Not sure what that means, but I was asked to ride along.
We’re at a public park. A few women jog on a concrete path in pairs or in threes. Kids squeal and laugh from the towering playground that’s on the far side from where we left our bikes. I’m sitting on top of a picnic table staring at my cell.
Me: You there?
Breanna doesn’t respond.
Because I’m a glutton for punishment: I miss you.
And love her. It’s been a month since I’ve seen her, since I’ve held her, since I’ve had any contact with her. This text, it’s in vain, and watching my cell like she’s going to respond hurts as bad as having a bullet rip through my arm and my skin scraped off by the road.
Naw, that’s wrong. It hurts worse.
A month ago, when everything went down with Kyle, her parents deactivated this number, but it doesn’t stop me from calling. Doesn’t stop me from searching for a connection with her. Doesn’t stop me from hoping.
I run a frustrated hand through my hair. Hope. Never had it before, but Breanna taught me anything’s possible. That a gorgeous, intelligent girl like her could love a guy like me.
The picnic table shakes as Pigpen climbs it from behind, then plants himself next to me. “We should change your road name to F-U-F. Fucked-Up and Forlorn.”
I flip him off and pocket my phone.
“It’s going to get better,” he says. My father chooses a seat on a bench about fifty yards away. “You’ve done good trusting us and I promise it’s going to get better.”
I haven’t seen Breanna since the night of the bridge. Dad, Eli and I brought Breanna home bruised, scratched up and dirt-stained and we were met on her front lawn by her pissed-off father. When the instinct was to toss Breanna on the back of my bike and take off for good, Dad and Eli asked me to trust them. To trust the club. To leave and trust them to fix everything with Breanna’s parents.
Killed me to do it, but I left. One month later, she’s gone and I still think about her. I still love her. I’m still trusting the club.
“Rebecca had lunch with her mom again,” Pigpen says, and I pop my neck to the side. Rebecca’s a nurse. Breanna’s mom works in accounting at the hospital. They’re bound to share a lunch hour. But there’s more to it than that. Rebecca and Breanna’s mom never talked before the day of the train bridge, but Rebecca has been trying to bridge the gap between the club and the Millers by using lunch.
My cell vibrates once, then again. I don’t bother checking the messages. They’re nondelivery notices from Breanna’s disconnected cell. Each one tears off pieces of my heart. “Found the fifth guy yet?”
Pigpen frowns. “He’s been slippery, but I’ve got him. I’ll be fucking up his world real soon.”
Pigpen produced hard evidence against Kyle and his three other buddies who had been using that Bragger site to blackmail girls from school. All of them were suspended. All of them blackballed from whatever team or after-school activity they were on. Because the justice system is messed up, no one’s sure on criminal charges yet, but Kyle told the truth—Breanna had been his sole target.
Because of that, she’s refusing to press charges against Kyle as long as he meets with a counselor every week until he does graduate. The asshole’s doing it, too, and I know for sure because I follow him there and then make sure he leaves an hour later. Breanna will get her last Snowflake wish.
Pigpen pats my shoulder. “Heads up because we’re live. Your dad gave the sign.”
Dad’s flashing two fingers. Download before we left was that someone involved with the Riot was defecting and is willing to pass us info that could protect our club. Dad, being the sergeant at arms, volunteered to be in the line of fire to meet with this person to see if he’s legit.
I scan the area and Pigpen stiffens. “Son of a bitch.”
I’m off the table. That’s my father. He and I might not have figured out our crap yet, but he’s still my dad. Pigpen jumps off as well but snatches my arm, gripping me like he means to cause pain.
“That’s my younger brother.” Pigpen reacts like a viper coiled and ready to strike.
Shock ripples through me like a drop of rain in a puddle. Pigpen and I have been tight for years and it twists my gut how little I know about him. First the fact his father rode, possibly still rides with the Riot, and now that his brother does, too.
Pigpen starts to turn and I shove at his chest. “Stay back.”
“Fucking cute, but that’s my brother.”
“And that’s my father. We agreed to a plan. Trust the club, remember?”
Pigpen practically snarls at me, but he retakes his seat on top of the picnic table. “I liked you better rogue.”
“No, you didn’t.” My attention flickers between Pigpen and Dad. The guy about my age walks up to the bench and Dad scoots over. Pigpen’s brother sits.