“What happened!” she demands, and the fear in her voice vibrates against my insides. I’m wondering the same damn thing, but I’m more concerned with the blood dripping from my father’s head.
“Medical kit!” Eli bursts through the door and the two of us deposit Dad on the couch. Mom’s less than a step behind us and runs into the kitchen. Glass shatters when Mom tosses stuff aside in search of her kit. Mom’s a nurse, and I can’t remember a time she hasn’t been prepared.
More guys appear in the living room. Each man wearing a black leather biker cut. Not one of them would be the type to leave a brother behind.
“I’m fine, Izzy.” Dad touches the skin above the three-inch-long cut on his forehead. “Just a scratch.”
“Scratch, my ass.” With kit in hand, Mom kneels in front of him, and I crouch beside her, popping open her supply box as she pours antiseptic onto a rag. She glares at Eli. “Why didn’t you take him to the ER?”
Dad wraps his fingers around Mom’s wrist. Her gaze shifts to his, and when he has Mom’s attention for longer than a second, he slowly swipes his thumb against her skin. “I told him to bring me home. We didn’t want it reported to the police.”
Mom blinks away the tears pooling in her eyes. I fall back on my ass, realizing that Dad’s not dying, but somehow cracked his head hard enough that Eli wouldn’t allow him to ride home solo.
“You promised you’d wear your helmet,” Mom whispers.
“I wasn’t on my bike,” he replies simply.
Mom pales out, and I focus solely on Eli. He holds my stare as I state the obvious. “The run went bad.”
Jacking trucks for the cargo inside is a moneymaker for hustlers, and the security company is good at keeping hustlers on their toes. But sometimes the company comes up against the occasional asshole who thinks they can be badass by pulling a gun.
“Someone tried to hit us during a break at a truck stop, but we were smarter.” Eli jerks his thumb in Dad’s direction. “But some of us aren’t as fast as others.”
“Go to hell,” Dad murmurs as Mom cleans the wound.
“You should have reported it,” Mom says.
A weighted silence settles in the room, and Mom’s lips thin out. The security business is as thick as the club. Business in both areas stays private. Everyone is on a need-to-know basis, me and Mom included...that is until I patch in. I’ll likely learn more when I’m initiated as a prospect, and I’m counting down the days until I’m officially part of the larger whole.
“He okay?” Eli asks.
“You of all people should know how hardheaded he is,” Mom responds. Eli’s a few years younger than my parents, but the three of them have been a trio of trouble since elementary school. “I believe everyone has a wake to attend in the morning, so I suggest sleep.”
That’s as subtle as Mom will get before she’ll stick a pointed steel-toed boot up their asses. Everyone says some sort of goodbye to Mom and Dad, but my parents are too lost in their own world to notice.
“Walk me out, Oz?” Eli inclines his head to the door, and we head onto the front porch. The muggy night air is thick with moisture, and a few bugs swarm around the porch light.
Eli digs into his leather jacket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He cups his hand to his mouth as he lights one. “We need you out on the road.”
“They told me they’ll send my official diploma next week.” I was supposed to walk at graduation tomorrow, but Olivia’s wake is the priority. Not caps and gowns. “You tell me when to start, and I’m ready to go.”
“Good.” He cracks a rare grin. “Heard that we might be adding a new prospect this weekend.”
The answering smile spreads on my face. Becoming a prospect is the initiation period before the club votes on my membership. I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life.
Eli sucks in a long drag and the sleeve of his jacket hitches up, showing the trail of stars tattooed on his arm. “Keep an eye on your dad. He cracked the hell out of his head when he hit the pavement. Blacked out for a bit but then shot to his feet. When his bike began swerving, I made him pull over and double with me.”
“He must have loved that,” I say.
“Practically had to put a gun to his head.” Eli breaths out smoke.
“Was it the RMC?” The Riot Motorcycle Club. They’re an illegal club north of here. I’ve heard some of the guys talk when they think no one else is listening, saying that our peace treaty with them is fracturing.
Eli flicks ashes then focuses on the burning end of the cigarette. “As I said, we need you on the road.”
Our club and the Riot have had an unsteady alliance from the start. We stay on our side of the state, they stay on theirs. The problem? A new client that the business has contracted with resides in the Riot’s territory.
“This stays between us,” says Eli. “This new client we signed is skittish and doesn’t want the PR related to possible truck-jackings. We need this business, and I need people I can trust with those loads. I need you in.”
“Got it.” I throw out the question, not sure if Eli will answer. “You had his back, didn’t you? You knew there was going to be trouble so you pushed Dad to the ground.”
A hint of a smirk plays on his lips, and he hides it with another draw. He blows out the smoke and flicks the cigarette onto the ground. “Be out here at six in the morning. I’ll pick you up in the truck and we’ll go get your dad’s bike before the wake. I want him to sleep in.”
Hell, yeah. “You going to let me drive his bike home?”
“Fuck, no. I’m bringing you along to drive the truck back. No one touches a man’s bike, and in desperate situations only another brother can. You know better than that.” Eli pats my shoulder. “See you tomorrow, and be dressed for the wake when I pick you up.”
Eli starts his bike and rocks kick up as he drives off. I watch until the red taillight fades into the darkness. Through the screen door, I spot my mother still tending to my father. She uses special care as she tapes gauze to his head.
Mom smoothes the last strip of medical tape to his skin and when she goes to close the kit, Dad tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. They stare at each other, longer than most people can stand, then she lays her head on his lap. Dad bends over and kisses her temple.
They need a moment together and, having nothing but time, I sit on the top step and wonder if I’ll find someone who will understand and accept this life like my mother. Mom loves Dad so much that she’ll take on anything. His job, this life and even the club. Maybe I’ll be that lucky someday.
Copyright © 2015 by Katie McGarry
Keep reading for an excerpt from CRASH INTO YOU by Katie McGarry.
Isaiah
ELEVEN YEARS, TWO MONTHS, SEVEN days.
The last time I had physical contact with a blood relative.
The fingers of my left hand drum against the steering wheel and my right hand grips the stick shift. The urge to shift into First, slam the gas and hightail it out of the dismal gray parking lot pulses through my veins.
I force my stiff fingers to release the gear stick. Music could take the edge off, but the bass from the speakers vibrates in a way that could draw attention to my car hiding in the employee-only lot. From here, I can watch the visitors enter and exit the social services building.
Ninety minutes ago, my mother walked in. Now I need to see her walk out. With each intake of cold air, the itch to leave grows. So does the itch to meet her.
The heater died a half hour ago, and the engine stalled twice. A few more things to fix on the growing list. In need of a new resistor, the heater will be a cheap fix.
My cell rings. Without checking the caller ID, I know who it is, yet I answer anyway. “Yeah.”
“I see you.” Annoyance thickens my social
worker’s Southern accent. “She’s waiting.”
My eyes flicker to the corner windows close to her cubicle and six feet from my car. Courtney draws the shades and places a hand on her hip. Her ponytail swings from side to side like she’s a pissed-off racehorse. Fresh out of college, she was assigned my case back in June. I guess her boss figured she couldn’t jack me up more than I already am.
“I told you not to schedule a visitation.” I stare at her as if we were in the same room. What I like about Courtney? She stares back. She’s one of three people who have the guts to hold eye contact with an inked seventeen-year-old with a shaved head and earrings. The second one is my best friend. The third…well, the third was the girl I loved.
Courtney sighs and the ponytail stills. “It’s Christmas Eve, Isaiah. She showed early and brought you presents. She’s waited patiently for a thirty-minute visitation that should have ended forty minutes ago.”
Waited. Patiently. My neck tightens and I roll it from side to side to keep from blowing steam at the wrong person. “Ten years.”
I throw those two words at her every time she mentions my mother. Courtney drops her chin to her throat. “Don’t do this. She had her reasons, and she wants to talk to you.”
I raise my voice and pound my hand against the steering wheel. “Ten years!”
“It could have been fifteen, but she was a model prisoner,” she says, as if that was a concession on Mom’s part. “She wrote you once a week.”
I glare at Courtney through the windshield. “Then be her social worker if you’re up her damn ass so much. She’s been out for over a year and she’s just now coming to visit.”
“Isaiah,” she says with defeat. “Come in. Give her a chance.”
I place one foot on the clutch and the other on the gas. My engine roars with anger and the car’s frame vibrates with the need to run. Third Street ends at the social services building and my parking spot gives me a straight shot to the clear strip of road. Give Mom a chance? Why should I? When have I been given one?
“You have no idea what she did,” I say.
“I do.” Courtney softens her voice.
“I’m not talking about why she went to prison.” I shake my head as if the action can dispel the memory playing in my mind. “You have no idea what she did to me.”
“Yes, I do.” A pause. “Come in. We can work this out.”
No. It can never be worked out. “Did you know that the lights on Third Street are on a timer?” I ask her. “And that if you hit the sweet spot speed you can cruise the entire strip without hitting a red?”
Courtney bangs her fist against the glass. “Don’t you dare!”
I rev the engine again. “Ever hit a quarter mile in ten seconds, Courtney?”
“Isaiah! You’d better—”
I hit End and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. Focusing on the red light, I shift into First as my foot hovers over the gas. Speed. It’s what I crave. I can race the emotions away. The light turns, I release the clutch and my body slams into the seat as my foot crashes down on the gas.
Is it possible to outrun memories?
Rachel
WAITERS IN WHITE FRANTICALLY STEP out of my way as I race down the hall. The expensive art on the wall becomes a colored blur the faster I go. My breath comes out in a rush and my dress ruffles and crinkles against itself. I’m creating too much noise and garnering too much attention. None of that is good when I’m trying to make a quick getaway.
My heels dangle in my right hand and I lift the hem of my shimmering blue-gray ball gown with the other. Cinderella ran away because her coach was going to turn back into a pumpkin. I’m running away because I’d rather be knee-deep in axle grease.
Rounding another corner, I enter the desolate hallway near the country club’s kitchen. The sound of the crowd laughing and the rhythmic beats of the jazz band become muffled the farther I run. A few more steps and I’ll be home free in my sweet, sweet Mustang.
“Gotcha!” Fingers slide onto my arm and I experience whiplash. My hair stings my face as it flies forward, then back. One hand-curled spiral strand of blond bounces near my eye when it breaks loose from the jeweled clip holding the sides of my hair.
My twin brother turns me to face him. A hint of laughter plays on his lips. “Where are you going, sis?”
“Bathroom.” To the parking lot and as far as possible from the ballroom.
Ethan points back toward the long hallway. “The girls’ bathroom is that direction.”
I lean into my brother. My eyes widen and I wonder if I look crazy, because I feel a little crazy. “Mom wants me to give a speech. A speech! I can’t give a speech. I can’t! Do you remember the last time Mom put me on display? Two years ago when she threw us that horrid ‘surprise’ fabulous fifteenth birthday party. I vomited. Everywhere.”
“Yeah, I was there. It even grossed me out.” His face twists in mock disgust. Ethan is laughing at me and I cannot be laughed at—at least not now.
I grab hold of his white button-down dress shirt and shake him. Or try to. The boy doesn’t budge. “It took me months to find the nerve to talk at school again. Everyone there has long memories, Ethan, and they’ve just now forgotten. I would like to be kissed before I graduate from high school. Boys will not kiss girls who keep vomiting.”
“Have you ever noticed you talk a lot when you’re on the verge of a panic attack?” Ethan’s kidding, but my panic is real. I’m close to an attack—very close. And if I don’t get out of here soon, he’ll discover my secret.
“Besides,” he continues, “that was two years ago. So you hate public speaking. You’ll sweat a lot, stutter a little and move on.”
I swallow. If only that was my worst fear.
Ethan’s my opposite. He resembles Dad with black hair and dark eyes, he’s a good foot taller than me and he’s brave. His eyes narrow and he tilts his head as the last word of my outburst registers. “You said vomit. Which means an actual panic attack. I thought you were over that.”
My fingers curl tighter into the material of his shirt. I messed up. How could I make such a careless mistake? For two years I’ve kept this secret from my family: that I still suffer from panic attacks. That when I’m the center of attention or too anxious or stressed, I become paralyzed and lose the ability to breathe. Nausea will coil in my stomach, bile will rise in my throat and the pressure will continually build until I throw up.
Life has been hard on my parents and two oldest brothers. I made the decision after the horrendous birthday party that they would never have to worry about me—the child who won’t die from her illness.
“I am over it,” I say. “But I don’t want to make a fool of myself. I…I…” Can’t think of anything good enough to get myself out of this. “I forgot my speech and I left my notes at home and I’m going to sound like an idiot.” Wow—fantastic save. “Look, I’m calling twin amnesty on this.”
His eyes search my face, I’m sure assessing my level of near-crazy. Years ago, we agreed to cover each other ten times in a year, regardless of repercussions. Ethan burned through his amnesty cards weeks ago and knows I usually use mine for midnight drives so I can push the speedometer on my Mustang.
“You’ve got one amnesty card left this year,” he says as a blatant reminder that in a few days, when the new year rushes in to greet us, we’ll be starting with a clean slate and I’ll be covering for him again.
“Are you sure this is the hand you want to play the card on?” he continues. “Do the speech and then I’ll cover your ass when you sneak out to drive the Mustang later. Driving always makes you feel better, and this ride should be relatively guilt-free. It’ll be your first legal midnight run.”
My brother enjoys reminding me that my infatuation with driving late at night was illegal on my intermediate license. Ethan’s right—I lo
ve to drive and I have a full license now. The only way I’ll get caught for breaking curfew is if Ethan blows my cover or if I leave before the speech. Either one of those options will mean a grounding for life.
All of this should be taken into consideration, and I should be thinking it through logically, but I abandoned logic back in the ballroom. My pulse begins to throb in my ears. “Yes.” Definitely. “Yes, I’m playing the card now.”
He lets go of my arm and glances down to where my fingers are still clutching his shirt. “I didn’t see you. Do you understand? You slipped out the entrance and we never talked. I’m not taking heat from Gavin for this, twin amnesty or not.”
“Not taking heat for what?” Gavin’s deep voice calls from down the hallway. My hope disintegrates and falls to the floor. Crap. I’m never getting out of here.
I force myself to release Ethan and fake the smile on my face even though my heart thuds against my rib cage. My brothers are used to my disposition, what Ethan annoyingly refers to as sunshine and rainbows. I’m so going to be sunshine and rainbows if it kills me. “Hi, Gavin. I saw you dancing with Jeannie Riley. She’s nice.”
Gavin’s the oldest of my parents’ brood of five children. We’re a close family, even though a huge age gap extends between the siblings. Gavin was eight and Jack was seven when Ethan and I were born. Jack stands beside Gavin and they both fold their arms over their chests when they see me and Ethan. Guess this time I didn’t feign sunshine and rainbows well enough.
“Mom’s looking for you,” says Jack. “It’s time for your speech.” Jack’s quiet and that may be his longest monologue for the night. Which makes it rough for me to say no to him.
“Come on, Rach,” Gavin says. “You’re the one that approached Mom and Dad about speaking at this event. Not the other way around. You need to get over this fear of being in the spotlight. It’s in your head. It was one thing when you were seven, but it’s gotten old. You’re a junior in high school, for God’s sake.”
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