Chewy rolls her eyes and hands the giant jar with shit hanging out of it to Elio.
“Oh, yeah, that’s so much better. Give it to the kid to hold,” Tav grumbles.
“Is that,” my dad leans forward, eyes narrowed, “Is that a bomb in a pickle jar?”
“Never trust a man who builds a bomb in boring containers.” Pops winks before placing it down on the ground.
He plods up the porch steps to Mama Debs and asks for his safety gear.
“Well, that’s new,” Savage mumbles as the Tombs brothers grin ear to ear.
“Safety first,” Pops says, donning goggles, ear plugs, ear muffs over the top, a helmet and a poncho.
“What’s the poncho for?” Omen Landry asks, confused.
Pops looks at him like he’s an idiot. “It’s for the vibes, Omen. Shit.”
“Ah, kids, maybe step back from that.” Lovely calls out from her place on the porch, the women nestled around her.
“They’ll be fine,” Pops answers, “Just don't touch the red wire, kids!” Pops calls out over his shoulder.
At the kids looking at the bomb. The bomb that is a mass of red fucking wires in a glass fucking jar. Pops claps his gloved hands once, then stomps off the porch, headed for his bomb. Taking itfrom Elio he looks around, says something over his shoulder to the huge gang of kids milling about and then walks toward the treeline.
Squeals sound out and the kids scatter, beelining it to where we all stand on the porch, eyes on whatever carnage Pops is about to unleash.
“Do we need to be in the shelter?” Dad asks in his measured, quiet voice. I had forgotten how quiet he is, given how loud the rest of us are. It’s clear we take after Momma who is whooping and hollering at the kids to get a wriggle on.
Rhodie hands Laney-May off to Mad Dog and Willa and then storms down off the porch, striding toward his woman who is yelling instructions to Pops and doesn't look to be getting out of the way anytime soon.
“At least one hundred yards, Pops! So we’re outta the ball bearing blast zone!”
“Ball bearings! What the actual fuck?” someone yells and Rhodie’s stride turns into a jog.
If I’m honest I’m surprised he even let her down there. The bigger her belly gets the more protective Rhodie has become. I get it. If Joy was round with my child I wouldn't let her anywhere near my crazy ass family and their explosives.
The picture of Joy round with my child hits me like a bolt of lightning and settles into my gut with a warm feeling. Turning my head, my gaze meets hers as she stands with the women. She gives me a sweet smile and it settles something in me.
“Hereeee we goooooo!” Pops yells, hot footing it back to the house at a much faster clip than I would ever think a man his age could go.
“Help me count it down kids!”
The rag tag bunch of Big Littles and their friends from the Keep all bounce in place as they count down from five and then Pops hits the detonator in his hand. Pause. Nothing can be heardapart from our breathing and I move to turn to Pops before flinching at the sheer noise of the explosion. I spin back in time to see wild life scattering, fucking tree limbs and obliterated bits of bark flying through the air, some of it in flames.
“Huh. That was a little underpowered,” Pops says with a frown as the kids cheer, ignoring the shock on all the adults' faces.
“Fucking get off the porch, get the kids into the bunker! What the fuck are you all doing standing there?” A bike comes skidding to a stop, and my cousin Gallows storms up the porch steps, gun drawn. His sister and VP Mercy at his back. “Move, move, move, you’re under attack!”
We all stare at him, clearly still in shock over that fucking explosion.
“Another ginger?” Rider says, face screwed up.
Gallows turns scarily slow, glaring at Rider who holds his hands up in the air.
“Cousin, this is the DRMC.” I wave at my club family.
“Did. You. Not. Hear. Me?” he growls, and I see why Rhodie wanted him here. Probably to keep his woman in line.
“That explosion was Pops,” Momma says.
