For the first time, Jewel’s distracted eyes land on mine. “It’s okay, Boss. I really don’t mind,” she says, looking away quickly. “At least I’d feel like I was doing something useful for Noah’s birthday.”
I study Jewel for a second before answering. Normally when she comes to work at the clubhouse, she’s dressed in a tight tank, a short black skirt, and tennis shoes. Her hair is always styled just so, and her makeup is not overpowering but noticeable. Today, it’s clear she left the house in a rush. She’s wearing a loose white T-shirt, faded jeans, and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots. Her ash blond hair is pulled back in a careless ponytail, and she’s not wearing any makeup. Jewel’s normally open, friendly expression is pale and pinched.
“I ain’t your boss,” I growl. “Least, not today. Slow down, Jewel. You’re a guest, not an employee.”
“Angel’s right,” Jenna nods, taking Jewel’s arm. “Come on, let’s grab you a glass of wine or something. Everything is totally under control.”
Jewel is dubious, but she lets herself be led away. I watch her as she goes, taking a moment to appreciate the way her tight jeans mold around her fucking spectacular legs. Jewel’s been working for the club for a long time now. She came to us under circumstances I can’t quite remember, but one thing I do recall was that she wasn’t in a good place when she showed up. When Rock hired her, a lot of the brothers were lickin’ their chops in anticipation. Ghost and I shut that shit down right away, because she was the best bartender we’d ever had and we didn’t want her to quit. The last thing we needed was for her to feel like she had to put out to keep her job. I might be a pig in some ways, but that shit ain’t never gonna fly around me. I’m not a complete asshole.
I ain’t gonna lie, though. I was more than a little interested in her when she first came in off the street, lookin’ like she could really use a decent break for once in her life. But there’s some truth to that old saying: Don’t shit where you live. The last thing I need is the complication of my personal feelings for Jewel — who’s a decent as hell person, in addition to being a smoking hot piece of ass — get in the way of my job as president of the Lords. I’ve got plenty of other women around to satisfy whatever urges I have.
Plus, Jewel ain’t a club girl, and she’s here to mix drinks, not to suck my dick. Even though I bet those fuckin’ lips around my cock would feel like goddamn heaven. So, I’ve kept my distance, even though it ain’t always easy.
Still. Keepin’ my distance or not, I’ve known Jewel for a long time. And I’ve never seen her acting as upset and distracted as she is today. There’s clearly something up. And I’m pretty sure it’s more than her just being worried about letting Jenna down.
4
Jewel
Standing in the waiting room in the tiny bus station in Tanner Springs, my mind is half on yesterday’s party, and half on the fact that I’m about to see my brother for the first time in almost six years.
It didn’t occur to me until I got here that if my mother had bothered to give me Jude’s cell phone number, I could have just called him and asked him which bus he was on and what time he was getting in. Assuming he has a cell phone, that is — but what seventeen year-old boy doesn’t?
The realization that I don’t even know my own brother’s phone number hits me in the gut and brings home to me once again what a terrible sister I’ve been. When he stopped responding to my letters years ago, I told myself that he was a teenager and that I should just give him space. I told myself — I hoped — that eventually he might start answering again, as he got older and more mature. But how could I have been so disconnected from Jude that I didn’t even know he was getting into trouble back home? It feels unforgivable, even though I was trying to do the right thing at the time.
Yesterday at Noah’s birthday party, I suddenly realized that in my mind, my baby brother is still Noah’s age. My brain froze Jude in time as the wide-eyed, sunny-smiled little boy that I so adored. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to admit to myself that he was growing up without me, I let myself keep on thinking of him as the same little boy he always had been. But seeing Noah playing with all the other Lords of Carnage kids — still a child, just on the cusp of adolescence — sent a kick straight to my gut. It made me sad to think how much of my own brother’s life I’ve missed out on. How many birthday parties he should have had, but probably didn’t. Because I know my mother wouldn’t have thought to throw him one. Growing up, on our birthdays, our parents would grudgingly give us a present, but they always judged spending money for those sorts of parties as ridiculous. In their minds, they couldn’t see why a birthday was important to celebrate. After all, it wasn’t like being born was some sort of accomplishment. They thought people who wanted parties thrown for them were weak and sentimental. There was no place in our household for that kind of childish nonsense.
Of course, it would have been worthless to point out to either her or my father that we would have liked that kind of childishness — because we actually were children.
If I’d been around for Jude — if I’d stayed, instead of leaving town — I could have thrown him birthday parties myself. I could at least have taken him out to eat somewhere on his special day. I could have had the restaurant bring out a slice of cake with a candle in it. I could have sung him happy birthday.
If I hadn’t been selfish. If I’d been a better sister.
If I could turn back time, I could do so many things so differently.
If I could turn back time, maybe I wouldn’t be standing here in this bus station, waiting for someone I’m not even sure I’ll recognize.
A sudden, sharp craving for a cigarette hits me out of nowhere. I stopped smoking three years ago, so there’s no longer a pack sitting in my purse. Reflexively, my body turns toward the front entrance of the station. I know, with a former smoker’s instinct, that if I walked outside, chances are there would be someone out there I could bum a smoke from. I even go so far as to take a few steps toward the entrance — just to get some air, I tell myself. But right as I’m about to reach out my hand to the push bar on the door, there’s a loud screech from the PA system.
“Attention, ladies and gentlemen,” a garbled voice announces. “Bus number sixteen-thirty-two from Chicago arriving at door one, with service continuing to Pittsburgh, Baltimore, and Washington. Again, bus number sixteen-thirty-two, arriving door one.”
A jolt of adrenaline shoots through me as I nervously turn and make my way to the back of the station, toward the door marked “Door 1” (the only door, actually, but who’s nitpicking?). A handful of people shuffle outside, and I’m strangely grateful for the anonymous solidarity — the tiny comfort that I don’t have to wait alone. No one speaks; most people have their faces in their phones. But I’m too nervous to do anything but stand there, shifting from foot to foot.
About three minutes later, a bus turns the corner and pulls into the covered parking lot. It lumbers toward us, bringing with it the sharp smell of exhaust, and comes to a stop in a designated space marked with long yellow lines. The small crowd of people shifts almost as one, adjusting itself to wait about ten feet in front of where the passengers will exit. The hydraulic breaks wheeze, and the bus lowers itself a few inches.
The door accordions open. One by one, people begin to file out. Some lug heavy duffel bags. Others nod their heads to the music coming from their ear buds, carrying small backpacks on their backs. A teenage girl with hair piled in a high, lacquered bun on top of her head breaks into a grin and squeals, hopping down off the last step to launch herself at a youth who must be her boyfriend. An older, gray-haired woman steps off behind her, and hands her bag to a man who looks like her son. A young couple with a baby struggles off with his carrier seat, the baby strapped inside wailing hoarsely.
About a dozen people end up getting off the bus. After the last couple of stragglers, a few people from the waiting crowd start to get on. Frowning, I lift my gaze and peer into the windows of the bus, trying to se
e whether any of the faces staring out look like they could be Jude. But no one does.
No one else gets off. The driver opens up the long door in the belly of the bus and tosses the new passengers’ suitcases in, then slams it shut and goes inside the station. I’m alone on the sidewalk, my stomach sinking. Clearly, Jude wasn’t on this bus. But I don’t know whether that’s because he never got on, or because he jumped off somewhere between Gary and here and he’s flown the coop. I don’t know what I’m going to tell my parents when I call them to say he didn’t make it here.
Then again, I’m not even sure they’d care.
Feeling worried and dejected, I turn and start to head back inside the station. I’ve heaved open the heavy glass door and I’m about to walk through when I hear a voice behind me.
“Hey.”
It’s gruff, the voice — like it hasn’t been used in a couple of days. I twist my head around to find a tall, slightly gangly kid, with angular features that mirror my own. His full lips twist into a mocking sneer, the put-on adolescent look of every James Dean wannabe since… well, since James Dean. His hair is slightly darker than mine, and sticks up spikily on his head in a way that should look ridiculous but instead somehow adds to his rugged, I-don’t-care handsomeness.
“Jude?” I breathe, turning my whole body toward him. I don’t know why I’m asking it as a question. Of course it’s Jude. He’s twice as tall and almost twice as old as he was when I last saw him face to face, but it’s definitely him.
Instead of replying, Jude just shrugs. The small duffel bag that he’s got slung over one shoulder moves with him. Reaching into the pocket of his worn jean jacket, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one. “I hope it’s not very fucking far to your house,” he rasps as he blows out a plume of smoke. “I’ve been sitting in that goddamn bus forever.”
In spite of the harshness of his words, an unexpected wave of love hits me smack in the chest. For an instant, all of the years separating us feel like they’ve collapsed, and it’s my little baby brother Jude standing before me. Reflexively, I take a step forward to give him a hug. But as I do, he immediately moves back, flashing me an angry frown. The message is clear: Don’t touch me.
I stop in my tracks, and for some absurd reason try to pretend that hugging him wasn’t my intention in the first place. “Is that your only bag?” I ask, my voice cracking a little.
Jude gives me a little sneer. “What the fuck else would I have?”
The insult feels like a slap in the face, and I almost flinch before I manage to stop myself. So, this is Jude, I think with a mixture and sadness and dread. This is how it’s going to be between us.
I remember when Jude was little, mine would be the room he’d run to when there was a thunderstorm and he was scared. My hand was the one he’d slip his into when we crossed the street.
With a sinking sensation, I realize that that Jude is gone. In his place stands this angry stranger.
“Okay,” I choke out, forcing myself to sound bright, unconcerned. “If that’s all you’ve got, let’s go. My car’s out front.”
Jude’s opinion of my apartment doesn’t seem to be much better than his opinion of me.
“I know it’s small,” I say, hating myself for apologizing for it. “You can sleep in the bedroom. The couch pulls out; I’ll sleep on that.”
“I’m not sleeping in your room,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. He manages to make even my offer of kindness sound like an insult. “Fuck that. I don’t give a shit where I sleep.”
Jude dumps his bag unceremoniously in the middle of the room and throws his body down on the couch, so hard that it moves a couple of inches. He reaches in his pocket for another cigarette, but I stop him.
“Sorry, Jude,” I say, his name feeling foreign on my tongue. “I don’t have a lot of rules, but no smoking in the apartment is one of them. You’ll have to go outside to do that.”
My brother rolls his eyes at me again, but thankfully he doesn’t argue. He shoves the pack back in his jacket pocket and lolls his head against the back of the couch.
“Do you need anything?” I offer.
“You got any beer?”
“You’re too young to drink,” I counter, feeling like a ridiculous prude. Predictably, he curls his lip at me.
“Right,” he drawls sarcastically. In the ensuing silence, his stomach growls.
“Oh, are you hungry?” I jump on the idea. “I could order a pizza. Actually, I’d like that, too. I didn’t eat lunch today.”
Jude leans back and stretches his body out the length of my old, tattered couch, not bothering to take his shoes off. He gives me the barest of shrugs, which I decide to take as a yes.
“I’ll do that,” I say, reaching for my phone with relief. I’m incredibly happy to have something to do. “Pepperoni okay?”
Jude doesn’t answer, so I make the executive decision to order a large pepperoni and some Cokes. I find my local pizza place online and place the order. Then I murmur some excuse and flee to the bedroom to give myself a little time to regroup. I stay there, sitting on my bed and blankly staring into space, until the front buzzer sounds.
Hopping up, I race downstairs and pay for the pizza, perilously balancing the Cokes on the box on the way back up. When I get back inside, I see that Jude’s got the TV on and is flipping through the channels, a can of beer in his hand.
I open my mouth, then shut it again. Not worth it, Jewel. Not worth it. I can tell already I’m going to have to pick my battles with Jude, and starting out our first evening with a fight is not how I want to do this.
I set the pizza box on the low table in front of him. Going to the kitchen, I place his Coke in the fridge and open mine, then grab a couple of plates and bring those out as well. We eat in silence, with only the noises of the TV program as background. A couple of times, I try to engage Jude in conversation, which mostly fails.
“How was the bus trip?” I ask.
“Fucking sucked.”
“I suppose I should probably call Mama and Tata and tell them you’re okay.”
“Don’t bother. They don’t give a shit.”
Honestly, on that count, I have to admit he’s probably right — at least to myself.
“So…” I try again. “What’s the story about why they kicked you out? What happened?”
I’m not expecting to get anything out of him with this question. He’s doing his best to remain completely closed off from me. But to my surprise, I glimpse a flicker of emotion on his face.
“I dunno,” he mumbles, suddenly subdued. “Probably breathed too much. Took up too much air.” He cuts a glance at me. “They didn’t want me around to begin with. They were just looking for an excuse to get rid of me.”
Jude’s eyes hold mine for just a second. They’re the same pale blue as my own. And for a heartbeat, my seventeen-year-old self stares back at him — the seventeen year-old me who also left home, even though I ran away instead of getting kicked out. Her heart aches for this boy, on the verge of manhood. She knows how alone he must feel. He’s far from his friends and everything he’s known, with no support system, knowing his parents are happier he’s gone.
But Jude has me, I tell myself fiercely. He has me.
“I’m sorry, Jude,” I say softly. “Our parents… well, they aren’t the best, for sure.”
But if I think this is the start of a conversation that will bury the years of estrangement, soon I realize I’m dead wrong. Instead of warming at my words, they seem to flip a switch in my brother that shuts him down completely. He tosses down the crust of the pizza slice he’s finishing. Bolting upright, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I’m going out for a smoke,” he spits out, narrowing his eyes at me in contempt. “Since I can’t do it in your place.”
And with those words — which tell me in no uncertain terms that he knows this isn’t his home, either — he storms out of the door of the apartment. I hear him crashing through the fire doo
r and down the stairs, and have to resist the urge to run after him. To tell him I’m sorry, to give him a key. To say that my home is his home now.
Because, is it? Is it really?
Pushing myself tiredly out of my chair, I scoop up the pizza box and put the leftover slices in the refrigerator. Then, because I don’t know what else to do, I go back into my room and close the door. Flopping onto the bed, I stare at the ceiling.
What have I gotten myself into?
5
Angel
Noah’s party goes off without a hitch. But the calm doesn’t last for long.
A week after his twelfth birthday, my nephew’s finally managed to have me make good on the promise to take him out on my bike. Ghost took him for his first ride the day after the party, but he’s been too busy to do it again since. Noah wants me to take him out of town, and he’s probably hoping his I’ll be willing to kick up the speed a notch and take him on a ride that his mother won’t ask me about later — like I’m sure she did with Ghost. Noah even asked me if I’d show him how to shift gears and work the throttle. I’ve got a feeling he’s thinks I might even let him take a try at the controls in a parking lot or something. Unfortunately for him, there ain’t a chance in hell I’m gonna do that. My Dyna Wide Glide is way too much machine for a beginner. Especially one as small as he is.
What Noah doesn’t know is that Ghost and I have been planning a little surprise for him. Kind of a post-birthday present. With Jenna’s consent, we bought him a used Honda Rebel 250. Hawk has been fixing it up and doing a custom paint job on it at our shop, Twisted Pipes. Jenna agreed to let him have it on the condition that he can only ride it on their property or on the isolated dirt road behind their house, until he’s old enough to get his permit.
The day of Noah’s first ride with me couldn’t be more fuckin’ perfect. It’s sunny and warm, but not too hot. It’s early fall, and the leaves are just startin’ to turn, making the tree-lined highways outside of town pop with a blast of color that makes a man happy to be alive — and even happier to be on a bike, instead of in a cage.
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