Because I hate hurting people, I’ll reply, but only so much because in the end there’s this deep, dark voice that whispers, Why does he care and what right does he have to ask?
“You don’t have your driver’s license.” Eli returns to one of his previous and safer topics. “How is that possible?”
“Where are we going?” I ask, not even bothering hiding the exasperation.
“Somewhere,” he answers. “Why don’t you have your license?”
“I don’t know how to drive. That’s how it’s possible.”
“Do you want to learn?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I hedge, then nibble on my bottom lip. Dad attempted to teach me this past fall, but I accidently pushed the gas when I should have chosen the brake. I creamed a row of bushes in our front yard and totaled the front of Dad’s Mercedes. Since then, neither Dad nor I have been eager to resume my lessons. “This past year has been busy. You know, school and stuff.”
“Stuff,” Eli says, as if he’s trying the word for the first time.
“Stuff,” I repeat.
His frown deepens and his fingers tap the steering wheel. The cords of muscles in his arms work with the motion and the tattooed stars move. Hmm. Never noticed before that not all the stars are shaded in.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Eli doesn’t look at me like he has with the two million other questions since we left Olivia’s.
“Yes,” I answer. “We’ve been together for a month. He’s the captain of the football team and he expected sex on our first date. Initially, I said no, but then he was a little grabby and I figured everyone my age is doing it, so I thought why not? I went home and told Mom and she put me on birth control so she’s cool when we do it in my bedroom now.”
Eli slams on the brakes and my body whips forward against the seat belt then rams back into the seat. The two bikes in front of us U-turn and there’s a loud grumble as the three behind us fly to catch up.
Completely red-faced, Eli glares at me with black, soulless eyes. “What did you say?”
“No,” I tell him calmly. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Eli blinks and directs his attention to the steering wheel.
One of the bikes pulls up beside us. The name Hook is sewn on the front of his vest. “We okay?”
Eli nods then presses the gas. “Are you shitting me on the boyfriend or on the no boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” I don’t know why I ran my mouth, but it’s annoying how Eli thinks he has the right to ask me absolutely anything he wants and how he expects a response. Year after year he visits Florida and year after year I try my best to play along, but why he craves an inside scoop on my life and why I owe it to him, I don’t understand.
He deserted us—me and Mom. In the end, he abandoned me.
Eli flexes his fingers on the wheel. “Don’t let any guy treat you like shit, do you hear me, Emily? No one. Any guy pushes you too far or hurts you, you tell me.”
I sweep my bangs away from my forehead and when I readjust, my skin audibly peels off the seat. Eli watches me for a reaction and his eyes only glance away to confirm he’s still on the road. “Did you hear me?”
I really, really wish Eli would drop this conversation.
“Emily?” he demands.
“Where was this gallantry when Mom cried to you that she was pregnant with me?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks and he visibly tenses. I have a friend whose parents divorced when she was younger. Her dad bowed out for a couple of years and now that he’s back in her life, she keeps a tally of how many digs she can get in during their visits. I’m not like that. I don’t want to be like that. I’m not proud of hurting Eli, but he doesn’t get to act as if he’s a good dad in this scenario.
The two motorcycles ahead of us veer right and Eli’s posture straightens as we make the same turn. “We’re here.”
Here would be a warehouse. Literally. Gray metal walls. Brown roof. An entire row of motorcycles parked near the front. More men in black vests stand around except the bottom part of their patch states Lanesville instead of Snowflake. Each man studies the truck as Eli parks.
“There’s no end to you guys, is there?” I ask.
“We’re in forty states, ten countries and still growing.”
“Hmm.” Because what else do you say to that?
Eli shuts off the engine. “Your Mom and Jeff will be here soon. I have a few things I need to take care of in the meantime. Hang with Oz and don’t stray from him.”
In other words, Oz is my chosen “escort” for the afternoon. “Okay.”
I crack open my door and Eli stops me. “Hey, Emily.”
“Yeah?”
Eli focuses on the keys in his hand and he’s completely still. “Follow me and then stick close to Oz.” And he leaves the truck, closing the door behind him.
I sigh because, to be honest, a sorry for bailing when Mom and I needed him the most would have been nice.
Oz
I SWING OFF my bike, shove my keys into my pocket and head over to the only guy I’d be willing to call a best friend other than Chevy. The ultra-white three-piece Reign of Terror patch on Razor’s cut is what makes him stick out among everyone else. The darker and dirtier the patch, the more honor there is. It means years of wear and tear within the club. Razor patched in a few weeks ago.