Walk the Edge
Page 89

“There are moving parts to this problem. Shit you can’t begin to comprehend. You get her home, then you come back here. You’re still a part of this club and that is a fucking order.”
Am I still a part of this club? Was this cut mine to begin with? Was it nothing more than a pity offering from men who don’t respect me?
Eli releases me, and as I continue toward Breanna, I remember what she’s said about her family, about how happiness in numbers is an illusion. Maybe she’s right. Maybe no matter how much faith we try to put into the idea of family, in the end, we’re fucked.
RAZOR
I FLY INTO the open space near the clubhouse going double what I normally do. Kerosene’s running in my veins and I’m thirty seconds away from someone striking a match.
Breanna appeared lost when I dropped her off. She hugged me, I hugged her and it was difficult to let her go and return to this nest of liars. My fists are aching to punch someone for this entire damn day. Everything’s a fucking mess and I don’t know how to stem the bleeding from the multiple hits I’ve taken.
The party that was supposed to be for me is out of control, just like I am on the inside. I stalk through the crowd and a couple guys call my name, wondering where I’ve been, and one girl has the nerve to slip in front of me like I’ll skid to a halt because she’s wearing next to nothing. But I’m on the warpath, stopping for no one.
I’m up the stairs and don’t bother knocking as I enter the boardroom. There had been conversation, but it goes silent when the door shuts behind me. All of them are here, all of them seated at the long wooden table, and they all look at me. Each and every member of the board including Cyrus, Eli, Pigpen and my father.
Pigpen hooks his foot around the metal folding chair Eli sat in weeks before and it scrapes against the tiles. The floor beneath me pulses with the beat of the turned-up bass from the music downstairs. My steps fall in time with the rhythm. I take the seat, and this time it’s not Eli sitting across from me, but my father.
We’re eye to eye. His green ones peer into Mom’s blue ones. There’re a million questions in my head. A heart full of anger, rage that belongs to a man, but there are times when I’m before my father that a part of me feels like I’m ten.
A cramping in my gut.
Ten.
Years have passed. My body has aged. Knowledge has been gained, but a piece of my soul has remained frozen.
The board’s right—I’ve never moved past Mom.
“Did you love her?” I ask.
Dad jolts as if the question shocks him.
“You fought,” I continue. “A lot. So tell me if you fucking loved her.”
Dad rests his arms on the table and leans toward me. “I loved her more than I loved anything else in my life. You’re my son, and you’ve gone through hell, but ever question my love for her again and I’ll lay you out.”
I nod and on the outside I’m still as stone, but that ten-year-old boy on the inside collapses in tears. Lots of tears. Tears that I have never fucking shed.
“I was on the phone with her while they chased her,” he says. “I listened to her as she was begging for me to help. I listened as she understood we weren’t going to get there fast enough and I listened as she told me that she loved me and you more than she loved her own life. Did I love her? Yeah, I loved her and I had to listen helplessly as the woman I loved died.”
I drop my head into my hands and wetness burns my eyes. She loved me. My mother loved me.
“Your mother drew the Riot away,” says Cyrus in a quiet voice that’s too sorrowful for the loud noises seeping in from below. “When she came out of work, she found the code stuck under her windshield and she knew the Riot was near. She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew it was bad. She called your father, he told her to get to the clubhouse, but she refused to go there.”
“Why?” My voice comes out cracked.
There’s silence in the room, and when I glance up, most everyone is focused on the table, but Dad’s watching me. “Things were building up to bad with the Riot. It’s why your mom and I fought. Same shit that had gone down with the Riot years before was happening again and she was scared for me.”
Because years ago, Dad almost died in the fight for Emily’s safety. Dim memories of hushed hospital rooms and the man I believed invincible in a bed. Mom in tears by his side, Olivia whispering to me that he was strong and me clinging to Cyrus’s hand like if I let go I would tumble down a dark hole.
“Olivia was watching you and your mother refused to draw them anywhere near you, which meant she wouldn’t come anywhere near the clubhouse.”
It’s too much. Too fucking much and I breathe in but the air doesn’t reach my lungs. “Did she know about the code?”
“Yes and no,” Dad answers. “She saw a different piece of code once in my belongings. Your mom was quick. Realized by my reaction when I saw it in her hands it was related to the Riot, but didn’t know much else. This was that messed-up period after Eli was released from prison. The Riot was pissed he got out on parole and they wanted to renege on the deal made to keep peace between our clubs. They demanded we hand over Eli. We told them to go fuck themselves. So we began negotiating. Communicating through the code and short meetings.”
“Why code?” I ask.
“Law enforcement has always been after them,” Eli explains. “Made them paranoid. They didn’t like putting anything in writing. Face-to-face meetings were risky for both sides—too many pissed-off people with guns. We first used the code when they found out Meg was pregnant with Emily. She knew all their different ways of translating the code. When the stakes between our clubs were being raised and they felt that law enforcement was on the edge of cracking the code we were using, they stole a copy of our bylaws, sent the code to Meg, and she knew how to decipher it. That’s how we’ve always communicated with them. The code worked. Kept our people safe while we tried to keep the Riot calm.”