I cautiously peered out the window, but the man had parked just beyond my view. I came from around the counter and walked outside.
It was the man who had fired off his gun, the man with the Reapers cut on him.
“Oh, good, you are here,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “It’s awfully early for a biker to come and fill up.”
The man snorted.
“I’m a father. Things like early, late, morning, night, they’ve lost all meaning.”
He coughed.
“I’ve thought about what happened last week. I had circled back expecting to shoot someone, but you had done a ton of the work fighting them off. You got some guts. I’ve done my research into this town, and let’s just say anyone that fights to defend women is someone I would like to help.”
My mind churned. Help, like provide weaponry? Provide financial aid? Or just help in the generic, political sense, the kind that barely translated into action?
“It’s a problem that never seems to end,” I said. “I don’t know where you came from, but I promise it’s not as corrupt as here. The sheriff is being bribed by the local gang, which does whatever it wants as long as it doesn’t rape or kill anyone. My boys and I here.”
I nodded to Steele, who had emerged from the store, looking like he wanted to pick a fight.
“We’ve been trying to form a group to fight back, but we’re not enough. We’re just some boys who don’t have a future who are trying to give the rest of us a little peace.”
The man stared at me, leaning forward on his motorcycle. He pursed his lips, looking like he was heavily considering something.
“Hmm.”
What I would give to know what’s in your head, dude. What do you know?
The man’s eyes also seemed to light up a bit, though he looked resistant to whatever idea had come to mind.
“This is no place to chat,” he said. “Tell you what. You—and you, if your friend trusts you enough—come to the new Reapers bar in downtown Albuquerque Wednesday night. I want to know more. I might be able to help you. Might.”
Without another word, the man began backing up out of the parking spot.
“I don’t even know your name, dude.”
The man revved the bike to life, looked at me, and spoke. His words were barely audible above the reignited roar of the engine, but as soon as I heard them, I just understood, somehow, that they were words I’d never forget.
“Cole Carter.”
Tara
Igot into the front seat of my car, dressed in a button-down white shirt, a black suit, and black slacks. Under most circumstances, there was no way that I would ever wear something like this in this amount of heat. But I had two reasons for picking out this outfit.
One, NME Services had chosen today for photo day, the day that Elizabeth and I would be photographed at the new office building outside Santa Maria.
And two, it was the first time that I would see Brock in a professional setting. I could easily look the part of put-together lady.
Who are you kidding? Like he cares if you’re in a suit or in a nice dress.
Well, he cares, but not for the reasons you’re thinking of.
I turned my car on, backed out of the driveway with “Turn the Page” by Metallica playing—a band that Steele and the boys had really gotten me into—and started driving east. This was a drive I could do without a smart phone, with nothing other than the memory of my relationship with Steele guiding me. It was kind of cool how I-40 started out as a typical highway, snaked through the heart of Albuquerque, and emerged on the other side as a compressed road.
But all the good vibes vanished the instant I got into Santa Maria, and the memory of what had happened the last time I had arrived left a pit in my stomach.
I sawthegas station on my right, but under Brock’s strict instructions, I drove right past it, speeding up instead of slowing down. I saw a bike outside, but that could have been anyone’s bike; Brock didn’t have a monopoly on the place.
