Apart from Knight, who’d been manning the gate, only a couple of prospects from Wyoming, who had delivered the guns, were waiting for us to collect their share of the cut. Once we’d handed it over, and they’d disappeared into the night, Tempest, Woody, and I had gone to the bar where we’d helped ourselves to a stiff whisky.
“That fuckin’ border control officer,” Tempest growls. “Him calling us do-gooders for wanting to make migrants' lives a little easier? Fuckin’ asshole.” I have to admit, the righteousindignation the sergeant-at-arms had displayed at the time had eased our progress.
“Did you see the way they were living?” Woody asks rhetorically. We all had.
I’m wondering what they were all running from that made the United States seem an attractive alternative. We hadn’t seen big, tented encampments – they’d already been dismantled – but the smaller non-profit shelters were bad enough. We’d actually stopped there and offloaded the clothing and other goods we were carrying, for which they seemed overly grateful. Then we’d proceeded to the meet point, and delivered the guns.
“The American Dream, Brother,” Tempest answers him.
“Yeah, like what we’re living,” I comment.
“We’ve got it good, Bro.”
I can’t disagree. I’ve got food, shelter, money coming in – even if not all of it’s legal. But I can’t say that for everyone. Even in our own locality, there’s poverty.
Woody’s poured us more shots. He raises his glass so we can chink ours against it. “We made it, Brothers.”
His words are a sober reminder that we could otherwise be locked up and facing decades in a penitentiary. We might be living the life, but it’s not without risks. Tonight, though, we’ve gotten away with it.
Adrenaline is taking a while to fade. Those shot glasses are filled and emptied time and time again. The sun’s starting to rise over the horizon by the time I drag myself off to bed.
I let my clothes lie where they drop, have a piss, clean my teeth, then fall onto the mattress. The return drive to Flagstaff, then the adrenaline rush of transporting the guns across the border, coupled with the copious amount of alcohol I’d imbibed, results in sleep overcoming me quickly.
When I awake, I come to slowly, taking a moment to gather myself. Images flit through my head, the first making me smile,remembering how I shocked the hell out of Toni by claiming her with a kiss, and in front of my son.I wonder what she and Ace are doing now?At least I’ll be able to see her tomorrow, and will hopefully be staying the for the next week before bringing Ace home. I still have to come up with some bullshit excuse as to why he’s missing the last few days of school, but I’ll think of something.
Reaching for my phone, noting it’s already gone noon, I check whether Ace has sent me any messages – I was dead to the world last night, and the ping of an incoming text might not have woken me. But nothing’s come through, so I send him one.
Dad: How’s it going, kid?
Then, I type out another to Toni.
Freak: Hope my boy’s behaving himself?
Thinking for a moment before sending it, I rewrite it.
Freak: Hope our boy’s behaving himself.
I think she’ll appreciate the correction, as it acknowledges Ace and her relationship. While that’s something their DNA can’t deny, and though I’ve got thoughts in my head about making her mine, actually putting into words that she’s also got a claim on him does leave a sour taste in my mouth. But it’s done and sent.
I wait for an answer, but none comes. I shrug. They’re probably out enjoying themselves, answering messages, the last thing on their mind. It’s the first time Ace has been away from me for an extended period of time, and I hadn’t expressly stressed the need for him to check in.
Throwing off the sheet, I ease myself out of bed. After planting my feet on the floor, I stand and stretch my arms up over my head.Fuck, but my shoulders are sore.Guess that’s what comes from being stuck most of yesterday in a cage.
After having a shower, letting the warm water ease my sore muscles, I towel off, brush my teeth, and then dress.Finally, sliding into my cut, I emerge from my room to venture downstairs. The clubroom is relatively empty, only Dee/Dum is behind the bar with a tablet in hand, obviously taking inventory. Rattler and Paint are playing pool. I start to wave my hand in greeting, but pause it midway, taking a second look at the two brothers at the table. I rub my eyes, then, confirming my orbs aren’t deceiving me, I go on over.
“What the fuck, Rat?”
“Good to see you too, Brother,” he vocalises, then bends over to take another shot. He misses.
I chuckle and slap my hand around the back of hisbarehead. “You lose a bet or upset a lady?”
Self-consciously, Rattler rubs his hand over the place where his ponytail used to be. It’s been chopped off, and the spot where it was now matches the rest of his tightly shorn head.
Paint catches my eye and winks at me. “Some bitch called it a rat’s tail.”
I can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of me. “Now why the fuck didn’t we think of that?” Shaking my head, I realise it’s been years, and we never connected the dots.
Rat snarls, “Paint knows fuck all. I just wanted a fuckin’ change. I’m growing it out. Not that it’s any of your damn business.”
