The comment, as sly as it may be, hits me right in the gut. I just wanted to spend a few hours being someone other than a Lost Girl or a big sister, or even a crappy employee, and this is how he greets me. Signaling the bartender, I point at Darren’s beer and hold up my index finger in the air, asking for one for myself.
“So, about my dad?” I ask, trying to avoid talking about myself. As the bartender brings the beer over and I place a five dollar bill on the counter, Darren delves into his plans now that he’s graduated, which is not what I came here for. He wants to attend law school, but he doesn’t know where yet. He plans on taking a year off between now and then so he can choose a school, and this way he has the opportunity to spend a year volunteering abroad. I nod my head, unsurprised by his plans, and try to keep smiling.
Every now and then I interject a “That’s great” or “Very cool” so he thinks I care. It takes a while, but he eventually gets into my dad’s case. Unfortunately, his arrest was all over the news and The Gazette because he’s Forsaken. Darren asks me uncomfortable questions about my dad—most of which I can’t answer. The few questions I can answer, I think of how to word the answers, often times taking a long sip of my beer in an attempt to delay while I think. I can’t tell him most of what he asks about. Instead, I opt for half-truths that don’t get the club in any trouble. The thing I try to focus on is his parole hearing that just happened. We’re awaiting word on whether or not it was denied. Not that I expect it to be approved.
“More shit with Forsaken?” he says, a snide look on his features. I tense at the word and then slyly look around. Locals have incredibly strong opinions about the Forsaken Motorcycle Club. They either love them for everything the club’s done, which even I can admit is a lot, or they hate the club because they know behind all of the community activism is a very real, very violent, and very illegal enterprise. But they all fear the club, or at least they should all fear the club. Jim, the president of the Fort Bragg charter, has a very creative way of silencing its outspoken opponents.
“Something like that,” I say coolly, but he isn’t really having it. Darren doesn’t let things go. He’s always the one to decide when to end a conversation.
“You could have been something, you know,” he says. And here we go. “I’ve always believed in you. So have my parents. I remember back in high school how much you wanted to get out of this town and away from the club. I don’t know what happened, but I remember a girl who couldn’t stop talking about going to college and traveling the world.”
Feeling my temper rise, I say, “Life happened. I have a brother who needs me. Things could have been different, but they’re not, and I’d rather not talk about it.”
“You could have let the Stones keep him,” he says, referring to Jim and Ruby. I bite back the smart comment that’s sitting on my tongue. What a stupid thing for him to say. No, I never could have left my brother in the hands of the club—no matter how well-meaning they were. Darren sees something in my face that tells him he’s stepped on the wrong topic, and he gives me a soft, apologetic smile. He’s always been so careful about his public image. If only the public knew.
“Sorry. I just hate to see you waste so much potential. I remember what you could have been—what we could have been together.” I don’t bother to tell him that us together wasn’t going to happen.
“Yeah, but listen. I just remembered I’m supposed to pick Jeremy up from a friend’s house.” Sliding off the stool, I give Darren a quick look.
Reaching an arm out and grabbing my wrist, he holds me in place. Though he’s working to keep his face blank of emotion, there’s a small tick in his cheek. No, nothing has changed since high school. He’s still a total control freak, and apparently, even years later, he’s still upset that I broke it off between the two of us when I got Jeremy back from Jim and Ruby in my junior year. Not that he cared—he’d gone public with that cheerleader a month before that anyway, and he was her problem.
“Remember the fun we used to have,” he says. It’s not a question, but a statement. It might even be a warning. Back in the day, Darren Jennings suffered many a private temper tantrum. Though you’d never know it by looking at him, he can be a real mean son of a bitch when he doesn’t get his way.
With that, I pull away, clear my throat, and straighten my spine. “You’d be surprised what I remember,” I say and walk out.
Chapter 6