19
“People in their right minds never take pride in their talents.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
* * *
*Beau*
As soon as I saw Simone leave the kitchen, I stood from the booth. I suspected her momma didn’t like the Wraiths being in the diner, and I knew without a doubt Daisy didn’t want her daughter interacting with their kind.
So before Simone reached them, I called out, “Can I help y’all with something?”
Seven sets of eyes—the Wraiths’ plus Simone’s—turned in my direction, but I was careful to keep my stare on Christine St. Claire. She would be the one calling the shots, which meant she expected to be the sole recipient of my focus.
Growing up, going to picnics with the other club members and their families, visiting the club with my daddy, fishing with Isaac and Drill and Catfish, I had no problem navigating their sub-culture and norms. It was a respect thing with these people. Club business had a strict order even as they spread chaos elsewhere.
But just because I could navigate their world didn’t mean I wanted to be a part of it.
“Beau.” Drill stepped forward, wearing a smile like a grimace, and extended his hand for me to shake.
I accepted the handshake, studying his expression, and reading something like, I tried to warn you.
“You know the fellas,” he gestured to the other members of his group, none of which gave me even so much as a nod of the head.
“Sure.”
“And Razor’s old lady, Christine.”
My attention moved back to the woman. She was watching me closely, like she was waiting for me to react in a certain way.
“Ma’am.” I tipped my head but made no move to extend a hand. Club members were particular about their old ladies. A guy could get a broken nose for glancing at another man’s woman without asking permission first. However, sometimes these fellas lent out their woman like a bicycle.
Regardless, Razor was a psycho. That tire fire of volatility didn’t require any additional fuel.
“You’re coming with us.” Christine’s voice was softer than I’d expected, and the way she searched my eyes struck me as peculiar. “We need to have a chat.”
I shrugged, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Sure thing. Lead the way.”
If my willingness surprised her, she didn’t show it.
But Drill was giving me a dirty look. My guess, he was irritated I’d caused him a heap of trouble over the past month just to acquiesce so easily now. The other fellas seemed to relax, clearly assuming their job was essentially done.
Truth be told, I was tempted to leave with them.
Shelly was safe in my car. I doubted their plans included keeping me indefinitely. My absence would be noticed. If they kept me for any length of time, Billy would throw a raging fit, as was his habit when situations involved the motorcycle club. And Billy was friends with people in high places.
Yeah, I was pretty well convinced to go with them, get it over with. The old lady wanted to have a word, and clearly she wasn’t going to leave me in peace until she had her say. Hopefully, it would be a quick conversation.
Sure, Shelly would be pissed.
She’d also be safe.
But then, as soon as we were out the door, Drill lifted his chin toward a bike I recognized as Razor’s and said, “You’ll ride with Christine.”
Other than a slight widening of my eyes, I was able to keep my expression clear despite the sinking sense of doom in the pit of my stomach.
Ride with Christine? On Razor’s bike? Uh, that’ll be a hard pass.
My plans took a real sharp U-turn. There was no way I was getting on Razor’s bike with Razor’s old lady. Seeing how things were going to be, I was hugely grateful to Shelly that she’d insisted we leave together.
“Ah, jeez. I left my wallet in the glove compartment. Let me grab it.” I walked backward away from them.
Isaac and another of the bikers stiffened, but then relaxed as I moved along the hood of my car toward the passenger side. I kept my eyes trained on them as I reached the door, opening it and bending into the car.
Only Christine was watching me, the rest were mounting their bikes and must’ve decided I couldn’t escape without sitting in the driver’s seat.
Then Shelly turned the engine.
The sound of my GTO coming to life cut through the night and the Wraiths looked up, visibly dumbfounded. I’d just shut my door as Shelly reversed out of the space, twisting the wheel and taking off quick as lightning.
“Seatbelt,” she said, not pausing at the edge of the lot before pulling onto the main road and speeding like a demon outta hell.
She shifted fast, much faster than I’d ever managed. Instead of using the brakes, she downshifted just as we approached the first turn. The engine roared as we flew around the curve, but the lower gear gave her the control she needed to clear it.
I knew better than to speak, or flinch, or make any movement other than holding on. I’d been in similar situations several times with Duane.
My attention cut between Shelly and the side mirror, and I kept waiting for any sign of pursuit. Thus far, there were no headlights, no sounds of motorcycles. Shelly, however, kept her eyes forward, never once looking behind us, her features an impassive mask of concentration.
We raced down the mountain road for a good while. Or at least, it felt like a good while. Abruptly, she downshifted and braked just before a switchback and I glanced at her in alarm. Our speed reduced to a near stop, Shelly turned the wheel, shutting off the lights, and taking us on a dirt road. I understood immediately why she’d slowed, kicking up dirt would be like shining a spotlight on our location.
But I was also concerned, because I knew the road. It led to a vacation rental—really, a fishing shack—owned by Mr. Tanner. The gravel drive was long and twisty with no offshoots. If they followed us, we were trapped. And if Mr. Tanner had tenants, they might not take too kindly to our parking in their drive. The kind of folks that rented from Mr. Tanner usually didn’t care much about comfort, and usually didn’t stay long.
Shelly seemed to know the road by heart; with no headlights and the darkness of the surrounding forest, it would’ve been easy to steer us into a ditch or a tree. She didn’t.
My siblings and I could see better in the dark than most folks. Cletus attributed this to our Yuchi ancestry on our daddy’s side, a Native American tribe that lived in the East Tennessee River Valley until the seventeenth century. But even I was having trouble following the line of the road.
Not twenty seconds after we pulled off, I heard the telltale sounds of motorcycles approaching. I held my breath, straining to hear, bracing. But then they raced past the drive, rumbly engines slicing through the night, close enough to give me chills. And then the sounds faded into the distance.