“I don’t know.” I don’t know how to go thirty seconds without replaying Violet in point-blank range of a man itching to pull the trigger. Don’t know how to make my heart not pump like I ran a marathon. Don’t know how to quit the twenty-four-hour adrenaline rush.
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” she says. “I want to fake normal until normal becomes real again.”
Until normal becomes real again. Not even sure what that would feel like anymore.
Violet rolls and rests her head against the pillow. Her silky red hair fans out around it. It’s tempting to capture a lock and rub the strands in my fingers. Tempting to lean down and kiss her. Tempting to try to forget all the nightmares waiting for me when I close my eyes by losing myself in her warmth, curves and softness.
Hunger darkens Violet’s blue eyes and it’s as if she’s become a reader of not only my mind but my heart as she reaches up and brushes her fingertips along my face. Heat seeps into my veins, and as she slowly pulls away, I capture her fingers and rest our combined hands on her stomach.
“How’s the buzzing?” I ask.
“Gone. But that should bother me.”
“Why?”
“We didn’t work the first time around and our problems didn’t disappear.”
They didn’t, but I don’t feel like chasing my tail. At least not tonight. “Can’t we just be?”
“Can we?”
“Only time I feel slightly human is if I’m around you,” I admit, “and I think you’re feeling the same way about me.”
“Are you going to patch in? Because I can’t be an old lady. I can’t be treated the rest of my life the way Dad treated my mom and how Eli treats me. I deserve better than that.”
“Your dad worshipped your mom.”
“But that didn’t stop him from doing that body shot off that girl. It would kill Mom if she ever found out.”
The muscles in my neck tense and I try breathing out the anger. We had this argument a hundred times, and the last time, she broke up with me. “You think I’m the guy who could do body shots off somebody else if I’m committed to you?”
“That’s not the point. The point is Mom and Dad worked because she stuck her head in the sand. That’s what being an old lady requires. I’m not that girl. For better or worse, my dad raised me differently than that.”
He did. Frat raised Violet to be a force of nature. A hurricane that looks beautiful from space, but can be a monster once it hits landfall. Am I going to patch in? The question hangs over my head like a machete.
Violet raises her eyebrows until they disappear behind her longer bangs. “Ignoring our problems won’t make them go away. We’re playing a dangerous game, and I’ll be honest, I don’t know how many more hits I can take.”
“You want me to walk away?”
“No,” she says quietly. “I never wanted you to walk away. I need you, but I don’t know how to be with you. You need me, but you don’t know how to be with me either. Not while you still want to be a part of the club. I broke up with you so you wouldn’t have to choose and I’ve tried to treat you badly since so you would never regret my decision.”
A swirling of hurt and anger in my gut. “Why can’t I have both? You and the club?”
“Besides the fact that being blood-related to members alone almost got you killed?”
I can’t win that argument. Can’t make her see that the blame should fall solely on the Riot.
“Because the club demands trust, loyalty and respect and I demand the same. I deserve that and you deserve someone who can be happy with the scraps you’d be willing to throw them after you swear your allegiance somewhere else.”
Don’t know why, but while I’m sure that was a statement meant to make me hurt, it makes me feel like I can breathe. There’s hope. A small sliver, but it’s still hope and I’ve got to offer something—a gift, a sacrifice, something for her to hold on to while it feels like we’re falling through a hole so deep that we’ve forgotten how to stand.
“Eli met with the Riot.”
Violet turns off the TV and the only light left in the room is from the utility pole in the yard. “What did you say?”
“Eli and the board met with the Riot. That’s what they told me in Church. He said Fiend and the others with him went rogue. That Skull and the rest of the Riot had nothing to do with our kidnapping. The Riot are working with the police and are also looking for Fiend.”
Violet blinks repeatedly. “They’d never patch you in if they knew you were telling me this.”
She’s right, and if I was a full-fledged member, they’d kick me out. “Are you going to tell on me?” I give a halfhearted grin and Violet’s mouth mirrors mine.
“Is that a dare?”
I chuckle and she nudges my foot with her toe. My brief moment of lightness dissipates as I recall the rest of the conversation with the board and contemplate how deep of a cut I want to make on my wrist. “The police are coming to talk with us tomorrow. Going to show us pictures so we can identify the guys that kidnapped us.”
I pause and the silence builds, stealing my courage instead of adding to it.
“And?”
“The board is leaving it up to me if we want the police to go after Skull and his son. If I tell them to go after them, it can cause a full-out war between our clubs. If I tell them no...” Then there will be no justice for their role. “The cops aren’t sure they can prove they were involved anyhow. Can’t disprove their claim that they were our saviors.”
“Do I get a vote?” she asks.
According to the board, no. But... “Tell me what it is.”
I expect an instant answer, but instead the bed shifts as she rolls so that she’s facing me. “Maybe we shouldn’t identify anybody. Maybe we should do nothing.”
My eyes narrow. “You think we should let them get away with what they did? To give Fiend the opportunity to hurt us again? To hurt someone else we love?”
“This war between the Terror and the Riot has been going on since we were babies. If we go after Fiend, then maybe someone who is loyal to him will come after us. Just like you’re saying why we shouldn’t go after Skull.”
“They hurt you,” I say slowly and overpronounce each word. “Someone has to face judgment for that. Men like this, they only understand one thing—punishment. If we show them we aren’t afraid—that we’re willing to pursue legal action—then it’ll stop anyone else coming behind them.”
“So you’re saying that goes for everyone but Skull.”
She’s got me cornered and I’ve got to slip right, then shift left to move the ball down the field. “You want to go after him, then I’ll tell the board yes and we’ll do everything possible to nail that bastard to the wall.”
Violet gathers her hair at the nape of her neck, then lets it go so that it flows over her shoulder. “If there was a way to keep your mom, my mom, Brandon, Cyrus, Oz, Razor and most of the people out there in that clubhouse safe, would you do it?”
“Yeah.” In a heartbeat.
“Me, too,” she whispers so quietly I’m not sure if she really said it, but then says, “If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth? At least the closest to the truth you’re willing to share?”
“Yes.”
“What did Skull talk to you about in the kitchen? I know it was serious because I read the way you looked at me when I stepped out of the bathroom. You were warning me off.”
I rub my forehead, then roll my neck. Even though I’ve admitted it once, it doesn’t get easier saying it aloud again. “Skull told me my father was a traitor. That he was loyal to the Riot, not to the Terror.”
Violet places a hand to her lips as my words soak in.
“Cyrus says it’s not true,” I add like that can take away the sting.
“What do you think?”
That I left that basement with more questions than there are possible answers. “I don’t know.” If Skull was right and my father was a traitor, then why did he trade sides? I’ve been raised to hate the Riot, but what did my father know that I don’t?
Violet reaches over and rests her hand on my cheek. Her fingertips feathering up and along my jaw. “I’m so sorry.”
Yeah, so am I. I suck in a deep breath and tell her my darkest thought. “I need to know if Dad was loyal to the Riot.”
“Do you have any idea how to figure it out?”
“Skull mentioned there was a woman I could talk to, but I didn’t ask for her name and he didn’t give it. Might mean talking to Skull again.”
Violet snuggles closer, and as she does, I sink further until my head is on the pillow beside her. I’m not just holding her now, she’s also holding me.
“You need him to stay out of jail,” she whispers.
I guess I do. “He probably planned it this way. Probably told me this lie to buy himself a get-out-of-jail-free pass.”
“I’ve thought of that, but what if what they said is true? James lived in Louisville. He died there. He’s buried there. I’ve always thought that was weird, but if I asked—”
“You were shut down.” Just like I’ve been shut down by Cyrus, Eli and even my mom.
“Promise you’ll keep me involved,” she says. “Maybe knowing what’s happening, feeling like I have some sort of control over it, will help me feel normal again.”
Not sure if she’s talking about what the board has to say about the Riot or about my father, but I don’t care. She wants normal, so do I, and like in that basement, I’m going to fight for both of us. And like in that basement, I need Violet fighting for me, too. “I promise.”
“Do you remember when I first told you I loved you?” she asks.
The memory hits me like a jolt of electricity. I started my first varsity game that night, and I had scored two touchdowns. That entire night was a celebration. With the team, back at the clubhouse and then with just Oz, Razor and Violet.
We sat on the front porch laughing, talking, shooting the shit, enjoying my win because a win for one of us was a win for us all. Violet sat beside me and I memorized the way she laughed and the way her blue eyes kept finding mine. That smile she gave me when I held her gaze for longer than a second—best moments of my life.
Not soon after, we called it a night. Violet retired into this room. Razor, Oz and I to the room across the way. I waited for Oz and Razor to fall asleep and then I crept over here. I lay beside her, Violet held her hand out to me and then I kissed her.
That kiss—made the world spin. She melted into me, I fell deeply into her, and when our lips finally separated, she whispered those three beautiful words to me. Her trust in me, her love for me—rocked who I was and made me someone better.
“I remember.”
“Me, too.” Violet rests her head on my chest and her leg over mine. I wrap an arm around her, keeping her close, then tunnel my fingers into her hair.
Her fingers graze up and down my arm and her touch is comforting and intoxicating. My body pulses with the need to kiss her, but also with the need to just keep her close. Slowly her caresses come at a slower rate, her body becomes still and her breaths even out.
Best friend. Violet has always been my best friend, but it’s more than that. She’s always been a piece of me, and without her the world was cold—a bitter freeze that cut deep to the bone.
But I’m no longer in that freezing basement. She’s here beside me. Violet is warm and soft and all the two million thoughts in my mind stall out and there’s finally silence. A comfortable, peaceful silence.
Violet
PHYSICAL THERAPY STINKS.
Stinks.
Like pigs in mud.
Like milk that’s gone sour.
Like dog poop stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
Stinks.
It’s not like I was a huge fan of treadmills and stationary bikes to begin with. Sweating’s not my thing. Also definitely not my thing? My knee being pushed and pulled and practically yanked off like it’s part of a turkey leg on Thanksgiving.
My physical therapy chick must be having some problems at home and she’s taking her pent-up aggression out on me. Note to self—don’t piss off my therapist. The lady is freaking sadistic.
Mom pulls her minivan into the parking lot of the only diner in our small town and I slowly turn my head in her direction. “What are you doing?”
“It’s early and they’re still serving breakfast.” Mom smiles at me when she places the car into Park. She looks very youthful and refreshed for nine thirty in the morning in her red sweater, dark blue jeans and blond hair in a very complicated bun. It’s Monday and today is a teacher in-service day. Tomorrow will be my and Chevy’s first day back. Today was my first physical therapy torture session.
Breakfast. With my mom. After shaking off the initial sensation that doing so would be like having my fingernails pulled off, there’s a sense of excitement. I can’t remember the last time Mom has voluntarily spent time with me. “I am hungry.”
“Great! Eli’s waiting for you inside.”
Wow. I need to be tested for a personality disorder because I just went from anxiously happy to wanting to tear up pictures of cute kittens. “I’m sorry. I must have misunderstood. I thought you said I’m having breakfast with Eli.”
And there it is. The Mom frown. The constant state of disappointment my mother has with me and me alone. “Please don’t start. You really are being ungrateful, and your behavior—the way you’ve been yelling at Eli—it’s embarrassing. He’s gone out of his way to take care of us. To take care of you.”
Embarrassing. It’s so funny, I’m numb. “You know I was kidnapped, right? My knee was busted out because the guy who really hates Eli beat the hell out of me. Did anyone fill you in on these details? I mean, you were there when the police came and showed us photos. That wasn’t a dating match service.”
A disgusted noise manages to slip through her throat. “Why do you have to be so crude?”
Crude? I didn’t even use colorful curse words. “You’re the one that married a biker and then reproduced. You can’t blame me for crude.”
“Your father was never crude,” Mom whispers.
I sigh because she’s right. He was never crude around her. Dad taught me to burp the alphabet in the clubhouse and every curse word I know I learned from working on the Chevelle with him, but he was on point with Mom.
I wish he were here. He knew how to keep peace between me and Mom. He used to help me navigate between being the person he raised me to be and living in his world. Without him, I’m lost.
“Go have breakfast with Eli.” Full-fledged disappointed voice. “I’m going to run errands and he’ll bring you back to Cyrus’s.”
I open the door, grab my crutches and slide out. Before shutting the door, I lean back in. “I would have liked to have breakfast with you.”
Not bothering to wait for a response, I slam it shut.
Snowflake, Kentucky, is a forgotten place. Hundreds of years ago, people climbed up and over the Appalachian Mountains and some of them settled here. There’s a river, fertile farmland, and I often wonder if the people who planted roots here thought this place would become the center of commerce and the universe.
It didn’t. Instead, it’s stuck back in a different time. Back when towns had Main Streets with old buildings and bustling shops. Back when people rode their buggy into town and had to hitch their horses. There’s a green space in the middle of the town with a statue of a Confederate war hero and nobody remembers or cares why he’s there.
The buildings are now cracked and the streets look odd as parking spots were added in front
of the stores. It’s all out of proportion—time catching up to a place never meant to go forward.
In front of the diner is a row of motorcycles. Two prospects turn over the engines on their bikes and take off. Don’t have to look to know they’re tailing Mom.
The bell over the diner door rings when I hobble in. To the left, Pigpen, Man O’ War and Dust are laughing in a booth with my brother, Brandon. To the right, Eli is in a booth by himself and he’s watching me. Mom would be pissed if I took the left instead of the right, but I like the guys to the left a lot better than Eli.
Frost had it wrong. Two roads converged and I didn’t want to travel either. Where’s the poem where the person runs screaming in the opposite direction? That one I would understand.
The dominatrix at physical therapy wants me to get a walker because she wants me to put pressure on my leg. I’d rather shoot myself in the head than go around school like that. It’s going to be bad enough to fit back into my hard-won old life that had new non-Terror friends with that Amber Alert. A walker will only make people think I’m weak. Crutches I might be able to pull off. Limping would be better.
Keeping my physical therapist’s request in mind, I gather the crutches with one hand and slowly attempt to walk on my own. Eli jerks like he’s going to jump to his feet, but luckily I reach the booth before he has the opportunity to act like an idiot in a room full of people.
“Why are you putting weight on your knee?” he demands.
“I’m having pancakes with blueberries, blueberry syrup and whip cream. I’m also having bacon and your bacon and as much orange juice as I want. You’re buying. And walking, which requires placing weight on my knee, is what the lady at physical therapy told me to do.” I add asshole in my head, but I’m pretty sure my expression said it loud and clear.
Eli pulls at the plug in his earlobe, then fold his hands together on the table. “I don’t like how we’ve turned out.”
Even though I know what I’m ordering, I open up the plastic tri-fold menu and pretend I don’t have it memorized.