Nowhere but Here

by Katie McGarry

  “Maybe.”

  “Why would she do that when lying to you has worked so well?” Olivia pushes a stray hair of mine behind my ear. “You loved for me to brush your hair, but you don’t remember that, do you? Your dinner is on the nightstand. Of course, you’re more than welcome to join us in the kitchen if you’d like company.”

  She leaves as easily as she waltzed in. The scene before me is blurred and then my father appears on the screen. “Calm down, Meg. Let me handle this. What’s going on, Emily?”

  I draw my hair over my shoulder and twine my fingers into the strands. My father grew up in a gated community with parents who tried to shelter him. He craved to see the world. They demanded he stay home. He had courage, defied them and left. If he had never done that, he would have never met Mom, and he would have never adopted me.

  How many times has he told me that story? A hundred times? A million? First as my own personalized fairy tale as he tucked me into bed at night. When I became scared of the dark at eight, it was the fable to show me what would be won if I found courage, then he recounted it several times over the past two years to inspire me to fly.

  Well, I’m somewhere new and I’m flapping these new wings like crazy, and you’re right, Mom’s not going to spill. “Everything’s fine, Dad, but I don’t think Olivia and Mom like each other very much.”

  Oz

  MY BIKE PURRS beneath me and the wind blows through my hair. No helmet this morning and Mom will be pissed, but I don’t care. The open road calms me and since Emily’s popped into my life, I’ve been restless.

  The first light of dawn peeks out in the east. Emily and I never did see that sunrise. Truth be told, I don’t know what to think of her. She’s hot, has an attitude, can kiss and she sure as hell is handling this insane shit better than I expected, meaning she hasn’t gone psycho and shot any of us yet.

  It’s been three days since she said goodbye to her parents. I’ve been around but mostly keeping my distance, and I’m not the only one. Emily’s silent as a church mouse and spends most of her time in her room. At least she does when I’m at Olivia’s.

  I downshift and ease near the group of motorcycles parked by the clubhouse. Standing beside the bikes are their owners. Some smoke cigarettes. A few drink from steaming mugs.

  With coffeepot and foam cups in hand, Mom flutters about with a smile on her face. Her black hair is drawn back into a messy knot and she wears her Terror Gypsies cut. The Terror Gypsies support the Reign of Terror and their membership is made up of the Terror’s old ladies. Can’t be a member unless you’re an old lady and you have to be an old lady who plans on sticking around for good.

  Because Eli only does one-nighters and Olivia had to relinquish her duties, Mom is now the highest-ranking member of the Terror Gypsies. Most of the time, Mom doesn’t mind the job. Dad loves the club and she loves Dad. As I said before, women like her are rare gems.

  Eli nods his chin at me as I shut off the engine and swing off my bike. He leaves the circle of guys he was talking with and flicks his cigarette into the yard as he strides toward me. “Morning, Oz.”

  “What’s up?”

  Eli scans the yard to confirm no one else is listening then turns his back to the crowd. “Until I get back, you’re Emily’s last line of defense. I’m trusting you with her and I’ll be real fucking pissed if she gets hurt, you read me?”

  Like a book. Eli told me last night how he’ll have other guys posted near the main road, but he doesn’t want Emily to feel imprisoned. “Stick with her, but give her room and don’t let her know you’re carrying. That could scare her. You can let Emily wander the woods as long as you’re with her, but she doesn’t leave our property.”

  “That would require her to leave her room.”

  Eli freezes ice with the glare he gives me. “Cut her some slack. This isn’t her world. I’m hoping when we leave she’ll relax and at least open up with Olivia.”

  Doubt it. Emily’s withdrawn already and she hasn’t even seen what the club is really like in action. Cyrus and Eli ordered everyone to stay away to allow Emily room to adjust so the clubhouse has been empty when usually it’s streaming with people.

  “Are you getting me on how you need to handle things?” presses Eli.

  “I got it.” Just like I understood it last night. Keep Emily happy and in her helpless unrealistic bubble.

  “One more thing,” he says. “You keep my past a secret. If Emily wants to know about me then you dodge the question. If you hear anyone talk about me, Meg or anything involving the two of us you steer Emily clear.”

  “So Emily lived here for two years of her life. The end result’s still the same. What’s it matter if she knows?”

  Eli tugs on his earlobe. “Because it’s not the story Meg told Emily and it sure as hell isn’t your place to ask.”

  I hold my hands up in surrender.

  “She’s my daughter. The only one I have and the only child I’ll ever have. I see the fear in her eyes, I sense her hesitancy, but when I get her to smile it makes up for all those moments in between. I got this one chance. My last chance. I don’t want to blow what little time I have left with her so no, I don’t want anyone rocking her world.”

  I nod my understanding, but remain silent because there’s nothing to say when he tells it like it is.

  “Keep her in the dark,” Eli says. “And consider that an order. Tell me you understand and tell me now.”

  “I got it.”

  He claps my arm. “You’re a good man. It’s why I’m trusting you with her.”

  “That mean I’m a prospect?”

  Eli releases a crazy-ass grin as he walks away. “Don’t push your luck.”

  It was worth a try. A pat on my back and I glance beside me to spot Dad. “You must have been discussing Emily.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Eli only looks like someone split his rib cage wide-open and stole his heart when he talks about her...” Dad doesn’t end the sentence as if a period belonged at the end. He said it as if there was more, but he’d decided to stop. “It’s a place of high honor and esteem for him to trust Emily with you.”

  “You telling me not to screw it up?”

  “Yeah. I am.” Dad’s tall like me. A year ago, I matched his height. A few gray strands mingle with his short black hair. He exhales as if he’s weighted and that catches my attention. “That graduation gift was because we thought you’d be joining the business this week. It wasn’t a gift for joining the club.”

  “I know.” In order to work for the security company, I earned my gun permit a few weeks ago.

  “This stuff with Emily and the Riot has complicated our world. It’s a heavy thing, carrying. A certain responsibility. You can’t bring back a life once it’s taken. You know if you need to talk about anything...the club, this stuff with Emily...anything—I’m here.”

  Raised in this life for eighteen years, I know this, but if Dad needs to say it, I’ll give him the respect he deserves. “I’m good.”

  “Then we’re good. Watch your six,” he says as a reminder to watch my back.

  “Same to you.”

  Without a word to anyone, Eli and Cyrus straddle their bikes and strap on their helmets. That one act causes everyone else to mount up and start their motorcycles. Soon the yard shakes with the thunder of angry engines. Cyrus pulls out with Eli on his right. They head onto Thunder Road toward the main drag and the guys follow behind them in pairs.

  On the porch, Mom watches the men ride off. She won’t sleep much until Dad’s back in town. Olivia appears beside Mom and wraps an arm around Mom’s waist. Sitting inside on the window seat with sexy disheveled hair is my responsibility for the next week: Emily.

  Reminder to self: hands off.

  Emily

  FOR SOME ODD reason ther
e’s a full-length mirror on the wall in the kitchen so with no one around, I suck in a lungful of air and pivot on my toes. Oh, sweet Caroline, my butt is a centimeter away from hanging out of this jean skirt. If I were to bend over, my underwear would show, and possibly other girly things. Who the heck wears stuff this short?

  Lars waddles into the kitchen and deposits his butt on my toes. He glances up at me with those droopy eyes and blinks once. “I don’t like you.”

  He whines. I wiggle my toes, but he remains on my feet. With a sigh, I return my focus to the material that is not doing its job.

  “Nice ass,” Oz says.

  I spin, knocking Lars off, then realize I’ve given Oz a view of my rear so I spin again. Oz hooks his thumbs into his jean pockets and lazily cocks a hip against the door frame.

  I’ve been avoiding him—on purpose. Because we kissed. Actually, I all but seduced him and then he kissed me and then there was lots of touching and then I sort of blackmailed him.

  Warmth curls up my neck and I’m not sure if it’s from the guilt of blackmailing him or from the dreams I’ve had since Sunday of us kissing again.

  His hair is wet so he must have been the person in the shower earlier. My heart flutters at the damp sight and the way one charcoal strand hangs over those blue eyes. And those eyes are now trained on the mirror because he can still see my... My hands fly to my bottom and I try to yank the material down farther.

  “Don’t stop,” he says in this low tone that vibrates against my insides. “It’s sexy as hell you’re checking yourself out.”

  Fire burns my cheeks. “I was not checking myself out.”

  “Yeah, you were, but as I said—don’t stop. I’ve seen a lot of asses and yours is one of the best, though to make a proper evaluation, I’d have to see the whole thing.”

  He winks. And smiles. That smile. The wicked one. My mouth slackens and while part of me is absolutely frozen with embarrassment, another stupid part of me melts.

  With a small wooden box in her hands, Olivia enters the kitchen. “What do you need to see?”

  “Emily’s ass,” Oz answers as if this is normal conversation. “Emily was checking hers out in the mirror and I told her that I agreed that it looked nice.”

  “I never said that was what I was doing,” I say as fast as I can. “I was looking at the skirt and I was wondering if it was too short and—”

  “It’s just right.” Olivia studies me like I’m a runway model. “Those clothes belong to Violet. Izzy ran by there to pick you up some stuff. Violet’s taller than you, so it would be too short on her. Besides, you’re a McKinley. We have fine asses. Be proud of your body, honey, it sags with time.”

  “I was not checking out my ass.”

  “Yes, you were.” Oz pulls a mug out of the cupboard and fills it with coffee. “And it was fine for you to do it. As I said, nice ass.”

  Oz hands Olivia the steaming mug as she sits at the table. She accepts it with a nod of gratitude. “We might have to prohibit ass conversations. Emily’s redder than a fire truck.”

  “I am not.” I so am.

  “I’m considering telling everyone we’ll have to be conservative while she’s here,” she continues like I hadn’t spoken. “I was even weighing whether or not to bake cookies.”

  Conservative? Olivia wears a pair of glued-on jeans and a white camisole that shows the outline of her bra. She has the blue silk scarf on her head again and today her gold dangly earrings reach her shoulders. From the obituary, I learned that she’s in her fifties and she’s one of those women who boasts fifty better than most people own their twenties.

  “Don’t let her bake cookies,” Oz warns me. “She burns them and then gets pissed off when we use them as weapons.”

  “Ingrate,” Olivia mutters as she blows on the coffee before taking a sip. I’ve never seen someone drink it black.

  Their banter is easy and comfortable and it makes me hugely uncomfortable to be the third wheel in the scenario. Using my hands to shield my butt isn’t helping.

  Olivia tears the strip off a carton of doughnuts, lifts the lid, then slides the box to me. “Breakfast is served.”

  I choose the seat at the end of the table and gather the limited material of the skirt underneath me to prevent my privates from showing, then indulge in the white, powdery goodness.

  The chair next to me squeaks and scrapes the floor as Oz yanks it out and sits. He kicks out his legs and crosses his arms over his chest. I automatically tuck my feet under my chair. This boy does not stay within his personal space.

  Oz glances at me out of the corner of his eye and does an obvious double-take. The kind that causes me to look down to see if something is riding up or unbuttoned. Everything appears to be in order. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Yet his eyes flicker at me again.

  “Not nothing. What?”

  “You have powder near your mouth.”

  My tongue darts out and I quickly lick at the sweetness, but he stares as if he’s drawn to my mouth so the sugar still has to be there. His eyes grow kind of dark and I flush with the memory of his lips pressing against my neck.

  Napkinless, I raise my hand and rub the left side of my mouth and I wait for a sign of approval.

  “It’s to the right,” he says in a deep voice.

  I wipe and he sighs. “Lower.”

  By the annoyed set of his jaw, I must go too low. Oz rolls his eyes and leans forward. “It’s here.”

  His thumb skims the corner of my mouth. My heart stops beating, and heat explodes through my body. A little gasp of air leaves my lips and Oz jolts back like electricity shocked us both.

  Oz is up, out of his seat and across the kitchen before I can remember to inhale. The skin that he touched tingles and I twine my fingers together on my lap to restrain myself from brushing my fingertips over the sensitive area.

  He flips the handle to the faucet and fixes a glass of water. His Adam’s apple moves as he drinks and I have to work to tear my gaze away. When I do, I’m greeted by a very curious Olivia.

  “I had powdered sugar on me,” I say, because it feels like I should say something.

  “I noticed,” she answers. “Oz, would you go get me my reading glasses? I left them in the clubhouse. On the bar, I believe. If anyone is there, tell them Eli gave you permission to be in the clubhouse through me.”

  “My pleasure,” he mumbles, and the front door creaks open faster than I thought it would.

  Olivia opens the wooden box and rifles through it. “We can bake cookies later. You used to prefer sugar cookies and liked it when we iced them. You particularly loved the ones with chocolate sprinkles.”

  I sweep some of the powder sugar off the table onto my hand. Does she think I’m five? “Sure.”

  “I don’t burn them.”

  “Okay.” The garbage can must be the type that fits in a drawer because I’m not spotting one. “I didn’t tell Mom about the picture.”

  “Figured you didn’t. You’re still here.”

  I rise and dump the sugar into the sink, then turn on the water to encourage the white specks to drain down the pipes. This is the first time I’ve been alone with Olivia since she gave me the picture and I have a sinking feeling that it won’t be my last, but meeting her, talking with her, is the reason I’m here. “Since I am, do you want to tell me this so-called truth of yours?”

  Olivia slowly appraises me and she has this evil, heavy-lidded substitute-teacher expression. “It’s not ‘so-called.’ It’s the absolute truth. And no, I’m not going to tell you.”

  My head flinches back. “Why not?”

  “Because you haven’t agreed to stay.”

  Hello? “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “I want you here for the entire summer. You’re a smart girl. I see it in your eye
s. Everyone thinks you’re shy or freaked out, but I know better. You’re observing us. Taking notes. Figuring out how we work so you’ll know how to play us. If I tell you what you want to know now, I have no doubt you’ll be on the next flight to Florida. If you want the truth, it’ll be on my terms.”

  I blink to the point that little white lights emerge in my vision. “What do you mean?”

  From the box Olivia pulls out a folded piece of paper with serrated edges as if it was torn out of a notebook. “You’re half McKinley and the other part of you belongs to Meg. If that combination doesn’t make you a master con artist, I don’t know what would. Be careful how you try to play me. I’ve never been known for my patience.”

  She closes the box, places the notepaper on the table and shifts the newspaper closer to her as if we were done with conversation. I raise my chin. “Don’t talk badly about my mother.”

  “You don’t know what your mother did to this family.” She doesn’t even bother glancing up from the newspaper. “This is my roof so we abide by my rules.”

  “You’re the one that wants me here so badly so if I do stay, you’ll watch what you say. She raised me. You didn’t. End of story.”

  Olivia lifts her eyes to me, her glare set to kill, but then her mouth slowly tips up. “Loyal to your blood. I can respect that. Remember that we’re your blood, too.”

  The screen door opens and a second later, Oz’s mother, Izzy, pops her head into the kitchen. “Are you ready, Olivia?”

  “Doctor’s appointment,” she says and stands. “Go help Oz find my glasses. The clubhouse is the large building across the yard.”

  Olivia pats her hand over the notepaper on the table. Izzy leaves the room and I stop Olivia before she walks out of the kitchen. “What is that?”

  “Incentive to stay.”

  From the living room, Izzy asks if Olivia needs her jacket and Olivia informs her that she’s not a “fucking child” and Izzy reminds her that “fucking children” are easier to take care of. Something about the ticked-off, heartfelt fondness in Izzy’s tone causes me to grin.