Page 49 of Zeppelin
“Right. Yes. I want to make sure that you’re taking care of yourself right now.”
“I am. It’s just still so early. That’s all.”
“But you booked it?”
“I did.”
I was going to tell Zeppelin about that tonight. After. Lying together, not cuddling, but still touching, hot and sweaty and sated. Close. Just so, so close. Staring at the ceiling. I wanted to look over and watch his face.
His face. Not Jack’s. I already dealt with the guilt of that. It’s not that I wouldn’t be thinking about Jack. I always will. I’m having his child. He gave me this miracle. But it’s Zeppelin who is here. It’s Zeppelin who cares and worries and—
Fuck.
I sling my arm around her and we lean our heads close to each other. I close my eyes and just sit, inhaling my sister’s familiar honeysuckle scent.
Together, the time will go quickly. Not that I’m counting anything down. I’m fine alone. I’ve always been fine. I always will be. I love being single. I only need the support of my family to raise a child. Anything else—friends and acquaintances—are just a blessing. They’re a bonus. I don’t need to fall back on them.
I want Zeppelin in my life and in the baby’s life and I’ll always make sure he can be, but I don’tneedhim.
I just need to convince my aching body that that’s still true.
Chapter 13
Zeppelin
This part of the country is pretty. I suppose any part is beautiful enough when it’s just the ground beneath a man and the open sky, stars glistening overhead, a massive campfire roaring, plenty of tents dotting the background in a cluster, and the roar of good conversation had between men who have sworn an oath of brotherhood to one another.
Tyrant and Raiden thought ahead and rented out campgrounds along the way. After a day of hard riding, the last thing that we were going to do was pull into some motel or even a hotel. All those bikes gathered in one spot are like a siren’s call when it comes to trouble. We’re not the kind of club that needs that kind of attention.
This trip is about riding just because we love it. It’s about our bikes, the wind in our hair, the freedom of the open road, the sky endless above, behind, and ahead of us. It’s not about starting outlaw shit and getting into bar fights or picking up chicks along the way.
At this point, I think that we’re more of a boys’ club than a biker club as far as what most people think of when they think of one percenters, but that’s okay. That’s more than fucking okay by me.
I like this camping out, kumbaya shit.
It’s not like we’re doing s’mores, so we’re not too far gone yet.
Before we make a stop for the evening, there’s always a run into whatever grocery store is along the way. Beans, corn, steaks, potatoes—we usually feast like kings. We’ve stopped a few times, at small food stands if there are any, but if not, we cook for ourselves. We have more than enough room on the bikes between us for a few pots and pans to do the dinner making.
Our tents are mostly single person, and we have travel pillows and sleeping bags, maybe a small pad for the ground if we need it, but most of us are content with sleeping rough. Having a bike between your legs during the day and the solidity of the hard ground at night—that’s a religion I could get behind.
“You’re unnaturally quiet.” Carver drops down beside me.
I’m sitting on a stump that I found over in the firewood pile. It either escaped splitting or someone just pitched it there, but it was perfectly round and more than enough of a perching place for my ass to sit for a few hours in front of the campfire.
The other guys are gathered around, talking and laughing, regaling each other with all the previous rides, even though most of them were there. Odin likes to tell the story of how he lost his eye. The barfight recounting never gets old. A few of the older guys have some wild stories. After that dies down, it’s generally talk about our families and the club, Hart, the cabin in the mountains that the club owns, how our real estate purchases are doing that Tyrant invested into after the club’s lawyer and Bullet’s woman, Lynette, wanted to purchase in a bid to have the club’s business go from an illegal shitshow to a legal shitshow.
Not that I’d know.
That isn’t my area of expertise.
I’m not an officer. I’m not involved in decision making and I don’t get updates on all of the investments and all that shit the way Tyrant, Raiden, and the other officers do.
It’s not that I feel I don’t belong. I’m not sitting on the edge of the circle and not joining in because I’m purposely butt hurt about anything.
I’ve just been feeling… I don’t even know. Lost?
Fucking hell, that’s ridiculous. Some real self-help, therapist style shit. Not that if you need that it’s wrong. It’s just that the last place I’d turn to for help would be some shrink in a suit spitting out new age, trained garbage. I’d never take advice from some book.
