“Who are these people?” I whisper so that only Ryan can hear me. His chin brushes my temple; the rough drag of his days’ worth of stubble scrapes at my skin.
“Family.” His breath washes over my face. I relax, surveying the scene around me. The new faces all wear vests with the same Viking warrior and the word FORSAKEN on the back. The only difference is theirs say NEVADA on the bottom, whereas the men I’m traveling with vests say CALIFORNIA. Ryan leaves me and strides across the dirt lot to mingle with his men. Once he’s gone, I feel intimidated by the gathering. The Nevada Forsaken must amount to thirty in number. I’m barely getting the hang of communicating with the men I already know, much less this crowd, which ranges in age from mid-thirties to late seventies, if I’m guessing correctly.
“What are you doing over here?” I jump at the company, not having noticed anyone approach. To my ride side stands Ian. He’s expressionless as always, but he seems to have relaxed since the last time I caught his attention.
“Am I not supposed to be here?” I ask. His jaw ticks before he shakes his head. There’s some kind of struggle going on within him that I don’t understand.
“You’re supposed to be here,” he finally says, his voice a little lighter than a moment ago. “Ruby, she uh,” he begins, but doesn’t finish. I turn and face him fully, practically begging for answers. There’s so much I don’t understand about what’s going on and why. I’m willing to take anything he’s willing to give. I can’t squander this opportunity.
But he’s all tight-lipped and silent now. I take a deep breath and push it out quickly. “Please,” I say so softly that it brings back unwanted memories of every time I’ve asked my father for lenience and he refused to grant it. The memory is anything but welcome.
Finally, Ian turns so that we’re face to face. He’s average height for a man, which means he still comes close to a foot taller than me. Searching his eyes for answers I can’t decipher, I’m struck by how much he reminds me of my brother. Though his coloring is much lighter than Michael’s, they have the same eyes. My mother’s eyes. Ruby’s eyes. My eyes.
“Just give her time, okay?” he says. I tilt my head to the side as I focus on my breathing. In and out. In and out. The creeping kick of sorrow begins to engulf me. All I have left of my brother and my life before are my memories. A life I can never have again. But she’s not here, nor is anybody I have ever loved. I don’t understand these people or their ways.
“For what?” I finally choke out, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like I’m on the verge of tears, even though I am. For the first time since meeting him days ago, Ian gives me a moment of vulnerability. His face softens, and he tugs his lower lip into his mouth.
“She’s not good at this shit,” he says then walks away, leaving me disappointed. I could chase after him and beg for answers, but he’s shut down. I have no hope he’s going to give me any more than he already has.
I spend the next few minutes observing the people around me. I catch the attention of most of the men who pass me; a few nod their heads, a few just stare, but nobody stops. It isn’t until I grow restless enough to contemplate seeking out Ruby that I see her. She heads toward me, an apologetic smile on her face. Urging me toward the center cabin, she tells me there are people I need to meet. She introduces me to men who I won’t remember with nicknames I’d blush if I said aloud. They all become a blur after a while. Thankfully, bikers aren’t the most talkative of folks, so the introductions are quick. Finally, we reach the old men in the rockers.
“This her?” the one on the left asks. He’s so wrinkly and hairy I can barely make out the tattoos that cover most of his flesh. He has a full-length beard that mostly covers his leather vest. Beneath the distractions, his blue eyes sparkle with a rare kind of interest. It’s both a curiosity and an appreciation that, surprisingly, doesn’t feel creepy.
“Alexandra Mancuso,” I say, without waiting to be introduced. I offer my hand and give him my most respectful smile. Slowly, he lifts his hand and places it in mine.
“Rage,” he says. Though life and age have gotten the better of him, I have no doubt he earned his name, just like they all have. And with a name like Rage, I choose not to discount him, despite his friendly demeanor. His grip tightens on my hand, though the effort appears to tire him out as his hand shakes. “I’d change my name if I were you.”
“You think I need a nickname?” I ask, trying to keep the mood light.
“Mancuso isn’t a friend,” he mutters. My stomach sinks in fear. I want to trust that Ruby, my mother’s sister, wouldn’t go through all of the trouble to save my ass just to bring me here to a group of men who hate my father enough to take revenge on him through me. Still, what do I really know about Ruby?