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.”
He’s offering me answers, and I’m filled with sorrowful gratitude. Before I can say anything, Isaiah leaves, the door swinging shut behind him. Rachel watches where he disappeared and after a few beats she slowly turns her head in our direction. Gone is the beauty queen and in her place are two narrow slits of eyes.
“Isaiah hasn’t just walked through hell, he’s been chained to it most of his life. You offered him the chance at family, and if you were lying to him to get answers, I swear to God I will make you regret it.”
“He’s not lying,” Violet says. “Isaiah has a grandfather and an uncle and an entire army of men who will claim him in a heartbeat.”
Rachel yanks her cell out of her back pocket and offers it to Violet. “Put in your number and I’ll call you when he’s ready for you to meet his mother.”
She watches me with a perfectly pissed cocked eyebrow. I understand her wrath. Rachel’s protecting someone she loves. She’s protecting my brother.
“I’m not scared of you,” she says to me.
“You shouldn’t be. I’m not a threat to either one of you.”
Violet offers her back her cell and Rachel sizes her up. “And I’m not scared of you either.”
With a toss of her braid, Rachel turns her back to us and follows after Isaiah.
Violet and I stand next to her father’s car and try to digest the newest curveball life has thrown. She squeezes my hand, looks over at me, and I’m confused by the ghost of a smile on her face. “Don’t know about you, but I like them. They are definitely McKinley material.”
Violet
SITTING AT A picnic table outside the crowded clubhouse, I’m fidgeting every few seconds as if I’m being attacked by cockroaches. There’s a huge crowd and I can’t help but wonder if the Riot’s spying on me.
To be honest, we’re all a mess at the picnic table. Chevy’s heartbroken and flips a coin rapidly around his knuckles, watching it like it’s a crystal ball with answers. After what I’d thought would have been a glorious day of being reunited with Breanna, Razor’s gone silent and internal, and Oz is observing all of us as if he’s trying to figure out the messed-up puzzle that has lost 75 percent of its pieces.
It’s official—eighteen blows. Happy birthday to me.
Oz’s mom, Rebecca, my mom and the rest of the Terror Gypsies made my favorite foods: fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans and all the chocolate cake I could
eat. They even made sweet tea that’s so sweet anyone who drinks it is at risk of falling into a sugar coma.
Me: I’m depending on you to lock the doors tonight and flip the porch light.
It’s my written reminder to Brandon to do what I’ve been encouraging him to do every night since we’ve been home.
The party started off as a family one with tons of little kids running around like they owned the place, but at eight anyone under eighteen had to go. Mom kissed me on the cheek, packed up Brandon and left. I’m officially at my first adult party. I’m assuming they’re letting Chevy stay because he’ll be eighteen himself soon and they consider being kidnapped an age handicap.
Brandon: I feel better when you or Mom do it.
Me: I know, but you can do this. I have faith in you.
He needs to do it. Simple things can cause him anxiety, and the kidnapping backtracked a lot of progress we had made. He was locking the doors before my kidnapping, regressed, and we will re-win this situation.
Brandon: I’ll do it. I promise.
I breathe out in relief. Brandon doesn’t like to break promises. He’s enough of a Terror boy that his words mean something. Me: I love you.
Brandon: Love you, too.
It’s a cool night, but not cold. The type that makes it nice to sit and admire the stars. All three boys wear black leather jackets. Oz and Razor wear their cuts as well, and Chevy’s football hoodie swallows me whole, but keeps me warm. The music is loud, the beer free-flowing, there is lots of laughter and stories being told and a part of me is sad that I can’t find an ounce of energy to go enjoy this party the million ways I thought I would as I grew up a child of the Terror.
I’m lost. Chevy is lost. So is Razor. I glance up from my not-even-touched red Solo cup of beer and look straight into Oz’s eyes. Oz and I share a complicated relationship. He’s like a big brother to me, and with me being someone who doesn’t like anyone telling me what to do, Oz and I have always clashed.
Oz is like his father, Man O’ War. He’s a huge solid wall of muscle and intimidating to those who threaten his family. He’s also a big soft teddy bear to those he loves. By the way he’s watching me, I can spot the spark of pain because he doesn’t know how to help not only me, but also Chevy and Razor.
By blood, Oz is an only child, but we’re his family. Chevy and Razor his brothers, me his sister. Isaiah had a lot of things right. Sometimes the best family is the kind that doesn’t share blood.
I glance over at Chevy and Razor and they’re both looking down at the table, the equivalent of crying into their beers without shedding a tear. Sadness is a bowling ball rolling down pins in my stomach.
This entire situation has become too big. The Riot, being kidnapped, being watched, being threatened, helping the detective and now Chevy finding out that the foundation on which he has been raised is crumbling.
Since Dad died, I’ve tried living life on my own. Thinking that if I did, it would hurt less, but I’ve been hurt anyway and all that’s happened is me ending up lonely.
I’m tired of hurting.
I’m tired of being alone.
I’m just plain exhausted.
I can’t do this on my own anymore. Neither can Chevy, and by the way Razor is looking like he was run over by a truck, he’s close to collapsing, too. I meet Oz’s eyes again and mouth, Help us.
He blinks. I don’t ask for help, and even when we were closer, I hardly ever asked for help from him. He rightly thought of himself as the leader of us and I used to constantly fight him for the position.
I’m not fighting now. I need a friend. So does Razor, and so does Chevy. We need someone who is thinking straight and God knows it’s not the three of us. If Oz truly is our brother, our friend, our leader—he’ll figure out how to shake us out of this stupor.
We were stronger together as a group and we need that strength again.
Oz slams his hand down on the table, causing it to shake and Chevy and Razor to snap out of their trances. “Enough of this bullshit. Everyone in the woods—now.”
He swings his legs over the bench to stand.
“It’s Violet’s party,” Razor says.
“Yeah, I got that in the text, but we’re sitting here like it’s her wake. Get up now and in the woods before I kick all of your asses.”
Razor smirks, Chevy snorts and the first rays of hope blossom inside me. Chevy rises to his feet. “I’d like to see you try to kick my ass.”
“Not try,” Oz says. “I will.”
“He’s always had a big head,” Razor says to Chevy as he stands, but then winks at me. “He thinks he’s bigger and badder than us. I say we drag him out into the woods and kick the shit out of him. Birthday girl gets first swing.”
“I’m game,” I say, and just like when we were ten, we leave the party behind and fade into the woods.
“You guys talk a good game.” Oz walks backward and his feet crunch against the fallen autumn leaves. “But I’m not seeing action.”
Chevy and Razor share a side glance that spells all sorts of trouble and within seconds they’re on the balls of their feet and plowing into Oz. It’s a mangled mess of arms, legs, grunts and laughter. A playful wrestling match that’s half serious, half not, and, at least once, either Razor or Chevy pops up with Oz in a hold and they egg me on to take a swing.
I can’t do much more than laugh as Oz always finds a way to slip out of their hold, but ends up back on the ground. It’s eight all over again. Ten all over again. Thirteen all over again. Sixteen, too. It’s every year, every age, three boys who are becoming men with just enough of Peter Pan in them to keep them young.
As they wrestle, we keep moving farther and farther into the woods. Into our playground. The place where we’d spend hours frolicking and playing and being as free as wild children let loose into the world without a care.
I reach the old oak first and brush my fingers along the rough bark. I close my eyes and I can almost hear our giggles as we ran around this tree, feel the wind blowing through my hair as I pushed myself to beat Oz in a race to touch this tree first. I remember the feel of the dirt under my bare feet as I made the hike from Olivia’s to the pond so we could swim in the cold water in the hot summer sun.
All three boys laugh as they stumble to their feet and they’re a mess of dirt and leaves in their hair, but what’s important is that they’re smiling. I miss this. I miss seeing them smile.
“Hey,” I call out, and they all stare at me. “Not it.”
“Not it” is shouted into the night, and like always Razor is last. He socks Oz in the shoulder as he announces how each of us sucks.
“Doesn’t mean you’re not it.” I waggle my eyebrows and then go running off into the night. And as if I’ve never been weighed down, I fly. Feet barely touching the ground, not feeling the sting of branches as they catch my arm. My knee aches in warning, but I ignore it. I need a few minutes to feel free and my body needs to allow me this moment.
Laughter is everywhere. From Oz somewhere to my right, from Chevy somewhere on my left as they trade insults with each other and from Razor as he counts down using a new curse word in place of a Mississippi. The laughter is also from me. It springs from my throat, and there’s this warmth and energy that originates in my toes and is flooding my system.
Hope and happiness and memories of better times being relived.
Razor yells out, “Ready or not.”
My heart beats in excitement of the unsaid Here he comes. I flatten myself against a tree, and somewhere in the distance, Oz and Chevy discuss plans of jumping on Razor when he comes near and I swallow a giggle.
Footsteps in the woods. Twigs being broken. Leaves rustling. I hold my breath as it feels as if each and every inhale will give my hiding spot away.
Razor moves away from me and I choke on t
he giggles when Oz and Chevy leap from their hiding spots and tackle Razor.
“Go, Violet, go!” Chevy calls, and they’re giving me my chance to reach the oak and be the winner.
Once again, I’m on the move, but this time with a limp and not nearly as fast, but the pure joy that rages through my bloodstream at seeing the old oak is enough to wipe away all the pain that’s become layers of grime on my soul. Just a few more feet, a few more steps—
A hand around my waist. I swat at it and begin to playfully elbow when another hand covers my mouth and nose. The hold tightens, fear surges through me and I’m off the ground. My heart sinks. No, not again. Heat flushes my neck, my face, and a dry heave rocks my body.
My feet hit the ground again, my back and head rammed into a tree and flat eyes bore into mine. “Scream and I’ll have one of my guys in the woods put a fucking bullet in one of your friends’ heads. We lost you and Chevy yesterday after the game and now those of us who have been watching you are in trouble.”
Us. There’s more than one person stalking me.
His hand goes to my neck. It’s not tight, but it’s definitely a warning. “We’ve heard rumors your car was seen in the south side of Louisville today. Why would you have been there?”
My eyes flicker over his face. I don’t know this man. I don’t recognize him from the kidnapping. He shoves me again, into the tree, and a sound of pain leaves my throat. “Why were you in Louisville?”
“Violet?” Chevy calls, and there’s still happiness in his voice. “Where are you?”
“We weren’t in Louisville,” I say. “We drove around waiting for the party.”
“Liar,” he spits.
“Violet!” Chevy yells out, and his tone has changed. There’s concern, there’s anxiety and soon Razor and Oz join him in calling for me.
“Do you have the account numbers?”
My body shakes, but I force myself to keep eye contact. “Yes.”
“Sneak out tonight,” he says. “I’ll meet you outside your house and you give them to me.”
Long Way Home Page 27