Long Way Home

I’d perform the act if that would make Dad’s car run again. Who am I kidding? I’d do it if it would make anything in my life work again.

Behind me, Brandon paces and the rocks crunch under his footsteps. We’re two miles from home and off to the side of a quiet country road. Thank God there’s a full moon as my brother can be terrified of dark places. Dad used to tell Brandon that a full moon is nature’s night-light. I’m banking on Brandon remembering that tidbit of fatherly wisdom because, unless steam rising from my engine means my car is about to evolve into some next generation of superpower vehicle, we’re stuck.

“We should call the club,” Brandon says. “They’d come. They’d help fix your car.”

With strings made out of spiderwebs. The Reign of Terror would suck us in and then suck us dry. It’s how they work. You don’t get something for nothing with them. “If you remember, Eli and Pigpen tore off from the football game because they had business to take care of, meaning we wouldn’t be high on the priority list. Besides, Mom’s on her way.”

She’s put out, but she’s on her way. Mom will take her time to prove how annoyed she is with my “careless behavior” of driving at night without the protection of a man. That’s how Mom thinks. Girls, to her, are the weaker and fairer sex waiting for a man to save them, and Mom is constantly annoyed that I don’t play up my femininity.

Yeah, that’s complete bull.

I straighten and the bracelets on my wrist clink together and hit Dad’s bulky Rolex. It’s one of the many things Mom was mad about today. She tolerates me wearing Dad’s cross, but she’s adamant that I leave the watch alone. Dad always wore the cross and the Rolex, and today I needed both so I could find the strength to keep breathing in and then out several times a minute.

If I was alone, I’d head home on foot, but Brandon walking along the woods in the dark could cause problems I’m not giddy to deal with. At least he feels somewhat safe next to the car.

“Are you hungry?” I ask. “I didn’t eat all my popcorn at the game and you can have what’s left. I should warn you, most of it is burnt.”

“The club would send somebody if you called,” he mutters. “If you called Chevy, he’d come. At least he’d come for me.”

Knife straight to where I’m weak, and I lose the ability to breathe. Yeah, Chevy would come, but what girl wants to play damsel in distress and then be saved by her ex-boyfriend? “I can’t call Chevy.”

It wouldn’t be fair to Chevy, and it wouldn’t be fair to me. The love I had for him was consuming and powerful and raw. I briefly close my eyes as memories of Chevy’s hands on my body and his lips on mine cause warmth to curl in my bloodstream... Even when we fought, we never had problems with attraction.

My breakup with Chevy hasn’t only hurt me, but my brother, and I’m not sure if he’ll ever forgive me. I’m not sure if a lot of people will forgive me, but none of that matters. My single goal in life is to get as far away from this town as I can, as fast as I can. Graduation. That’s my town of Snowflake expiration date.

A motorcycle rumbles in the distance and it’s weird how my heart still flutters at the sound. When I was younger, I used to sit at the window in the living room and wait for that beautiful growl. The moment I heard Dad’s motorcycle, I used to skip through the house telling my mom and brother that Daddy was home.

I’d burst out the front door in time for him to swing off his bike and then he’d catch me and toss me into the air. I’d squeal, then end up in a fit of giggles as he would tickle me in his big, crushing hug.

Those days are long gone.

The motorcycle engine grows louder. A single headlight breaks over the hill of the road that leads to town. Most sane people would be terrified at being alone on the side of the road at night with an approaching motorcycle, but I’m annoyed and slightly relieved.

If someone from the Terror wants to stumble upon me and help make Dad’s car move, I’ll suck up the animosity long enough to get my brother home. But at the same time, accepting their help will only make them want to go dictator over everything else in my family’s life.

Anything offered by the Terror comes at a price. My father paid with his life.

I step back from the open hood and the motorcycle slows to a stop behind my car. I blow out a rush of air. Why does my life have to continually suck? I would have taken Eli or Pigpen over this. But I didn’t get Thing One or Thing Two. I got my ex because I’m that incredibly unlucky.

Chevy slips off his bike and grimly assesses the car. More than once he’s been under the hood of this Chevelle. Chevy and my dad were close. A part of Chevy was also destroyed when Dad died.

“Mom’s on her way,” I say. “You’re fine to move along, since she’ll be here soon.”

Brandon rushes past me so quickly that his arm smacks mine. He doesn’t bother looking back to confirm I’m still standing; no, my brother is too busy welcoming Chevy like he’s a hero.

Brandon is all words, most of them tripping and running into the other, as he attempts to express his excitement and undying love and loyalty. “We were at your game and Pigpen bought me a hot dog and Eli bought my ticket and I didn’t see your first touchdown, but I saw your second and third and you plowed right through that line and I’m so glad to see you.”

Because Chevy is patient, more patient than most grown men, he stands in front of my brother with his thumbs hitched in his front pockets and that sexy slouch of his like he’s prepared to listen to every single word Brandon could ever say or think to say.

As long as I’ve known him, Chevy’s kept his hair trimmed, but today strands of his dark brown hair slightly cover his forehead and it’s incredibly endearing. The type of style that’s teasing and begs to be swept away.

A wave of unwanted jealousy rages through me. I used to be the one who could touch Chevy. Last I heard, I’d been replaced with a revolving door of girls who have lined up to spend the evening with the school’s star running back and waterfall of muscle.

Brandon’s still gushing, Chevy’s still listening, but then, as if our relationship had never been interrupted, his gaze strays in my direction. Eyes straight to mine and I can’t breathe. Returning his gaze is a lot like coming home after a long night and falling into bed.

I fell into way too many things with Chevy. The suck part about falling is that eventual crash landing. I tear my eyes away and force air into my aching lungs.

Thank God, Brandon’s still going. “Dad’s car broke down and Violet wouldn’t call you, but I said we should call you. I told her that you’d come—at least you’d come for me. I told her to call the club, but she wouldn’t.”

Twice in one night my brother decides to go traitor. See if I take him to a football game again.

“Did Violet bring you to the game?” Chevy asks.

Brandon’s forehead wrinkles. “What?”

“Did Violet bring you to the game?”

“Well...yeah.”

“Then you should be grateful she did. Not all sisters care.”

My bracelets clink together when I shift, uncomfortable that anyone is taking up for me, even if it is Chevy. Since Dad died, Chevy joined the ranks of people thinking I’m the devil because I’m trying to break free of the Terror.

“Your car’s broke.” Chevy glances in my direction again, and there’s a softness in his eyes that I hate and love. It’s the same unguarded look as when we whispered our most intimate thoughts into each other’s ears.

I hold his gaze for as long as he can handle. “Thanks for the update, Captain Obvious.”

Chevy mimics tipping a hat that isn’t on his head. “My pleasure.”

The right side of my mouth edges up. Damn him for being so charming.

“Stone,” Chevy says. “Have you made big plans for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Violet turns eighteen.”

Chevy and I had so many plans for eighteen. Spent too many nights in each other’s arms planning out how we were going to celebrate this year. Dinner out of Snowflake. Prom. Laughter with friends. Midnight and dancing on a blanket in our field.

“Mom’s mad at Violet and she said we might not do anything because of Violet’s attitude,” Brandon blurts, and he scratches his chin twice. “Violet cut class and the school called Mom to tell her. Mom’s really angry. She yelled. A lot. And Violet wouldn’t yell back. Violet always yells back, but not this time.”

Chevy’s adorable smile falls into a frown and it’s really a shame. Brandon looks over at me for confirmation that I’m not mad at him for spilling about my fight with Mom, because I’ve reminded him several times that personal conversations should stay personal, and I step toward him, then briefly squeeze my fingers around his wrist.

My brother isn’t trying to tattle, he’s nervous being out in the dark and upset over the fight Mom and I had before we left for the game. He has a problem with letting negative emotions go. They circle his brain like vultures do with roadkill.

Headlights shine in the distance, and my shoulders relax. Last thing I want to do is get into a discussion with Chevy as to why I didn’t tell Mom that I handed Chevy my note. This has been an awful day, and I’m ready to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed for days, maybe weeks.

I step out onto the road, and using the flashlight app, wave to signal Mom. This isn’t the first time Dad’s car has broken down, and unfortunately, it won’t be the last. Mom has passed us before. Though I’m not convinced those times were a mistake as much as Mom attempting to teach me another lesson of how unsafe I am in the world.

Footsteps against the rocks and Chevy eases beside me. The car weaves in and out of the center lane, and my arm hesitates in the air as unease tiptoes through me.

Chevy places his hand on my biceps and forces it down. “That’s not your mom’s car.”

It’s not. Mom would never drive like that and those aren’t the headlights of a minivan. Those belong to something with some muscle. A scary sixth sense creeps along my skin.

Growling engines, then three single beams appear. Motorcycles. Those motorcycles aren’t chasing the car, they’re following. My stomach lurches as I stumble back. Chevy steps forward and he draws his knife out of the sheath.

I swallow as my hands begin to shake. The Terror never come from this direction unless they’re driving to see me and none of them have a muscle car they would be following. “Brandon, get back in the car.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

My internal warning system blares like a foghorn, and instead of slowing down, the car picks up speed. I grab Brandon’s arm and I shove him toward the passenger side. “Get in the car, lie down on the floorboard in the backseat and don’t pop your head up until I say.”

Brandon moves with me and slides in when I open his door, then close it behind him.

“Get in there with him, Violet,” Chevy demands. “In the backseat, on the floorboard.”

“They’ve already seen me,” I hiss. “Odds are they didn’t see Brandon. We have to protect him.”

Chevy glances over his shoulder at me, his expression that of the grim reaper ready to take someone’s soul. “Then in the front seat. Doors locked and call the club.”

“Chevy,” I begin, about to ask him to join me, but he cuts me off.

“They’re looking for someone and I’ll be it. I’m the first wave of keeping them off Stone. You’re second. Call the club. Get me backup.”

Absolute fear seizes my body. I can’t leave Chevy to stand on his own. For the same reason I gave him my late note today. I care too much for him.

“Get in, Violet,” he demands.

But as the headlights draw closer, I remain cemented to the ground.

“You and I can’t take them alone. I need help. Get me help.”

That, I understand. My pulse races as I dash for the driver’s side. The engine of a Camaro roars as it pulls in front of us. Half of the car sticks out into the road, the other half blocks us in as if my car could actually move. The grille of the Camaro so close that the heat from the engine slams onto my legs.

I open my door as two doors on the Camaro open and two looming figures emerge. Nervous adrenaline crashes into my veins and I curse as I frantically roll up my window. The hand crank type, made in the ’70s, and it doesn’t go fast enough. By pure will alone, the window rises with a whine, and when mine is finished, I glance over to Brandon to reassure him we’re safe in the car, when terror seizes my lungs. The passenger-side door is unlocked.

The car shakes as the open hood crashes down. A towering man with weathered skin slams his hands onto my car and stares straight at me. He has on a leather vest, and I briefly close my eyes at the patches. Nausea roars through my gut and I fumble for my phone. This is the Riot Motorcycle Club, and we’re in serious trouble.

“Get out of the car,” the man shouts.

Chevy protects the passenger-side door and he’s surrounded, but he’s not backing down. His arms are stretched out wide, knife in his right hand. Fighting past the fear, I select the contacts on my phone, and right as I’m about to press Eli’s number, there’s a crash to my left.

My hands cover my head as a man takes a lead pipe and hammers it against my window. The glass cracks and he shoves the lead pipe against it again. Brandon whimpers, and I suck in a breath as I try to refocus on the cell, and it’s hard to do as shards of glass rain down over my head and into my hair. I push the call button, praying Eli answers.

“Get out of the car or we’ll drag you out!” the man in front of my car yells.

A scuffle, someone springs toward Chevy, his knife slices in their direction, but then two more guys join the mix. My eyes fall to the unlocked door, and I lunge. My fingers brush along the lock as the door swings open. Fear shakes through me when big meaty fingers shoot in and grab me. From the floorboard in the backseat, Brandon seizes my hand, and my heart pounds when I spot the horror in his eyes.

It’s going to happen again, and I promised him it wouldn’t. Months ago, bullies from school beat him until he could no longer lift his head. These men—they’re going to hurt him over something neither Brandon nor I have control over. Over politics of a club we have never belonged to.

They are going to hurt him, not like the bruises from earlier today, but like what happened to him months ago or maybe worse. Like those bullies, these men are going to make him bleed, and I promised him he would never hurt like that again.

The man pulls at me, and I release Brandon, my only hold to staying in the car, and drop my phone next to him. Without Brandon grounding me, I’m yanked from the car, and as I struggle with the man, I kick the door shut.

“Get on the ground!” a man shouts.

I struggle, wrenching myself from side to side. My arm breaks free and I swing hard. My fist connects with a face and there’s swearing. Pain through my knuckles, then pain from my scalp as my head is pulled back by my hair.

I gasp and fight to not make a sound and then scream when my legs are kicked out from under me. A blinding white lightning strike to my kneecaps and my vision doubles. Snapping, and then another wave of revulsive agony.

My shins hit the ground, and my heart beats frantically as I glance up at the older man with the weathered and dirty face. He has a blue bandana on his head and a gun in his hand and I can’t decide if I’m scared or numb.

Don’t find my brother. Please don’t find my brother.

On a warrior’s shout, Chevy strikes one man with a punch to the face and then Chevy is moving, pushing off two people, and my blood grows cold when the man with the blue bandana points the gun at me.

“I’ll shoot her.” The man doesn’t yell it, but he says it loud enough that the scuffles stop.

My mouth runs dry, and I find just enough courage to peek out of the corner of my eye to see Chevy hold his hands up in compliance. His knife is gone. Not sure if they took it or he lost it in the fight. Guess it doesn’t matter. Maybe none of it matters. Maybe Chevy should still be trying to fight his way out. Maybe they’re going to kill us both anyway.

Chevy looks at me and I tilt my head, worrying my forehead. They can’t get Brandon. We can’t let them have my brother. I will Chevy to hear my thoughts, to understand what I need. As if he can read my mind, he moves his head a fraction of an inch in agreement. Chevy voluntarily goes to his knees.

“You’re Reign of Terror,” Bandana Guy says to me.

My tongue feels too swollen to speak, but I shove out the words regardless. “I’m not Reign of Terror.”

“She’s not,” Chevy says. “I am. Leave her alone and deal only with me.”

“I know who you are, and I’ll be dealing with you soon. We only dish out the best for a McKinley.” A smile twists his lips as he keeps staring directly at me. His patch indicates his road name is Fiend, and I bet he’s real proud of his title.

With two other men standing on either side of me, Fiend crouches and I resist the urge to shudder with disgust as he pulls on a lock of my hair. “And you’re Frat’s girl. Red hair, crazy eyes. You have a brother. Where is he?”

Defiance swirls into my bloodstream, and I raise my chin. “He’s at the clubhouse.”

Fiend studies me. “Is he?”

Frat was my father’s road name and people used to tell me when he was in difficult spots, he was insane. When I was younger, I used to beam with pride at the idea of my daddy being the man who could look fear in the eye and laugh.

As I got older, I lost some of that appreciation, but in this moment, knowing my brother is in the backseat of the car, knowing a gun could be used to settle a score I have nothing to do with, I smile. A crazy-ass smile that could probably rival any level of insanity my father could have had. “Why don’t we go to the Terror’s clubhouse and find out?”

Fiend chuckles. “Nice try. Cuff them and let’s go.”

No. The guys around us move and my heart explodes, beating so rapidly I can barely breathe. A calloused hand on my wrist and I flinch, attempting to roll away, attempting to hit and kick. Another man joins the mix, grabbing hold of my other arm, pinning my head to his chest, and I dry heave at the smell of body odor. Tears prick my eyes and a million horrible thoughts crash in my mind. I’d rather die than have them rape me. I’d rather die.

Cold metal against the flesh of my wrists and then I’m pulled to my feet, my knees giving at the weight of the situation. I’m being pushed forward, to the car. A man opens the backseat door and he exerts pressure on my neck to force me in. My head whips around, my eyes so wide the wind burns them. “Chevy!”

“Hurt her and I’ll fucking kill you.” There’s a coldness in Chevy’s tone. He’s on the other side of the car. His biceps straining as his body leans in my direction, but the men surrounding him are shoving him past the door and someone pops open the trunk.

My face heats and my palms grow clammy. Dizziness overwhelms me as I realize we’re being taken, and we’re being separated. That I’m being kidnapped. “Chevy?”

His dark eyes meet mine. “It’s okay. We’re going to be okay. Keep your mouth shut. Say nothing. I promise it will be okay.”

He can’t make that promise. No one can.

CHEVY

THEY STOLE MY KNIFE. Swiped my cell. The handcuffs I can ditch in thirty seconds. The trunk of the car—I could have open in less than a minute. But leaving Violet behind unprotected isn’t an option. Escaping just isn’t the goal—the endgame is to escape together.

Dark doesn’t bother me. Neither do cramped spaces. What’s drilling a hole in my brain was Violet’s expression as they shoved her into the back of the car. It was the impact of her struggles hitting against the seat, it was her screams for them to stop.

To stop what? My gut twists, and I breathe out to try to gain some control in the madness. I got my wish. Violet stopped struggling. She stopped screaming. Turns out the silence wasn’t what I wanted. Violet safe—that’s what I wished for. Silence doesn’t mean safe.

The car slows, and I brace myself to keep from ramming into the walls of the trunk. We’ve been driving for too long. An hour. Maybe more. I tried counting, tried to gauge how far from Snowflake we were taken, but worrying over Violet killed my concentration.

The engine shuts off, and the stillness causes my skin to crawl. They hurt her, I’ll hurt them. Doesn’t get much simpler than that. I gave up earlier to save Stone, to save Violet. Gun to the head ends all debate, especially when that gun’s on Violet.

Doors squeak open. The car shakes. Doors slam shut. Movement outside, but nothing else. Beats of time pass and my already strained patience is on the verge of snapping. I angle to my side so I can reach my belt. I’ve got a small lock pick hidden there. It’s not normal, but it’s how I roll. Fast hands sometimes need assistance.

Footsteps and I return to my back.

“We’re going to open the trunk,” comes a deep voice. “We’ve got a gun trained on you, and we’ll shoot, so be slow as you get out.”

The trunk opens, and a spotlight shines in my direction. My eyes snap shut, and when I attempt to open them, all I see is black spots. I’m blinded. Fingers on my arm and I’m pulled out. My feet hit the ground, and no matter which way I turn my head, the light follows me. Smart bastards. With the dark night, the spotlight keeps me from seeing my surroundings, from identifying additional faces, how many people will be thwarting my attempt at escape.

We go forward, into a building; the door looks like one that could belong to a house. Inside, it’s pitch-dark, and I drop my head, studying the floor to keep the light from continuing to blind me. The flooring is linoleum, like I would find in a kitchen. White squares with black diamonds in the middle.

Pushed and we’re heading down stairs that groan. Wooden ones with no backing. The air temperature drops with each step, and the stench of mold and mildew fills my nose. At the bottom, my boots land on concrete and then men fall away as I’m being pulled ahead. We stop. A hesitation. And then I’m released.

The light turns off, darkness engulfs my vision, rapid footsteps. I pivot on my heels to find a way to escape, and a door is slammed shut. My heart beats in my ears, and I glance around as I blink to adjust my eyesight, but there’s only darkness. No natural light.

A rustle in the corner behind me and I spin. “Violet?”

“Chevy?” Shifting of fabric. “God, Chevy, I’m here. I can’t see. They blindfolded me.”

“Not much to see. It’s dark. Keep talking so I can find you.”

“My hands are still bound,” Violet continues. Never knew so much relief could be found in hearing her sweet voice. “I’m sitting. In a corner. Felt safer that way. I can stand if you want.”

“No. Stay sitting.” I keep blinking, an instinctual movement so my vision can adjust for light, but there’s only the black hole. The tip of my boot comes into contact with something solid, but with give. “This you?”

“Yeah.”

I crouch, then lean my back against the wall beside her, letting my hand brush the exposed skin of her arm. As a gesture of comfort, to reaffirm I’m here and she’s safe. Violet’s cold to the touch, and she trembles. She’s in shock. Why the hell wouldn’t she be? I rap the back of my head against the concrete wall. Fuck the Riot. Fuck them for all of this. “You okay?”

She inches closer to me and our legs touch. So do our arms. I move my head in her direction so I can inhale her scent. Violet smells like honey. It’s a perfume her father bought her for her fourteenth birthday and continued to buy for her every year after that. Until this year.

I purchased it for her the other day, but I wasn’t sure if I would have the guts to give it to her. We’ve been like two rabid dogs trapped in a cage. I was afraid she’d throw it back in my face and wasn’t sure I could stomach more rejection.

The perfume sits on my dresser stuffed in a birthday bag. Somehow, in this moment, my lack of courage seems pathetic.