“I don’t.”
“You ride a motorcycle. That means you can find things.”
“That ain’t how motorcycles work,” Derby says.
For the first time all night, August smiles.
Tiny. Wobbly. But real.
And because he smiles, I can breathe.
Legend sees it. I know he does because some of the steel leaves his shoulders, though not much.
Sophie offers her arms again without pushing. August looks at me. I kiss his cheek.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m right here.”
He lets Sophie take him, but only because I stay close. She handles him like she has held frightened children before, with no fuss, no baby talk, just steady arms and a calm voice. August rests his head against her shoulder and watches Derby like Derby might produce a dinosaur through sheer meanness.
Derby avoids his eyes.
A man on the porch coughs like he is hiding a laugh.
Derby points at him. “You want to keep breathing, don’t.”
The man finds the ground fascinating.
Sophie walks toward the clubhouse with my son in her arms.
I follow because there is nothing else to do.
The inside of the old jail smells like leather, smoke, bourbon, coffee, gun oil, and something fried. The walls are brick, concrete and scarred wood, decorated with old signs, club photos, framed newspaper clippings, and things I’m probably better off not asking about. Some of the old cell doors are still there, worked into the design like the club decided if history was ugly, they might as well make it useful.
Men watch us enter.
Women too.
I feel every glance like fingers on my skin.
My life is in boxes outside. My husband is somewhere behind me. My maybe-father is dead. My maybe-brother is the president of an outlaw motorcycle club. My son is being carried by a woman who looks like she belongs on a magazine cover.
This can’t be my life.
Except maybe my life has always been this strange. I just kept trying to dress it up as normal.
Legend stops near a long table. “Sophie, take the kid to a spare room.”
“I’ll take both of them,” she says.
“No.” He looks at me. “I need to talk to her.”
My spine stiffens.
Sophie turns slowly.
The room doesn’t go silent, but it listens.
“She has been through enough tonight,” Sophie says.