Neither Beau nor I could drive on the Parkway without getting pulled over by Jackson James. It didn’t matter if we were speeding or not. I always figured this was because Jackson still felt teenage torment about my sister’s lack of interest in his dumb ass during high school. But recently I was beginning to think Jessica’s older brother was just a bored little shit of a man, drunk on small-town power.
“Right. Well, we all agree.” Cletus rested his hands on his hips, nodding thoughtfully. “But no amount of wishing is going to change the fact the Jackson James is unsavory and that Catastro…I mean, Miss James is his sister.”
“So what’s your point?” I crossed my arms over my chest and frowned at my brother. He always had a point—usually it was a good one—but it just took forever for him to get there.
“My point is that you need be cautious of Jackson. Because once he finds out your intentions toward his sister, things will not be pretty.”
“I have no ill intentions.”
“I know you don’t, but—”
“But nothing. The truth is that girl is it for me.”
“I know, Duane.” Cletus’s expression flattened, like he was losing patience. “She’s your 1968 Plymouth Barracuda. Everyone knows that, well…everyone that matters. All I’m saying is, don’t expect him to give you his blessing.”
“I don’t need his blessing.”
“Cletus is right.” Beau’s tone turned uncharacteristically serious, his wide eyes drilled into mine. “Jackson ain’t gonna like this one bit. And he’s a right sneaky bastard. Just watch your back.”
“He’ll make problems for you, if he can,” Cletus continued. “So just let me know if you need help making problems for him in return.”
This statement surprised me. And by the looks of it, this statement surprised Beau as well.
Beau mimicked my stance, crossing his arms over his chest and leveling Cletus with a narrowed stare. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said.” Cletus shrugged, looking and sounding innocent. That’s one of the things about Cletus, he’s real good at looking innocent. Sometimes I forgot Cletus could spot a sneak so well because he was the king of sneaks. I was just glad he was on my side this time.
“Now, Beau, enough of this dilly-dallying.” Cletus stole Beau’s rag from his front pocket and wiped his hands, glancing around the shop as though he were making sure everything were in order. “Are we going to Nashville today, or what?”
CHAPTER 7
“In a day, when you don't come across any problems - you can be sure that you are travelling in a wrong path”
― Swami Vivekananda
Duane
I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings because I was distracted by pleasant thoughts.
And I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear the motorcycles park around the back of the shop or know I had company until they were already inside the garage. I heard an obnoxious laugh, loud and long, alerting me to the unexpected arrival. I lifted my eyes just in time to see Repo—one of my deadbeat father’s biker brothers—pick up Cletus’s favorite socket wrench, and toss it back to the toolbox with a loud clang.
Just behind Repo was Dirty Dave, the owner of the obnoxious laugh, another member of the Iron Order, and a real jackass. He was called Dirty Dave because he was dirty. And he stank.
I sighed my aggravation and set down the carburetor I was fixing. As enjoyable as Jessica’s visit had been that afternoon? I knew without a doubt these callers were going to inspire my ire.
Dirty Dave was just a douchebag lackey.
But Repo was a man of importance within the Iron Order. I’d known him since I was little. He even had dinner at my momma’s table on occasion, and gave each of us boys a bowie knife for our tenth birthday. Once upon a time I looked up to this man.
But as an adult, I considered him a con man and pariah.
“Hello, son,” Repo said, lifting his chin in my general direction as his eyes scanned the shop.
I reached to the side to switch off the Bluetooth speaker for my iPhone. Repo had a real raspy voice. I could barely make out what he was saying half the time in a quiet room. The shop was suddenly filled with the quiet sounds of a Tennessee night and the unwelcome sounds of motorcycle boots scuffing on cement.
“Repo. Dirty Dave. What do y’all want?” I didn’t bother to wipe my hands because I had no plans to shake theirs.
“Now, is that any way to speak to your Uncle Repo?” He smiled, his salt and pepper beard framing bright white teeth. This one reminded me of my daddy, all the charm of a snake in the grass.
I glanced at the wall clock behind him; it was almost 11:30 p.m. I’d lost track of time.
“You aren’t my uncle, old man,” I answered flatly.
No. This man was most assuredly not any family relation of mine. Though my daddy considered the members of the Iron Order to be his brothers, these men were less than nothing to me and I wanted them to know it.
“Ah, you’re not Beau,” Dirty Dave chirped from his spot next to Repo; he seemed to be looking at me with new eyes. “We were hoping for Beau. He’s so much nicer than you, plus he knows when to show respect.”