“These men are off limits to you. You’re a pretty, young woman—don’t think they haven’t noticed. And I love those men. They’re family. But you’re far too young. You got that?” I nod, unable to do anything else. The crowd breaks up, and only two of the men don’t move. Ryan’s eyes are once again on me, but behind him, Ian’s eyes are on Ryan and he looks none too pleased.
The men climb back onto their bikes with the exception of the ones who are riding in the van with us. They stand around kicking the dirt beneath their feet. As Ruby takes off toward the van, I dutifully follow her. Climbing into the van, my nose is assaulted with the smell of gas. I try to cover my cough with the sleeve of my hoodie, but it’s no use. Even Ruby puts her hand over her mouth as she climbs into her seat. The Devil of Death climbs into his seat opposite me and gags on the odor that’s permeating our surroundings. In the front seats, the men roll their windows down, and crank up the A/C. The forceful winds that slap at my face as we take off back toward the highway is too much and I turn toward the back of the van, where I see the culprit of the smell. Peeking out beneath a cover of old, torn carpet is a collection of gas cans. It appears the entire back of the van is full.
Very quietly I ask, “What’s with the gas cans?”
The man in front of me smiles predatorily and says, “How far do you think a Harley can go without gas?” Ruby chuckles lightly, but shoots him a warning glance despite her amusement. All I can offer in response is a faint, “Oh.” My question just goes to show exactly how much knowledge I have of motorcycles.
Chapter 7
We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict.
Jim Morrison
ONCE WE START back on the road, the man in the front passenger seat and the one across from me fall asleep immediately. My eyelids are heavy, but every time I close them, a string of images assault my mind. From Tony bleeding out to him in the hospital, then to Gloria and me at the house, and eventually Ryan. I don’t know why Ryan makes his way into my subconscious, but he does. The way his eyes bore into mine like he was trying to figure me out. There were questions there that I don’t understand and I doubt I’ll ever have answered.
As the hours pass and Pennsylvania bleeds into Ohio, Indiana, and then Illinois, I allow myself to zone out. The stark countryside is beautiful in a neglected, desolate sort of way. Spring is in full effect, and summer waits just around the corner. The heartland is gorgeous with its corn fields and rows of vegetables and even the occasional dairy farm spotting the landscape. But after a few hundred miles, even the pastoral charm of the Midwest wears off and I’m left with the choice between attempting to sleep despite the haunting images that barrage my mind, and the landscape. Neither is appealing, and eventually the mind-numbing dullness of the situation takes over, engulfing actual thought in favor of autopilot.
We stop three times for gas, mainly to fill up the bikes and to give the riders a rest. The Devil of Death and the other two men in the van switch seats at the first stop and don’t switch back until the last. I study their patches and their demeanor all the while studiously avoiding Ruby’s occasional forays into consciousness. Though she is quite kind, she is mostly quiet. I find her attention on me more often than I’m comfortable with. I feel the urge to promise her that I’m real and I’m not going to suddenly turn into a ghost, but that would be rude, so I just pretend I don’t see her staring at me. It’s not easy.
Along the highway I see the signs for Chicago and hear grouchy muttering from the front seat about having to “get the fuck as far away from Chicago as possible.” The driver answers a cell phone, says a few words, and pulls it away from his ear, sliding it back into his jeans pocket. As we pass the signs for Chicago, some of the bikes pull off the highway.
“Rig’s crew is going to make sure Chicago stays in the Midwest,” The Devil of Death says. I stare at him quizzically, and he lets out an annoyed sigh then, after a pause, he clarifies in an annoyingly condescending tone. “Your daddy’s a mob boss, right? Yeah, so he’s got buddies in Chicago. You’re the mob’s property, and we’ve got you. Now, how happy do you think they are about that?”
Despite knowing nothing about these people and what they’re capable of, I feel an annoyed tick in my jaw. I bite back my sarcasm as much as possible and say, “Thank you for the clarification.”
“What’s a matter? Did I annoy you, Princess?” he asks in a mocking tone. I fold my arms over my chest and turn away from him, focusing intently on Ruby’s sleeping form.
“Thank you,” I say again, because I was raised to be, if anything, polite. “For coming to get me.”
“It was a club vote and I lost. You ain’t my kid, and this ain’t my baggage.”