“Not her choice of poison,” says Ever coolly, and before the men can insist, he snorts the second line, then reels back, almost stepping into me.
I press my hands against his shoulders, steadying him though I want to shake him. Our plan is spiraling.
“All right now, boy.” The long-haired man wipes his hand against his jeans. “You racking up a tab.” He tosses the baggie of powder at Everett’s chest. “Least we know you’re not a cop.”
Ever leans closer and opens his jacket. “Maybe I’ve got a bigger appetite. What would you say to that?”
The long-haired man’s eyes widen, and the tall man whistles, long and low. I can’t see what’s inside Ever’s jacket, but I have a feeling it’s the rest of the money from the safe. Enough money to demand their attention.
“Woo!” The long-haired man slaps his hands together. “I’d say youcame to the right place, Trouville. You and me ’bout to be good friends.” He grins at me over Everett’s shoulder. “You too, quiet lady. What I got to do to make you talk?”
Ever snakes his arm around my waist, tucking me into his side. “Like I said, she has particular tastes.” He smiles wide, showing off his canines.
The long-haired man laughs. “Fuck, no need to fight over pussy. We got plenty.”
“Shoot.” The tall man with the scar nudges his friend. “He almost pretty as her when he smiles.”
The two crack up. Their grating laughter makes me stand ramrod straight. It’s one thing to hear them call me names, but hearing Everett speak their language bristles.
Across the room, Jebediah Ray suddenly stands. That triggers mass movement: the crowd of men ringing him stumble or stagger to their feet, taking last sips of beers, eyeing the women against the wall. Together, they move through the bar, Jebediah the point of the crown.
“It’s your lucky day, Trouville.” The man with the long hair beckons us. “You didn’t have to wait long. Follow us.”
We lose ourselves in the crowd making their way out of the bar, Ever’s arm still circling my waist. As soon as the two men’s backs are turned, I lean in and hiss under my breath, “Whoareyou, with those drugs? And why are you trying to buy more? That’s not what we planned.”
Ever glances at the men’s backs and leans over like he’s going to kiss under my ear. “We never would’ve gotten into Jebediah’s place if we’d tried to follow them,” he whispers. “We had to be invited. The only way to be invited is to buy big.”
I start to reel back, but he cups my jaw, holding me still. “I didn’t tell you because I knew what you’d say. But look. It worked.”
We burst out of the bar and follow our Sons down the ramp to the motorcycles. The night is pitch-black and frantic with the sounds ofcroaking frogs, chittering grasshoppers, the bayou on edge. I squash the impulse to run for Everett’s car.
He straightens up. “We can follow y’all in my—”
“Stop you right there,” the long-haired man says, leaning against a large bike. It’s matte black, like it’s meant to disappear into the night. “No outside cars.” He pats the bike seat. “You want to buy, you ride with us.”
Ever glances down at me—a look that lasts only a second, but I read a world of meaning.Please, we have no choice; everything will be okay. “Fine,” he says to the man. Before he releases me, he whispers, “Count of Monte Cristo, remember? Whatever dark lengths.”
We mount up on the bikes, Everett behind the long-haired man, me behind the scarred one. My heart beats rapid-fire, straining against my rib cage. Around us, nearly a hundred bikes rev, the noise of the engines like beasts roaring. How have I gotten here?
“Hold tight,” the scarred man yells, but I refuse to touch him until the bike thunders to life, the vibrations chattering my teeth, and suddenly we lunge forward. Only then do I fasten my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek to the coiled rattlesnake on his back.
From the back of his bike, Everett finds my eyes. Whatever he’s snorted has hit him: his eyes are glassy and unfocused, high cheekbones tinged with pink. For a single charged moment, we stare at each other in dread, and then his motorcycle takes off. Mine roars behind it.
Like a swarm of locusts, the Sons of Liberty explode out of the parking lot onto the dirt road. Wind rips our hair as we charge forward, one large army, a hundred men’s war cries filling the night.
22
NOW
Jebediah’s compound appears in the distance, lit by floodlights and ringed by bonfires, so thundering toward it feels like racing toward the heart of Hell. When we pull up, there are people camped out everywhere on the wide expanse of yard. We must be on the outermost edge of Forsythe now, where the cops don’t patrol, because I can’t imagine anyone seeing this massive building crawling with people and not knowing immediately it’s a place where bad things happen.
I think ofAn Arcane History of Your Backyard: all those men sailing to this corner of the world to stake their claims and build their castles, ravaging whoever stood in their way. What is it about Louisiana that gives so many men delusions of grandeur? Is it the swampland, the primordial landscape sparking primal urges?
I nearly fall off the bike when the scarred man kicks the stand, my legs weak from squeezing so tight. Immediately, Everett is by my side, gripping my arms.
“Follow me, Trouville,” rasps the long-haired man. “We’re going inside.”
As he leads us across the lawn, I finally see the wisdom of Ever’s plan. In my version, where we tracked Jebediah to his home, we had to sneak in undetected. But as buyers, we walk in the front door.
