Long Way Home
Page 84
Isaiah picks up a tool and begins to work on the car. “I don’t know a detective and I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t know shit about James McKinley.”
“Isaiah,” Rachel breathes out almost in a reprimand.
“Fine, I know McKinley’s buried in Louisville, belonged to some motorcycle club in a town south of here, and I know a few other ramblings from my mother that aren’t reliable. She first told me dear old dad didn’t know I existed, but then I took a good look at his gravestone. Mom fessed up that he knew I existed and that we lived with him until he died.”
“How old were you when he died?”
“Less than a year,” Isaiah says.
Which makes him slightly older than me. “Why did she lie?”
“Why does she do anything? Gonna be honest, it’s hard to take the word of a woman who’s spent most of my life in prison.”
Lightbulbs go off in my head. “In prison for what?”
“Not your concern. My turn to ask a question. Why am I on the radar of a detective?”
This is how it’s going to be. A give and a take, because he doesn’t trust me. An explanation as to how the detective knows him won’t help. “Do you know anything about the Riot Motorcycle Club?”
“I hear they deal meth and cocaine. They won’t touch heroin and pot, at least not in Louisville, because there are stronger groups in the area that don’t like to share profits. I also hear the Riot deal in prostitution, but that’s just rumors. That’s twice I’ve answered your questions. Time to answer mine. Tell me about the detective.”
Every image I had of my father collapses. He had a child...a living, breathing child...and James kept him a secret. Just like James asked Mom to keep me a secret. “I asked the detective if my father was loyal to the Riot over my family’s MC and he told me to come here and talk to you.”
Isaiah straightens and tosses the tool onto the bench. “Right about now I’m betting you’re figuring out it’s not me you need to talk to.”
He’s right. I need to talk to the woman who lived with James. I need to talk to Isaiah’s mother.
“Let’s get a few things straight. I spent years in foster care waiting and wishing for someone to waltz into my life and announce they were my long-lost family, but I let those dreams go. One thing life has taught me—blood don’t mean shit. I’ve worked hard for the life I have now. I’ve finally got a great job, a girl I love and a family. The best kind of family. It ain’t blood, but it’s tight.
“My mom isn’t a part of that family. With that said, she may be a piece of work, but she’s my piece of work. You bring problems to her doorstep, you’re bringing problems to my doorstep. If you’re here expecting to drag me into some gang war because we share DNA, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Foster care. I scrub my hands over my face. Why? Why foster care? He had a family. A family that would have loved him, cared for him, worshipped him like royalty.
“Fuck it,” Isaiah mumbles. “There’s another garage four blocks from here. The guy who owns it is named Brady. Tell him I sent you and I’d consider it a favor if he switched out your spark plugs. Good luck on finding your answers.”
Isaiah turns and heads back the way he had walked in. Rachel’s head swings back and forth between me and Violet and my newfound brother. Doesn’t take long for her to chase after him and reality hits me hard. I have a brother. A blood brother who grew up in foster care and he’s about to leave.
“My father knew about me, too,” I call out. “And my father’s family didn’t know I existed until after his death. He told my mom to keep me a secret. Only reason they know about me is because the Riot told them. Moment they found out, my grandfather Cyrus took me in. The moment he finds out about you, he’ll do the same. He loves like that. Blood may not mean shit to you, but it’s everything to Cyrus.”
Isaiah pauses in front of the door, then rolls his neck.
“Our MC is a legit club. The Riot has problems with us because we don’t grovel. My family is full of good people and you’d like them. You may not know it yet and my family may not know it yet, but you’re wanted. You’ve always been wanted. We just didn’t know to want you.”
He pulls on his earlobe, just like Eli does, but keeps his back to me. “Why did James keep you a secret?”
“I don’t know.” Because he was part of the Riot? Because James wanted something different from the club? Because Cyrus couldn’t stand that James chose something else? “Why did he keep you a secret?”
“Isaiah,” Rachel says softly, in a plea, in a reprimand.
Isaiah shakes his head. “Mom could be full of shit.”
“Maybe she is, but you should let him decide that. What if she’s telling the truth?”
Violet comes up beside me and places a supportive hand on my wrist. Her touch is a reassurance I didn’t know I needed.
Isaiah glances over his shoulder at me. “James McKinley didn’t belong to the Riot and he didn’t belong to your MC. His life took a different path.”
Violet’s hand slips down and she holds on to my fingers as his words crush me. James chose differently and Cyrus threw him away.
“Take your car to Brady’s,” Isaiah says. “You shouldn’t be on the road long without new spark plugs.” He pauses like he’s internally fighting. “Give me a few days. Let me reach out to my mom. If you want the full story, she’s the one to tell it, not me.”
“Isaiah,” Rachel breathes out almost in a reprimand.
“Fine, I know McKinley’s buried in Louisville, belonged to some motorcycle club in a town south of here, and I know a few other ramblings from my mother that aren’t reliable. She first told me dear old dad didn’t know I existed, but then I took a good look at his gravestone. Mom fessed up that he knew I existed and that we lived with him until he died.”
“How old were you when he died?”
“Less than a year,” Isaiah says.
Which makes him slightly older than me. “Why did she lie?”
“Why does she do anything? Gonna be honest, it’s hard to take the word of a woman who’s spent most of my life in prison.”
Lightbulbs go off in my head. “In prison for what?”
“Not your concern. My turn to ask a question. Why am I on the radar of a detective?”
This is how it’s going to be. A give and a take, because he doesn’t trust me. An explanation as to how the detective knows him won’t help. “Do you know anything about the Riot Motorcycle Club?”
“I hear they deal meth and cocaine. They won’t touch heroin and pot, at least not in Louisville, because there are stronger groups in the area that don’t like to share profits. I also hear the Riot deal in prostitution, but that’s just rumors. That’s twice I’ve answered your questions. Time to answer mine. Tell me about the detective.”
Every image I had of my father collapses. He had a child...a living, breathing child...and James kept him a secret. Just like James asked Mom to keep me a secret. “I asked the detective if my father was loyal to the Riot over my family’s MC and he told me to come here and talk to you.”
Isaiah straightens and tosses the tool onto the bench. “Right about now I’m betting you’re figuring out it’s not me you need to talk to.”
He’s right. I need to talk to the woman who lived with James. I need to talk to Isaiah’s mother.
“Let’s get a few things straight. I spent years in foster care waiting and wishing for someone to waltz into my life and announce they were my long-lost family, but I let those dreams go. One thing life has taught me—blood don’t mean shit. I’ve worked hard for the life I have now. I’ve finally got a great job, a girl I love and a family. The best kind of family. It ain’t blood, but it’s tight.
“My mom isn’t a part of that family. With that said, she may be a piece of work, but she’s my piece of work. You bring problems to her doorstep, you’re bringing problems to my doorstep. If you’re here expecting to drag me into some gang war because we share DNA, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Foster care. I scrub my hands over my face. Why? Why foster care? He had a family. A family that would have loved him, cared for him, worshipped him like royalty.
“Fuck it,” Isaiah mumbles. “There’s another garage four blocks from here. The guy who owns it is named Brady. Tell him I sent you and I’d consider it a favor if he switched out your spark plugs. Good luck on finding your answers.”
Isaiah turns and heads back the way he had walked in. Rachel’s head swings back and forth between me and Violet and my newfound brother. Doesn’t take long for her to chase after him and reality hits me hard. I have a brother. A blood brother who grew up in foster care and he’s about to leave.
“My father knew about me, too,” I call out. “And my father’s family didn’t know I existed until after his death. He told my mom to keep me a secret. Only reason they know about me is because the Riot told them. Moment they found out, my grandfather Cyrus took me in. The moment he finds out about you, he’ll do the same. He loves like that. Blood may not mean shit to you, but it’s everything to Cyrus.”
Isaiah pauses in front of the door, then rolls his neck.
“Our MC is a legit club. The Riot has problems with us because we don’t grovel. My family is full of good people and you’d like them. You may not know it yet and my family may not know it yet, but you’re wanted. You’ve always been wanted. We just didn’t know to want you.”
He pulls on his earlobe, just like Eli does, but keeps his back to me. “Why did James keep you a secret?”
“I don’t know.” Because he was part of the Riot? Because James wanted something different from the club? Because Cyrus couldn’t stand that James chose something else? “Why did he keep you a secret?”
“Isaiah,” Rachel says softly, in a plea, in a reprimand.
Isaiah shakes his head. “Mom could be full of shit.”
“Maybe she is, but you should let him decide that. What if she’s telling the truth?”
Violet comes up beside me and places a supportive hand on my wrist. Her touch is a reassurance I didn’t know I needed.
Isaiah glances over his shoulder at me. “James McKinley didn’t belong to the Riot and he didn’t belong to your MC. His life took a different path.”
Violet’s hand slips down and she holds on to my fingers as his words crush me. James chose differently and Cyrus threw him away.
“Take your car to Brady’s,” Isaiah says. “You shouldn’t be on the road long without new spark plugs.” He pauses like he’s internally fighting. “Give me a few days. Let me reach out to my mom. If you want the full story, she’s the one to tell it, not me.”
