Long Way Home
Page 36
“I’m worried about her,” he says.
So am I. “She wants the same thing I want. To know that the bastards who hurt us won’t do it again.”
“We’ll make sure she’s safe, but I don’t trust her to keep whatever she learns to herself. She’s a loose cannon.”
And I’m not.
“I need you to keep an eye on her. Tell us anything you think we should know.”
I shift and Cyrus releases me. He’s asking me to spy on Violet and report back. If I were a prospect, even a member, this would be an order. Considering how they just told me they’re trusting me, this is an order. But I don’t like how his request settles in the pit of my stomach.
“Do you understand me?” Cyrus asks.
I nod, then my cell pings. Damn it all to hell. Coming home was supposed to make life easier, but I traded the dark basement for being pulled apart alive. It’s Mom and she’s not listening to the club or to me.
Mom: Brandy called. She’s down several girls and needs me to bartend. I need money and life needs to go back to normal. I’m going in. Love you. Have fun tonight.
Mom texts this like she thinks I’ll drop back and let her head in on a Friday night by herself. Yeah. Not going to happen.
Violet
THERE ARE TOO many people in my life who drive me insane and too many people who make me feel like I should punch the hell out of anyone who comes near me.
My mother, at the moment, is one of the people I want to throttle. I don’t throttle her, though. Instead, I limp across the guest bedroom in Cyrus’s log cabin, grab all my shirts my mother had “thoughtfully” hung in a closet and then shove them all into a suitcase.
Evidently, my mother believed I would be thrilled to stay at Cyrus’s for...I don’t know...with the way that she packed she was set on us staying forever.
“You can’t leave.” Mom stands in the doorway and she twists her fingers. She is such a paradox. Blond hair, blue eyes, as fragile as a hundred-year-old crystal glass and she wears a black biker cut. “We’re throwing a party for you and Chevy tonight.”
“Do I look like I’m in the mood for a party?”
“It’s not going to be a crazy one,” Mom explains. “It’s dinner. With all the families. Everyone wants to see you.”
As long as I can remember, Mom never attended a “crazy” party. She’d be at the clubhouse long enough for the potluck dinners, but then at eight in the evening, like the good little dutiful wife she was, she packed me and Brandon up and brought us home, but Dad stayed.
Dad always stayed.
As I got older, I also stayed. Everyone believed Oz, Razor, Chevy and I went on with our lives away from the clubhouse, but we were curious, so we often circled back and watched from a distance.
My stalking days ended when I saw Dad do a body shot off some girl with no top, bikini briefs, and who was a good fifteen years younger than Mom. First time in my life I felt like someone had punched me. First time in my life I lost respect for my father.
“We need to go home.”
“Please don’t act this way. Especially not now. You’re talking and being normal again.”
Normal again. I will never be normal again. My suitcase is overflowing and I shove in the pieces of clothing flopping out. Using all my weight, I smash down the top of the suitcase and force the zipper to go around. “It’s Chevy they want to see. He’s the savior they all want to pat on the back.”
On the dresser is my jacket. My favorite one. It’s brown and leather and it’s the one Dad gave me for Christmas before he died. He bought it for me because I told him once the smell of leather made me think of him. Around the same time, I had also told him I didn’t like how he had been on the road more than he had been home.
Dad had written on the tag that this present meant he would be with me all the time. I pick up the jacket and lift it to my nose. An inhale in, and while it smells like leather, it doesn’t really smell like him.
God, I miss him.
A hug. I can’t express what I would do for his hug. To feel his strong arms around me. To hear him say my name. For the constant, throbbing, dull ache in my chest to be gone.
I try to imagine what he would say to me. What he would do. Dad loved me. That I know without a doubt, but would he have loved me enough to walk away from the club because his club hurt me? Or would he have stubbornly held on to the club’s ways and rules?
“I brought it for you,” Mom says. “I know you wear this jacket when you’re feeling down.”
“Did Dad ever talk to you about the club?” I ask. “About what he did for them?”
“Your dad was the accountant for the security company.” She leaves out he was also the accountant for the club.
“Yeah, but he traveled, too. Why would an accountant need to travel? What was he doing?” I’m hunting, wondering if what Justin said was true. If my father really was the peace negotiator between the clubs.
Mom fidgets with the sleeve of her sweater, then picks lint off and drops it to the floor. “Your father didn’t talk about specifics. Just that he had to go.”
“And you didn’t ask what he was doing? Where he was going?”
“Wasn’t my place.”
Of course it wasn’t. That’s not how Mom thinks.
Even though it’s a warm day, I slip on the jacket, and when my hands run down the sides, I pause. Something’s in the pocket and I’m not the type of girl who puts things there.
So am I. “She wants the same thing I want. To know that the bastards who hurt us won’t do it again.”
“We’ll make sure she’s safe, but I don’t trust her to keep whatever she learns to herself. She’s a loose cannon.”
And I’m not.
“I need you to keep an eye on her. Tell us anything you think we should know.”
I shift and Cyrus releases me. He’s asking me to spy on Violet and report back. If I were a prospect, even a member, this would be an order. Considering how they just told me they’re trusting me, this is an order. But I don’t like how his request settles in the pit of my stomach.
“Do you understand me?” Cyrus asks.
I nod, then my cell pings. Damn it all to hell. Coming home was supposed to make life easier, but I traded the dark basement for being pulled apart alive. It’s Mom and she’s not listening to the club or to me.
Mom: Brandy called. She’s down several girls and needs me to bartend. I need money and life needs to go back to normal. I’m going in. Love you. Have fun tonight.
Mom texts this like she thinks I’ll drop back and let her head in on a Friday night by herself. Yeah. Not going to happen.
Violet
THERE ARE TOO many people in my life who drive me insane and too many people who make me feel like I should punch the hell out of anyone who comes near me.
My mother, at the moment, is one of the people I want to throttle. I don’t throttle her, though. Instead, I limp across the guest bedroom in Cyrus’s log cabin, grab all my shirts my mother had “thoughtfully” hung in a closet and then shove them all into a suitcase.
Evidently, my mother believed I would be thrilled to stay at Cyrus’s for...I don’t know...with the way that she packed she was set on us staying forever.
“You can’t leave.” Mom stands in the doorway and she twists her fingers. She is such a paradox. Blond hair, blue eyes, as fragile as a hundred-year-old crystal glass and she wears a black biker cut. “We’re throwing a party for you and Chevy tonight.”
“Do I look like I’m in the mood for a party?”
“It’s not going to be a crazy one,” Mom explains. “It’s dinner. With all the families. Everyone wants to see you.”
As long as I can remember, Mom never attended a “crazy” party. She’d be at the clubhouse long enough for the potluck dinners, but then at eight in the evening, like the good little dutiful wife she was, she packed me and Brandon up and brought us home, but Dad stayed.
Dad always stayed.
As I got older, I also stayed. Everyone believed Oz, Razor, Chevy and I went on with our lives away from the clubhouse, but we were curious, so we often circled back and watched from a distance.
My stalking days ended when I saw Dad do a body shot off some girl with no top, bikini briefs, and who was a good fifteen years younger than Mom. First time in my life I felt like someone had punched me. First time in my life I lost respect for my father.
“We need to go home.”
“Please don’t act this way. Especially not now. You’re talking and being normal again.”
Normal again. I will never be normal again. My suitcase is overflowing and I shove in the pieces of clothing flopping out. Using all my weight, I smash down the top of the suitcase and force the zipper to go around. “It’s Chevy they want to see. He’s the savior they all want to pat on the back.”
On the dresser is my jacket. My favorite one. It’s brown and leather and it’s the one Dad gave me for Christmas before he died. He bought it for me because I told him once the smell of leather made me think of him. Around the same time, I had also told him I didn’t like how he had been on the road more than he had been home.
Dad had written on the tag that this present meant he would be with me all the time. I pick up the jacket and lift it to my nose. An inhale in, and while it smells like leather, it doesn’t really smell like him.
God, I miss him.
A hug. I can’t express what I would do for his hug. To feel his strong arms around me. To hear him say my name. For the constant, throbbing, dull ache in my chest to be gone.
I try to imagine what he would say to me. What he would do. Dad loved me. That I know without a doubt, but would he have loved me enough to walk away from the club because his club hurt me? Or would he have stubbornly held on to the club’s ways and rules?
“I brought it for you,” Mom says. “I know you wear this jacket when you’re feeling down.”
“Did Dad ever talk to you about the club?” I ask. “About what he did for them?”
“Your dad was the accountant for the security company.” She leaves out he was also the accountant for the club.
“Yeah, but he traveled, too. Why would an accountant need to travel? What was he doing?” I’m hunting, wondering if what Justin said was true. If my father really was the peace negotiator between the clubs.
Mom fidgets with the sleeve of her sweater, then picks lint off and drops it to the floor. “Your father didn’t talk about specifics. Just that he had to go.”
“And you didn’t ask what he was doing? Where he was going?”
“Wasn’t my place.”
Of course it wasn’t. That’s not how Mom thinks.
Even though it’s a warm day, I slip on the jacket, and when my hands run down the sides, I pause. Something’s in the pocket and I’m not the type of girl who puts things there.
