Page 42 of Spike

“And what do youbelieve?” my father asked.

“Regarding God?”

“You don’t have toanswer that,” I said.

“I don’t mind atall,” Spike said, turning to my father. “I guess you could say I’m agnostic. Ihave no idea if there’s a god or not. I have no clue if, when we die, we go toheaven, hell, Valhalla, or are reincarnated. I don’t know if there are evensuch things as good and evil. All I know is that there are eight billion peoplestuck together on this rock, which is orbiting a smaller-than average star, inan unremarkable galaxy, that’s all hurtling through time-space atseventy-six-thousand miles per hour. And that since mankind’s earliestbeginnings, we’ve tried out a lot of gods, and a lot of religions, and everyone of them seems to have divided us more than brought us together.”

“There is only onetrue God,” my father said.

Spike smiled. “Ihope I haven’t offended you.”

“What kind ofpastor would I be if the words of an unbeliever offended me?”

Spike nodded.“Good.”

“You know, Spike,”my father said. “Earlier, I called what you’re wearing a ‘get up,’ and I fearImay have offendedyou.”

Spike smiled andwaved my father off. “No offense taken, sir. Really.”

“Well, I was doingsome research on biker culture in my study while the ladies were preparingtonight’s meal, and if I’m right, the vest you wear is called a kutte. Is thatcorrect?”

Spike nodded.“Yes, sir.”

“Please, feel freeto call me Gary, or Pastor.”

My flesh crawled.I’d always hated it when people addressed my father as pastor. Especially whenmy mother did it. I don’t know why. I know it was meant as a title of respect,and even affection, but it always creeped me out.

My fathercontinued, “The MC on your kutte and leather jacket stands for Motorcycle Club,is that right?”

“That’s right. Iride with the Burning Saints Motorcycle Club.”

“Back in my day,people called themgangs, motorcycle gangs.”

“Daddy,” Iprotested.

“It’s okay,” Spikesaid, giving my hand a quick squeeze under the table. “The Saints are a club,not a gang.”

“And what’s thedifference, if I might ask?”

“I can’t speak forwhat the one-percenters do, but our club is made up of motorcycle enthusiastswho are legally employed, pay taxes, have families, and serve the greaterPortland community during what little spare time they have.”

“One-percenter?Those are criminal clubs, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“Morespecifically, being a one-percenter means your club isn’t averse to committingcrimes such as, theft, rape, and even murder.”

“Daddy, that’s enough,”I hissed.

I thought mymother might object to words like rape and murder being tossed around at herdinner table, but she said nothing. She glared at Spike like a juror who’dalready found him guilty. Nothing had changed in eight years. Sherri Mitchelldid not want Spike anywhere near me.

“It’s alright,Trixie. Your father has questions. I don’t mind answering them if I can.”

“Trixie?”my mother all but shrieked. “Have you joined this man’s biker gang as well?”

“Mother. Spikejust told you he’s not in a gang.” I narrowed my eyes at her in warning. “AndTrixie is Spike’s nickname for me, which I happen to love.”

“I don’tunderstand what your obsession is with refusing to go by the name your fatherand I gave you,” she whined. “First it wasChrissy, which was bad enough,but now it’sTrixie?”

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