Chapter 23 Silver #2
Mick tosses his dishrag over his shoulder and leans against the bar counter.
“Prison changes everybody who goes through it, Silver. Nobody comes out the same person who went in. Maybe you need to sit down and actually talk to him instead of dancing around each other like fighters waiting for the bell. You were brothers once, closer than blood. Could be this is all a big misunderstanding that’s festered too long. ”
I concede his point with a nod because he’s not wrong, even if the idea of having a heart-to-heart with Tom feels about as appealing as walking on broken glass.
“You know, taking on too much can make a man seek escape in unexpected places,” Mick goes on with a knowing glint in his eyes. “But make sure the escape you’ve sought won’t land you in any more hot water than you already are in.”
He doesn’t need to say another word for me to understand what he’s talking about.
As I’ve anticipated, Mick has gradually caught onto me and Solana. He’s pieced together the puzzle and figured out things between us… aren’t what they should be.
On a strictly rational level, I recognize he’s right. He’s correct that me and Solana are playing with fire. But I can’t say I give a damn anymore.
She’s worth the risk. The feelings I have for her are.
I merely give a nod and then down the shot of whiskey he’s poured me. Setting the glass back down on the counter, I slide out of the bar stool.
“Gotta go,” I say, turning for the door. “I’m gonna find Tom… wherever he is.”
After an hour checking Tom’s old haunts, I give up on finding him. Wherever he’s gone, it isn’t to places like the Titty Bar or liquor store.
I’m halfway home when I finally do spot Tom’s beat-up Mustang at the gas station on Maple Street. The faded blue paint is one of a kind in a town as small as Pulsboro.
He stands at the pump, filling his tank like any other ordinary citizen going about their day.
My foot eases off the gas pedal without conscious thought, and I pull into the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant across the street, positioning myself with a clear view while staying out of his line of sight.
Tom finishes pumping gas and heads inside the station, probably to pay or grab cigarettes. I sit idly by and wait for the moment he comes out.
He emerges a couple minutes later with a pack of Borvo Lights and an energy drink, climbing back into his Mustang with a leisurely air.
As if the motorcycle club he’s president of isn’t slowly imploding on his watch.
His son was shot at last night, and he’s skipping out on club business, out hitting up gas stations.
When he pulls onto the road heading east toward the outskirts of town, I wait three beats and the follow him a couple cars behind.
The drive takes us past the old industrial block where abandoned warehouses rot away for over a decade since they closed down and past the trailer park where Cash and Ozzie once lived.
Finally his Mustang turns into Pulsboro Park, a rundown patch of brown grass and rusted playground equipment the town forgot about years ago.
What the hell would cause him to come to the old town park?
I pull over half a block away, parking behind a repair van with missing license plates. It’ll provide cover as I keep watch.
Tom approaches the one other person at the park, a man in a polo shirt and jeans. I lean forward and squint, finally realizing who it is.
…his parole officer. The same strong-jawed former cop who had been there the day he walked out of Lenton.
Tension drains from my shoulders as I watch them talk. Tom nods along to whatever Peterson says, probably confirming he’s kept out of trouble.
I’d assumed he was up to no good—possibly something nefarious against the club—but he’s really out here meeting his fucking parole officer.
Some mild guilt chips away at me. I still don’t agree with how he’s run the club and we still don’t see eye to eye with his decisions… but clearly I’ve let my bias take over.
Maybe Mick really was right. Maybe I’ve been jumping to conclusions. It’s possible Tom and I can find a common ground somehow.
I start my engine and pull away before either of them notices my truck, heading home with a heavy feeling in my chest that has nothing to do with Tom and everything to do with my own paranoia.
The living room smells like grilled meat and onions as Solana and I settle onto the couch with the takeout containers from Rosa’s, the Mexican spot across the street from the gas station I hid out at earlier.
They’re known for their street tacos and steak cheese fries. Both of which I’ve surprised Solana with for another night in at my place.
She’s comfy curled up on my couch, feet tucked under her, styrofoam container open as she uses her fork to dig in.
I’ve got Fight Club queued up on the TV because it’s criminal that she’s never seen it.
“This is about to be a once-in-a-lifetime viewing experience,” I tease, shooting her a grin. “Better than that Titanic.”
She scoffs. “Not even close. Nothing tops Jack and Rose.”
Edward Norton’s opening narration about insomnia and corporate emptiness begins.
“This movie basically defined a generation of men who felt disconnected from society,” I explain, a street taco curled in one hand and a napkin crumpled in the other. “In other words, my generation.”
“Did you ever participate in any underground fight clubs?” she asks with a quirk of her lips. She licks at her fingers as a dollop of sour cream drops on them.
“The motorcycle club was our fight club. Same thing basically.”
“I believe you.”
We’re twenty minutes into the movie when she grows suspicious of what’s going on. Her eyes narrow as she watches the screen, and I have to keep from chuckling.
“So wait, is Tyler real or not?” she asks. “Because why is the main character guy the only one who speaks with him?”
I’m about to tell her she has to watch to find out when three sharp knocks come from the front door.
We both freeze, Solana glancing over at the entryway.
Nobody knows she’s here, and recent unexpected visitors have meant severed heads and surveillance cars.
I ease off the couch and head toward the door to check who it could be. I’m footsteps away when the voice on the other side tells me.
“Dad? It’s me!” Tabby calls, tapping her knuckles against the door. “Open up!”