this?” I shiver while heat flushes my cheeks. This man, he was there, and he saw and knows everything.
Justin walks closer to me and stops on his way out of the room so that our shoulders touch. “As if I was there watching, but as I said, I don’t kidnap kids. It would have been a shame if Fiend hadn’t taken you on the side of the road. Maybe waited until you were tucked safely in your bed, entered your home and took you and your mom. Would have been a shame if Fiend had known about your brother in the backseat and brought him along for the ride.”
My head ticks to the side. “Are you threatening my family?”
Justin smiles as he tries for mocked shock. “No, because I don’t do things like that.”
Then he winks. A small part of me wishes that the bullet had hit me and I was dead because then he wouldn’t be using my family as leverage over me.
“We’ll find a way to stay in touch,” he says. “After all, we know where you live.”
CHEVY (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
MY BRAIN’S FOGGED. Like I was plowed on the football field by a two-hundred-pound linebacker. Like I slammed my head on the ground and I wasn’t wearing a helmet. The world’s fuzzy and I’m having a hard time registering Skull’s words, but he’s talking and I’m trying to listen.
I’m sitting at the table now. Skull’s sitting, too. He’s been explaining that my father didn’t get along with Cyrus—the man who’s raised me as one of his own. That my father, James, joined the Terror because he didn’t feel like there was another option and he later regretted it.
Cyrus told me Dad often felt trapped by Snowflake, so he would go to Louisville and stay for long periods, but he never mentioned Dad being at odds with him, with the Terror.
Skull has a different version. That Dad had a place in Louisville, that he had a steady girlfriend in Louisville, that he hung out and worked with the Riot and they trusted him because he gave the Riot information on the Terror.
My lungs hurt like I’m drowning. If what he’s saying is true? My father was a traitor.
No. My father was no traitor. This asshole is messing with me. “My father was loyal to the Terror.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Skull has the nerve to look at me like he’s sorry to be breaking the news.
“There’s holes in your story. Dad didn’t do steady with women. Even I know that.” From the club and from my mom. A rare moment of information verified on both fronts.
“He didn’t, but the woman he had in Louisville he cared for. Called her a friend, let her live with him after she had run away from home. I can give you her name if you want. Meet her. She’ll confirm everything I’m telling you. In fact, I hope you do. There’s things about her you need to know. Things, as a man who values family, that I think you need to know.”
Probably because he paid her to tell me what he wants me to believe. “You’re full of shit.”
“If I were in your shoes, I’d think the same thing, but it doesn’t change the truth. That Louisville detective figured it out recently. Won’t be long until he’s going to try to use that information against the Terror...and against you.”
I slouch in the seat. “The Terror’s legit and anything my father did or didn’t do doesn’t affect me.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Way I look at it, how well do you know your club? What is it that the Terror are hiding that the son of the president traded sides? Other question to ask yourself is how the other members of Terror are going to treat you once they find out your old man was a traitor. Are they going to be wondering how far off the tree that apple falls?”
Footsteps down the hallway and the man with the scar emerges. Violet limps in behind him. I stand so quickly that the legs of the chair bounce against the floor. She glances over at me and the lost expression on her face is worse than any punch.
Nausea twists my gut. She was alone with him and I fell for it. Skull waved his right hand in order for me to lose focus on his left. “You okay?”
She nods.
“Did he hurt you?”
Violet shakes her head and it bothers me she’s gone mute.
I set my sights on Skull and make it perfectly clear we’re done talking. “Call Eli now, get us home or I swear to God I’ll make each of you bleed before you get a chance to put a bullet in my brain.”
Skull laughs like I told a joke, but stands, pulls his cell out of his pocket and slides it to me. “Once you get ahold of Eli and tell him you’re okay, give the phone to me and I’ll tell him where to pick the two of you up.”
Violet (#ufa3e80b5-765b-5d24-9e67-9a882593b3af)
I’M BLINDFOLDED AGAIN and I’m handcuffed. The car is different, but my placement in the backseat isn’t. This time it was Chevy who placed the cuff on my wrist, then folded the bandana over my eyes. He did both with such care, touching me like I was on the verge of shattering, looking at me with such tender eyes that I wanted to weep.
The blindfold was a “request” from Skull, but the one wrist handcuffed was Chevy’s idea. He didn’t trust them to blindfold us and keep us together. I still don’t trust that they’re taking us to Eli, that they’re taking us home.
Before Chevy did either, he whispered, “Do you trust me?”
Of course I did. Trusted him to be the first boy to hold my hand. Trusted him to be the first boy I kissed. Trusted him to be the first for so many things. Did I trust him with my life? I held out my wrist, then stepped closer so I could allow him to blindfold me.
More than the car is different. The backseat doesn’t smell of rotten food. The material of the seats isn’t torn. The engine doesn’t roar. This ride is quiet. No radio. No one talking. The engine barely a purr.
This time Chevy sits with me in the backseat. Our legs are pressed tight together and he hooked one of his fingers with mine. He continuously slides his finger up and down in a reassuring caress. Not too fast, not too slow. It’s like a heartbeat.
A promise.
We’re going home.
He’s here with me.
It’s going to be okay.
I want to believe him, but I’m not sure if I can. There’s a nagging sensation that we’re reaching the end and not as in the they-all-lived-happily-ever-after, but as in the tragic finality of a nightmare.
My mouth is dry, my blood feels funny as it courses through my veins. Never thought much about breathing until this all happened. How air feels so good coming into my lungs and refreshing as it leaves. How each inhale and exhale is a gift.
Never thought too much about how a comforting touch from someone you care for is a blessing. Chevy is a blessing. Breathing is a gift. My heart beats a bit faster. I could be on the verge of losing both.
The car leaves the smoothness of a paved road and Chevy and I jostle into each other as the car dips and rocks. We’re on a dirt path. A knot forms in my throat. Not good. Not good at all. My stomach flips, and I breathe out to try to calm my nerves, but it doesn’t help.
Chevy shifts, his head near mine, his breath warm on my ear. “You and me, Violet. We’re going to get through this. Just do what I say when I say it.”
I nod. Together. We’re going to survive this together.
The car slows to a stop, a door opens and my heart beats in my ears. Chevy fidgets next to me, leaning forward. There’s a click, and a loosening of the handcuff and then the blindfold is lifted from my eyes. I blink at the brightness and snap my head in Chevy’s direction when his door opens. Both of his hands are free, the handcuff still on my wrist, but I’m not bound to anyone or anything anymore.
Chevy slides out and I scramble across the seat to follow. Frantically, I glance around, searching for Eli, but besides Justin, there’s not another living soul. Trees. Lots of trees. Trees full of colored leaves and the sunlight filtering through the thick branches, but no Eli.
They lied.
A hollowness in my stomach and the world tilts. Chevy grabs my hand and yanks me. “Run, Violet!”
He shoves me away from the car, away from Justin, away from him, but instead I reach out for Chevy, to force him to come with me. I will not abandon him now.
“Eli’s at the other end of this road,” Justin says in such a calm way that it’s frightening. “A half mile. I didn’t bring you out here to kill you, I’m sending you home.”
I grab on to Chevy’s wrist. He readjusts, taking my fingers with his.
Justin sets his hard glare on me. “I already explained we want peace. Me and Eli in the same breathing space means war. Safer for both of our clubs to drop you off here.”
“Then get in the car and leave,” Chevy says.
Justin glances over me, as if he’s trying to judge whether or not I’ll do what he’s asked. As a reminder of what they could do to my brother and mother if I don’t.
Without another word, Justin returns to the car. The world has an unreal quality to it, as if I’m watching a movie, as he U-turns and drives back the way he came.
We’re free.
Yet the adrenaline coursing through my veins doesn’t feel like relief. My back itches like someone is watching, my entire body vibrates with the sense we’re about to be ambushed—as if I’ll never be safe again.
The wind blows through the trees, making a clapping sound, and the breeze is cold against my cheeks. Chevy’s hand is warm and strong. We watch Justin’s car leave. Rocks cracking under the pressure of the tires. Dirt blowing up as a cloud in the wind.
The dust settles, the car retreats around a bend, the sound of the rocks being driven over and the purring engine fade yet we still stare in the direction Justin disappeared. As if we’re both frightened to turn our backs and tempt fate to drag us back to the basement prison.
Chevy pulls on my hand. “Let’s go.”
He steps forward, I walk with him and unbelievable pain shoots through my knee. I falter, clinging to Chevy as I try not to fall to the ground. The pain then leaks into my blood and every bruise, every cut throbs in agony. I gasp, confused how I had gone from no pain to sheer torture.
Chevy steadies me. “You okay?”
I nod, but I’m not, and from the sympathetic way he looks at me, he’s aware. With a sturdy arm around my waist, we go forward. Each step causes my muscles to twinge, my knee to give, bringing me to a new level of exhaustion, but each of those steps brings me closer to home, brings Chevy closer to home, and he needs to be home.
He needs stitches for the gash on his head, he needs a doctor to look at the eye that’s so swollen I’m sure he can barely see and he needs to be safe and secure and as far from the Riot as possible.
We hobble up a hill and that’s when we see them—Eli, Cyrus, Pigpen and a whole group of men. They’re leaning against their motorcycles, but the moment they see us, they straighten and some of them are on the move in our direction. Chevy’s grip tightens on me and I lean into him. My eyes water and it becomes too blurry to see. We made it. We’re going home.
Chevy starts down the hill, but this time when my knee gives, I go down with it. The hard ground is honestly a blessing and my fingers touch the grass and dirt like it’s a pillow and a bed. I don’t hunker down, but I consider it. Dream of resting my head and going to sleep. Then I can begin to pretend this was all just a bad dream, an awful dream.
“We’re almost there.” Chevy crouches beside me.
I’m too tired to talk. Too afraid if I do, then I’ll discover that this part of the nightmare—the part where it might end well—was a dream. I’ll twitch my finger, awaken and be back in the basement. I glance up at Chevy and the sun beaming behind him hurts my eyes.
“I’m not going without you.” Chevy slides his arms under my knees, along my back, and lifts me, cradling me against his chest as he walks toward his family. I’m too exhausted to argue. Only have the strength to slip my arms around his neck and rest my head in the crook of his neck.
“We’re almost there,” he says again. “Almost home. They see us and they’re coming for us now. We’re going to be okay.”
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