But eventually, Patriot must have gotten tired of the lack of conversation, because he suddenly turned off the music.
“Pep up, man,” he said. “Can you imagine what Axle and Butch would do if they saw you like this right now? Get it together. At least fake it!”
“I wish,” I said.
I wanted to say something else insightful, but nothing came to mind. Funny thing about the mind—the more stressed you were, the harder it was to think clearly.
“It can’t be so bad, man,” Patriot said. “I mean, they’re going to try and intimidate us, it’s what they do, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about. They need the cash to support themselves, and we need the guns to defend ourselves. It’s how capitalism works, you know?”
I snorted.
“I think my Dad formed the club so he could get away from all that talk of politics and systems and economics,” I said. “Think he formed the club for brotherhood.”
“Yeah, but brotherhoods gotta pay their bills too, you know?” Patriot said. “And right now, cash is going to pay their bills. And guns are going to protect ours.”
Ironic, we were making the exact opposite points just days ago. Now he’s the one having to talk some logic into me.
Guess it makes sense when you’re not using it as an excuse.
I was just so emotionally fraught that I let the conversation naturally die. I felt shame and embarrassment at how ridiculous I was acting—this was so unlike how my father would handle the situation.
My father would have kept control of everything, maintained a poised demeanor, and led the men into the mission as needed. He would have acted as a damn good President. He would have done his job.
Something that, at the moment, I sure as shit didn’t seem to be doing.
Or... really, had ever been doing.
“Patriot,” I said, the words haunting me as they came to mind. “I need to ask you something. But I need you to promise that it’ll never leave this van and that you’ll tell me the full truth.”
“Of course, man,” he said. “What’s up?”
This was going to be one of the few times, I realized, when I let my arrogant mask vanish. I was going to the complete opposite end of the spectrum. Instead of hiding my insecurity by assuming a face of competence and certainty, I was going to push my insecurity out for Patriot to see.
“Do you even think I’m ready to be President?” I asked. “Do you think I should have ever taken that role? I mean, not like I’m saying Cole should have, fuck that. But... my father just assumed we’d take over, but I don’t know that I’m ready if the last year has shown anything.”
“Honestly, probably not, man.”
I was surprised to feel relieved that what Patriot said was so honest. It was something I’d suspected in the deepest recesses of my mind, but something I had never allowed myself to fall into. If I had just allowed for the truth to come out, maybe I could have leaned on people like Axle and Red Raven as I came around. Maybe I wouldn’t have created the tension in the club.
“I mean, we all loved your dad, obviously. If he made you President, for at least as long as his memory hangs over this place, we’re gonna respect it. And you know what, man? It doesn’t really fucking matter if you’re ready or not.”
“What do you mean?”
If I wasn’t ready...
“I mean, when we went to war, you think I was fucking ready, man? You think I was prepared to shoot at ISIS? It sounds good in training, but as soon as you get to the battlefield and you realize it’s not paintball anymore... man, shit gets real. But you don’t have time to think ‘okay, I’m ready, you just go.’”
You don’t have time to think that. You just have to do.
Too bad, I’ve had a full year to think about it, and I haven’t done jack shit with it. I’ve just been so detached that I didn’t even realize what was going on in my own head.
The van buckled a bit over some bad stretch of highway as the Compton neighborhood came into view. There definitely was no time to think about if I was ready, mainly because if I suddenly decided I wasn’t, not only would I never have a second chance, the club would probably force me to move to South America for shaming the Carter name so badly.
“You’ll be fine, though, man.”
“You’re sure of that?” I said.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so weak and open. Even around Patriot, I tended to err toward a reflexive appearance of strength, if not an actual substance of strength.
