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by Chelsea Camaron

  It was one week before my eighteenth birthday when she passed. Looking back on it now, I think she knew. I think my mother could sense that I wouldn’t stay. When she died, I didn’t have a single thing to hold me back. The doctors say it was a heart attack from a blocked valve. I think it was agony from a life of hell.

  My birthday present from Bladen was freedom. It didn’t happen on my birthday. Bladen thought that would be too obvious, but not long after with our plan laid out, we took off together and never looked back. My dad didn’t know that Bladen left me with Tempest, purposefully putting himself in their target zones and getting them away from me. An eighteen-year-old pair of teens outsmarted Caleb Andrews and Anderson Jones, Bladen’s father.

  We grew up together. There isn’t a time in my life I can’t remember him not being around. Not a single memory that isn’t somehow followed with Bladen. He was the boy next door and my whole world. He promised to make us both safe.

  And he did, just not in a way we could stay together.

  A carefully laid out plan of clues took our father’s south to Alabama while I was tucked away in Tennessee where Tempest was just starting Haven’s Harbor.

  I’m not sure if they ever learned the truth about Bladen and the Ruthless Rebels Motorcycle Club or not. He didn’t patch in with them. Two of their guys gave Bladen a marker, a favor, he explained to me. When the time came, Bladen called in that favor for me. I didn’t ask questions. It wasn’t my place. The only thing I do know is they made it to Granville, Alabama to find a dead end on Bladen and my whereabouts.

  When we rode out on his Harley, we made sure they were told he patched to an MC, an outlaw gang who would die before anyone could touch me.

  Part of it is true now, but at the time, Bladen didn’t know the men he calls brothers. Hell, neither of us knew anything about life in a motorcycle club. Yes, Bladen had a bike, but only because it was cheaper than a car.

  Months before we fled, he had met the Thorne twins, Skinny and Triple Threat, who are part of Ruthless Rebels Motorcycle Club, on the side of the road with a blowout. We were seventeen and the twins were twenty-two at the time. Bladen got the men a tire and the tools they needed, using his dad’s truck while he was on patrol, none the wiser, and they gave him—therefore, us—a marker. A one time, get out of jail free card, kind of. A favor of any kind, name it and they would ensure it was seen through.

  At the time, I didn’t think about it. We were just helping people who needed it. When we took off from home, leaving the abuse in the past, it was only then that Bladen said he had called in his marker with the bikers.

  True to their word, Skinny and Triple Threat kept me safe by allowing my father and Bladen’s to think we were tucked away with the MC. Out of their territory and jurisdiction, our fathers had no choice but to retreat back to Dillon, South Carolina.

  Bladen has always kept up with me through Tempest. For my safety, he’s never spoken a word to me since the day he left me there. Tempest told me about every update, though, even when he met some woman who was practically living in her car with her kid.

  At first, I was afraid there was more to the story, like Sabrina was a woman he fell in love with. After meeting her, she really was a stranger he had met at a store and helped, sending her to Haven’s Harbor. Proving once again, the man through and through Bladen Jacob Jones is.

  Apparently, she had one asshole husband who had her stuck. He had control of the money and the small town they lived in. Unlike our mothers, Sabrina drew the line when her husband put his hands on their son. It’s what landed her living in a car in a grocery store parking lot. After her card was declined at the register and a well meaning cashier said the absolute wrong thing in front of Bladen, he stepped in and got her free.

  Well, I guess his version of free. While I can’t complain about my time here, I long for him. I long for the day I can not live under a false identity waiting for Caleb Andrews to find me and make me pay for escaping him.

  Almost nine years ago, he left me there and hasn’t come back for me. A single kiss goodbye and he never turned back for a last look. In the end, it was probably for the best. He would have seen my heart breaking, shattering, and read the despair in my eyes.

  He was my strength for all my life, and he was gone. Like a dream, a figment of my imagination that was always out of my reach.

  Burner phone after burner phone was always provided to me from him, but never once did he use it to contact me. I gave up hope on the third phone waiting for his call. If I had his number, I would have called even if just to cuss him out. Alas, he never gave me the opportunity.

  A little over eight years ago was the last time I saw him, smelled him, touched him, and kissed him.

  I found my own way now.

  I’m my own woman, and it’s time to live my life, not stay in hiding.

  I have had years to learn how to survive: cash only, do not use my real name, and never leave a trail.

  Haven’s Harbor gives women job skills. I went to bartending school during my first year there.

  Master mixer.

  I started at a bar in town while spending my days helping anyone who needed it at the shelter. Bartending is the perfect job to stay off the grid. Given my experience at Blood Thirsty in Tennessee I have a skill set that will work for me at any bar in the country.

  My income is tips from dive bars where everything is off the books. A simple certificate is easy to forge, changing name after name, while keeping my bosses’ understanding my skillset without a follow up to references.

  With the money I had saved and eight burner phones never used at my disposal, I took off. It might not have been the best laid plan.

  After four nights in Tennessee, I had the hair on the back of my neck standing on end at Blood Thirsty, the bar not far from the shelter where I worked. It was too close to home to feel like I had someone on my tail. It was four nights too many. I couldn’t put anyone at Haven’s Harbor in jeopardy. That was four months ago. Time flies when you stay on the move.

  With a simple plan to use Twitter to keep up with my cousin, I left everything behind. No matter which phone I switch to, I can still log in and tweet her random things so she at least knows I’m alive. It was her one request.

  Using our middle names that no one knows we would use, we have our logins. I am MaryAstronomy for my love of stars, and she is ArikaMae for her secret. A secret I will take to the grave for her.

  My phone pings, and nervous energy builds even more.

  @MaryAstronomy Love isn’t afraid to go home.

  I sit on the front step of my shack home and try to sort out what she is saying. The silver pinwheel spins in the night breeze.

  Everywhere I go, I always put one in front of my front doorstep as a reminder of what I have survived. My current residence is a shed turned rental space in the backyard of the old man who owns Creekside Tavern, the bar I work at.

  It’s one room with a curtain that gives my bathroom some privacy. I have a small front porch with a single plastic chair. Just off the porch is the silver pinwheel. If it ever gets too frayed, I purchase another one.

  Just a few months before Bladen and I left, there was a charity walk for the community, one our father’s lead the parade for, among many others. This one, though, this one, if people only the knew the truth behind the walls of their homes, the men in uniform would be the last that would lead this parade.

  The concept was to purchase a silver pinwheel and fly it in your yard or business front for awareness on the children who suffer in silence from child abuse day in and day out. I donated a five-dollar bill to get my own silver pinwheel. Then I wrote the words I couldn’t speak on the inside by the spindle and gave it to Bladen for his eighteenth birthday gift.

  He knew the answer to the question he always asked. I just never said the words. However, I silently gave it to him in that pinwheel. To this day, I don’t know if he ever looked. There is more than the meaning in the pinwheel, but if he’s find it, I’l
l never know.

  I can’t dwell on it.

  I need to figure out what Tempest is trying to tell me.

  We have a rule: no calls. No matter what, she won’t call me and I won’t call her. Twitter only.

  Love.

  I have known love., in the form of Bladen Jacob Jones, the only person who knows my past. The only man I have ever loved.

  Love isn’t afraid to go home.

  He wouldn’t, would he?

  Love isn’t afraid to go home. I let the words play repeatedly in my mind. I’m not there. Surely, he knows I wouldn’t betray him and return back to South Carolina. Regardless of the fact that we haven’t seen each other, I wouldn’t go back there. He gave up everything to get me out and keep me safe.

  Love isn’t afraid to go home.

  Afraid, Bladen knows fear.

  The temptation to call is strong. The war inside me is waging on as I try to decipher what she’s telling me.

  @ArikaMae Love is separated by time and distance. Home is where you make it.

  I remind her of that because, of all the places in the world I could go, anywhere in the Carolinas would not be it.

  @MaryAstronomy Hearts may travel, but love knows no distance and no fear.

  My love for Bladen knows no distance. His love for me was once the same.

  I think on the words as the silver pinwheel sparkles under the night sky. I’m in Utah. It is not quite one in the morning here, which means it’s almost two where Tempest Mae is. It would be almost three in the morning back home. That means that, while I sit in the dark, winding down from my shift, Bladen could be back home, getting ready to start a new day.

  Love knows no fear. Love isn’t afraid to go home.

  Son of a bitch!

  Chapter Three

  ~Bladen~

  S itting still, something I haven’t often done.

  The sun rises behind the house, and I watch as the shades of purples turn to pinks and oranges, before the day sky begins to turn into a blue sky full of white fluffy clouds.

  Peace.

  How can everything be so quiet, tranquil, and beautiful on the outside, while a storm rages inside the four walls of the house in front of me?

  Climbing off my beast, I stretch before taking the first step toward the place called home.

  Four letter words: hell and home. They are one in the same.

  Step by solidary step, I make my way forward. At the porch, I inhale deeply.

  I’m no longer a boy. I’m a motherfucking man with a score to settle.

  The doorbell is lit up. I press it, hearing the chimes of my childhood ring throughout the silence around me. I remember a time when the bell would sound and I would feel hope that someone would come and save me. Then the bell became nothing more than another chime of irrelevance for help would never come.

  It takes a beat before the door lock clicks and the knob turns. Then my mother stands in front of me in her robe, silver hair hanging down around her shoulders as she squints her eyes and looks up at me.

  “Bladen.” My name is a mere whisper from her lips.

  “Momma,” I greet as she steps back, inviting me inside.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers as I stare at the cream-colored walls and the same pictures lining the entryway from so long ago.

  “Still the saint,” I say, not lowering my voice.

  “He’ll kill you, Bladen. Please, son, go back where you were,” she pleads, her voice cracking with emotions.

  “Not if I kill him first.”

  She gasps, and I press further into the home.

  “Bladen, he’s your father; don’t put the black mark on your soul.”

  I laugh, not hiding my presence in his home in the least bit.

  “My soul is tarnished. He’s not the first life I’ve taken, and won’t be the last.”

  With her frail hands, she reaches out and grips me. “You aren’t the bad man they say you are. You’re my son, my good.”

  I jerk out of her grasp. “Momma, you let him toss me around, beat on me, put a gun in my fuckin’ mouth and dare me to take a breath. You let Mr. Andrews and him do whatever they felt necessary to teach us some fucked up lesson. As far as I’m concerned, there’s not one good thing in you, him, or this house.”

  Tears fall rapidly and freely down her time-weathered face. “Bladen, please leave. Don’t do this.”

  “The devil is calling, Momma.” I smirk just as Satan himself rounds the corner in nothing but his boxer briefs and a shit-eating grin.

  “Bladen Jacob Jones, the prodigal son has returned.”

  I step up into his personal space. Even this early in the morning, he reeks of whiskey. “I’m not here to repent for my sins, you sick son of a bitch.” He has to look up at me. I relish it. That’s right motherfucker, I’m grown now. “I’m here because the devil demands his due.”

  He starts to swing, but is too slow. I block the punch and grip his neck with both hands, backing him into the wall.

  Feeling him tense under me is empowering.

  “What the fuck do you know of me? Tell me,” I say through gritted teeth then release just enough for him to speak. I want to know what he does. I want to know if he’s the reason she took off. What has Anderson Jones learned in all these years we’ve been away.

  The arrogant piece of shit in front of me takes the opportunity to smile. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Word is my boy didn’t land himself in a criminal enterprise, but a patched member of a vigilante group of bikers who are hell-bent on solving cold cases.”

  I tighten my grip again, cutting off his air supply. “Good, the word landed where it needed to. You’re right about the bikers I patched into. We solve the unsolved cases. What you didn’t seem to learn is the justice we seek is by our own hands.”

  For a split-second, I see the panic in his eyes, before he masks it as he kicks out, kneeing me on the inside of my thigh.

  “Cock and balls as big as mine. You shouldn’t have missed, but then again, you’ve never been clear-headed enough to aim straight.”

  His mouth opens and closes, struggling to breathe.

  My mother comes to our side, covering my hand with her frail fingers. “Please, Bladen, let him go. He didn’t mean to be so hard on you.”

  Anger.

  Rage.

  Unbridled fury.

  Too many years the buildup has come, and now it all boils over. I release my father and turn to stare my mother down.

  “Weakness bleeds. You gave it to me, and took me fuckin’ years to get it out of my system.” My words are slow, calculated. She gets my point.

  “I gave you the money, Bladen. I did what I could,” she whispers, looking to the side of me where my father is hunched over, catching his breath.

  “Money?” I laugh. “You think I wanted that fuckin’ shit. Your father left you an estate. Yup, Momma, you inherited cake and gave that tainted shit to me. Just like the cycle of violence repeats over and over. How many times did Pops toss you and Mamaw around? Made that shit acceptable.”

  She shakes her head as the tears fall.

  I’m numb to it all.

  “Bladen, please. It’s hard.”

  Again, I laugh. “It’s hard to stand up for yourself, your kid, and what’s right? Let’s be clear; I don’t spend your money like you think. I give that shit away to help people get their kids safe. No child should sleep at night worrying about their momma, their siblings, themselves”—I look her in the eye— “their neighbor, their best friend.”

  The gasp from her tells me I hit home just as I hear my father moving behind me.

  “This isn’t the life I wanted for you, for us,” she tries the same bullshit she fed me when I was a young boy.

  “Well, it’s what we got, now ain’t it, Momma?”

  I hear the distinct sound of a safety clicking off and a hammer being pulled. Slowly and deliberately, I turn to face my father.

  “Looks like we have a breaking and
entering, seein’ as we weren’t expecting our son to come home. The surprise caught us off guard, and in protecting my home and wife, I took aim and pulled the trigger before sorting out who was in my house,” my father teases.

  Before I react, my mother cries out and jumps in front of me just as he fires. Warm, red liquid splatters my front as my mother falls to the floor in front of me. My father bellows, but does not move. He watches. Dropping to my knees, I scoop her up as my dad loses his shit, wailing about me costing him his one love. He’s pacing now. Like a caged animal waiting to be released, he walks back and forth.

  “Shut the fuck up!” I roar. “You don’t fuckin’ know love.”

  My mother looks at me, pain evident in her eyes as she takes a raspy breath, only to make more blood rush out of her chest.

  “I didn’t want this for you, Bladen, you gotta know,” she says just as I look up at my father, who watches my mother struggling, her blood pooling on the old linoleum floor. I wait for him to take his shot and kill me. Instead, he looks at me, eye to eye, man to man, and smirks.

  The venom in his glare would intimidate most. Not me, I don’t back down. Not any more will I cower beneath him.

  “Go ahead,” I dare him to kill me.

  “Explain this,” he whispers before turning the gun on himself and firing. I don’t know what to do, think, or feel as I watch his body hit the floor.

  The last of my mother’s energy is spent fighting to sit up and crying out as my father’s brain matter and blood splatters all over the kitchen she cooked so many meals for him in.

  Her head never turns to look at me again as she takes her last breath.

  Numb.

  I wish I could say I felt something.

  Anger, the emotion that kept me company for most of my life is suddenly down to a simmer.

  Sadness, I think would be normal given all is lost. Never is there going to be a second chance for a family between us, although I don’t wish for it anymore. Still, shouldn’t I grieve what I lost? Not the two dead bodies on the floor in front of me, but the childhood I never had?