My dad belongs to the Reign of Terror. They’re a motorcycle club that formed a security business when I was eleven. Their main business comes from escorting semi loads of high-priced goods through highly pirated areas.
Imagine a couple thousand dollars of fine Kentucky bourbon in the back of a Mac truck and, at some point, the driver has to take a piss. My dad and the rest of the club—they make sure the driver can eat his Big Mac in peace and return to the parking lot to find his rig intact and his merchandise still safely inside.
What they do can be dangerous, but I’ll be proud to stand alongside my father and the only other people I consider family.
Mom rubs her hands up and down her arms. She’s edgy when the club is out on a protection run, but this time, Mom’s dangling from a cliff, and she’s not the only one. The entire club has been acting like they’re preparing to jump without parachutes.
“You’re acting as if they’re the ones that could be caught doing something illegal.”
Mom’s eyes shoot straight to mine like my comment was serious. “You know better than that.”
I do. It’s what the club prides themselves on. All that TV bull about anyone who rides a bike is a felon—they don’t understand what the club stands for. The club is a brotherhood, a family. It means belonging to something bigger than myself.
Still, Olivia has mounting medical bills and between me, Chevy, my parents, Eli, Cyrus and other guys from the club giving all we have, we still don’t have enough to make a dent in what we owe. “I hear that 1 club a couple of hours north of here makes bank.”
“Oz.”
As if keeping watch will help Dad return faster, I move the curtain to get a better view of the road that leads away from our house and into the woods. “Yeah?”
“This club is legit.”
And 1 clubs are not legit. They don’t mind doing the illegal to make cash or get their way. “Okay.”
“I’m serious. This club is legit.”
I drop the curtain. “What? You don’t want gangsta in the family?”
Mom slaps her hand on the counter. “I don’t want to hear you talk like this!”
My head snaps in her direction. Mom’s not a yeller. Even when she’s stressed, she maintains her cool. “I was messing with you.”
“This club is legit, and it will stay legit. You are legit. Do you understand?”
“I got it. I’m clean. The club’s clean. We’re so jacked up on suds that we squeak when we walk. I know this, so would you care to explain why you’re freaking out?”
A motorcycle growls in the distance, cutting off our conversation. Mom releases a long breath, as if she’s been given the news that a loved one survived surgery. “He’s home.”
She charges the front door and throws it open. The elation slips from her face, and my stomach cramps. “What is it?”
“Someone’s riding double.”
More rumbles of engines join the lead one, multiple headlights flash onto the trailer, and not one of those bikes belong to Dad. Fuck. I rush past Mom and jump off the steps as Mom brightens the yard with a flip of the porch light. Eli swings off his bike. “Oz! Get over here!”
I’m there before he can finish his statement, and I shoulder my father’s weight to help him off the bike. He’s able to stand, but leans into me, and that scares me more than any monster that hid under my bed as a child.
“What happened?” Mom’s voice shakes, and Eli says nothing. He supports Dad’s other side as Dad’s knees buckle.
“What happened!” she demands, and the fear in her voice vibrates against my insides. I’m wondering the same damn thing, but I’m more concerned with the blood dripping from my father’s head.
“Medical kit!” Eli bursts through the door and the two of us deposit Dad on the couch. Mom’s less than a step behind us and runs into the kitchen. Glass shatters when Mom tosses stuff aside in search of her kit. Mom’s a nurse, and I can’t remember a time she hasn’t been prepared.
More guys appear in the living room. Each man wearing a black leather biker cut. Not one of them would be the type to leave a brother behind.
“I’m fine, Izzy.” Dad touches the skin above the three-inch-long cut on his forehead. “Just a scratch.”
“Scratch, my ass.” With kit in hand, Mom kneels in front of him, and I crouch beside her, popping open her supply box as she pours antiseptic onto a rag. She glares at Eli. “Why didn’t you take him to the ER?”
Dad wraps his fingers around Mom’s wrist. Her gaze shifts to his, and when he has Mom’s attention for longer than a second, he slowly swipes his thumb against her skin. “I told him to bring me home. We didn’t want it reported to the police.”
Mom blinks away the tears pooling in her eyes. I fall back on my ass, realizing that Dad’s not dying, but somehow cracked his head hard enough that Eli wouldn’t allow him to ride home solo.
“You promised you’d wear your helmet,” Mom whispers.
“I wasn’t on my bike,” he replies simply.