Chapter Twenty-One #2
Shortie studies me for another long second, then lifts two fingers to her mouth and whistles.
A sharp sound answers from deeper in the campground.
The braided Queen circles around behind me on her bike, not touching Widowmaker but making sure I know turning around fast ain’t my first option. The shaved-haired one stays to my left. Shortie walks ahead of me like she expects me to follow.
I do.
Slow.
Through trees, the campground opens.
I see it the way a man sees enemy ground first.
Sight lines. Cabins. Windows. Bunkhouses. Main building. Garage with too many bikes. Women on porches. Kids near a sandbox. Smoke from a fire circle. Laundry hanging where someone could hide a weapon.
I see children. Not just August.
Several kids, running under watchful eyes.
This ain’t only an MC compound.
It’s a refuge.
That makes it harder to hate.
Annoying.
A few women turn as I roll in beside Shortie. Their eyes hit my cut, my bike, my face, then move to my hands. Assessing. Deciding. Not impressed by my patch. Not scared enough.
Good for them.
Bad for me.
Hot Mama comes out of the main building like the whole porch was built for her entrance.
Everything Legend said was true and not enough.
She is older and hot in a way that makes age look like another weapon.
Silver-streaked hair piled high. Red mouth.
Curves. Boots. Leather cut with Prez stitched under Queens of Anarchy.
She walks like every man who ever underestimated her became a story she laughs about when bourbon is good and fire is high.
She stops three feet in front of Widowmaker and looks at me like I’m a horse she may or may not buy.
“You Derby?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes move over me.
“Hmm.”
I don’t like hmm.
“What?”
She smiles. “You look like a baby whose hair’s coming in slowly.”
I touch my head realizing I’ve not shaved.
Somewhere behind her, a Queen laughs.
I stare at Hot Mama. “That a compliment?”
“Baby, from me, most insults are compliments wearing brass knuckles.”
“I came for Amelia.”
“I know.”
“Then take me to her.”
Hot Mama’s smile vanishes.
The temperature seems to drop.
“No.”
One word.
Flat.
Queen’s law.
My hands tighten on Widowmaker’s bars. “No?”
“You heard me fine.”
“I rode across the country.”
“And I walked across this porch. We both got exercise.”
My jaw locks.
Shortie shifts slightly with the rifle.
The shaved-haired Queen puts a hand near her pistol.
Hot Mama lifts one brow.
She wants to see what I do.
Fine.
Every woman watches.
I don’t move toward Hot Mama. I stand beside my bike and force my hands to stay open at my sides.
“I’m not here to drag her back.”
“Good start.”
“I’m here to ask if she wants me here.”
Hot Mama looks at me for a long moment.
Then she smiles again.
Not soft.
Approving, maybe.
“You broke my girl’s heart or came to fetch it?”
My chest tightens.
“Came to ask if she wants to come back.”
“Good answer. Wrong tone. Try again with respect.”
I inhale through my nose.
Every instinct I own wants to snap. Every mile behind me wants to come out of my mouth with teeth.
I think of Legend at the clubhouse.
You get there, you ask.
I think of Amelia’s note. Please don’t follow. I think of August asking if I fake like him too.
I look at Hot Mama.
“Please,” I say, and the word feels like gravel under my tongue. “I need to see her. If she tells me to leave, I will.”
The campground goes quieter.
Hot Mama studies me.
“You’ll leave if she tells you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll ride all the way back to Kentucky with your little heart dragging sparks if she says no?”
“I ain’t got a little heart.”
“Debatable.”
“I’ll leave,” I say. “If she tells me to.”
She nods once.
“Better.”
I hate this woman.
I may respect her.
Terrible combination.
Her eyes move to Widowmaker. “Bike’s pretty.”
“Bike bites.”
“So do I.”
“Figured.”
Her smile turns wicked. “You ain’t as dumb as you look.”
“People keep saying that.”
“People are generous.”
I step closer half a foot.
Weapons shift again.
I stop.
“Jeremy is dead,” I say.
Whatever reaction I expect, Hot Mama doesn’t give it.
No surprise.
No guilt.
No joy.
She just looks at me like I told her rain fell in Oregon.
“Then she’s safer than she was yesterday,” she says.
There it is.
Cold.
Simple.
My stomach turns.
“You know already?”
“I know many things.”
“Did you do it?”
A few Queens go still.
Shortie’s eyes narrow.
Hot Mama doesn’t move.
“Do what?”
“Cut his brakes.”
Her smile is slow.
“Honey, men like that drive themselves into ditches all the time. Sometimes the road just gets tired first.”
The words slide through the air like a knife wrapped in silk.
Not a confession.
Not denial.
Enough.
“You owed Caroline,” I say.
Hot Mama’s eyes sharpen.
Danger.
Real danger now.
“You don’t know what I owed Caroline.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
“I need to know what Amelia owes.”
Hot Mama steps closer.
Shortie doesn’t stop her.
Suddenly she is right in front of me, red mouth curved, eyes hard as old road.
“You listen here, Kentucky. Amelia owes me nothing for being Caroline’s girl. She owes this place nothing for eating, sleeping, breathing, or letting her boy laugh in dirt without flinching at a car door. We don’t charge women for surviving.”
I don’t look away.
“Outlaws charge for everything eventually.”
Her smile fades.
“True,” she says.
And that scares me more than the smile.
“But not today.”
The words sit between us.
Not today.
Meaning someday.
I can smell the hook even if I can’t see it.
Hot Mama turns her head slightly. “Shortie.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Wildflower to get the boy.”
The boy.
August.
My chest locks.
“Don’t scare him,” Hot Mama adds.
Shortie snorts. “I’m adorable.”
A woman in the distance calls, “That is a lie!”
Hot Mama looks back at me. “You won’t discuss Vale in front of him unless his mama says.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I glare. “I know.”
“Good. Because children hear blood even when grown-ups spell around them.”
Damn.
I look away first.
The campground noises return by inches. A hammer in the garage. Kids shouting somewhere. A dog barking once. A woman laughing near the kitchen. The ordinary sounds of a place built to keep the unordinary from swallowing people whole.
Then I hear my name.
Not Amelia.
August.
“Derby!”
I turn.
He comes running across the campground with Blue Rex in one hand and a green dinosaur in the other. His hair is wild. His knees are dirty. There is chili or chocolate or God knows what on his shirt. He looks alive and small and happy in a way that hits me harder than I’m ready for.
He slams into my legs.
I catch him automatically, one hand going to the back of his head.
For one second, I close my eyes.
He is here.
Safe.
Warm.
Breathing.
“Hey, kid.”
“You came.”
“Yeah.”
“Mama said not yet.”
“Not yet ran out.”
He pulls back enough to look at me. “Did you bring Widowmaker?”
“She brought me.”
His eyes widen. “Can Princess Chomp see her?”
“Who the hell is Princess Chomp?”
“Language,” Hot Mama says behind me.
I glance over my shoulder.
She is smiling.
I hate her again.
August points to the green dinosaur. “This is Princess Chomp. She escaped jail.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“She bit a bad dad.”
The whole world stills for me again.
Bad dad.
These kids have their own language for monsters.
I think of the dinosaur I have in my saddlebag for him. It can wait. I crouch so I’m eye level with August. “You doing okay?”
He nods fast. “There’s kids. And chili. And a jail in the sandbox. And Hot Mama says Blue Rex is a fair judge.”
I glance back at Hot Mama. “Did she?”
“She did. And she said cheating at cards depends who you cheat.”
“Did she now?”
Hot Mama lifts one shoulder. “Nuance matters.”
I look back at August. “Where’s your mama?”
He turns and points.
My heart stops before my eyes find her.
Amelia stands across the campground near the fire circle.
She is still.
One hand at her throat. Dark hair loose around her shoulders. Face pale in the Oregon dusk. Alive. Safe.
Mine to ask, not take, I remind myself
She looks at August tucked against me.
Then at me.
All the miles between us collapse into one breath. I stand slowly.
August stays against my side, one hand gripping my jeans like he is afraid I might vanish if he lets go.
Amelia doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
Not yet.
Behind me, Hot Mama’s voice is low, amused, and sharp enough to cut hide.
“Well, Derby,” she says. “Ask the right question.”