Beast finished rolling his cigarette, licked it, and lit it with the butt of the last one.“Good.We keep the club out of it, at least on the surface.We let the lawyers and the journalists fight the first round.”
“And when that doesn’t work?”Copper said.
I looked at him.“Then we ride.”
The table went quiet.Even the Prospects, who usually fidgeted through the tail end of a meeting, kept their hands on the wood.
I waited a beat, then pushed off from the table and walked the length of the room.I crossed to the TV and looked at James Hale’s face, frozen in mid-blink as the anchor cut to commercial again.For a second, I thought about putting my fist through the screen.I turned back to the table, and every man at it was looking at me.Then I reclaimed my seat.I dragged a hand over my jaw.As much as I wanted to bury the fuckers, I knew that wasn’t always the best play.“We’ll stick with the plan for now.”
Beast nodded.“Church is adjourned.”
The scrape of chairs was loud this time, the metal legs protesting against the scars already in the floor.Men got up.Some went straight for the side door, not looking back.Some lingered.Brick flipped the legal letter to Silas, who caught it with one hand and pocketed it.Danica left her glass on the table, empty.Only Twitch, the young Prospect, waited for me at the end of the table.
He said, “They’re going to play dirty.Stewart’s got friends in the statehouse.”
I said, “I know.”
“You want me to run the background on the legal team?Find out who’s got what in their closet?”
I looked at him for a long moment.“Do it.Quietly.”
He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
The room emptied out in the slow order of hierarchy.I stayed at the table, staring at the stack of printouts, the highlighted words blurring together in the overhead light.I thought about the way Lennox’s voice had sounded, the first time I’d heard it -- the way she said “thank you” in the dark, the way she said “I don’t want to be alone.”Stewart hadn’t heard that voice in a long time.He wouldn’t have known it if it had walked into his own house and spoken to him.
The topmost page of the printout had a photo of Lennox -- not the engagement one, but a candid, from somewhere in the past year.She was looking down, her hair pulled up, eyes not quite meeting the lens.The caption said, “If you see her, call the authorities immediately.”Underneath, a hashtag: #BringLennoxHome.
I picked up the whole stack.Folded it in half.Shoved it into the inside pocket of my cut, where it fit awkward and stiff against my ribs.
Then I got up.Turned off the TV.And let the smoke drift through the empty room until the only thing left was the memory of it, lingering in the air.
* * *
Most of the afternoon had disappeared in meetings before I finally crossed the compound.The yard was alive with the sound of a dozen things that didn’t need doing and three things that did.Across the compound, a couple of Prospects were splitting firewood in slow motion, pretending to pace themselves.Past them, behind the main house, someone was running a wet-vac in the guest cottages and swearing every third word.But what drew me, more than the obligation or the noise, was the sound from the open bay of the garage -- not tools, not machinery, but the lilt of a voice, clear and precise, cutting through the usual half-done chaos.
I followed it.My boots left prints in the slush that hadn’t quite decided to freeze or melt.By the time I got to the garage, the sun was low enough that everything had a pale-yellow tint to it.The bay was open, the light inside harsh by comparison, and framed in it was Lennox.
She was crouched beside my bike --mybike, not any of the rebuilds or the Prospects’ junkers -- with a shop rag in one hand and a socket wrench in the other.Her hair was up, out of the way, and she was wearing one of my flannels over a black tank top, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow.On the workbench next to her, the cut she’d worn was folded over itself, patches up and visible to anyone who cared to look.
The Prospect beside her was trying to explain something.“So then if you back it off a quarter turn --”
“That’s not right,” she said, not unkind, just certain.“The idle screw’s on the other side.You’re looking at the choke.”
He blinked.He looked at me, and I made a slight motion with my head that said go on, let her have it.
Lennox held out the wrench, handle first.The Prospect reached for it, but she didn’t let go until she’d shown him exactly where the socket fit, and when he fumbled, she took it back, set it in place, and loosened the nut herself.Her hands were steady, grease across the first knuckle of her thumb, dark line under the nail.
I leaned in the doorway and watched.She didn’t hesitate before reaching for a tool.She didn’t glance up at the Prospect every time he spoke.When Monica passed by outside, Lennox called a hello and got a wave in return, and there wasn’t even a flicker in her posture.A few weeks ago, she would have drawn her whole body inward at the sound of footsteps behind her.Now she kept her shoulders open, chin up, not watching the gate…
She had stopped watching the gate.
The Prospect finished what he was supposed to be doing, muttered a thanks, and went off to sweep the floor, which was probably the safest thing for him to be doing.I waited until he was out of earshot before I crossed to the workbench.
Lennox noticed me but didn’t stop.She set the wrench down and wiped her hands on the rag.“The meeting ended sooner than I thought it would.”
“Said what needed saying,” I said.
“Don’t you have to do the handshakes?You know, as an official club member.”