Chapter Twenty-Three
Derby
Leaving Oregon feels less like leaving shelter and more like riding away from a woman who let us go because she already knows where the road comes back around.
Hot Mama stands under the Queens of Anarchy sign with a cold beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, red mouth curved like she is watching a play she wrote before we knew our lines.
Shortie is beside her with a rifle over one shoulder.
Harlot is near the garage, wiping grease from her hands.
Wildflower leans against a purple bike, smiling at August like she might miss the kid more than she will admit.
Baby Doll stands on the porch with intake forms tucked under her arm, pretty face hard as a locked gate.
Sagebrush holds a jar of some kind of herbal salve and yells after Amelia to use it on the tattoo or her aura will scab.
I don’t ask.
I’ve learned enough in three days to know some questions in Oregon come with answers that require tea, a waiver, and possibly a shotgun pointed between your eyes.
August is buckled into the back of the borrowed cage, an SUV Hot Mama insisted we take as far as Kentucky because my Harley wasn’t made for a cross-country trip with a five-year-old, two dinosaurs, and a woman carrying so much grief.
Widowmaker is tied down on a small trailer behind us, which offends me so badly I keep looking in the mirror to make sure she doesn’t start resenting me.
She probably already does.
A Harley belongs under a man, not behind a cage like luggage.
But August is in the back seat. Amelia is beside me. The road is long. The kid needs snacks, sleep, bathroom stops, and room to ask impossible questions about why Daddy can’t call anymore.
So Widowmaker rides behind us.
I endure.
Because apparently this is what growth looks like.
Humiliating.
Hot Mama steps up to Amelia’s window before we pull out. Amelia rolls it down, and the Oregon air comes in cold and pine-sharp.
The crown behind Amelia’s ear is hidden under her hair, but I know it’s there. I saw it last night, small and black. Every time I think about it, something ugly moves under my ribs.
“They marked you.”
“They helped me.”
“Both can be true.”
She has barely spoken about it since.
Hot Mama leans into the window, one arm braced on the door. “You remember what I told you.”
Amelia nods.
I look from one to the other. “Anybody want to share with the class?”
Hot Mama’s eyes slide to me. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“You got a smart mouth, Kentucky.”
“I’ve been told.”
“And a jealous streak.”
“I ain’t jealous of a tattoo.”
She smiles. “Baby, you’re jealous of a road.”
That shuts me up.
I hate that.
Hot Mama turns back to Amelia. Her voice softens, but not enough to be harmless. “You call if you need us.”
Amelia’s hand tightens in her lap. “Thank you.”
Hot Mama’s smile fades for one second.
“Don’t thank women too much for helping you live. It gets heavy on both sides.”
Amelia swallows.
Then Hot Mama reaches through the window and touches two fingers to Amelia’s jaw. “Caroline’s girl.”
Amelia closes her eyes.
When she opens them, Hot Mama steps back.
August waves both dinosaurs from the back seat. “Bye, Hot Mama!”
Hot Mama grins. “Bye, Judge. Keep court mean and snacks fair.”
“Blue Rex says okay!”
I pull out and The Queens sign passes over us.
Straighten Your Crown Before You Start A War.
The words hit different now.
They are not cute. Not advice. A warning in wood.
Amelia watches the sign disappear in the side mirror until the trees take it.
I watch her.
Then I watch the road because we have a long damn way to go, and I ain’t wrecking the vehicle because feelings are trying to drive from the passenger seat.
For the first few hours, August talks nonstop.
About Princess Chomp, his new friend gave him.
About the sandbox jail. About the girl with purple boots who said Oregon snakes are more polite than Kentucky snakes because they rattle first. About Hot Mama’s dog, who is apparently named Divorce, but it’s spelled out.
About how I should build a bigger dinosaur courthouse at Amelia’s trailer because Blue Rex’s jurisdiction has expanded.
“Jurisdiction?” I ask, glancing in the rearview mirror.
August looks offended. “It means where court works.”
“I know what it means.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because you’re five.”
“I’m almost six.”
“In court years?”
He thinks about that. “Yes.”
Amelia laughs quietly beside me.
That sound does something to the inside of the SUV. Makes it less borrowed. Less haunted.
August keeps talking until he runs out of words somewhere in Idaho and falls asleep with Blue Rex under one arm and Princess Chomp under the other. His head tips sideways against the booster seat, mouth open, one shoe dangling half-off his foot.
The quiet after is heavy.
I drive another twenty miles before Amelia speaks.
“You hate the tattoo.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “No.”
“Derby.”
“I hate what it means.”
“You don’t know what it means.”
“I know enough.”
Her hand lifts toward her hair, then drops back into her lap. “It means I survived.”
“It means they marked you.”
“They didn’t brand me.”
“Didn’t say they did.”
“You sound like you think they did.”
My fingers tighten around the wheel.
The SUV is too damn quiet. Widowmaker would make this easier. On the bike, the engine eats half the words before they can get tender. In here, every breath has room.
“Saw the way Hot Mama looked at yours. That ain’t a vacation tattoo.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
She looks out the window at the road unspooling ahead of us. “A reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That I have a head. A spine. A son watching. Women at my back if I call.” Her voice goes quieter. “And a road that opened when I needed one.”
I feel my jaw lock.
“A road don’t open for free.”
“She said I owed nothing for surviving.”
“She may even mean that.”
Amelia turns toward me. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means outlaws are real good at telling one truth while standing on another.”
“That sounds like something you’d know.”
“I do.”
Her eyes flash.
Good.
Anger suits her better than the pale quiet she wore when Jeremy was alive and still reaching.
“The Queens saved me,” she says.
“I know.”
“They took August somewhere safe when your club couldn’t.”
That hits.
Hard.
I keep my eyes forward.
She hears it land and winces. “Derby.”
“No. Say it.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“You did.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “And you’re right.”
The road hums under the tires.
My hands ache around the wheel.
“The Kings had men watching my house,” I say. “Cameras. Prospects. Locks. Guns. Me sleeping in the living room. Still, somebody got close enough to leave a toy on the porch. Then I did exactly what Jeremy wanted and got myself cuffed outside county services.”
She goes quiet.
I keep going because stopping now would be another lie.
“You ran to women who knew how to make you disappear without turning it into a damn parade. You went somewhere Vale couldn’t touch you. August laughed. You breathed.” I swallow the bitter thing in my throat. “I hate that I wasn’t the one who gave you that.”
She looks down at her hands.
“You gave me keys,” she says.
“I gave you keys and then lost my mind when you used them.”
“Because you were angry?”
“Yes.” I glance at her. “And scared.”
She nods slowly.
“I thought you’d come to drag me back.”
“So did I for part of the ride.”
That gets a broken laugh out of her.
Better than silence.
So I drive.
The road lets me.
For a while.
At the next gas stop, August wakes up grumpy and hungry.
We buy terrible sandwiches, chocolate milk, coffee, and a map because August decides phones are not trustworthy since Mama left hers behind and that means paper is more honest. I don’t argue with that logic.
Amelia laughs when I let him trace the route with his finger on the hood of the SUV.
“We’re here?” he asks.
“Close enough,” I say.
“And Kentucky is here?”
“Yeah.”
He traces all the space between. “That’s a lot.”
“Yep.”
“You rode all that?”
“Most of it.”
“For Mama?”
I look up.
Amelia is standing on the other side of the hood, coffee in hand, frozen.
The kid waits.
Kids do that. Ask a question and then stand there like you either answer truth or prove grown-ups are full of shit.
“For both of you,” I say.
August nods like that is acceptable.
Then he points at the map. “Can we stop where there’s fries?”
“Probably.”
“With ketchup?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
Amelia hides a smile behind her coffee cup.
Good.
Let her smile.
Even if everything under it’s cracked.
We drive into the second night with August asleep again. This time, Amelia asks to drive. I hate it for six separate reasons, but the biggest one is my own need to be useful.
She sees it.
“Passenger seat, Derby. Revolutionary concept.”
“I’m not good at passenger.”
“I know.”
“You trying to teach me trust with highway speeds?”
“Maybe.”
I switch seats because I’m an idiot in love and apparently determined to learn every uncomfortable lesson this woman offers.
The first mile is torture.
By the tenth, I stop gripping the door handle.
By the twentieth, I let myself look at her instead of the road.
She drives carefully, both hands on the wheel, eyes scanning mirrors, shoulders tight but steady. The headlights paint her face in passing gold. Her hair is clipped up, which leaves the little crown visible behind her ear.
I try not to stare.
Fail.
She notices.
“You’re looking at it again.”
“Yeah.”
“You can ask.”
I shift in the passenger seat, which is too damn small for my legs and my mood. “What did Hot Mama say when she did it?”
Amelia’s throat moves.
“That it wasn’t property.”
“Good.”
“That it wasn’t a club claiming me.”
“Better.”
“That it was a reminder I have a head, a spine, a son watching, and women at my back.”
I nod once.
“And?” I ask.
Her hands tighten on the wheel.
There it is.
The part she left out.