Page 59 of Kings Against the World

“Perfect?” She pauses in between taking a bite of her taco.

“Yeah, you know. Just with your shit all the way together. Attractive, capable, good, stable careers, the type to fold your dirty clothes.”

Her lips spread. “I fold them because it helps me sort them when I do laundry.”

“Or you can just dump everything into the washer at once. It’s what I do.”

“Why am I not surprised? And no, Ozzie, I’m not perfect. Neither is my family. Far, far from it.”

She stops there, like even beginning to explain would cause a headache. I drop the subject, deciding if she wanted to say more, she would. I get better than anyone what it’s like to be estranged from family.

It’s been over ten years since I’ve seen mine.

Phrases like, “don’t ever call us again” and “we have no son” don’t exactly help family relations.

But I’ve never needed my mother and fatherortheir money—I’ve made it all on my own, breaking the fucking rules every step of the way. Where my father said I’d never amount to anything and I was a stupid loser with tattoos and no prospect of a future, I took the few things Iwasgood at and used them to my advantage.

I gambled ’til I was damn near a pro. I rode bikes and found likeminded people. I became a Steel King.

“So we grew up about half an hour from each other,” I muse aloud, shaking my head. “Now look at us.”

“Yeah, an FBI agent and a biker undercover in Vegas for an illegal gambling tournament, eating tacos at a taqueria,” Zoe says, amused. “Probably would’ve never had this on my bingo card.”

“Life comes at you fast.”

“You never told me how you were going to get away from the club. What excuse did you use to explain your absence all this time?”

“That I was headed to rehab in California. Had the brochures and everything.”

Surprise flits across her face. “You told them you were going to be in rehab? And what if someone sees you in Vegas?”

“Iamin rehab… sort of…” I say, shrugging my shoulders, tacos still in hand. I’m on my fourth with no signs of slowing down. “I haven’t used since leaving Pulsboro and I’ve been taking my?—”

I’m the one to interrupt myself as I fall silent, realizing what I was about to say.

Zoe’s engrossed in every word. Her brows knit and she even leans in slightly across the small table that separates us. We’re the only two inside the taqueria except for the employees behind the front counter. We’ve got the whole place to ourselves.

“Taking your what?”

Now I’m unable to continue downing tacos like a vacuum. I put down the half eaten one on my plate and grab a napkin to wipe my hands. Really, I’m stalling for time. Trying to figure out a way to say what I need to.

Most women don’t get it; most women are freaked out once I tell them. Can’t really blame them either—it’s not like I’ve been the most stable guy.

“My meds,” I say, not looking her in the eye at first. I’m looking at the carne asada taco on my plate ’til I chance a glance up at her. “I’m on some heavy meds for ADHD and bipolar disorder. I’ve got some issues. You know how I joke about being batshit? Turns out it’s not a joke.”

I’m not sure what I expect out of Zoe. For her to be practical and start lecturing me about the importance of taking my medications (like she’d done about my smoking), or for her to be judgmental and tell me she’s not even surprised I’d have these kinda problems.

But she does neither of those things.

Instead, she sits oddly quiet for a few seconds, her expression unreadable.

So it triggers my insecurity and I feel like I’ve got to fill the blank space.

“I’m not violent or anything,” I add. “Except assholes who come at me first. If I take my meds, I’m usually pretty stable. I’m just a fuckup and sometimes I go off ’em and that’s usually when trouble starts…”

“You don’t have to explain. You’re actually… you’re not alone. I take medications too.”

“You? For what?”

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