“Let me see. Is it a video of Deloy?”
“No.”
“Is it a video of—” My heart dropped into my boots. I said in a hushed voice, “It’s a video of Levon.”
Dingo could not have looked more uncomfortable. He looked everywhere but at me. “Yes.”
“Levon…” I trailed off. Obviously, Levon was doing something shameful in the video.
All in a rush, Dingo explained quickly. “It’s Levon having his dick sucked. Now let’s go find Deloy.”
“But how did Pratt get ahold of a video like—” I stopped, letting Dingo get away from me.
It hit me in a rush. The only way Pratt could have gotten a video like that is if he was there filming it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LEVON
Shame and rage propelled me.
So Pratt had finally gone ahead and made good on his threat. At least he hadn’t posted Deloy’s alleged video, just mine. This beef was between me and Pratt and it was best to leave Deloy out of it.
“Dingo,” I said when he returned with Oaklyn empty-handed. “Is there any way to report this as inappropriate on Instagram?”
“Sure,” said Dingo, holding out his hand for the offending phone.
I checked my own phone now. “Dingo, he rode on your pussy pad up here, right?”
“Right. So we can’t tell if he’s gone or not.”
“Anyone check down by the river?”
Gideon offered, “Ford and I did. Nothing.”
No texts. Deloy absolutely loved texting and did it quite often about trivial matters. What kind of jam do you want on your toast? Are we having prime rib tonight? The Knick is on tonight. Love me some Clive Owen.
So I texted him.
Deloy, where the fuck are you? No one can find you. I’m sorry about that video but don’t let it get to you.
“Can you shut down that fucker’s account?” I asked Dingo.
“There. Reported. Sure, if he posts enough dick pics. I doubt they’ll shut it down just because of one, though. Hey, look. You already have a hundred and fifty-seven ‘likes.’”
I shot him an ungrateful look, then raised my hands. “All right, can everyone fan out and check the area more thoroughly? Gideon and Ford, check the river behind the band. Dingo and Driving Hawk, check the area where—where Oaklyn and I were. Sledge and Sam, check behind where the video cameras were set up. Maybe he fell…” I didn’t finish my sentence. Deloy lying at the bottom of a cliff was just as bad as him taking off to avenge our honor.
“I’m coming with you,” said Oaklyn. “No one has tried looking up.”
I frowned. “Up the cliff?” I couldn’t picture Deloy climbing to reach the main road. That would take hours.
Dingo, on his way down to the river, said, “I wish I had my drone. We could search this whole area from the air.”
“Not a bad idea,” Oaklyn said, but her tone was hopeless.
So my old lady and I borrowed binoculars from Dust Bunny and started up the cliff on a trail that had last been used by Cro Magnons from the looks of it. We found ourselves stuck like mountain goats perched about a quarter mile up this sheer, decomposing cliff.
I wished like hell that Deloy could have left bread crumbs or glitter or whatever the hell he kept in his pathetic pocket. I wished like hell he had gone to Salt Lake for dental school, swinging for the fences instead of sticking around the likes of us and only aspiring to dental assisting school. He had put himself in harm’s way just to stick around Dingo, the club and me.
We wound up sitting precariously on flat rocks while I scanned the valley floor. There were bikers galore moving like spiders every which way. They were easily ruled out by their leather cuts. Poor Deloy had wanted one of those cuts so badly, but he just really didn’t fit in. He was tough enough for the world of Liberty Temple—maybe because he had the protection of me and our security guard—but he hadn’t been robust enough for the world of the MC.
We were silent for a long, long time.
Then out of the blue, Oaklyn said loud and clear, “The Bible is an antique volume written by faded men.”
“That’s for sure,” I agreed bitterly.
“No, that’s a poem by Emily Dickinson. I’m surprised you don’t know it.”
“It does ring a bell. ‘Written by faded men at the suggestion of Holy Spectres.’”
“Yes. ‘Sin is a distinguished precipice.’”
Which was ironic, because we were currently sitting on a giant precipice.
But I was remembering the poem.
Others must resist—
Boys that “believe” are very lonesome—
Other Boys are “lost”
“That’s it,” said Oaklyn. “It just popped into my head.”
“Because we’re Lost Boys who don’t believe in religion.”