Page 51 of Zeppelin
The silence would be strained if Carver got weird, but he ignores my goading and gives me a tight smile. He rubs his left hand with his right, flexing the palm and continuing the tight circles he’s rubbing all the way up into the forearm and elbow.
“You good?” I can’t be an asshole about this.
A massive piece of stone fell on the guy years ago and it’s been a rough road to recovery, both physically and mentally for him. We’d done a bunch of riding, and even though he’s on a trike, with two wheels in the back that is plenty sturdy, it’s concerning seeing him in pain.
Carver turns his eyes my way. The flames from the massive bonfire that we lit over an hour ago are reflected in those bottomless depths.
“Yeah. It’s just sore. I still have use of it.” He lifts his arm to prove it. Before, he could only tuck it in against his side, but now he gets it up almost to shoulder height.
“You’re ever not good, you tell Tyrant, yeah?”
He shrugs his other shoulder. “Sure.”
“Seriously. We take care of people out here. You need anything, you speak up.”
He grunts. “Like you have?”
The urge to leap off this log and throttle him is strong. Not really, because that would only make me into a huge piece of hot garbage to pummel a guy who really only has one good arm to hit back with, plus there are club rules about fighting.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He doesn’t let it drop, and he doesn’t let me pretend that I’m not a liar. “It hasn’t been long enough for you to be okay, but you tell everyone you are. We all know you’re not, but no one’s going to force you to say anything different until you’re ready.”
I roll my eyes, falling back on hard truths to try and make the situation so uncomfortable that we can’t continue talking about it. It’s a strategy that’s worked for me in the past. “At least no one’s treated me like I’m made of fucking glass yet. That’s nice.”
“You can hurt and not be brittle.”
The fire snaps and sends up a shower of sparks into the darkness. A few of the guys hoot and holler around it. Tyrant stands up in the middle of the fray. I’d bet everything I have that it’s five minutes to ten. He’s going to excuse himself to his tent and go talk with Lark quietly for half an hour before hecomes back. Most of us don’t crawl off into our tents until one or two. There’s some discreet drinking around the fire late into the night, but nothing rowdy. Tyrant also doesn’t want us causing a ruckus in the campgrounds. They might be mostly empty during the week, but he doesn’t want anything that would give our club the kind of reputation that some have. That’s always been important to him.
There’s a real difference between not caring what other people think and caring what he himself thinks, and it’s the latter. He doesn’t expect anyone to be perfect, but drunk brawls, wrecking someone else’s property, or being too hungover to ride the next day would only have us shaming ourselves. This ride is about coming together as a club. It’s about brotherhood. It’s not about getting pissed up and acting like a bunch of fucking assholes.
It’s like being at home. At the clubhouse, we drink and smoke a bunch of weed, but there aren’t any hard drugs allowed. No disrespecting any women. No beating the shit out of each other. Being in the club isn’t an excuse to turn into a demon. It’s about taming them so we can thrive in the dark and maybe one day, venture into the light.
“Who’s that friend you were asking for?” I snark Carver after Tyrant wanders off into the back of the large campsite. We have several adjoining, but with all the tents spread out all over, it seems more like one huge one.
“You know who I’m asking for. You’ve been a part of this club for a long time, from what I understand, but you were never close with anyone but your brother.”
“We were close with everyone equally. We didn’t bother with besties.”
I glance pointedly at Dravin, sitting beside Wizard. Their faces aren’t just illuminated by the fire, but by the phones they’re currently sharing between them. Wizard was convinced to come on this ride—his first in a long time—but he checks those phones almost neurotically.
Carver doesn’t lose his patience, but he does give up on turning into my new BFF. “Look. Ginny’s my woman’s little sister. She might be younger than Bronte, but she’s got her own beat she marches to just fine. That’s not to say she’s wild, but she’s always been perfectly comfortable in her ways. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her uncertain of herself. I mean that in the best way. I thought you should know.”
He rises, walking off to join Dravin because they have a bromance going on. I don’t mean seriously. I’m just being a douchebag because if I’m not being a dickhead, who am I? Dravin was there for Carver when he desperately needed someone. He’s young, but he’s a good man. He endured hell growing up, similar to what I went through. He’s only talked a little about the abuse, but I’ve heard a few things from Dravin in passing as well. Carver used to hide out on this run-down piece of land not far from Bronte and Ginny’s parents’ place. From what I gather, he’d never been the most outgoing of people, but after the accident that left him disfigured, he became even more reclusive. Dravin helped him get to Hart and see the club’s doctor, who happens to be a plastic surgeon. He took care of him after, letting Carver stay at his place instead of going back to that rural hellhole. When Carver wanted to stay in Hart, Dravin helped him and Bronte find a place for their little family. Honestly? They’re both good guys. I’ll just never not give them shit the same way I do everyone else in this club.
Again, that’s my role, isn’t it?
I don’t feel like getting buzzed tonight. The first night out, I drank more whiskey than I should have. Riding the next day hungover as fuck while pretending not to be, wasn’t my idea of fun.
Even if I had planned on getting hammered and reliving the old times, the mood is decidedlyruinedfor me after Carver’s comment.
He dropped it so offhanded, but it was anything but.
I rise from the stump, resisting the urge to beat life back into my sore ass. After sitting on a bike all day, parking it on that hard log was a bad choice. Don’t get me started on the fact that they seem to be my forte.
I set off for my tent without a backwards glance for the men behind me. No one tries to stop me from leaving. They probably all assume I’ll be back. Lately, I’ve been fine with being on the periphery of things. Not that I was ever the life of the party, but I was definitelyinvolvedwhen Jack was around. We’d feed off each other’s energy, matching each other story for story, getting louder and louder and probably more and more obnoxious with each tale. Like Carver hinted at, the guys want to give me time. They don’t expect me to be myself anytime soon. Maybe ever again. They’ll accept any new version of me, even if that me is quiet and likes to sit in the background.
The bikes are all clustered together in a group in the middle campsite, but the tents are scattered between the three we have rented. I chose a semi-flat spot in the heart of a small cluster of trees. The tent is tiny, especially with me inside of it. I don’t have room to do anything other than slip into my sleeping bag and stuff the uncomfortable travel pillow under my head.It’s like using a facecloth as a towel, but fuck it. Nothing a little cracking my neck in the morning can’t fix.
