Page 127 of Kings Don't Break
Mace follows Druthers out of the room ’til he stops a few footsteps away. He claps a hand to my shoulder in typical brotherly fashion and tells me we’re not going down without a fight.
“We’ll play their game,” he says. “But if things don’t go our way, we’ll find a way around it. Just like we always do.”
I nod along. “Kings can’t be broken.”
“We’re made of steel. We’re always gonna survive and rise up. Stay strong, Cash.”
Officer Symonds scowls watching Mace walk out. He escorts me back toward my jail cell. Whatever mask I wear on the outside, I’m no less troubled on the inside. Mace and Druthers provided some level of reassurance, but it’s still not enough to combat the mess I’ve got going on.
Stress. Anxiety. Uncertainty. Frustration. Even fucking longing.
Kori’s a constant on my mind. Right down to the vivid dreams I keep having the moment I’m asleep.
What if we’re unable to fight what we’re up against and I wind up behind bars? I get sentenced to years in prison where I’ll probably become even more jaded, dysfunctional, and fucked up? I’d never expect Kori to wait for me.
Though it would kill me if she ever got with another man, she’d deserve better than I could give her from behind the bars of a jail cell.
Story of my life. Me fucking up and then not being good enough for my girl.
But, even now, I wouldn’t change a thing. I wouldn’t take anything back that I did to protect her from Stricklin. It was well fucking worth it.
Symonds sticks his jagged key into the door of my cell and drags it open for me to step inside.
Back to my cage.
I glare at him before I do it, taking a step forward.
“Not so fast, Blake Cash.”
Both Symonds and I turn our heads at the sound of the third voice. Captain Vargas barrels down the hall at a fast stride. The sight’s one that forces your attention considering he’s six foot four, at least two-fifty, two-sixty. His grizzly white beard can’t disguise the irritated, tight-lipped bend to his mouth.
“Captain—” Symonds starts.
“Shut up and listen, Symonds. And get started on out processing him.”
Shock speeds up my pulse. “You don’t mean?—?”
“All charges have been dropped,” Captain Vargas interrupts. He couldn’t sound less happy and more reluctant about it. Right down to rumble sound he makes. “Go ahead and get him discharged. He’s a free man.”
34
KORINE
Three months later…
“I’ll say. I’ve never seen a finer job done on my Nightster,” Daryl Weaver grunts, his hands on his slender waist. He’s all faded denim and worn leather from the button-down shirt and tight jeans he wears to the leather cowboy boots he sports. He winks at me, then does another circle of his bike. “You’ve done a damn impressive job, Korine.”
I give him a breathless smile, slicked down in grease and exhausted from hours toiling away. “I had a feeling you’d like it. Glad I was right.”
“Like it? Work like this deserves to be pictured on the front of Rider magazine.”
I help Mr. Weaver finish his pickup of his Nightster and then get started on closing up shop. Since it’s the second weekend in May, the town’s hosting its annual parade to celebrate the spring season and warmer weather on the horizon. We decided we’d play along by cutting our hours short. Chaz and Moss were more than happy to skip out early.
Once I’ve squared everything away in the garage, I move on to the office. All invoices are sorted where they belong, and I print out the next day’s job schedule for everyone that’ll be on shift. I finish by checking emails and voicemails to make sure there’s nothing we’re missing and no one we need to get back to.
Over the past few months, I’ve had the Chop Shop running like clockwork. Much like I had so many years ago, the summer before my senior year in high school when the old manager, Styx, had asked me to help with managerial duties. I enjoyed the work then and I’ve discovered I love it even more now. It’s been rewarding to not only keep the shop itself running, but to occasionally get my hands dirty whenever I work on a project like the one for Mr. Weaver.
My iPhone rings. I answer as soon as it does.
