Page 86 of Plum

I watch the man with the mustache pull on his gloves and hoist himself up onto the truck.

“You folks ready?” he calls. Adam must nod because he starts pulling slats from cages. The birds bolt, flapping furiously until they’re dark specks against the gray sky. They fly away so quickly, so certain of where they’re going. They’re out of sight in less than a minute.

“How much did this cost you?”

“Ten thousand dollars.” Adam shifts.

“And you’re unemployed now?”

“Yup.” He glances down. “You don’t need to worry. Money’s not a concern. And I have a plan. I’ll take care of you.”

I want that so fucking bad. I want to lean into him, let him wrap his strong arms around me. It’s knit into our souls, I think, the desire to rely on someone. To not be alone in the world. And it also feels inevitable, the moment when you’re standing in the middle of a crowd, alone, reaching for someone who should rescue you, and they turn their back.

I stiffen my spine. “I was tellin’ you about the birds. Why I love them? It’s ‘cause they come back. Year after year. Mamas get sick and die. Men who say they love you, and they’ll take care of you—they change their minds. But every spring, robins come back.”

I drag in a deep breath. “Maybe you think ‘cause I’ve had the kind of life I’ve had that I don’t want more for myself. That I don’t know how it should be. But I know. The people who love you shouldn’t leave you alone. And I ain’t settling for anything I don’t have to. Go home, Adam. There ain’t nothin’ here for you.”

And I force myself to turn around and walk back to the clubhouse, my body as cold and brittle as ice, and my heart grasping for the man silent and still behind me.

CHAPTER 13

ADAM

I’m standing in the Steel Bones clubhouse parking lot, staring after a flatbed truck as it pulls away, feathers fluttering in its wake, feeling every bruise and ache, wondering how I’m going to take yet another beat down when I go inside after Jo-Beth again, when my father emerges from the building.

He makes his way over to me, the arthritis obvious in his slow, shuffling gait. We both stare as the truck disappears down the road.

When it’s gone from view, my father slaps me on the back, and says, “Whelp, since you’re here, wanna check out the bike?”

“Sure.”

My father leads me toward a six-bay garage. Its sleek, modern construction is an interesting contrast to the vintage beauty of the 1920s garage the MC has repurposed for its clubhouse. The analogy isn’t lost on me. Jo-Beth doesn’t see how we fit together, but the evidence is right here. Things don’t need to be the same to belong together.

My father unlocks a side door and flips a switch. Fluorescent light floods the room, revealing rows of covered vehicles. There’s a fully outfitted mechanic bay with a pit, and a massive truck is suspended, mid-job.

“This way.” My father leads me to a far corner, and pulls back the cover of a relatively small machine. The shine hits you first, and then the shape which inspires a wave of nostalgia for a time I wasn’t even alive to see.

Shit. Even with my mind on Jo-Beth, I have to acknowledge it’s a beautiful machine. Sleek lines. All engine. Built to defy physics.

“She’s gorgeous.”

“Truth.” My father grabs a chamois from a workbench and strokes the rag down her body lovingly. “She’s a helluva ride. Nothin’ to that woman back there, I’m guessin’. But a great time.”

Suddenly, it’s all too much. Too strange. There’s a stool, and I sink down, watch my father—the man I haven’t seen in over twenty years—fuss over his bike, dusting off imaginary specks of dust. The whole time, he’s itemizing its specs. V-twin engine. Four speed transmission.

I grunt, and he doesn’t seem to require more of me. When he switches topics, I’m caught off guard.

“I know it ain’t my place to give you no fatherly advice or nothin’, but maybe wait ‘til she’s alone next time. The brothers know who you are now, but still…that could’ve gone south. You got a piece? I can get you a piece if you need one.”

“I’m good.” I watch him with the bike, the care, the gentleness, and something ugly swells inside me. It mixes with Jo-Beth’s words—the people who love you shouldn’t leave you alone—still echoing in my head.

“Why did you leave? Back when I was a kid?”

My father exhales long, puffing his cheeks, and his shoulders drop. He finds his own stool and lowers himself with the help of a hand braced on a workbench.

“Guess I had that question comin’.” He digs in a pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, lights one, and blows the smoke toward the ceiling to avoid the bike.

“Drugs, I guess.” He takes another drag. “I was high a lot. Couldn’t hold a job. Your ma told me to get sober or get gone. So I left. Figured I could get my shit straight without her voice in my ear all the time, you know? Do what she wanted. Get my G.E.D. Some kind of office job. She was always after me to sell cars. She thought there was money in that.”

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