Prologue
Brock Noelle
On a long and lonesome highway, east of Albuquerque, underneath a dawn sky, I pulled over, put my kickstand down, turned off my motorcycle, and lit up a Marlboro.
I took in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and gently breathed out smoke. Opening my eyes, I looked forward. Not a single car, truck, or motorcycle was approaching.
I turned around, looking at the trail I had blazed through, topping a hundred miles with ease. Not a single vehicle was following me. On this road—technically Interstate 40 but what me and my buddies liked to call “Freedom Alley”—I got one of the few chances to get away from the questions of what I was doing with my life.
I took another puff of my cigarette.
I thought about the woman from the night before. I could not remember her name, and to be frank, that was the way I liked it. She was cute—curly brown hair, mixed skin color, gorgeous green eyes—but from what I could recall, she was too fucking smart to be around people like me and my boys for more than a drive-by hookup.
My thoughts wandered. They went from last night to my teenage years to my future, hopping from dark time to dark time as they had a tendency to do. I needed to start the bike back up soon so I could get some shuteye, but I’d hoped that this cigarette would at least provide me some respite while I took a minute to enjoy being alone out here.
Apparently, not so much.
I absolutely loved a good bike ride for the therapeutic and thrill-inducing effects it had. But like taking the same dose of medication every day, at some point, the effects wore off. And at some point, if I wanted to deal with this creeping sense of nihilism, this certainty that there was nothing we could do for this town beyond keep to ourselves and drink, fuck, and bond, I’d need something harder than riding my bike at sunrise.
Especially since that carried its own risks—risks that I had not yet escaped this morning.
I took a couple more puffs of my cigarette before deciding some melatonin and a nice bed were my best bets for shutting my mind the fuck up. I flicked the cigarette, only halfway finished, to the dusty, desert ground, then stomped it with my toes and ground it into the dust. I supposed some uptight college kid would tell me I was littering, but what was there to ruin with my litter? It’s not like the desert was known for its wildlife and vegetation.
I revved the bike to life and looked at the hill ahead of me. The smart thing to do would have been to take it slow, make sure all was clear on the other side. But after the cigarette had failed to calm my nerves, I had to indulge them.
With a hard twist of the wrist, with a lurch that always carried that instantaneous, sinking-gut sensation, I sped up from zero to a moving goalpost of a speed, peaking at the top of the hill at about ninety miles per hour.
I cleared the hill with my bike only slightly lifting off the ground. It was of mild disappointment.
But not as much a disappointment as what I saw when I landed.
“Fuckin’ Davis.”
I hadn’t even passed the sheriff’s vehicle when those annoying blue lights came whirling on. I didn’t bother with the pretense of needing to pull over somewhere safe. I slowed the bike down, came to a complete stop about a hundred yards in front of him, and waited.
The sheriff drove forward, close enough that he probably could have “accidentally” bumped into me. When in Santa Maria county lines, one never knew what Sheriff Davis would do.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. But the only people who knew exactly how Sheriff Davis would treat them were the Bandits.
I killed the bike engine, pulled out another cigarette, and lit it. Seconds later, I heard the squad car open.
“Brock, Brock, Brock,” Sheriff Davis said in his falsely sympathetic voice. “Speeding at six in the morning on a Sunday? Don’t you have any respect for the old ladies going to church?”
I ignored him, pulling out my license and registration while the cigarette remained in my mouth. I held them out in my left hand, grabbed the cigarette with my right hand, and breathed out.
“I didn’t realize they offered church at six in the morning,” I said. “Strange that you would know. I guess you’ve been looking for Jesus?”
“Whenever they offer it, you need it,” Sheriff Davis said as he swiped the license and registration from me. I knew why he took it—procedures and standards and bullshit—but, really, he didn’t need to, not with how well he knew me. “When are you ever going to do something besides smoke and ride bikes, Brock? When are you ever going to make something of yourself?”
I chortled.
“You told me yourself that I’m a nobody. How the fuck could I make something of myself?”
How the fuck would that ever be possible with you pushing us down every chance you get?
The sheriff let out one of those laughs that only someone in authority gave, the laugh that said, “It’s cute you think you can do anything.” He went back to his squad car, ostentatiously to do some paperwork and reporting.
But to my surprise, Sheriff Davis did not make me wait that long.
