In that moment, I was able to stand in the place of Jesse in the same way that he stood before me, my family, and everyone else on that island when he staggered toward the water with two bullets in his chest. It was the least I could do for him. I owe him much more.
After we drove home, I needed some time to be alone. My wife understood, and after I tucked Toby into bed and said goodnight to Owen, I went for a long drive through the city. I didn’t know where I was going, but eventually I pulled into a biker bar several cities away called Chad’s Corner. There was a long row of bikes out front, loud music within, and it was just the kind of place I thought Jesse would like.
I walked inside, and I was the only guy there wearing slacks, a button shirt, and a tie. A couple guys with sleeveless shirts and tats laughed at me as I walked past them, and a large woman in leather biker pants and jacket pointed at me and whispered something to one of the sleeveless guys.
It didn’t bother me. I strode past them and walked across the sawdust floor to a little table in the corner. The music was loud and obnoxious, and drunken, leather-clad bikers were everywhere, drinking beer and engaging in revelry. A perturbed-looking woman with a lazy eye sauntered over, and I ordered two beers: a Crescent Moon and a Pabst Blue Ribbon.
She came back a moment later. I paid her and sipped my Crescent Moon.
I must have stayed there for at least an hour or two. I sat at that table, sipped my beer, and contemplated everything that had taken place. Jesse would have liked it here, I thought. He would have liked it a lot.
Finally, I looked at my watch and realized how late it really was. Where had the time gone? Feeling fatigued, I threw down a five dollar bill for a tip and headed to the front door.
A scrawny busboy caught me by the arm as I was about to leave, and pointing to the full glass of Blue Ribbon that sat untouched on the table, asked, “Are you done with your beer?”
“Don’t rush him,” I said. “Leave it there for a while.”
The busboy looked at me strangely and went off to another table.
“Goodbye, my friend,” I said and walked out the door toward my car.
About the Author
William Michael Davidson lives in Long Beach, California, with his wife and two daughters. A believer that "good living produces good writing," Davidson writes early in the morning so he can get outside, exercise, spend time with people, and experience as much as possible. A writer of speculative fiction, he enjoys stories that deal with humanity's inherent need for redemption.
Storm Taken: A Supernatural Thriller Page 24
