by Anne Malcom
Killian’s jaw hardened once more. “He doesn’t. Not yet at least. Soon he’ll know him really well.”
I stopped just outside the doors to our theater. “What does that mean?” I asked, turning to him.
Killian regarded me. “Nothing, babe. Let’s just watch the movie.”
I stood my ground. “We’re not going to watch the movie until you answer the question,” I declared. I was serious. I was willing to give up the latest Bond film for this stare down.
Killian seemed to see this in my eyes because he sighed in defeat and gently took my elbow to direct us to a seat. I sat silently, raising my eyebrow expectantly.
“What do you know about the club?” he asked, his hand resting on my thigh.
I shrugged. “Not much. Just that guy Cade is the president and that Zane’s in it. That they’re your family. That it’s about motorcycles and brotherhood.”
Killian’s face changed as I spoke, some of the hardness melting from his eyes. “Yeah, brotherhood. That’s the core of it, babe. Family, loyalty as well. It’s a world, an alternative to the one that society tells us to live in. It’s one where you can be free. Sometimes freedom comes at a price. Sometimes freedom means breaking chains disguised as laws.”
“You mean that the Sons are outlaws? Criminals?” I clarified.
Killian’s eyes turned guarded. “One of many words for it, Freckles. Outlaws are just people livin’ outside those chains I described before. I know there was a time before I was old enough to understand, a time when they were so far outside the law they made their own chains. Chains that almost strangled the club. That left scars.” His eyes burned into mine, and I sensed there was a story behind that. A big one. One I wouldn’t hear on a seat outside a movie theater with a bucket of popcorn in my hands. I was getting the CliffNotes version.
“With Cade as president, they’ve broken free of those chains. We have,” he corrected. “The club is never going to be contained, be chained by anything. But they’re not going to do stupid shit that lands its members behind bars, not anymore,” he said.
I chewed over his words. “To live outside the law, you must be honest,” I murmured.
Killian smiled. “Bob Dylan’s never been more appropriate.”
My eyes widened at him. I was surprised he knew that. Most people our age couldn’t even name one of his songs, let alone quote him.
“I listen to real music, Freckles. The kind without computer generated bullshit,” he clarified.
“Well then, you’re perfect for me,” I joked.
“Nah, babe. You’ve got that the wrong way around.”
I shelved that comment for later when I could fawn over it in the safety of my bedroom. For now, I needed more information.
“So the men in Hope, how do they fit into this? Apart from making stupid comments to me and Mom,” I continued.
Any softness in Killian’s eyes turned to granite. “They what?” he clipped. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but there was something about it that scared me. It scared me because it wasn’t the look of a boy. It was the look of a man. A very dangerous man.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, hoping I could tame the beast I unwittingly unleashed. “Stupid stuff that sleazy guys say.”
The storm that descended over Killian’s face told me I should not have said that. “You’re sixteen,” he clipped out. “They’ve got no business saying anything to a fuckin’ sixteen-year-old. More importantly, you’re mine. They’re not just gonna meet Bull; they’re gonna become acquainted with me,” he declared, his voice full of menace.
I didn’t even have time to suggest and maybe fawn over the “mine” comment. I placed the popcorn down and clutched his hands. “If that means what I think it means, you are not going to,” I commanded.
Killian’s face was blank. “You don’t get a say.”
Oh, no he didn’t. I leaned back, pursing my lips. He had just unleashed a monster of his own, one that I didn’t even know resided inside me. “I don’t get a say,” I repeated in a quiet tone.
It looked like Killian was going to say something, backpedal most likely, if the look of realization on his face was anything to go by. I didn’t give him the chance.
“So is this because I’m a girl or because I’m an entire year younger than you so I should somehow respect my elders?” I asked.
Killian regarded me. “It’s neither. It’s club business,” he said cryptically like that was an answer.
“I don’t get how it’s ‘club business’”—I finger quoted—“when my mom and I were the ones to encounter the douchebags on bikes. If anyone has the right to go and give any kind of beat down, which I’m not saying anyone does, it would be me and Mom.”
I ignored the way Killian raised his eyebrows in amusement at that statement.
“Furthermore, I’m not sure how a five-minute exchange requires this much reaction, nor do I understand why Zane turned up shopping, and we had a bevy of motorcycles escorting us home,” I continued, building up steam. “Putting aside that mystery, the fact that I’m at the epicenter of this entire debacle, and it’s my boyfriend who is talking about engaging in a conversation, which I’m guessing is a euphemism for fight, with grown men, definitely means I get a fricking say,” I declared, scowling at him.
Killian didn’t flinch in the face of my rage. I guess I wasn’t surprised. He was just declaring war against an entire motorcycle club. A teenage girl’s wrath was nothing against that. I didn’t expect him to smile. For his eyes to glow.
“First time you’ve called me your boyfriend, Freckles. I like it.”
I widened my eyes. “That’s what you got out of that?” I asked in disbelief. I stood up, fuming with anger I wasn’t accustomed to. “I need to leave before I try to drown you in that bucket of popcorn,” I declared, nodding my head downward.
Kill’s hand caught mine before I could even take one step. He gently pulled my body to him. “I’m not letting you storm off,” he murmured. “As cute as you are when you’re angry, I’m not sure I like the end result of you trying to get away from me.”
“Well, your solution to that conundrum’s easy. Don’t make me angry,” I retorted. “You don’t like me when I’m angry.” I couldn’t help myself, even in a serious moment; I couldn’t stop my Hulk references. I blamed it on my mom. She found a way to mention the Godfather when she was angry.
I could tell Killian was fighting a grin, but I had to give it to him, his face stayed serious. “I have a feeling I’ll like you any way I can take you,” he responded. “But I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said the way you took it. It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t grown up with the club at their backs, belonging to the club. But when you’re a part of the club and someone screws with you, the club hits back. As one collective fist. And we pack a punch, Freckles. Bull claimed your mom. I’ve claimed you. It means you’re family. We’ve got your back.” He stroked my face. “It’s because of your connection to the club these guys even bothered you, so it is our responsibility to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
I stared at him, my anger melting away as quickly as a punctured balloon deflated. “The club will make sure,” I clarified.
Killian nodded.
“The men in the club. Not you. Promise me. I don’t want you getting hurt,” I pleaded.
Killian’s face was hard. “I can take care of myself, babe.”
I nodded. “I know that. But I can’t. I can’t handle the thought of you getting hurt because of me. Promise me.”
Killian stared at me. “You gotta understand, Freckles, I’m prospecting for the Sons as soon as I turn eighteen. I won’t be able to sit this kind of stuff out. Not in the future.”
My stomach lurched at the thought. “That’s the future. This is now.”
He shook his head and kissed my nose. “It doesn’t bode well for me, my inability to say no to you,” he murmured.
I grinned. “But it does bode well for me, grasshopper.”
Kill chuckled and reached down to grab our forgotten snacks. “Let’s get you into the movie before you convince me to do anything else,” he ordered.
“Like sell your soul to the devil?” I teased.
“Someone already owns that, Freckles, but it sure as hell isn’t the devil,” he muttered as we walked into the dark movie theater.
On account of the movie having already started, I didn’t get to respond to that. But my hand did grasp his the entire time.
“You know if the wind changes, your face will freeze that way,” Mom observed from the door.
I looked up from my homework. “I’m smiling. What’s the problem with that?”
She pushed forward and landed herself on my bed. “People that smile all the time are creepy. Like Ted Bundy type creepy. I can’t have you walking around the house like that. I’ll have to sleep with one eye open, just in case you snap.”
I swiveled my chair around to face her. “Walk around like what? Happy?”
She nodded. “Yes. It’s not healthy. I’m worried for you. No teenager should walk around constantly happy. Aren’t you meant to wander around all broody and angry at the world?”
I laughed and pushed off my chair, moving to lie beside her on my bed. “Would it make you happier if I listened to death metal and slammed doors a lot?” I asked seriously.
Mom pondered. “Yes, yes it would,” she deadpanned.
I laughed. Mom grasped my hand. “All jokes aside, doll face. I’m happy you’re happy. Is it the boy?” she asked softly.
I thought a moment. Since the weekend, since the movies, it felt like Killian had spent every spare moment with me. He worked every day after school, but he would always stop by after, more often than not, staying for dinner. Mom accepted him into the fold easily, ribbing him as she did me. He didn’t seem to mind. Though he never said much, he always had a half grin on his face. When the band was over, he’d either take off on his bike while we practiced or lounged on a sofa in the garage watching us. Or more accurately, watching me.
“Yes and no,” I said finally. “He makes me happy. But it’s not just him. It’s my boys. The ones who are like brothers. The fact I get to make music with them, and it’s good. It’s Amber. This little town is like home already. It’s that Steve and Ava are coming to visit in three weeks.” I squeezed her hand. “It’s my mom is happy. That she has her person,” I whispered, turning my head to glance at her. “When does Zane get back from his run?” I was kind of peeved he had to take off before I even got to see him and Mom as a couple. A “run,” Killian explained, was going off for days to weeks on elusive “club business.”
Mom’s face went blank, and she squeezed my hand before sitting up abruptly. “I’m not sure, doll. Biker missions are top secret. I’m more apt to get the nuclear launch codes than Zane’s return date,” she joked.
I narrowed my brows at her as she stood up. Her humor seemed forced. My heart stopped for a second, dread replacing the joy that had been there moments before.
“Is everything okay, Mom? With you and Zane I mean?” I asked, sitting up.
Mom smiled brightly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Everything’s fine,” she reassured me, her voice going high at the end. “I’ve got to go make dinner if Killian’s coming over, which I assume he is considering it’s been approximately four hours since you last saw him. He’ll be having withdrawal symptoms.”
I smelled something fishy with her eagerness to leave. “Make dinner?” I repeated.
She scowled at me. “Ordering Chinese means making dinner,” she said defensively.
I sighed, pushing up off my bed. “I’ll make dinner. Something that doesn’t come in a box to ensure my mom and boyfriend don’t get scurvy,” I replied.
Mom gave me a look. “I eat fruit,” she protested.
“Name the last time you ate something with nutritional value,” I challenged.
Mom screwed up her nose and followed me into the kitchen silently, obviously wracking her brain. “I had a pink starburst yesterday!” she declared triumphantly.
I craned my head around the refrigerator door. “Candy in no way counts,” I informed her.
“It was strawberry flavored,” she argued.
“Flavored,” I emphasized the words as I pulled out vegetables. I held up a carrot. “Does this foreign object look familiar?”
She pretended to think. “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me,” she chanted sarcastically.
I rolled my eyes. “Are you going to make yourself useful and helpful?”
Mom nodded, making her way to the refrigerator I just closed. “You bet your cute butt I am,” she replied, reaching in. “I’ll be consuming my entrée of fruit salad.” The door shut and she held up a bottle of wine. “Grapes,” she said with a grin.
****
“How did Mom seem at dinner?” I asked Killian, fiddling with my guitar. “Do you think she seemed weird?”
Killian glanced up from where he was seated at my desk. He was allowed in my room on the proviso the door stayed open, and he stayed off horizontal surfaces, on Mom’s instruction.
“Is that a trick question?” he replied, fighting a grin.
I pushed my hair off my face and scowled at him. “No. I’m serious. I thought she’s seemed... off since last week. I’m worried it has something to do with her and Zane. Have you talked to him?”
Killian raised his brows. “Babe, he’s on a run,” he told me as if I didn’t know.
“I know that. But phones exist,” I pointed out. Though Kill barely used his apart from texting me now and then, asking if I was busy or telling me he couldn’t come over on rare occasions.
“Yeah, but do you really think Bull and I call each other and gab about our days and his love life?” he asked, his eyes teasing. “You actually have to talk in order to use the phone.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Zane talks,” I defended, feeling protective.
Kill shook his head. “Barely. Not to anyone, apart from you and your mom,” he said quietly.
I chewed over this, absently strumming my guitar.
“Don’t worry, Freckles. I’m sure all’s well in the land of Bull. As well as it can be. I can tell you it’s been better than it has been in memory since you and Mia entered his life,” he told me.
I glanced up at him, feeling a smile creep onto my face. Kill’s words reassured me.
“Now can we stop talking about your mom’s love life and can you play me something?” he asked.
My smile got bigger. We had gotten into a ritual when Kill came over. Sometimes we’d do homework. Correction, I’d do homework, he’d either sit watching or helping me, or read a book. Kill didn’t do homework. Or we watched a movie with my mom. Kill quickly understood how serious we took movies and how emotionally invested we were in characters on The Walking Dead. He’d slotted into the process effortlessly. He even comforted me when I thought Glenn was dead, not even acting like I was a crazy person for getting emotional over a fictional character.
But whatever we did, we finished the night with me playing and singing. I’d felt self-conscious at first. When I was in my room singing and playing, that was when I was most me. When everything was stripped raw, and I projected my true self while I got lost in the music. The way he’d looked at me after I’d played “Like a Rolling Stone” by Bob Dylan had curbed all my fears and scared the crap out of me. It was like he understood music was my soul, my everything. Somehow he inserted himself into that piece of my identity. Secured his own place.
“Any requests?” I asked.
Kill leaned back, crossing his arms. “Nah, babe, anything you play is beautiful.”
A blush crept up my cheeks and turned my head down, strumming. I started to softly sing Alice Kristiansen’s cover of “We Don’t Eat” and soon found the courage to move my gaze up and lock my eyes on Killian’s ice blue ones and not tear it away. I sang the entire song to him, and we entered that space that was just ours. The one where the present was the
only thing that mattered. The past and future were inconsequential. A distant memory.
A weird sort of loss settled over me as I sang the last word and silence roared louder than my strumming.
The electricity in the air crackled between Killian and me as neither of us said anything.
“Can the songbird of our generation keep it down? I’m trying to watch Toddlers and Tiaras. You’re ruining the trashmosphere.” Mom cut the moment away from the door. She glanced at Killian. “That’s trashy atmosphere. If you’re gonna hang with the Spencer girls, you need to know our language,” she informed him. Her gaze flickered back to me. “That was beautiful, kid. No surprises there.” She gave me a sad smile then pushed off the doorway. “Toddlers in Tiaras is calling to me. I’m coming, Honey Boo Boo,” she said to an imaginary person in the living room. “Also, it’s your friendly timekeeper reminding you it’s 9:53. Say your good-byes, kids. You have to survive an entire night without each other,” she proclaimed dramatically.
“Good-bye, Mom,” I said, glaring at her.
She gave me a pageant wave then disappeared.
Killian looked at me. “Seems normal to me,” he said. “Well, your mom’s version of normal.”
I poked my tongue out at him and placed my guitar on the bed, padding over to him. I lifted myself up to set my butt on the desk and swung my feet. Killian snagged my hand and twirled his fingers against mine.
“You nervous for Saturday, Freckles?” he asked after a moment of silence.
I looked up from my inspection of our intertwined hands. His large calloused one engulfed my tiny one. He had the hands of a man already.
“Nervous?” I repeated. “No way. I’m excited. I can’t wait to meet the rest of your club. The people you call family.”
Saturday, Rosie, Cade’s sister, was throwing a big barbecue at her place, one that the entire club and its extended family would be going to. I hadn’t been to anything connected to the club yet, and I couldn’t wait. I was fascinated by the world that Kill told me about, about their way of life. I couldn’t wait to see it in the flesh, to experience it. I also wanted to inject myself into the family Kill considered blood like he had here. On that thought, my stomach dropped.