Chapter 2 #2
When he died, a piece of her died too. Figuratively, at first, then literally when she followed him seven months later.
So, instead of going to art school, I ended up running a bait shop in a town I never intended to stay in. Recently, I’ve been wondering what they would think if I sold it and moved away.
Maybe to Europe where I could see all the art I wanted.
I climb into the truck and begin to reverse out of the driveway when a motorcycle appears out of nowhere at high speeds and cuts across behind me. I slam on the brakes so hard that the seatbelt bites into my collarbone.
“Jesus,” I shout, even though the biker can’t hear me through the glass.
The motorcycle fishtails slightly before the rider gets control to stop, and I immediately recognize the machine and its biker.
Knox Stone.
Of course, it’s Knox.
Fort Knox—because he can keep secrets.
Noxious—because some of the things he deals in are poison.
And even though I know who it is, I find myself checking my reflection in the rearview mirror because I’ve found faking confidence is sometimes as effective as actually feeling it.
My dark auburn hair, which I color from packets at the pharmacy every four weeks, has just been trimmed.
My pale blue eyes look a little too wide in shock, but there’s a pretty pink blush to my cheeks, which is helpful since I rarely wear any makeup beyond a flick of mascara because I look like I have no eyelashes if I don’t.
Can’t do shit about the freckles that seem to cover the bridge of my nose and the tops of my cheeks all year round. And I wish I had a hint more color to my lips and a prettier outfit than this plain white T-shirt.
The gold earrings are, perhaps, the fanciest thing about me. But I’m determined to own it.
He pulls off his half helmet and marches towards me with a look on his face that says he might kill me.
His hair is flattened, his jaw is shadowed, and his eyes are assessing me in a way that makes me open the door and step out of the vehicle.
There is no way I’m going to let him blame me for our near collision.
I mean, he already has a long list of other things he blames me for.
His strong arms flex as he strides, veins visible, and there is grease on his knuckles like he’s been working on something mechanical. He’s wearing jeans that have no business fitting him so well, a black T-shirt, and the leather cut that declares him president of the Iron Outlaws.
He’s a walking contradiction of anger and competence as he yells, “What the hell, Maren? You nearly knocked me off my fucking bike.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You almost crashed into my truck.”
“You didn’t look,” Knox spits.
I huff at that, squeezing my hands so he can’t see how badly they’re shaking.
“Of course, I looked. But it’s near a bend.
A bend that’s supposed to be taken at twenty, not a hundred and twenty.
Perhaps if you slowed down where you’re supposed to instead of flying around on that death trap, I’d have had more time to see you, and we’d all be a lot safer on the road. ”
“Was doing thirty,” he says, but there’s a lack of conviction in his voice.
“Thirty, my ass.” I point up to the camera on the side of the building. “You want to step back inside my shop and watch the video? We can check if I looked and see how fast you were going.”
His mouth twitches in an almost smile, but then he forces his face back into a scowl. “What are you going to do? Run to Daddy and tell him to come arrest me?”
I roll my eyes at that. “We don’t have that kind of relationship.”
Knox glances over the store parking lot. “Yeah, right. He’s always here in your lot.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Have you been keeping track of me?”
He huffs a cheap laugh at that. “Get over yourself, princess. Makes sense to know where the cops hang out.”
On my twenty-first birthday, no one except Leo remembered.
I didn’t expect anyone else to, so I wasn’t disappointed.
That evening, I decided I was going to head to Annie’s bar and treat myself to dinner and my first legal drink.
I ordered everything I felt like. Two appetizers I only intended to eat a little bit of.
A burger with both fries and onions rings.
I’d just taken the first bite of my burger, feeling proud of myself for taking the time to mark my birthday, even if no one else did, when Knox and a bunch of older bikers walked in.
When one of them started oinking at me, Knox laughed. I have no idea if it was meant to be a reference to my dinner or the fact I was a cop’s daughter.
He’d leaned over, placing his lips near my ear. “You need to get that to go and get the fuck out of here. It’s not cop friendly while we’re here.”
I’m not sure where I found the courage to look up at him and say, “Good thing I’m not a cop, then,” before taking a second bite of my burger.
We’ve circled each other like this for years. He hates me because of who I am; I hate him because I’m sick of being blamed for who my father is.
Knox doesn’t know this, but I went to the funeral.
I mean, I was fifteen and stood out of sight at the cemetery because I knew I wouldn’t be welcomed.
Knox stood stoically as they lowered his brother’s coffin.
And I felt the roar of what felt like a thousand motorcycles as his club and hundreds of other bikers who travelled in from out of town revved their engines when the service was over.
From then on, there has always been animosity between my father, who keeps tight-fisted control over this community, and Knox, whose very presence makes waves. But occasionally he’ll come to the bait shop and somehow bring out the worst in me, or I in him.
“You were reversing blind onto the road,” he says. “You’re gonna get T-boned by an airboat trailer. Don’t reverse from a minor road onto a major.”
I look at the narrow rural road. “Your definition of ‘major’ and mine are obviously very different. There isn’t a major road around here for thirty miles.”
My father would have a stroke if he saw us standing this close. Especially if he saw the way Knox just followed my lips as I spoke.
Especially if he knew just how that made me feel deep inside.
The air shifts between us. We’ve both said our piece.
And yet…
I know what my father said in his defense at the investigation into the shooting of Knox’s brother.
That they are organized crime gang members, that he feared for his life and had no choice but to draw his weapon when Drew—Riggs—pulled his.
And I know the judge agreed. But I’m still no closer to understanding the truth of what happened that night.
Some days, I want to ask Knox what he knows. To hear the other side of the story.
I want to know, from Knox’s perspective, if it happened the way my father said. Because I know firsthand his capacity for cruelty.
And while I can’t stop my father from coming onto this property in his squad car to maintain the pretense that he still has a relationship with his daughter, I have never set foot in my family home since the day I left.
I swallow. “If you’re done shouting at me, I’ll get going.
It’s been a shit-tastic day. You are the fifty-eighth thing to go wrong.
And I need to get groceries, along with half of Gator Flats, before the hurricane hits, just so I don’t have to resort to making three granola bars last for the next few days. ”
“Maybe you should think about getting some more hurricane prep done here too.” Knox glances to the bait shop. “While the loss of you wouldn’t be an issue, plenty of people in the town rely on the store.” He gives me one more look over. “Well, try not to block any more traffic.”
“I didn’t do—”
“Bye, Maren.”
And with that, he spins on his heel and walks back to his bike.