by Stacey Keith
April’s heart melted. Any man who could say no to a sexual carnival ride like Roxanne was a hero, at least in her book.
“I know it might be tough for you guys for a while,” Jacey said soberly. “A guy like Brandon is always going to have enemies, and it’s too bad Ryan’s one of them.”
A feeling of disquiet moved through April, pushing her to her feet. She went to the kitchen counter and started unpacking groceries. “Ryan tore into me this morning. I pretty much hate him right now.”
“Oh, I hate him, too,” Jacey said. “That’s why we’re dating.”
April slapped one hand over her mouth and spun around. No, it couldn’t be. Jacey was joking.
Except she clearly wasn’t. Peering inside the potato chip can, Jacey shook loose a few more chips and popped them in her mouth. “Don’t look so surprised, April.”
“So that’s why you’re not mad at me,” April said. “You’ve been keeping secrets, too.”
Jacey shrugged. “Ryan’s all right. He’s got a good job. He makes me laugh. And I knew you didn’t want him, so no hard feelings.”
April turned back to the grocery bag. Jacey and Ryan. Well, Jacey would certainly keep him on his toes. He probably needed that. Jacey was far from the pushover April knew herself to be.
“He told me my parents would find out and they’d be really disappointed,” April said with a bitterness that surprised her.
Jacey snorted. “Are you kidding? Your mother is beside herself. I talked to her a couple of hours ago. You know she hated your job. And she may not be crazy about your new boyfriend having a criminal record, but hand to God, April, I think she’s just happy you finally got laid. Seriously, I think she worried you might be gay.”
April was so relieved, she had to sit down again. “So she’s not upset with me?”
“No. And your dad isn’t either or she would’ve told me. He’d always been pretty hands off about this stuff. You worry too damn much. I always told you that was your problem. Well, one of your problems. You have quite a few.”
April sprang up and threw her arms around Jacey. She wanted to hug her friend ’till neither of them could breathe again. This thing with her parents…April could handle anyone’s disapproval, even Joanna’s, but not theirs. She hadn’t realized until now how heavily it had weighed on her.
“If you weren’t such a goof, you would know your folks only want what’s best for you,” Jacey said. “Now, let’s get back to you and the biker dude. I want you to describe his body to me, on a scale of one to ten, one being hot and ten being the hottest. Or maybe you just want to sketch it? I can find a piece of paper.”
Chapter 21
“I’m not going,” Matthew said. “If Long Jon shows, I want to be here.”
Brandon revved the throttle on his Harley and glared at him. Why did the kid always have to make it sound like he was the only one who cared about Long Jon? Over the motorcycle’s stuttering report, he said, “Fine. Have it your way. But you’re missing a really good meal.”
“Miss April will bring me leftovers,” Matthew said smugly. “And now I won’t throw up every minute watching y’all make googly eyes at each other.”
Well, he had him there. “Okay, but do your homework. I won’t be home late.”
What he planned to do was bring April back with him. He wanted her in his bed, on top of him, underneath him, bent over in front of him, every possible contortion the human body could make. He wanted her when she was sad. He wanted her when she was happy. He wanted her when she was difficult, argumentative, laughing, cooking or sleeping.
But he still couldn’t stop worrying about the kind of life he could offer her. He had a kid brother to look after, a past he couldn’t run from and an aversion to grocery stores, neckties and walls. He’d never be rich, although he was pulling in more cash now than ever.
“Just stay on the lookout,” Brandon said. “I know you won’t, but try.”
“Why are you always so weird?” Matthew said. “Just go.”
Brandon gunned it down the driveway and then swung left on to the old farm road. Farmer Bill usually retired the tractor this time of day, so all Brandon heard was the lovely growl of the bike and the soft roar of the wind whistling past his ears. Thunderheads gathered out of the north. He actually smelled rain on the breeze and the tarry odor of creosote from the telephone poles.
He hadn’t meant to stay in Cuervo this long. Before moving here, he and Matthew had lived a couple of counties over in a trailer park. Brandon was the one who’d fucked everything up by sleeping with the trailer park manager who, as it turned out, had a husband. When the husband discovered them in bed, Brandon figured it would just be easier to move.
And now look at him. He couldn’t help but grin.
Since the Harley was low on premium, he went to Pete’s Gas Station before continuing to April’s. He had to because Pete closed up early. Brandon filled the tank, idly wondering what he might find at April’s house. She probably had those nice hand towels women like her always kept, the ones you were supposed to look at but never touch. Also a bunch of fruity-smelling bath products that he wouldn’t use in a million years. For him, it was soap or die.
But as he waited by the pump, he heard what sounded like thunder in the distance. When he hung up the gas dispenser, that thunder grew louder.
Except that it wasn’t thunder. It was a whole bunch of Harleys all headed in the same direction.
For a second he didn’t think much about it and just stood there listening. Then a sickening certainty came over him. Those weren’t just Harleys. They were Rooster’s biker buddies out to take their revenge.
Matthew was all alone at the house.
A rocket of pure terror dropped inside Brandon’s stomach, leaving a fifty-mile blast radius in all directions.
Fuck no!
Brandon launched himself into the Harley’s saddle and roared off. All he saw in his head was a slideshow of horror—Matthew hearing the bikes and opening the front door, thinking it was Long Jon. Rooster and his buddies, armed with chains and knives, marching across the yard. Matthew, helpless to stop them, screaming while they broke every bone in his body.
His heart was slamming so hard against his chest, Brandon had to double down on the handlebars or lose control of the bike. He tore up Main Street, racing around cars, splitting lanes, running a red light. An old dude in a Plymouth gave him a terrified look when Brandon muscled right past him, missing his car by inches, and still he kept the bike full-out. He didn’t care about crashing, dying, anything except saving his brother.
Matthew had a future. If anything happened to him now… Brandon burned rubber on the open road going toward the house. A sob hitched in his throat. He shook his head to clear it. Couldn’t think about that now. If he thought about losing Matthew, he’d never make it.
At the intersection where the farms met, Brandon realized he was already too late. Rooster’s club had gotten here before he did. The sound of their bikes was in front of him, not behind.
He tried to convince himself that Rooster’s beef was with him, not Matthew, and that he’d leave Matthew out of it. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Anyone who sold dope to kids didn’t care.
Now the bikes had stopped.
They were at the house.
Brandon’s mind went blank. He nearly stripped the gear box in a desperate attempt to go faster.
It seemed as though the road was endless and he’d been on it forever. As he came flying over the first shallow hill, he first saw black smoke boiling into the sky. A growl of pure anguish was ripped from his throat. Then above the tree line he spotted orange flames.
Rooster’s people had set the house on fire.
Brandon had to get into the house to save Matthew. But they weren’t going to let him do that. They would beat him to death in the yard while Matthew burned.
<
br /> Brandon could see the house now—the roof and one side, plus the tree next to it, lit up in writhing flames. It looked like the gateway to hell.
About eight bikers stood around it, taunting him to come outside. When he hadn’t responded, they’d clearly set a fire in order to flush him out.
He would drive straight up to the porch, past those bikers. They couldn’t stop a Harley. If he got in the house fast enough, no way would they follow. Not with that fire raging.
Brandon accelerated straight toward the porch, even though he couldn’t see it clearly. He heard the deafening roar of the flames, and the heat and the smoke were overwhelming. The magnolia in the front yard was completely engulfed, glowing like a candle. The men saw him from about twenty yards out and started shouting.
He had the porch in his sights and was about to jump the stairs. Brandon didn’t see the chain until it was too late. When Rooster swung it, the chain connected with Brandon’s right arm. He lost control of the bike and wiped out a few feet in front of the stairs.
Brandon lay with the breath knocked out of him, one leg pinned beneath the Harley. Blood smeared both arms but he didn’t think his leg was broken. Grimacing, he pulled it out from the mangled steel and crawled on all fours until he could stagger to his feet again. Blurrily, he realized that all eight bikers had surrounded him and he’d have to fight them to get inside the house.
Adrenaline surged through Brandon’s veins, giving him the strength he needed to win. He had to win, had to save Matthew, no matter what the cost. But with every breath came searing pain, which meant he had broken ribs. He ignored it, put his fists up and waited for some asshole to make a move.
In the distance he thought he heard sirens, but it was probably just his head ringing. He couldn’t see faces because everyone was a black shape against a backdrop of flames. Someone threw a punch, which Brandon blocked, and then another one that he didn’t. The heat was suffocating. Sweat stung his eyes.
In desperation, he just started swinging wildly as they closed in on him. Someone nailed him from behind in his knee, which buckled. He collapsed, clawing at the dirt.
“Matthew!” he roared. “Matthew!”
The men fell on him now, kicking. The pain was so bad, he thought he was burning. There were too many bikers. They were everywhere, all silhouetted against the fire.
Then one dark shape appeared out of nowhere, brandishing a chain. Bellowing, he hacked and slashed at the men. A few staggered under the blows. Others tried to block them. A fiery tree branch crashed to the ground, lighting up the man’s face.
Long Jon.
He looked like an avenging angel, his face contorted in rage, swinging his chain again and again.
Forgetting that his ribs were busted, Brandon reached for him, croaking, “Matthew! Get Matthew!” He tried to push himself up, but the ground was wet beneath him. Blood. His head spun crazily.
He saw lights. Police lights.
Someone shouted cops and then the men took off running, except for Long Jon, who rushed over and knelt beside him in the dirt.
“I leave town for five days,” he said in his familiar rumbling drawl, “and look at the shit you get into.”
“Matthew,” Brandon rasped.
And then suddenly Matthew materialized, his face streaked with tears. He crouched next to Brandon and took his hand, clearly trying not to blubber.
“Jesus,” Matthew said. “Look at you.”
And then it all went dark.
* * * *
April sat alone in her kitchen.
The potatoes were cold. The pork chops lay congealed in grease. The bottle of beer she’d set out for Brandon had been on the table so long, it was surrounded by a puddle of condensation.
She’d called Matthew’s cell phone. When he didn’t answer after the tenth time, she finally gave up. A part of her thought Brandon was avoiding her. Another part thought something must have happened.
After Jacey left, April had spent the rest of the afternoon cooking, cleaning, dreaming about Brandon and thinking about where she could find a job. She tried on the black mini-dress she’d gotten at Maxine’s and considered wearing it to dinner, but Matthew would be there, too, and she could already hear Brandon saying, “Wait a minute. We came to the right house, didn’t we?”
The cat-face clock April had inherited from her mother ticked in the too-quiet kitchen. April took a swig of Brandon’s beer and eyed her keys. The temptation to go over to his house and see for herself what was going on—had he hooked up with someone else?—made her stomach hurt.
But April knew that wasn’t fair. Since they’d become a couple, Brandon had never given her any reason to doubt him.
He was two hours late. Where they hell was he?
April got the Tupperware down from the top cupboard and began putting food away. What if Ryan had gone back to the house after she left and arrested Brandon? With Matthew busy trying to post bail, he wouldn’t bother to pick up the phone. What if there’d been a motorcycle accident?
“Stop it,” she told herself firmly. “Just stop it.”
She heard car doors slam out front and ran to the window. Had Brandon and Matthew hitched a ride? But it was Ryan and Jacey coming up the walkway toward her house. Not now, she thought desperately. All she wanted was to be alone and figure things out. Jacey had probably dragged Ryan over here to apologize for being such a jerk this morning.
April opened the door, ready to just get it over with, but when she saw the grave expressions on both their faces, her mind went blank. “What’s wrong?”
Ryan didn’t look so accusing and bitter now. And Jacey was uncharacteristically quiet. April’s heart picked up speed.
“Are you planning to tell me what’s going on?” she asked in a strangled voice.
“Brandon’s in the hospital,” he replied. “We’ll take you over there now.”
* * * *
When Brandon was eleven, there was a Neanderthal tenth grader named Buck who beat the shit out of him every day after school. No matter what street Brandon took to get home, Buck would find him and kick his ass. When he finally broke Brandon’s arm and sent him to the hospital, all Brandon could think was, Well, at least in the hospital I won’t get my ass kicked.
But that wasn’t true. Doctors, nurses, orderlies all had ways of making you miserable. Then they drugged you up so you wouldn’t bitch about it. Hospitals were the places Brandon developed a healthy fear of pills and shots and IV drips full of shit that messed with your head. The only thing he hated more than the drugs they pushed on you was the antiseptic smell of the hallways. One whiff and he went instantly nauseous.
Now he was laid up in a hospital bed where all he could breathe was that awful smell. The doctors came in and told him things about his condition, but he’d barely paid attention—a bunch of broken ribs. A popped muscle in his knee joint. A concussion. Cuts, bruises, abrasions.
Who gave a shit?
What did any of it matter when he’d lost everything?
Long Jon was in custody. The house was incinerated. His bike was wrecked. The money he stashed in a coffee tin in the kitchen? That was gone, too.
He reminded himself that Matt was okay. It kept his mind off the antiseptic smell. But even that relief was crushed beneath the weight of worrying how to provide for him. Matthew’s grandmother might take him in. She lived in Fayettesville, Louisiana, not far from where Brandon had grown up. Maybe she could offer Matthew the kind of stability that Brandon obviously wasn’t able to.
Brandon scowled at the TV above his bed. If he hadn’t been in so much pain, he would have thrown something at it. All those happy people with their big houses, fun vacations, adoring girlfriends. He hated them. What did they know about having every goddamn thing taken away? Everything he’d worked his fucking ass off for was gone.
He didn’t know Matthew had
entered the room until his little brother sat next to the bed. Somebody had gotten him a package of Skittles.
Brandon tried to take a decent breath but his broken, bandaged ribs ripped into him like teeth.
“The cops,” Matthew said. “They got ‘em.”
“Rooster, too?”
“Yeah. I told the Sheriff that Rooster sold weed to the locals, in case it helped. He was fixin’ to arrest you when he saw you speeding through town. That’s why he came out to the house. But he knows why you did it now, so I think you guys are cool. Oh, and Farmer Bill called the cops, too, because he thought we were having another biker rally.”
There was a cart in the hallway with one squeaky wheel. Brandon hated that sound. He shifted in the bed and pain carved into him with a knife. “Long Jon?”
Matthew stared down at the floor. “When I heard all those bikers coming up the street, I ran out to the cornfield. I thought for sure they were going to light it up next. Then I saw Long Jon coming through the rows, like maybe he’d walked in from town or something and decided to take a shortcut. We were just going to lay low until Rooster left. But then you showed up.”
And look how well that turned out.
“Long Jon came to bring you the money,” Matthew said. “You know, for his transmission.”
Long Jon could have stayed in that cornfield, but he hadn’t. He knew the cops would nail him, but Long Jon came out anyway and saved his life.
Brandon closed his eyes. Open or closed, the room spun. How was he going to help Long Jon now? He couldn’t even get under a bicycle, let alone a Harley, not with these ribs. Of course, what did Long Jon need with a motorcycle anyway, seeing as how he was in prison. And it’s all because of me.
“Grab my jacket over there,” he told Matthew. “Fuck this place. I’m leaving.”
There were footsteps in the hallway outside. The door opened and April walked in hesitantly, as though afraid of what she might find. Her eyes were enormous, filled with tears.
