I’ve barely pulled into Ghost and Jenna’s driveway before Noah is out of the house like a shot, his new helmet in hand.
“Morning, Uncle Angel!” he calls, his smile so wide it looks like his face is about to split open.
“Mornin’, buddy. You ready to ride?”
But he’s already climbing on behind me, so I guess that’s my answer. I wait and watch in the side mirror until I see he’s got the helmet on and securely fastened. Jenna comes out of the house and gives me a wave and a smirk. She mouths, “Be careful!” and I nod and give her a thumbs up.
“Okay, buddy. Here we go. Hang on tight!”
We pull out of the driveway, and as soon as I hit the highway in front of Ghost’s house, Noah lets out a whoop and pumps his fist in the air. I can’t help but laugh. I remember the first time I was on a bike. Felt like coming home. Growin’ up around the Lords of Carnage like Noah has, I imagine he feels the same way.
I head straight for some low, twisting roads that run through a valley and a small woods to the south of town. It’s one of my favorite places to ride when I’m by myself, and I’m happy as hell to take Noah through here. As I drive, I can feel him leaning with the bike, almost instinctively. He’s got a good feel for it already, I can tell. He twists his head back and forth, looking at the landscape around us, and his breathing speeds up with excitement whenever I lean the bike way over for a tight turn.
We ride for a couple of hours, until I can feel him starting to get tired behind me. Riding uses more muscles than you’d think, and I promised Jenna I’d be careful with Noah and not overdo it. I take a different route back toward Tanner Springs, a flatter, straighter one this time. We fly past golden corn fields post-harvest, a slight breeze making it seem like the plants are waving to us.
When we get back into town, I keep going straight instead of turning right. Noah leans forward. “Where we going?” he calls.
“You’ll see.”
A few minutes later, I pull us into Twisted Pipes. Noah’s been here often enough that he doesn’t question anything — he just hops off the bike and pulls off his helmet. His hair is sticking out every which way, and he’s grinning like a fiend.
“That was amazing!” he half-shouts, throwing his arms in the air. “God, I can’t wait to get my first bike!”
I couldn’t have asked for a better intro. Chuckling, I put an arm around his shoulders and walk him toward the garage, where Ghost should be waiting. A couple of the men are outside, having a smoke. They wave a greeting to us as we pass.
“You got some business to do here, Uncle Angel?” Noah asks. His face is serious, like he’s trying hard to be one of the adults. I suppress a laugh, because I don’t want to embarrass the kid.
“Yeah. Something kind of important. I wanted you to be here for it,” I reply, furrowing my brow. Noah’s eyes widen with pride but he says nothing.
“Ghost!” I yell once we’re inside. “You in here?”
“Yeah!” comes the call back. “Just a sec, prez!”
Noah’s stance gets just a little taller, his chest puffing out a little, as he tries to measure up to the space. This garage is our pride and joy — our first legitimate business, started by Hawk a few years ago. I let go of Noah’s shoulders and he starts walking around, checking out the different projects our men are working on. There’s a bunch of different bikes waiting for custom paint jobs, a few classic cars, and even Hawk’s current baby: an original twin cam that he’s built from the ground up. It’s gonna be a beautiful goddamn bike when he’s finished with it. Whoever ends up buying it off him is gonna be one lucky fucker. If Hawk can manage to part with it once he’s done.
Enthralled with all the different machines, Noah cruises right past the small object in the corner, draped with a white sheet. I grin to myself at how clueless he is. This is gonna be fun as shit.
Ghost comes out of the back office with Hawk, and calls Noah over. Noah trots obediently toward them. There’s a look of pride and excitement in Noah’s eyes that he almost always has when he’s around his father. If ever there was a boy who idolized his dad, Noah is it. Jenna’s right that Noah’s gonna follow in Ghost’s footsteps. If that boy doesn’t prospect with the Lords just as soon as he’s able to, I’ll eat a wrench.
“Yeah, Dad?” Noah asks as he reaches his father’s side. Ghost glances at me and I come over, too.
“How was your ride with Angel?”
“It was awesome!” Noah grins. “He was leanin’ way over and everything!” For a second, Noah’s eyes falter, as he calculates whether it was a good idea to tell his dad this.
“Noah’s a natural on a bike,” I affirm. I reach out to tousle his hair. “But then, you probably know that already.”
“Yeah,” Ghost nods. “It’s too bad the boy’s too young to ride on his own.”
“Yeah,” I rumble. “Too bad.”
“Hey,” Hawk speaks up. “Funny thing you mention that. I got somethin’ to show you.” He leads us over to the small mound in the corner with the sheet on it. “Check this out,” he announces, yanking the fabric off.
There it is: the Honda Rebel 250. It’s a small bike, of course, but it looks almost like a miniature Harley. This one’s in fucking perfect shape. The chrome gleams on it, and Hawk or someone else at the shop has painted orange and red flames in a custom pattern around the “Rebel” lettering on the gas tank. Noah audibly gasps when he sees it.
“Damn,” Ghost whistles. “That’s a nice little bike.”
“Funny,” I agree, “It looks about Noah’s size, doesn’t it?”
“Huh. Yeah, it does at that,” Hawk murmurs.
“Why don’t you hop on it, Noah?” Ghost suggests.
Noah doesn’t need to be asked twice. Approaching the bike reverently, he touches one of the handlebar grips with a finger before carefully swinging a leg over the seat. He sinks down on it, his eyes glazed in ecstasy.
Hawk nods in approval. “That bike’s gonna make someone very happy.”
At Hawk’s words, Noah’s face transforms from happy to wistful. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Whoever gets this is lucky.”
Over his son’s head, Ghost smirks at me. “So, Hawk,” he continues. “Who are you doin’ this bike for?”
“Oh, some guy and his brother-in-law bought it for the guy’s kid. Birthday present, I guess.” Hawk stops for a moment and glances at Noah, who’s caressing the newly painted gas tank in wonder, totally oblivious. “I guess he just turned twelve, and his dad decided it was about time he got a bike of his own.”
“Wow,” Noah breathes.
“Maybe you know him, Noah,” I reply. “Hawk, what’s the guy’s name?”
“Oh, I can’t recall it off hand,” Hawk murmurs with a shrug. “All’s I remember is, his dad’s the Sergeant at Arms in one of the local MCs. I guess his uncle’s the president, too.”
Hawk’s words snap Noah from his reverie. Confused, he looks up from the bike. “Wait, what?” he asks, scrunching up his forehead. Then, as the three of us watch in amusement, the clouds part and Noah realizes what we’re saying.
“Oh my God,” he whispers, his eyes going wide as plates. “Are you serious, Dad?”
“What do you think?” Ghost answers with a grin. “‘Course, if you don’t like it…”
“No! I love it!” Noah’s hands grip onto the handles for dear life. “This is the best present I could ever, ever have!” His eyes dart from his father to me. “Thank you!”
“Now, there’s some rules attached to this bike,” I warn. “One, you gotta wear your helmet, or your mother will skin your dad and me alive. Two, you can only ride it around your property or the Lords’ property. You ain’t legal, so you can’t go out on the streets with it.”
“I promise!” Noah’s head bobs up and down. “Anything!”
“Okay, then,” Ghost nods. “It’s yours. And thank Hawk for cleanin’ it up and doin’ the paint job on it.”
“Thank you, Hawk!”
“
Don’t mention it, kid,” Hawk growls, a twinkle in his eye.
“So. Noah,” Ghost continues, taking a step forward. “How’d you like to take the bike out in the parking lot? I can teach you the basics, and you can practice out there for a while.”
The kid looks like he’s about to hyperventilate with happiness. “Yeah!” he practically yells. “Can we—”
The hiss lasts for only a millisecond — not even long enough to register it — before the concussive boom of the explosion follows. A wave of heat and sound propels us sideways. The simultaneous punch to my guts and my ears means that for a second or two, I can’t breathe or hear. Everything goes dim, as all of my senses struggle to make sense out of chaos. I try to open my eyes, but they refuse, as some sort of primal instinct overrides my conscious brain.
When the roar of the blast starts to subside, and I finally manage to gasp some air into my lungs, I realize I’m on the ground. The cold cement of the garage floor tells me I’m lying on my side. My throbbing head has taken part of the impact from the fall. Scrambling to my knees and then my feet, I look around in alarm and see that Ghost and the others are down, too, but moving. Noah’s scrambling out from underneath his bike. Dust and debris litter his hair, skin, and shirt. I take an unsteady step toward him, but Ghost is already there. He pulls his son upright, a little roughly, and then crushes him into a hug.
The muffled sound of Hawk’s voice comes at me from my left. “You okay?” he calls.
I look his way and nod. “You?”
“Yeah,” Hawk yells above the sound of the flames. “It was that car over in the far bay. We gotta get everyone out in case it blows!”
Without another word, the two of us run toward the other side of the shop, where the explosion came from. It occurs to me that might have been only the first blast of many, but there’s no time to think about that now. A fire’s already starting on the far end. Thick black smoke is billowing from a car sitting in the furthest bay. A prone figure in coveralls is lying on the ground about fifteen feet away. Hawk and I race toward him and pull the body from the blast as fast as we can. It’s Hale, one of our newest Lords. He’s not unconscious, but he’s close to it. Hale groans as we force him up into a standing position, one arm around each of our shoulders.
“Come on, brother,” Hawk urges. “Move your legs.”
Hale does, and stands up well enough that Hawk is able to take over and haul him outside by himself. I start back toward the wreckage, looking for other people, but it looks like everyone else is out.
“Angel!” Ghost’s voice comes from behind me. I turn to see him in the doorway, gesturing toward the outside. “No time! Come on!”
One last glance around me shows no other men in sight. Feeling reassured, I run to the door after him. By now, the smoke has overtaken the entire space, and I’m coughing and wheezing by the time I get outside. Bullet is yelling for everyone to get across the street, far from the building.
“Call the fire department!” Ghost yells toward me. He’s got his arms around Noah, who is looking shaken and a little cut up. I grab my phone and hit 911. I’m telling the dispatcher the address when a second explosion rocks the building, sending balls of flame shooting out the two bay doors.
“Well, shit,” Hawk mutters, coming up beside me. “That ain’t good at all.”
“No, it fuckin’ ain’t.”
The rest of the men who were in the garage are outside now, each of them looking a combination of angry and bewildered. As they come toward us, Ghost, who still has one arm gripped tightly around his son, shakes himself out of whatever he’s thinking about and looks down. He lets out a soft whistle when he looks at the scratches and cuts on Noah’s face.
“Fuck, Jenna is gonna shit herself,” he says grimly. “You sure you’re okay, Son?”
Noah is white, but brave. “Yeah. I’m fine. But Mom can’t get mad at you for this — it’s not your fault!”
In spite of everything, Ghost chuckles low in his throat. “Like hell she can’t. You don’t know your mother. She’s gonna be pissed as hell at me.” He nods toward me. “And at you.”
I nod. That’s the truth. We’re just gonna have to let Jenna yell it out, until the adrenaline from the fear that she almost lost her husband and her son passes.
Sirens sound off in the distance as the group of us watches the flames from the fire lick up the sides of the building. No one talks for a few seconds. I’m pretty sure we’re all thinking the same thing: the shop might be a total loss.
“Well,” Ghost finally says, his voice rueful. “I think Noah wins the record for owning a motorcycle for the shortest amount of time.”
“Dammit,” Noah says softly. “I loved that bike.”
“We’ll get you another one,” Ghost assures him.
Bullet jogs over to us, his jaw clenched. “Shit. I think Smitty might have been in that car. He never came out after the blast.” He looks from Hawk to me.
“Fuck.” Hawk spits angrily. “Goddamnit. Are you sure?”
Bullet nods. “I think so.”
Smitty is a kid from town, not one of the Lords. He came into the shop about five months ago, looking for work. Hawk saw some potential in him, so ended up hiring him. He wanted to teach Smitty everything he knew about bikes, in the hope that Smitty would one day be able to open up his own shop.
Looks like that’s not gonna happen now.
The fire trucks arrive. The flames are doused. We wait to hear from them the news that we’re dreading: that Smitty never made it out alive.
I know it’s too early to tell whether the explosion was caused by some mistake, or whether someone did this on purpose. Not for sure, anyway.
But I got a strong feeling in my gut, and it’s telling me I know who set that explosion. And that it wasn’t an accident.
This shit has Outlaw Sons written all over it.
6
Jewel
If I had hoped that Jude would eventually start warming up to me the longer he’s here, it soon becomes clear how ridiculously naive I was.
We start to settle into a “routine” of sorts. I try to talk to him, he ignores me. I try again, he tells me to back the fuck off. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Since he’s only seventeen, and didn’t get his high school diploma before he left my parents’ house, I suggest enrolling him in school. He bursts out laughing and looks at me like I’m on drugs. He shows no interest in getting a job, either.
I give him a key to my apartment on the second day, and he seems to take that as his signal to do as he pleases. In the next two weeks, he comes and goes — mostly goes — and when he does come home, he’s usually reeking of beer and cigarettes. He spends his afternoons sacked out on my couch, sleeping or staring at his phone while I’m at work.
One morning — after a late night of tossing and turning in my bed with very little sleep — I come out into my tiny living room to see that Jude isn’t there. His absence wouldn’t be unusual, except that it’s not even ten o’clock yet, and he usually sleeps past noon most days.
“Huh,” I say to the silence, my brow furrowing. Maybe he’s gone out to look for a job or something, the stupid, optimistic side of my brain suggests. The notion feels so ridiculous that I actually snort out loud. Yeah, right. He’s probably just literally slept his entire life’s quota, and is outside having a smoke, or something. That’s much more likely. I go to my front door, try the handle, and see that it’s unlocked. Yeah. Probably out for a smoke. He’ll be back in a few minutes.
I pad out to the kitchen and make myself some toast and coffee, then go to my bedroom and retrieve the worn library paperback I left on my nightstand last night. Sitting at the small table with my breakfast, I get quickly engrossed in the romance novel I’m reading, and don’t look up from it until I’m done with my second cup of coffee and the toast has been reduced to crumbs. Only then do I realize that Jude still isn’t back. I stand and go over to the living room window, leaning over so I can get a view of our front s
toop. There’s no one down there. Maybe Jude has already taken off for the day. Weird.
Forcing down my irritation that he didn’t even bother to lock the door behind him, I go back to my front door and flip the deadbolt, then head into the bathroom to take a shower. I wonder to myself how long he’s been gone. He was here last night when I went to bed. He definitely didn’t say anything about having plans this morning. Not that he’d tell me anyway, of course. As I soap up and do a quick shave of my legs, I tell myself to let it go. Jude’s probably fine, and I’m sure he has his cell phone, so he can call me if anything happens. If I let myself worry every time he does something unusual, I’ll be a nervous wreck all the time.
It takes me the better part of an hour, but by the time I’m all dressed, made up, and ready for work, I’ve finally pushed all preoccupied thoughts of Jude out of my mind.
Just in time to realize that he’s taken my car keys with him.
I pound down the stairs to the back parking lot, trying hard not to jump to any conclusions until I’ve seen for certain that he’s absconded with my car. Sure enough, when I get outside, my space is empty. I glance around the lot wildly, hoping I’ve just made a mistake — that I just forgot where I parked last night. But nope: Jude has my car keys, and my car, and unless he gets back here in the next ten minutes, I’m going to be late for work. Again.
“Damn, you, Jude!” I fume under my breath as I pound back up the stairs and search for my phone. I text him once, then call him. The call goes straight to voice mail. The text goes unanswered. I text him again, and then a third time. With each one I send, it gets harder not to explode onto the screen. How dare he? What the hell is that ungrateful bastard thinking? Doesn’t he care that he’s living here rent-free, and that one week’s groceries for him could feed me for a month? I’ll kill him when I get my hands on him! I’ll keep my keys on me at all times from here on out. It’s time for some ground rules around here, and he’d better follow them, or else!
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