Page 58 of Outlaws' Dirty Secret

I check the mailbox on the way in. There's a letter in there, addressed to Blackout. Literally to Blackout. So if I was hoping to figure out his real name from that, no go. “There's a letter here for you.”

“Shit, really? That was sooner than I expected.” He takes it from me, turning it over and over in his hands.

“That’s good though, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah… I guess.”

Inside, I hurry upstairs to change out of my stripper getup while the coffee machine warms up. When I come back to the living room, Blackout’s just getting to opening the envelope, like he wasn’t ready to do it by himself. The tearing of the paper has me dying to run over and look, but this feels like something private, so I restrain myself. If he wants me to know, he'll tell me. “Do you want coffee?”

“Thanks. Black.”

Of course. I fix us both mugs, and put his down in front of him on the coffee table. He doesn't even look up while he's reading.

“Fuck,” he whispers, then looks up, all sorts of emotions flashing over his face.

“Good news? Bad news? Can you talk about it?”

He nods. “Yeah, I guess I can. But keep it under your hat, you know?”

“I usually don't wear one, but I won't tell anyone.” I curl my legs up underneath me on the couch and cradle the mug against my chest, waiting.

“I… I don't know who I am.”

“Do any of us, really?”

He chuckles. “True, but it’s a little more literal for me.”

I blink at him. “What?”

He laughs at my expression. “Yeah, crazy right? As far as I remember, my life started when I was fifteen. Like I know who I am now. What I’ve made of myself, but my real name? My parents? Any other family? No fucking idea.”

Well, that knocks me for a loop. “And Skyhigh and Dragon don't know this?”

“They know I don’t like talking about my past, but that’s a pretty standard story around the club. I would die for those fuckers, but I don’t know a single brother who’s what anyone in the outside would call ‘well adjusted’.”

“Wait. Is that why you're called Blackout? That's a little on the nose, isn't it?”

He takes a sip of coffee, smiling around it. “It is, but most people think it’s because I’m a fighter. Boxing, MMA, anything thatinvolves kicking the shit out of each other, I’ve done it. I had a period before the club where I did a lot of street fights for cash. I took the name then, thinking it sounded badass. Everyone I fight has a blackout when I KO them, was the deal. That it meant something else was only for me to know. But the name stuck.” He scratches the back of his head, smiling a little embarrassed. “When I explain it like this, it sounds dumb.”

I shake my head. “Maybe it's because it's the only name I have for you, but it suits you. Why haven't you told the others?”

“When the fuck does it come up? Besides, it feels too… personal, I guess? I dunno. Skyhigh and Dragon wouldn’t fucking judge me for it, but I’ve never brought it up.”

“So, tell me if this is too personal, but why? Do you know what happened to you?”

“I was—see, this is how it starts and it’s already hard to explain—I don't even know how old I am for sure, but the doctors said fifteen or sixteen probably, when they found me near an accident. No witnesses ever came forward, but the assumption was that we got hit by a truck and the truck won. The car was burnt out, and I was unconscious in the ditch next to the road. Obviously I’m still here, but I was out for weeks. When I woke up, I didn’t remember a thing. The doctors told me I’d probably start getting flashes of memories and eventually everything would come back, but—” He shrugs. “Nobody ever came looking, so they transferred me to foster care.”

“Oh God, that's terrible. I'm so sorry. Weren't there any clues in the wreckage? You'd think there'd be something.” I shift over in the couch, wrapping my arms around his bicep and leaning into him. “I can't even imagine.”

“It was completely burned out by the time the fire crew came. There was no license plate and the registration number was filed off, which is kinda suspicious. They could barely figure out what make the car was. So all they had was a broken teenager, with no idea where to put him. Did some time in foster homes, but I was pretty fucked up. Maybe if I’d been less of a little asshole they would’ve tried harder to figure out who the fuck I was, but I was mad at the world. I took off pretty quickly and ended up getting by with street fighting, robbery, you name it. I’d get arrested occasionally and do a few months behind bars here and there, but they kept dumping me back out. Eventually I grew up, fell in love with motorcycles and decided I was going to find my own fucking way. The Outlaw Sons were the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. Rest is history, I guess.” He looks at the envelope on the coffee table.

“Until now?”

“Yeah, until now. I’m not putting my fucking DNA into the system, but I took everything I had from when I was found and sent it to a PI. She just got back to me and she thinks she's found something.” He shakes his head. “I'm kinda scared, to be honest.”

“It's only natural. That's a huge deal.” I wet my lips nervously. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”

“I needed to fucking tell somebody. Fuck, that I even dared to hire someone was a big deal. I don't know what I'll find, and whatever it is, once I take the lid off, I might not be able to put it back in the box. I've got a good life now. Maybe I should let it go.” He shakes his head. “But what if it's something awesome?”

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