My throat burns, my eyes water and I quickly rub at my face to hide the emotions clawing at me to be released. I’ve done it. I’ve rolled out my soul for him to kick around.
Cyrus scratches at his head, then lowers it. “I don’t know where I went wrong with your father. We were all close. Me, Eli and James. Eli and James especially. Even though James was older than him, James loved Eli. Like a big brother should, like a best friend.”
This I’ve all heard.
“James went to college,” Cyrus says, and that captures me. “He did fine for three years, but then everything started to fall apart when the Riot realized Eli was dating Meg. James would come home every chance he had, but then as the situation became more intense, he stopped coming home as much until one day he stopped coming at all.”
Cyrus closes his eyes as if someone shot a person he loves through the heart in front of him. Close to seventy years old and something that happened over eighteen years ago still crushes him from the inside out.
“Why?” I ask.
He reopens his eyes and shakes his head. “I don’t know. We never knew. One day I had him and then one day—I lost him. I lost my son before he died and I don’t know why. I have my theories, theories you’ve voiced, but that’s all they are—damned theories that only haunt me.”
The Riot told Cyrus about me. The Riot told me James was a traitor and then I passed that information along to Cyrus. My grandfather thinks his son was a traitor and it’s got to be killing him. Isaiah said James wasn’t Riot, but other than the word of a guy I’ve got no attachments to other than genetics, I can’t prove him wrong.
“Chevy.” Cyrus’s voice cracks, and when he clears his throat, my heart throbs in pain. “I don’t fucking care if you become a member of this club. You are my grandson and I love you. This is your home, this will always be your home and I will take this vest off my back and set fire to it if that means you’ll believe me.”
I don’t need that. I’ve never needed that. I just needed to hear him say I’ll always have a home. I swallow to keep my throat from closing and stand because my mind’s a mess. “I’m not James. You’re not going to lose me.”
Cyrus climbs to his feet and hugs me. Hands high in a show of respect as if I was wearing a patch. In the club, men hug. It’s a show of affection, a show of brotherhood, but it’s hard and it’s fast. As my grandfather hugs me and I hug him back, we hold on longer because we’re making a promise...we’re never letting go.
Violet
I’M NOT SURE how Chevy’s able to stay awake when my eyelids close of their own volition every few seconds. Each drop into darkness is like a piece of heaven, but then when my body begins to drift toward the car door so I can sleep, I jerk and force my eyes back open. Chevy needs me and I need to stay awake so he’ll stay awake and then we won’t die in a fiery car crash.
“I don’t feel like this is our brightest idea,” I say. “We’ve already missed a ton of school and our mothers will be pissed. We’ve already got the club mad at us. Do you think it’s wise to anger the moms, too? We’ve had plenty of awful ideas lately, so shouldn’t we pull back on the bad ones for a bit?”
“We’ve also had some good ones.” Chevy switches hands on the steering wheel. “Besides, I can’t wait for answers anymore. I need to start fresh, and to do that, I need the truth.”
James. He’s talking about James and my heart aches for him. Chevy shook me awake at six this morning. I at least have had a few hours of sleep. I’m betting Chevy has had none, but he’s awake due to freebasing caffeine.
Chevy was determined to meet Isaiah by just showing at his Monday through Friday job, but I was able to convince Rachel via text to push a meetup between Chevy and Isaiah this morning. I promised that Chevy would buy him breakfast. Pretty sure neither of them care about that.
The donut shop Isaiah picked is up on the right and I point it out to Chevy even though the GPS is giving instructions at the same time. Except for a Mustang and another car around the back, the parking lot is empty, and when we walk into the place, we find the same.
It’s a quaint little place. Only one table with two chairs near the windows, but other than that there’s a glass case holding lots and lots of frosted and not frosted donuts. The sight of baked goodness and the scent of delicious sweetness cause my mouth to water, but then I notice Isaiah talking in a low voice to a woman behind the counter and my appetite dies.
The woman looks over at us, and when she spots Chevy, she places a hand on her stomach like she was kicked. “You look like him. Not as much as Isaiah does, but you look like James.”
Isaiah folds his arms over his chest and stays silent as the woman crosses the room to Chevy. She’s not what I would have expected for Isaiah’s mom, but then again, that’s not fair. My mother wouldn’t be the definition of a biker chick. Looks are often deceiving.
This woman is young—obviously old enough to have a son out of high school, but still young enough that I don’t consider her old. Her long hair is blond with a slight curl and she wears a cotton dress with cowboy boots. Her earrings dangle and she has a soft country twang as she speaks. “I’m Isaiah’s mom, Ruth. He told me you want to talk about James.”
Chevy glances over at me and the anguish written on his face slays me. He wants to talk about James, but he doesn’t. He needs this and he needs me. I link my fingers with his, he locks them tight and we follow Ruth as she leads us away from the front of the store to a breakroom in the back.