Chapter 9 #2
"Fuck me," Diesel says, his voice low with admiration. "Think she's ready for her own Glock?" Diesel asks, pride warming his rough voice. He glances at me, grinning. "Been teaching her all week. Girl's got an eye."
I watch him watching her, this six-foot-five sergeant at arms with his scarred knuckles and dead-eye stare, looking at my little sister like she's the second coming. It hits me that she could do worse than having a mean motherfucker like Diesel on her side.
"Not today," I say, as Mercy pings another sign with a clean shot.
Diesel shrugs. "Your call. But she's got talent." He claps a heavy hand on Mercy's shoulder as she lowers the rifle. "Good shooting, Sis. You come back anytime you want."
"Come back?" Mercy's voice is flat, but I catch the confusion in it. The confusion hardening to anger as she turns to me.
Diesel realizes his mistake immediately. "Uh… I'm gonna go check on that thing. Inside. You know. The thing." He backs away, hands up, a big man suddenly unsure of his footing.
When he's gone, Mercy turns the full force of her stare on me. "What does he mean, come back?"
"Ya can't stay here, Mercy."
"Why not?"
"It's not a place for girls."
Wrong answer. Her face twists, flushing red with anger.
"That's stupid! I've been here all week and nobody cared!
Nobody ever cares where I am!" She gestures wildly with the rifle, not pointing it at me, but not exactly being careful either.
"You ruin everything! Everything! I don't trust you.
I don't trust anyone. And I never will again. "
I catch her arm, not rough, but firm enough to stop the wild movement of the weapon. "Mercy. Please."
She tries to wrench free, but I hold on. Not to hurt. Just to keep her here. With me. For one more minute.
"Give me one more chance," I say. "And if I fuck it up today, you have every right to hate me. Blame me. Never speak to me again."
She goes still, looking at my hand on her arm. "That's stupid," she says finally, voice smaller. "Because you're all I've got left."
The words hit because they're true. "That’s right. We're all we have now. Just each other. The last two Kanes standing."
She doesn't pull away, but she doesn't soften either. Just waits, watching me with those eyes too old for her face.
"Trust is just the slow death of hope," I tell her, the words coming from somewhere I didn't know existed. "Every time someone walks away, they take a piece of you with them. I know what that feels like and I'm standing here telling you, that's not what this is. That's not who I am."
"Since when?" Her voice is sharp as glass.
"Fuck's sake, kid. Give me a break. I'm doin’ my best." I hold up the envelope as proof. "And for your fuckin’ information—"
"What's that?" she interrupts, eyes narrowing at the manila paper.
"I'm not asking you to trust me," I say, lowering my voice. "Just to let me try again."
She stares at me, eyes lookin’ me up and down with more calculation than some prisoners I did time with. I take the rifle from her hands, slow and careful. "Go put your helmet on," I say, pointing to my bike. "I'm gonna put this away and be right back."
Mercy folds her arms across her chest, making that mean mouth that reminds me too much of our mother. She's pouting, but at least she's not shooting.
Then she turns and stomps off toward the bike, each footfall a percussion of doubt.
I let out a breath. My brand is pounding. My head is pounding. My heart too.
That was a pretty big promise, and if I leave her again, she'll never forgive me.
I make a note of it.
The Montana wind kicks up dust devils that dance across the road as we ride. Mercy's small arms are locked around my waist, her helmet pressed against my back. Every time we hit a bump, she tightens her grip like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
I take the long way back to Drybone, not ready to show her what's waiting. The envelope burns in my jacket pocket—keys to something I'm not sure I deserve.
When we finally turn down our road, the gravel crunches under my tires. Sitting on the same twenty acres of scrubland is the new double-wide.
It's newer than anything my family has ever owned. And… it’s nice.
Looks a lot like the clubhouse, actually with both the roof and siding made of black-matte metal with a timber wainscot skirt of corrugated metal the color of rust. The shutters, door, and wide front porch are all made of timber stained the same color as the wainscoting.
It’s kinda badass, outlaw, and trendy all in one go.
I kill the engine and we sit there on the bike, not moving.
"Where are we?" Mercy asks, voice muffled through her helmet.
"Home," I say, and the word feels strange in my mouth. Foreign.
I swing my leg over the bike and help her down. She pulls off the helmet, hair wild with static, and stares at the new trailer like it might be a mirage.
"What is this place?"
"Ours," I say, pulling the keys from the envelope. "The club got it for us."
Mercy doesn't move toward it. She just stands there, helmet dangling from her fingers, taking in the brand-new doublewide.
"It's nice," I offer. "Don't you think?"
She doesn't answer. Just walks forward slowly, like she's approaching a wild animal. Her eyes scan everything—
"Do you like it?" I ask.
No answer. Just that stare that's too old for her face.
I climb the steps, wood groaning under my weight, and unlock the door. It swings open without the screech I'm used to. No rust. No rot. Just clean hinges and the smell of new carpet.
Mercy follows me inside, and the difference between this and our old place hits hard.
The living room is open and bright with that expensive wide-plank vinyl flooring that’s so popular these days.
There’s even actual furniture—a couch that doesn't sag, a coffee table without cigarette burns, a TV mounted to the wall.
The kitchen has black appliances that weren't made before I was born. White cabinets. A refrigerator that doesn't sound like it's dyin’. Countertops void of knife marks or cigarette burns.
Mercy moves through the space like a ghost. She opens every cupboard, every drawer. Runs her fingers along the edges of counters. Turns on the faucet and watches water flow clear, not rust-colored.
I follow her down the hallway where she pushes open doors. Three bedrooms. One for each of us, with the third waiting for Destiny if she ever comes back. A bathroom with a shower that doesn't leak. Closets with actual doors.
She doesn't say a word through any of it. Just looks. Touches. Tests.
When she's seen everything, she walks back to the kitchen and stands in the center of it. Her small shoulders start to shake, and before I can reach her, she's crying—silent tears streaming down her face.
"Mercy?" I crouch down in front of her. "What's wrong? Don't you like it?"
She shakes her head, but I can't tell if that means no, she doesn't like it, or no, that's not why she's crying.
"Talk to me," I say, gentler than I knew I could be. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "Good things don't happen to me," she whispers. "Not things like this."
My chest tightens. "What do you mean?"
"The clubhouse was good," she says, "but that's different. That's inside my world. This—" she gestures around at the clean, new space "—this isn't. I don't belong here."
Something breaks inside me. How sad of a kid do you have to be—how utterly lost and hopeless—to see a shiny, brand-new home as something you don't deserve?
"Listen to me," I say, taking her small hands in mine. They're calloused in places no child's hands should be. "This is our new life. The club is our family now. Things are gonna be different."
She looks at me with those eyes that have seen too much. "You always say that."
"I know." The truth cuts. "But this time I have proof." I gesture around us. "This is real, Mercy. This is ours. And nobody's taking it away."
"Until they do," she whispers.
I shake my head. "Not this time."
"How do you know?"
"Because I paid for it already." The words come out harder than I meant. "Three years in a cage. That was the price. And I'd do it again if it means you get to have this."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You didn't do anything wrong. Destiny told me."
"It doesn't matter." I stand up, suddenly needing to move. "What matters is what happens next. We’re gonna have a nice, easy summer, Merce. That’s what happens next. You’re gonna live here, in our new house, and have all the fun you want. And then, when summer’s over, you’re gonna go back to school and do your best.”
"Why should I do my best in school? School is stupid."
"Because you're not gonna end up like Mama," I say, pacing the room. "You're not gonna end up like me. And you're damn sure not gonna end up like Destiny. And that’s what school give you. It’s an opportunity, Mercy. That’s what school is. It’s a way to change things. You’re gonan have a nice, easy summer and then you’re gonna go back to school in the fall and change things by doin’ your best. We’ve got this new house now, I did my time, I’m patched in.
Life is different. Things are different.
And we’re never goin’ back to the way they were.
That's my promise. I swear it on my fuckin’ life.
But change doesn’t come easy. We gotta work for it, Mercy. We gotta make it happen."
She watches me pace, her tears drying on her cheeks.
"Poverty isn't just being broke," I tell her, the words coming from somewhere deep and dark. "It's the long, slow death of families. It's watching your mama work three jobs and still come home crying because the lights got shut off. It's learning to be hungry and callin’ it normal."
I stop at the window, looking out at the scrubland that stretches to the horizon. "We grew up thinking we deserved nothing, so nothing is what we got. But that ends with us, Mercy. It ends today."
"How?" Her voice is so small.
"By believing we deserve better." I turn back to her. "By taking what's ours instead of waiting for someone to decide we're worth givin’ it to."
She looks around the kitchen again, touching the edge of the counter like it might disappear. "What if I break it?"
"Then we'll fix it."
"What if I can't?"
"Then I will."
She takes a deep breath. "What if you leave again?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with all the promises I've already broken. I could lie. Tell her I never will. But we both know better.
"If I leave," I say slowly, "it won't be because I want to. And it won't be forever."
She nods, like this is an answer she can live with. Not perfect, but honest.
"The world's been trying to bury the Kanes for generations," I tell her. "Our grandpa died in a mine. Our mama died bringing you into the world. Destiny's out there somewhere, probably scared and alone. But we're still here. Still standing. And that means somethin’."
I reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face. "Home isn't just a place, Merce. It's having someone who looks for you when you're lost. Someone who fights for you when you can't fight for yourself."
"Is that what you do?" she asks.
"It's what I'm tryin’ to do," I admit. "I'm not perfect at it. But I'm not stoppin’ either."
She looks at me for a long moment, then walks to the refrigerator and opens it. Empty shelves gleam back at us.
"We need food," she says simply.
And just like that, we're moving forward.
One small step at a time.
"Yeah," I say, relief washing through me. "We do."