Page 1 of The Vows We Keep
1
NIRO
Love sucks balls.
That’s all I can think as I blow up another balloon in the Iron Outlaws’ clubhouse. King, my president, and Saint, the brother who betrayed the club, are standing talking like old friends reunited. Proof that love makes men do fucked-up shit they wouldn’t have even considered until some chick comes along waving her pussy in their face and they find themselves cunt-struck.
Suddenly, you find yourself turning the clubhouse into a party palace instead of chasing down the enemies of the club. Instead of hustling with the flow to make more cash or getting hammered with your brothers while some heavy rock plays in the background and some chick blows out her throat while you blow down it, you find yourself blowing up a birthday balloon banner.
Only four weeks ago, someone tried to take out our president, but it’s hard to believe because we’re acting like it’s okay to crawl onto our turf and let off semi-automatic rounds like corn popping. Sure, there was no ID on the bodies left in King’s house, but we’re assuming the Righteous Brotherhood. Vex, our tech wizard, is going to ruin their lives using their digital footprint.
Personally, I’d rather ruin their lives using my bare hands.
While they’re tied to a chair.
Which makes me think of the stools in my kitchen that I like to sit on while I drink my coffee.
Which makes me crave Mom’s gingerbread because it tasted so good when I was young.
Which makes me wonder if Halo is going to watchShrekwith his baby half-sister at some point.
Another pack of balloons hits the side of my head, and I turn to see Halo, our road captain, grinning. “You run out of hot air finally?” he asks.
I flip him the bird, mid-blow, on balloon seventy billion.
Sometimes my brain swirls, not clinging to anything. Some days, it focuses the motherfucking shit out of one thing. Today, it’s swirlier than one of those tie-dye T-shirts I saw Wrinkle, Halo’s dad, wear once.
Worse, I’ve been sharing that energy with everyone. Needling them, saying random shit that confuses them—because they can’t keep up with the conversation happening in my head.
My old high school teacher had this whole meditation thing she used to try and get me to do.
Ninety percent of it was useless, but there was one thing she taught me that I still remember. To blow all the breath out of my lungs and hold it there. It’s the opposite of taking a deep breath. But somewhere in that desperate place where your lungs burn for oxygen, your head starts to settle in a blessed silence.
I wonder what Mrs. Wicks is doing now. I bet she’s a hundred and thirty, still boring kids about icebergs.
I suck in a gasp of air, then blow it out into the balloon.
Then I hold it there for a second.
“Fuck,” I mutter, then suck in air before blowing again, feeling the balloon grow in my hands.
This time, no thought fills my head.
Six of those exhales, and I tie it up tighter than a used condom.
Halo’s ridiculous man bun wobbles as our Navy SEAL veteran ties the balloons to a rope he’s hung hooks for. It’s a ton of purple and gold. Saint teases the shit out of King for picking his sister’s favorite color.
“They’re on their way,” King shouts suddenly.
Ahh, the big reveal. There’s a new crowd of old ladies. They’re funnier. Less reverent. Mouthy.Feisty, Spark likes to call them. Gwen works in a hotel, Iris is a teacher, Briar runs her own graphic design firm, and Rae, the birthday girl, is a psychologist. They’re all about women’s liberation. I heard Rae talking with Iris once, calling something “feminist as fuck.”
Honestly, they’re not as useful as the OG old ladies. The older generation knew their place. They’d cook for us. Clean up the clubhouse when we needed it. Turned the other way when the brothers start dipping their wick in club whores.
This lot are ... changing the fabric of the club.
Not sure I like it.
Not sure any of them like me either.
