I called my parents first. We had a good relationship. I loved them, and they loved me. They had been supportive after the shooting and encouraged me to return to our hometown of Sweet Jackson, Kentucky. They weren’t there, though. They had sold their home five years earlier and bought an RV, traveling across the US, seeing everything they wanted to see on their time and in their own way.
I was close to my older brother, Kobey. He was at home. I knew he would support me. When I reached out to him, heimmediately told me to come home and that he would get his guest room ready.
There wasn’t a Friday on the calendar that wasn’t long for me. I probably needed to rearrange some things in my schedule to make it less grueling, but I guessed it hadn’t become enough of a priority yet.
I owned and operated a self-defense studio. I didn’t call it a “Dojo” or anything like that. I called it “Q.B.’s Self-Defense Studio.” It was named after me, Quentin Bishop. Simple. Nothing fancy, trendy, or flashy. It was located in my hometown of Sweet Jackson, Kentucky. But it was on the outskirts of town, so people from the city—Londynville—wouldn’t think it was too far of a drive.
I taught movement, mobility, and flexibility to senior citizens, and self-defense to women and children. One thing Ihated was a person that preyed on others just because they thought they could. I never wanted my students to be in a position where they had to use their techniques against an attacker, but it was gratifying to know that if they did find themselves in an unfortunate situation, they would come out victoriously.
My women tended to favor Krav Maga. I didn’t blame them. It was a highly effective Israeli system that focused on high-impact techniques for real-world scenarios. But women filled up my kickboxing classes as well. The kids mostly enrolled in karate and jujitsu.
I opened the studio early on Fridays for my 6 a.m. kickboxing class. That was followed by a 7 a.m. Krav Maga class. My midday classes were for senior citizens, or any adult who needed to improve mobility and/or flexibility.
At 9 a.m. and again at 11 a.m., I taught tai chi. At noon, I taught Aikido. Then I was free until the children started rolling in once school let out.
By the time I left the studio that night, I was tired and starving. All I really wanted to do was go home, eat, shower, and crash. But Kobey Davenport, the Braveheart Brotherhood Motorcycle Club’s president and one of my closest homeboys, had sent out a group text. He asked everybody to stop by his crib for an impromptu club gathering to celebrate his little sister’s homecoming.
Eastley had been gone for about twelve years. She’d spent four in college and the others being a nurse at some busy hospital in whatever city she’d been living in. KD told me there’d been a shooting at her hospital. Some YNs looking for retaliation or something had shot up the ER while Eastley was there.
According to him, she wasn’t okay. He didn’t give me any specifics, but he did ask me if I would say a prayer for her a few times. And I did. Now she was back. If I knew my dawg the wayI thought I knew my dawg, when I saw him, I fully expected his entire vibe to be givingrelief.
I parked my bike in the driveway with around twenty or so other bikes. The Braveheart Brotherhood rode deep. And when our president specifically requested that we come out to celebrate his little sister, we were going to show up for him . . . and for her. Everybody loved Eastley. She wasn’t just Kobey’s little sister; she was the little sister of the club.
The house was packed and jumping. It was loud as hell in there. The music, on top of voices, on top of the sound of bikes periodically revving, had my head pounding. I couldn’t imagine that Eastley could handle all the . . . stimuli.
I greeted a few of the brothers. A lot of them hadn’t seen me in a minute. I pulled away from the club and was sporadic, at best, for over two years. Dealing with the loss of my wife, Teagan, had me not wanting to touch my bike, let alone ride it.
Teagan suffered from moderately persistent asthma. And as much as I rode her back about her health, I never felt like she took her own condition serious enough. I was always the one who made mention of the fact that I could hear her wheezing, kept rescue inhalers in every room of the house, and always suggested the trips to the emergency room. She tended to take a morewait and seestance, agive it a minutestance. I couldn’t say for sure, but I was almost positive that her lack of urgency for her condition was what took her away from me.
I was on a ride with the brothers that day. I was the road captain back then. My job was mapping out and coordinating club rides. It hadn’t been a long ride. We went to celebrate some new initiates with a club in Londynville. Before we even got back on the road to head home, my phone was blowing up. Teagan had been taken to the emergency room, unconscious. It took less than thirty minutes for me to get to the hospital. Still,all I had time to do was say my goodbyes. She never regained consciousness.
After two years of grappling with guilt at myself for leaving her, and anger at her for never taking her health seriously, I decided to recommit myself to the brotherhood last year. I definitely couldn’t come back to the road captain position, though. Neither my head nor my heart would allow that. I planned to come back as a member at large—no responsibility, no expectations. KD asked me to come back as the chaplain.
Chaplain wasn’t a common position for a club. The Bravehearts never had one. Never felt like something we needed. Then one day, KD looked up, and the club needed a chaplain. It needed somebody with the capacity to listen to club members without judgment or bias. It needed somebody to offer spiritual support. It needed somebody to speak both life and blessings. It needed a compass. Apparently, I was that man.
I gave handshakes, grins, and hugs to the brothers I’d been close to before Teagan left me. But I could admit to myself that my eyes were searching for Eastley. I didn’t come to reconnect with old friends; I only came to put eyes on her and welcome her home. Once I did that, I was out.
Eastley and I always had a good relationship since KD was one of my oldest friends. We’d rocked since high school, so I’d known Eastley since she was still in ponytails and barrettes. She was never that younger sibling who followed us around, begging us to pay attention to her. She didn’t have to do that because KD cherished her. He made sure she always felt seen.
Physically, she was a beautiful girl. She was petite. Tiny, really. She’d always been short and slim, and she still was. She was one of those women who just had a small frame. The kind that made decent men want to protect her and indecent men see her as an easy target.
Her skin was the color of a vanilla latte—smooth with a small smattering of freckles across both cheeks, just under her eyes. She had a button nose, a full mouth, sharp naturally arched eyebrows, and the most piercing caramel-colored eyes. As she started to age, some of the brothers took notice of her. That pissed KD off. The last thing he wanted was for Eastley to get saddled with some going-nowhere local who would keep her pregnant and unfulfilled. He couldn’t encourage their parents to ship her off to college fast enough.
She apparently understood the assignment that she was expected to soar and never look back. She excelled in college, got into her career, and never stopped pushing. Her visits back to Sweet Jackson became further and fewer between. In fact, the last time I’d seen her was at Teagan’s funeral. She’d come back for that, to support me. I appreciated that. Now it was my turn to support her.
My eyes finally found her. She sat on the sectional sofa next to Asia, who was not only one of her closest friends, but also KD’s girl. They were with some of the other wives, girlfriends, and old ladies of club members. Asia had a smile on her face, like she’d just finished laughing. Eastley looked like she was trying to smile but wasn’t winning the battle. Her eyes darted around the room, then landed on me. I beckoned to her.
After saying something to Asia, Eastley stood from the sofa and made a beeline for me. When she was close enough, I gave her a genuine hug, and I didn’t miss the way she clung to me. Wanting the ability to talk to her without having to deal with the volume of the room, I led her to the backyard. It wasn’t empty. There were club members out there in small circles, smoking, drinking, and chatting. It was quieter than inside the house, but not by much. I led her to a relatively empty corner.
“Welcome back.” I hugged her again.
“Hey, Quentin.” She was the only person who ever called me by my first name. Everybody else in my world called me Bishop. She hugged me back. “Thanks. It’s good to see you.” She looked up at me, her questioning eyes so reminiscent of a younger Eastley. “You good?”
I had to chuckle at her question. “I could ask you the same thing. Sitting in there looking like you’re about to be sacrificed.”
“Ugh, was it that obvious?” she asked.
“It was.”
