“You said the bikers were willing to go to war for you.”
“I know, but somebody is going to die, and I don’t want anyone else dying.” I shoot up from the table and suddenly feel a shift in the air. The decision isn’t an easy one, but it’s the right one.
I walk my laptop back to the table and log in. Waiting for the internet to load, I stare at my reflection in the screen, catching a look at my messed up hair. Hair I can’t bring myself to brush yet, because it reminds me of them.
My mind drifts to places I’d rather it not go to.
I’m back on the motorcycle, clutching the handlebars with everything I have because the bikers are receding from the side-view mirror, their giant bodies suddenly nothing more than a speck of dust.
The poignant smell of gasoline has infused itself into my Isabel Marant jacket.
But I don’t care about the jacket anymore.
Not when that scent is the only thing I have left of them.
14
CARTER
It’s better this way.
For the sake of the clubandfor my own sanity, it’s better for Carmen to stay out of this.
Conrad doesn’t know Carmen’s address.
Not yet.
Is it bad that I hope he finds her, so I’ll have an excuse to rescue her?
Probably.
I can’t decide what hurts more—watching her leave, or the fact that she lied to me about not having a kid.
Vex reminds me what I’ve been trying to remind myself all day. “It’s better this way.”
But if it’s better, why is the tight feeling in my chest getting progressively worse?
I finish the rest of my beer and stare into the empty glass, my reflection warped. Last night, Carmen told me that alcohol isn’tthe answer to everything, but hangovers hurt a lot fucking less than grieving a loss.
“You smell like beer,” says my therapist as soon as I step into his office.
“I know. That’s because I just drank one.”
He looks me up and down with his analytical eyes as I take a seat.
Therapy wasn’t my idea. It was the funeral director’s. He encouraged me to look into it since I didn’t have any other family members to lean on.
I buried my mother two weeks ago and I still don’t have any clarity on the situation. The mortician keeps telling me the same goddamn thing every time I call.
“In emergency situations, people let adrenaline get the better of them. The person who tried to place the defibrillator on her chest probably wasn’t medically trained. Accidents happen.”
I was unwilling to accept this answer, which is why I took the funeral director’s advice and applied for therapy, since everybody else was refusing to see my point of view.
“Denial is the first stage of grief,” he told me.
And he’s repeating the same sentence to me today.
“My mother didn’t have a heart attack. Somebody killed her.”
