He emerges a couple minutes later with a pack of Borvo Lights and an energy drink, climbing back into his Mustang with a leisurely air.
As if the motorcycle club he’s president of isn’t slowly imploding on his watch.
His son was shot at last night, and he’s skipping out on club business, out hitting up gas stations.
When he pulls onto the road heading east toward the outskirts of town, I wait three beats and the follow him a couple cars behind.
The drive takes us past the old industrial block where abandoned warehouses rot away for over a decade since they closed down and past the trailer park where Cash and Ozzie once lived.
Finally his Mustang turns into Pulsboro Park, a rundown patch of brown grass and rusted playground equipment the town forgot about years ago.
What the hell would cause him to come to the old town park?
I pull over half a block away, parking behind a repair van with missing license plates. It’ll provide cover as I keep watch.
Tom approaches the one other person at the park, a man in a polo shirt and jeans. I lean forward and squint, finally realizing who it is.
…his parole officer. The same strong-jawed former cop who had been there the day he walked out of Lenton.
Tension drains from my shoulders as I watch them talk. Tom nods along to whatever Peterson says, probably confirming he’s kept out of trouble.
I’d assumed he was up to no good—possibly something nefarious against the club—but he’s really out here meeting his fucking parole officer.
Some mild guilt chips away at me. I still don’t agree with how he’s run the club and we still don’t see eye to eye with his decisions… but clearly I’ve let my bias take over.
Maybe Mick really was right. Maybe I’ve been jumping to conclusions. It’s possible Tom and I can find a common ground somehow.
I start my engine and pull away before either of them notices my truck, heading home with a heavy feeling in my chest that has nothing to do with Tom and everything to do with my own paranoia.
The living room smells like grilled meat and onions as Solana and I settle onto the couch with the takeout containers from Rosa’s, the Mexican spot across the street from the gas station I hid out at earlier.
They’re known for their street tacos and steak cheese fries. Both of which I’ve surprised Solana with for another night in at my place.
She’s comfy curled up on my couch, feet tucked under her, styrofoam container open as she uses her fork to dig in.
I’ve gotFight Clubqueued up on the TV because it’s criminal that she’s never seen it.
“This is about to be a once-in-a-lifetime viewing experience,” I tease, shooting her a grin. “Better than thatTitanic.”
She scoffs. “Not even close. Nothing tops Jack and Rose.”
Edward Norton’s opening narration about insomnia and corporate emptiness begins.
“This movie basically defined a generation of men who felt disconnected from society,” I explain, a street taco curled in one hand and a napkin crumpled in the other. “In other words, my generation.”
“Did you ever participate in any underground fight clubs?” she asks with a quirk of her lips. She licks at her fingers as a dollop of sour cream drops on them.
“The motorcycle clubwasour fight club. Same thing basically.”
“I believe you.”
We’re twenty minutes into the movie when she grows suspicious of what’s going on. Her eyes narrow as she watches the screen, and I have to keep from chuckling.
“So wait, is Tyler real or not?” she asks. “Because why is the main character guy the only one who speaks with him?”
I’m about to tell her she has to watch to find out when three sharp knocks come from the front door.
We both freeze, Solana glancing over at the entryway.
