Page 4 of Property of Indiana

“Good call.” I release a sigh because even if he’s flying high, he’s still going to be a menace to deal with. “I guess I should get this over with.”

As we ride through town, my eyes keep shifting over to Icer. I’m not sure what Riptide gave him, but that shit needs to be packaged and sold on the market. He’s gone from having the appearance of a serial killer to that of a man who’s just been given head. This shift in demeanor has me more nervous than if I carried a syringe of anti-anxiety meds to shoot him up with. And yes, anyone working with Icer carries it around on their person. You never know when you need to give him a time out.

As we pull up to the mall I groan. It’s so damn packed that we have to back our bikes into the same space at the back forty. I back in first and he follows suit, his bike catty corner to mine. “These little fuckers better not put a scratch on my ride,” I hiss.

“It’s just paint, Indiana,” he argues, looking at me as if I’m being irrational. My head snaps in his direction as my eyes widen in shock.

What. The. Fuck? He’s usually the one ripping heads from necks and rolling them down aisles like they’re bowling balls, but he’s basically telling me to chill?

“You alright, brother?” I ask, as he dazedly scans the lot.

“I’m good. I feel so fucking free,” he tells me, pushing his arms out to his sides and spinning in circles. “The colors are fucking beautiful, aren’t they?”

His marveling has me discombobulated. I whip out my phone and send Riptide a text wanting to know if this is a normal reaction to whatever the fuck it was he gave him. Before I get a reply back, I catch movement out of my peripheral and notice Icer skipping through the lot.

“Jesus fucking Christ! Icer, man, what the fuck are you doing?” I’m not sure if I’m humiliated or humored by his sudden burst of serenity.

“Did you know they have a cookie store in there?” he hollers, pointing at the building.

“Yeah, man, I did,” I remark, feeling like today is going to go down in the history books. “Would you like to stop and get one?”

“Yes, I would,” he states, bobbing his head.

“Alright, Icer. We’ll grab you a damn cookie before we hit the Harley shop. Do me a favor though.”

“What’s that?” he asks, turning on his feet and facing me.

I’m just happy he’s stopped acting like he’s reclaimed his childhood by skipping and say, “Walk, man. And could you, I don’t know, talk normal?” I didn’t notice until now that his pitch has risen an octave and I’m freaking the fuck out.

“I am normal, Indiana. It’s you who needs to embrace life and smell the roses.”

“Oh, Jesus fuck. Somebody gave you too much Midol or something,” I grumble.

“I don’t take that shit, Indiana,” he deadpans. “Come on, I need a cookie and some coffee.” And wouldn’t you know it, the fucker is skipping again while whistling a tune I recognize but can’t put my finger on.

As we hit the line, a little girl and her mother are in front of us. The tune coming from Icer catches the daughter’s attention and she reaches out and grabs Icer’s hand which has me reaching for my piece. My only thought is I have to protect this kid from our Enforcer when he realizes somebody is touching him.

“A whole new world,” the girl starts singing to his whistling. My eyes bug out when I finally figure out what he’d been whistling and I step back in shock when Icer begins singing with her, crouching down on her level. I pull out my phone and start recording this shit because I think Pres may have inadvertently poisoned Icer. My brother’s going to have a heart attack when he sees this shit and his brain starts firing again.

“Elodie,” the mother snaps out her name. “It’s not polite to touch strangers.” At least she waited until the duo stopped singing to scold her child.

I go to intervene when Icer says in an assuasive voice, “It’s okay, ma’am. We have a common interest, don’t we, Miss Elodie?” The girl nods her head and I feel my heart rate ramp in my chest when he pats her on the head. I know what those hands are capable of and his touch is usually done with violence.

“Did you know there’s a Disney store here?” Elodie asks Icer. “We’re going there next, do you wanna come?”

“Elodie!” her mother exclaims. “They probably have things to do themselves and they’re not going to want to traipse through what’s pretty much a store designed for kids!”

At this point, I’m torn between laughing my ass off and wondering if I need to take Icer to the emergency room and tell them he’s somehow been poisoned, because he exclaims, “I’d love to go!”

“Yay! We’re going to Disney, Mama,” the girl exclaims, her hand now nestled in Icer’s as they swing them between them.

“I’m so sorry, she’s never met a stranger,” the mom says, turning toward me and when our eyes connect, instant recognition hits me like a freight train.

“Zoey? Is that you?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“Harrison? Oh my, it’s been a long time,” she says, her voice quivering as tears gather in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping forward and placing the palms of my hands on her shoulders. “What can I do?”

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