Nowhere But Here. Katie McGarryЧитать онлайн книгу.
talking to me so freely. “If you choose to start working with us, there won’t be much room for a learning curve. You’ll have to be vigilant at every turn. We haven’t had trouble with the Riot in years, but when we did, they had no problem making it personal.”
Meaning they don’t have a problem hurting people—like my dad. Meaning I have to play it smart with them and be okay with the danger, which I am. I’d much rather be on the road protecting my family than sitting at home with Mom.
“The moment you give me a cut, I’m in.” I throw out the question, not sure if Eli will answer. “You had his back, didn’t you? You pushed Dad to the ground.”
A hint of a smirk plays on his lips and he hides it with another draw. He blows out the smoke and flicks the cigarette onto the ground. “Be out here at six in the morning. I’ll pick you up in the truck and we’ll go get your Dad’s bike before the wake. I want him to sleep in.”
Hell, yeah. “You going to let me drive his bike home?”
“Fuck, no. I’m bringing you along to drive the truck back. No one touches a man’s bike and in desperate situations only another brother can. You know better than that.” Eli pats my shoulder and his expression grows serious. “See you tomorrow, and be dressed for the wake when I pick you up.”
Eli starts his bike and rocks kick up as he drives off. I watch until the red taillight fades into the darkness. Through the screen door, I spot my mother still caring for my father. She uses special care as she tapes gauze to his head.
Mom smooths the last strip of medical tape to his skin and when she goes to close the kit, Dad tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. They stare at each other, longer than most people can stand, then she lays her head on his lap. Dad bends over and kisses her temple.
They need a moment together and, having nothing but time, I sit on the top step and wonder if I’ll find someone who will understand and accept this life like my mother. Mom loves Dad so much that she’ll take on anything. His job, this life and even the club.
I’LL ADMIT IT. I’m freaked.
Freaked that the flight from Florida to Kentucky was nothing more than a turbulence-ridden nightmare. Freaked that the man beside me on the plane puked three times. Freaked that June in Kentucky means severe storms. Freaked because I’m sweating through my favorite black dress and it’s dry-clean only. Freaked because I’ve been in this poor excuse for a cab for over an hour, with no air-conditioning and a driver who refuses to speak. Or maybe he’s mute.
Or maybe he murdered the real cab driver, picked me and my parents up at the airport and is taking us to our final destination before he chops us into Kibbles ’n Bits. Maybe...but probably not. We entered the small town of Snowflake a few minutes ago and if this guy was a mass murderer bent on a little fun, he’d find somewhere more original than here.
“Did you say Richard’s Funeral Home?” the cab driver asks. Wow, the man talked.
“Yes,” Dad answers. We flew into Louisville in order to be relatively close to Snowflake. The rental-car company botched our reservation and paid for the taxi.
The cab driver eases into the left turn lane and stops at the red light. Blood pounds at my temples in the rhythm of the car’s blinker when I spot the funeral home. It’s no different than the ones at home in Florida, except this one is surrounded by oak trees instead of palms and is one stiff breeze away from being condemned.
“You’ll be okay.” Dad squeezes my hand and I wrap my fingers around his before he can withdraw. “Keep breathing and try not to overanalyze it.”
Easy for him to say. “Did you get a hold of Eli?”
“No, I’m still going straight to voicemail.” Dad probably has to force the patience into his voice. It’s the fiftieth time I’ve asked since we disembarked the plane. Eli must have powered off his phone. Dad attempted to contact him, but I don’t blame Eli for not answering. I’d be devastated if my mom died.
Dad offers me a reassuring smile. “Eli will be thrilled to see you.”
I release a sigh... Sure he will. “What do I say when he asks about Mom?”
Dad’s smile fades and he lets go of my hand to readjust the watch on his wrist. “Tell them that your mother is sorry for their loss, but that she isn’t feeling well. She’ll try to attend later if she’s feeling better.”
Mom morphed into an unnatural shade of blue when she spiraled into a panic attack the moment we left the airport. Dad decided, since the viewing ends at eight this evening, that he and I would pay our respects first. Then if, after a rest, Mom was able to walk and breathe at the same time, he would go with her again.
Mom protested, but Dad, with his smooth doctor way, won. So she’s holed up at the sole motel in this dump of a town and I’m heading to a funeral home. I tried to throw myself into a panic attack in order to get out of this hellish event, but evidently holding my breath on purpose doesn’t count.
The light changes, the driver makes the turn, and I press a hand to my stomach. Oh, God. Dad has way too much faith in me.
The cab driver pulls into the funeral home, but is stuck behind two cars. Neither car shows signs of moving as they chat to the people on the sidewalk. The driver taps his fingers on the steering wheel in a ticked-off thump. I totally understand the feeling.
“My daughter and I will get out here,” Dad announces.
The cab driver assesses a group of men standing in a semi-circle outside the entrance. “You sure?”
“It’s not a long walk,” Dad answers.
I open the door and the driver freaks. “Are you sure this is where you want to be?”
No. Dad maintains his superhero calm. “Yes.”
“Snowflake’s not exactly Disney World.” The driver waves his hand toward the men. If Dad won’t listen to me, maybe he’ll listen to our now talking driver.
I lean so I have a better look at the men standing around. They all have Eli’s style: redneck with a hint of grunge. Sort of like if Linkin Park fashioned their own clothing line inspired by L.L.Bean: jeans and T-shirts covered by flannel shirts. Some wear blue University of Kentucky baseball hats—just like Eli. A couple even have his...well, my dark brown hair.
What probably messes with the driver is that almost every man here sports over their T-shirts or flannels a black leather biker vest with the words Reign of Terror in white lettering. On the back of each vest is a large white half skull with red flames raining down. Fire blazes out of the eye sockets. I bet the guys who designed the emblem pat themselves on the back for the play on words.
“This is not a place for a young girl,” the driver exclaims.
He’s off on the young part. I just turned seventeen. And despite my previous hopes, Dad doesn’t share the cab driver’s, or my, assessment of the situation. “We’ll be fine. Right, Em?”
The driver rotates in his seat, reminding me of a possessed person in one of those horror movies. “Those are bikers.”
In his dark suit, deep blue tie and clean-cut blond hair, my father could be a model on the cover of a business magazine. He screams competence and authority and all that’s good in the world. So the next words cause the driver’s mouth to slacken. “My daughter is a relative.”
While the driver continues to gape in disbelief, I inwardly cringe. I’m related to them. More specifically, I’m most likely related to the men with the patch on the front of their vests stating Mother Chapter. Which, according to Eli, means the founding chapter of their club.
I’m a relative by blood and blood alone. We are not family in the ways that really