Page 32 of Kings Don't Break
That earns my full attention. Turning around, I forget about my toolbox. “How bad is it?”
“Bad. Stein’s guy on the inside says they’re building a case.”
“And this isn’t leftover bullshit planted by Velma?”
Velma had concocted a whole fake informant story that she sold both to Mace and his father, the real prez of the Steel Kings. It turned out to be nothing but a tall tale that benefited her secret mission to sabotage the club.
Mace shakes his head, sliding a hand over his low fade buzzcut. “This ain’t Velma. This is real. They’re looking at us for what went down with the other clubs.”
“Shit.”
“Shit is right. They’ve got their eyes on us and they’d love a chance to take us down. One fuck up and it could be all over for the MC. We’re gonna have to be more careful in our dealings with the Barreras. Our next deal is coming up.”
My mind goes to Korine and her piece of shit husband. He’s blue. I’d love nothing more than to get my hands on him one way or another. But for now giving him the biggest middle finger of breaking his laws will have to do.
“I want in,” I say. An excited pulse comes to life inside me. “Whatever we decide with the cartel, count me in.”
Mace nods and then thumps me on the back. “Good. It wouldn’t be a Steel King’s mission without you. We’ll talk more at our next meeting.”
* * *
Family dinner comes and goes. I give it my best shot—I put on a decent V-neck shirt and jeans that aren’t so faded and worn. My hair gets pulled back in a ponytail that’ll keep Mom from bitching about it being too long.
I ride over to their house. Turning onto the block brings a wave of nostalgia. What else can be said for the street I grew up on but that there’s a lot of memories that were made here?
Good and bad.
Afternoons running after ice cream trucks and riding around on our bicycles playing MC. Early mornings waiting on the curb for the school bus and afternoons spent finishing homework as quick as possible to do stuff we really wanted to do. Late nights listening to Bill’s latest tangent as he smashed his fist into a wall… and sometimes a face.
I park a couple houses down and stare at the place I called home for my entire childhood. Moss has grown along the walls and the threadbare curtains flutter pathetically in the window. Then I shift my gaze to the home next door—the one that often served as my salvation.
Korine’s home.
A whole new family lives there now, but they’ve kept up appearances.
I lost track of how many times I’d sneak out through the backdoor and tap my knuckles on the glass of Korine’s bedroom window. Sometimes, Mrs. McKibbens would catch me and warn me that I’d be in serious trouble if her husband ever saw me.
But it was always with the hint of a motherly smile. Always with warmth, like she knew I meant well.
She understood the environment I was seeking to get away from. That I just needed to hide out for a few hours.
And when I was sixteen and finally emancipated, it was Korine knocking on my door. It was the two of us cuddled up on the sofa in front of my shitty box TV watching movies late into the night. Sometimes, so late, we’d be rushing across town to get Korine home in time to prevent being grounded.
I smile thinking back to her smile as she’d rush across the front path and then glance over her shoulder at me. I was always parked at the curb, waiting and watching. I’d have walked her up if we didn’t think Mr. McKibbens would’ve started putting his foot down for real.
The memories fade before my eyes. The past disappears and the present returns like a cold gust blowing through my lungs. I inhale a deep breath and resign myself to the next hour or two of torture.
But as I dismount and cross the empty road, my legs grow stiff. Dread rolls through me and leaves a heaviness in my stomach. Thoughts of that fateful night poison my mind and make me stop altogether in the middle of the road. The realization smacks into me.
I can’t do this.
I can’t sit down for a meal like nothing.
Not after what happened. Not after all the shit that’s wrecked us. It’ll only wreck me… more than I already am.
I glance around as if checking for anybody watching, then jog the rest of the way back toward my bike.
No way in hell am I going to subject myself to the kind of torture I’d encounter inside that house. No way in hell am I going to bother pretending like the past can be undone.
