Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
I grunted. Though, I had to admit, this surprised me. I’d been worried about looking like an idiot when someone handed me something like the famed “Three Seashells” and I looked just as dumb as Stallone’s character.
I still didn’t know if I could concentrate while basically helpless in a moving vehicle with two men I didn’t know who had served time just like me. And had likely learned the same lessons I’d learned. Yeah. Concentrate fully on something right now? Not fucking likely. I kept my expression neutral and pretended to take in the material for a moment until I was sure neither of them watched me too closely. Then I turned my head to look out the window instead.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass -- hollow eyes, angular face, hair cropped close to my scalp. Prison-pale skin already burning under the unfiltered sunlight. I barely recognized myself. The man in the reflection wasn’t the one who’d gone inside. He was something else now. Something hardened and remote. Something dangerous.
An hour into the trip, the interstate rolled beneath us, mile markers ticking by like a countdown to something I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Tiny kept both hands on the wheel except when he leaned one arm on the window. Rancor sat with one arm propped on the window ledge, fingers drumming occasionally to whatever was playing low on the radio.
The silence stretched between us, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. I thought maybe these guys understood I needed time to adjust to friendly company. Though I couldn’t trust them yet, my respect for them grew with the care they showed for my sanity.
After another half hour of silence, other than the low music on the radio, Tiny turned his head slightly to speak to me. “Knuckles runs a tight ship. We’ve got legitimate business fronts now. Auto shop’s doing well. Custom work’s bringing in good money. Also help with a shelter for especially traumatized and terrorized women and children.” He shrugged. “Most of the time, we just have a couple guys stand outside the gate. Their… problems tend to give us a wide berth.” Tiny chuckled darkly.
“Legal?” I said, the word feeling strange on my tongue.
Tiny shrugged. “Mostly. Still got side hustles, but we’re careful. Knuckles makes sure of it. Shelter’s all on the up-and-up.” He spoke like the shelter was his pride and joy. I used to talk about my bike with that kind of reverence, so I knew this place meant something to the man.
There was another beat of silence before Rancor glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “We know what you did for Kiss of Death that put you behind bars.” He waited until I met and held his gaze. “That ain’t this club anymore. We have each other’s back, and no one takes the fall for anything.”
“Ain’t goin’ back.” I snarled the words before I could stop myself. “Gave my fuckin’ soul for this club once. Not sure I can do it again. If that’s a deal breaker, you can drop me off here.”
“Never said you had to, brother. Knuckles knows his people. You don’t have to prove anything. In his eyes, you’ve already proven everything he needed to see, and he’ll make sure you never go back.”
Rancor reached forward and turned up the volume slightly as “Sympathy for the Devil” came on. My fingers twitched involuntarily against my thigh. I’d had a cellmate who would sing this under his breath for hours, driving the guy in the next cell into a rage. Ended with a shank to the kidney during yard time. Though I liked the song, my cellie’s singing, not so much. And he was a dick. Fun times.
We crossed the state line into Kentucky, the landscape gradually shifting. The F-150 ate up the miles, comfortable in a way that made me uncomfortable. Too soft.
Tiny pulled into a truck stop off the interstate. “Need to fill up,” Tiny announced. “You want to stretch your legs?”
I shook my head. The thought of navigating the open space, the strangers, was all too much to attempt right now.
“Be right back,” Rancor said, unfolding himself from the passenger seat. “Taking a piss.”
I watched them through the windows as they moved around the station. Tiny pumped gas while Rancor disappeared inside, reappearing minutes later with a plastic bag.
A family pulled up at the neighboring pump, a man and woman, with two kids arguing in the back seat. The woman laughed at something the man said, her head tipping back to expose her throat. The children tumbled out, shoving at each other, voices high and piercing. One of them looked my way, curious eyes meeting mine before the mother called him back to her side.
I turned away, something hollow opening up in my chest. I’d forgotten what families looked like. Forgotten I used to want one of my own.