“Don’t maybe me. Hot Mama doesn’t run a charity.”
“Some women would argue shelter is charity.”
“Not when the shelter has an MC patch and dead husbands appear behind it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know outlaws.”
“So does Amelia now.”
That lands.
I hate it.
Oaks keeps his voice low. “Brother, listen to me. If she finds out before you get there, she’ll think this is because she left. If she finds out from you, maybe you can keep her from turning herself into the weapon that killed him.”
“She didn’t kill him.”
“No. But guilt don’t need facts. You know that.”
Yeah.
I do.
“Get to her,” Oaks says. “Don’t go in hot.”
I look at the road ahead.
“Too late.”
“I mean it. Oregon answers different.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Hot Mama isn’t Legend with lipstick. She’s her own animal. You come roaring, she’ll have your bike stripped and your balls in a jar before Amelia finishes crying.”
“Comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
I hang up before he can get sentimental.
Jeremy is dead.
I sit there a long time.
Not because I care that he is gone.
Because I care what his death means.
He can’t file emergency custody now. Can’t send toys. Can’t smile when he put bruises on his wife and scared a kid. Can’t call Amelia unstable with his mouth full of lies. Can’t put a hand on August.
That should feel good.
It does.
A little.