Long Way Home
Page 66
She will, but not the way they think. Violet is a part of my soul, but it’s up to her if she wants me in her life. I’ve watched as man after man has treated my mother like an object. Violet’s not an object. She’s the girl I love.
Stone opens the front door before I jog up the stairs to the porch. He’s dressed in an old T-shirt with Star Wars pajama bottoms and his hair points in a million different directions. With shaking hands, he runs his fingers through his hair. Now I know why it’s a mess.
“Violet’s still in there,” he whispers, and I remind myself to keep my voice low.
Stone lets me in and closes the door behind me. Their house is exactly how I remember. Perfection. Hardwood floors, formal living room to the right with fancy furniture and fancy fragile things behind glass. To the left is the kitchen. Like it’s a model home, the counters are clean and there’s not a piece of paper or dish towel in sight. From there, it’s a straight shot to the family room and closed double doors that lead to their father’s office. Light creeps out from underneath. “Why don’t you go on upstairs to bed? I’ll take care of Violet.”
“We have school tomorrow. We aren’t supposed to have people over after nine on a school night.”
“I promise you won’t get in trouble if your mom wakes up.”
“But—”
“Rules have changed.”
“Because of the kidnapping?”
“Yeah.” No use lying.
“Okay. ’Night, Chevy.”
“’Night.”
In socks, Stone runs up the stairs and a door clicks shut on the second floor.
I’m not worried about Violet’s mom waking up. When we were staying at Cyrus’s, she went out of her way to give us her approval on my staying the night with Violet. On the way home from Louisville, she went on and on about how happy she was that Violet and I are back together and that I could stay the night with Violet at their house if I wanted.
That kiss in the police station, to Jenny, confirmed everything.
Razor’s right. Violet and I are still complicated, but Violet’s mom is 1950s, an old-school biker wife. To her, Violet is my property, and Violet and her mom are oil and water. Jenny used to brag to people how Frat owned her. Violet would cut open my artery and leave me to bleed out if I used that term involving her.
Rebecca, Oz’s mom and wife of Man O’ War, is the same. So was Olivia, Cyrus’s wife. Both are strong women in the club and neither would allow their men to use the word owned in reference to them. Neither of them would take crap from anyone at any time, but that’s not how Violet’s mom rolls.
Her mother’s attitude used to drive Violet insane. The idea of being owned crawled under Violet’s skin and it crawled under Jenny’s skin that it pissed Violet off. Their relationship was rough before Frat died. Now it’s got to be a testing range for nuclear bombs.
And Violet’s been dealing with it alone. Not only her mom, but the problems with her brother, her issues with people at school and her grief. She pushed me away, pushed everyone away, but I’m done being pushed.
I stop outside Frat’s office and memories come rushing back. The sound of Violet’s laughter as she sat on her father’s wooden desk, legs dangling, as he was telling her stories of him riding with the club. His office wasn’t what people would associate with a biker. It was dark wood, many shelves lined with book after book and a black leather sofa where Violet would lie for hours as her father worked just so she could be in the same room as him.
Walking into the room, I sometimes felt like a man about to face a firing squad. Violet would give me that wicked smile, then wink when she waltzed out the door after Frat told Violet to give me and him some time alone.
One time, he had caught us kissing behind the clubhouse and my hands were in places he wasn’t happy about. I shuffled into the office like I had swallowed a bowling ball. Frat wasn’t full of smiles and laughter as he shut the door and schooled me on how I was to treat his daughter.
She was his princess. The pride and love that shone from his eyes when she walked in the room could light up the dark. And he was her whole life. She worshipped her father like it was her own personal religion.
Frat was a great man. Taught me how to work on cars, helped me piece together my bike, and during the multiple times he schooled me on his daughter, he also spent time getting to know me. Talked to me about football, about the club, about my mom, about choices.
He always told me the choices were mine. I wish Frat was still here. He was one of the few who at least acted like he understood push and pulls. He used to make me feel like it was possible for me to come out on the other side of eighteen still intact.
Still intact.
My shoulder still aches from the kidnapping. Violet’s knee is still in a brace.
Wonder what Frat would say now about surviving to eighteen.
Sadness washes over me. Violet is eighteen and my stomach drops as I remember the expression on her face when she saw her father’s cross. The girl I love is in pain and I need to make her better. I turn the knob, open the door, and an ache ripples through my chest.
Violet’s in the middle of the room, in pajamas consisting of a red tank top and checkered bottoms. She clutches photos, and while sitting up, she’s curled into a ball. Don’t have to look at the photos to know who’s in them. Don’t have to ask why she’s alive, yet dying.
Her head snaps up and her face pales. “What are you doing here?”
Stone opens the front door before I jog up the stairs to the porch. He’s dressed in an old T-shirt with Star Wars pajama bottoms and his hair points in a million different directions. With shaking hands, he runs his fingers through his hair. Now I know why it’s a mess.
“Violet’s still in there,” he whispers, and I remind myself to keep my voice low.
Stone lets me in and closes the door behind me. Their house is exactly how I remember. Perfection. Hardwood floors, formal living room to the right with fancy furniture and fancy fragile things behind glass. To the left is the kitchen. Like it’s a model home, the counters are clean and there’s not a piece of paper or dish towel in sight. From there, it’s a straight shot to the family room and closed double doors that lead to their father’s office. Light creeps out from underneath. “Why don’t you go on upstairs to bed? I’ll take care of Violet.”
“We have school tomorrow. We aren’t supposed to have people over after nine on a school night.”
“I promise you won’t get in trouble if your mom wakes up.”
“But—”
“Rules have changed.”
“Because of the kidnapping?”
“Yeah.” No use lying.
“Okay. ’Night, Chevy.”
“’Night.”
In socks, Stone runs up the stairs and a door clicks shut on the second floor.
I’m not worried about Violet’s mom waking up. When we were staying at Cyrus’s, she went out of her way to give us her approval on my staying the night with Violet. On the way home from Louisville, she went on and on about how happy she was that Violet and I are back together and that I could stay the night with Violet at their house if I wanted.
That kiss in the police station, to Jenny, confirmed everything.
Razor’s right. Violet and I are still complicated, but Violet’s mom is 1950s, an old-school biker wife. To her, Violet is my property, and Violet and her mom are oil and water. Jenny used to brag to people how Frat owned her. Violet would cut open my artery and leave me to bleed out if I used that term involving her.
Rebecca, Oz’s mom and wife of Man O’ War, is the same. So was Olivia, Cyrus’s wife. Both are strong women in the club and neither would allow their men to use the word owned in reference to them. Neither of them would take crap from anyone at any time, but that’s not how Violet’s mom rolls.
Her mother’s attitude used to drive Violet insane. The idea of being owned crawled under Violet’s skin and it crawled under Jenny’s skin that it pissed Violet off. Their relationship was rough before Frat died. Now it’s got to be a testing range for nuclear bombs.
And Violet’s been dealing with it alone. Not only her mom, but the problems with her brother, her issues with people at school and her grief. She pushed me away, pushed everyone away, but I’m done being pushed.
I stop outside Frat’s office and memories come rushing back. The sound of Violet’s laughter as she sat on her father’s wooden desk, legs dangling, as he was telling her stories of him riding with the club. His office wasn’t what people would associate with a biker. It was dark wood, many shelves lined with book after book and a black leather sofa where Violet would lie for hours as her father worked just so she could be in the same room as him.
Walking into the room, I sometimes felt like a man about to face a firing squad. Violet would give me that wicked smile, then wink when she waltzed out the door after Frat told Violet to give me and him some time alone.
One time, he had caught us kissing behind the clubhouse and my hands were in places he wasn’t happy about. I shuffled into the office like I had swallowed a bowling ball. Frat wasn’t full of smiles and laughter as he shut the door and schooled me on how I was to treat his daughter.
She was his princess. The pride and love that shone from his eyes when she walked in the room could light up the dark. And he was her whole life. She worshipped her father like it was her own personal religion.
Frat was a great man. Taught me how to work on cars, helped me piece together my bike, and during the multiple times he schooled me on his daughter, he also spent time getting to know me. Talked to me about football, about the club, about my mom, about choices.
He always told me the choices were mine. I wish Frat was still here. He was one of the few who at least acted like he understood push and pulls. He used to make me feel like it was possible for me to come out on the other side of eighteen still intact.
Still intact.
My shoulder still aches from the kidnapping. Violet’s knee is still in a brace.
Wonder what Frat would say now about surviving to eighteen.
Sadness washes over me. Violet is eighteen and my stomach drops as I remember the expression on her face when she saw her father’s cross. The girl I love is in pain and I need to make her better. I turn the knob, open the door, and an ache ripples through my chest.
Violet’s in the middle of the room, in pajamas consisting of a red tank top and checkered bottoms. She clutches photos, and while sitting up, she’s curled into a ball. Don’t have to look at the photos to know who’s in them. Don’t have to ask why she’s alive, yet dying.
Her head snaps up and her face pales. “What are you doing here?”
