someone’s fantasy so they can make more money from tips. “Question should be, why don’t more guys do it?”
Mom goes into one of those blinding smiles that reminds me how young she is—early forties. If she wanted, Mom could still marry and pop out a new, normal family. Create the American dream of two kids, a dog and a white picket fence. That is if the American dream means working at a bar and already having a soon-to-be eighteen-year-old son.
She grabs hold of my chin and guides me down to her short height so she can kiss my cheek. “You’re one of the good ones, Chevy. Never forget that.”
Mom sees enough bad ones to know the difference. That’s why I drive her to and from work on the weekends. Why I don’t just drop her off, but also come in and get the lay of the land. I eyeball a few guys so they can spread the word to the others who might be thinking of going too far with my mom that I’m their personal grim reaper.
“Hell of a game tonight, Chevy!” Mike, the bouncer, bellows from across the room. A round of claps and cheers from the locals and then an echo from people who have no idea what we’re celebrating.
“Nobody plays like my boy!” Mom shouts. She’s been to every game I’ve had since I started in third grade.
I’m a running back for my high school team. Scored three touchdowns tonight, took a hell of a lot of hits, and I got a bruised shoulder to prove it. It’s October and we’re halfway through regular season games. With the team kicking ass like it has, we’ve got a decent shot at going to state. I don’t miss the fact that the reason we won, the reason I played was because Violet made a sacrifice.
My cell pings twice and Mom’s proud smile morphs into a frown. From the number of pings, she knows it’s from Eli, my uncle, my father’s brother, and the most respected man in the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club.
Eli: You need to stay off the road tonight. Confirm receipt. This is my third text about this. Don’t make me text you again.
Not what I need. I crack my neck to the side. When the club thinks there’s trouble from a rival club, they warn me off of being visible.
I’m a senior in high school and not yet a full member of the MC, but being a child of the club, I often get crap from people in town and can have a target on me from other MC’s. But no way was I letting Mom drive herself. No way was I leaving her to be on her own.
“Club stuff?” Mom asks like she’s not pissed as she rifles through her purse. The Reign of Terror and my mother have a complicated relationship. Between her and them, I’m constantly the knot in the middle of a tug-of-war rope.
“Eli’s checking in.” I shrug my jacket on and dig out the keys to my motorcycle.
“Sure he is,” she mumbles, then goes behind the bar. Mom’s black hair falls forward when she places her purse in the safe. When she stands, she tucks the strands behind her ears, showing off the hoop earrings I bought for her birthday last month.
Mom and I don’t look much alike. She’s short with a small frame and has an olive complexion, while I’m built like a McKinley: tall, strong shoulders, brown hair and eyes. According to pictures, I favor my father. Mom never says much about him. The MC thinks he’s a saint. I do my best to stay neutral.
Across from me, Mom taps her finger on the bar. “Have you thought about what I said?”
The muscles in my back tense. I’m reaching a tipping point in the tug-of-war game. When I turn eighteen, the MC will expect me to continue the blood legacy of the Reign of Terror and become a prospect. Eli’s a key member of the club, my grandfather is the president and my father before his death was on the fast track to being a board member.
There’s no doubt the board will take me, but there’s a rhythm to becoming a member and I’m expected to play along. My prospect period is the initiation time frame where the club decides whether or not I should be a full-fledged member. It’ll be a lot of me cleaning toilets and doing whatever the board says when they say it.
“There’s no reason to rush this,” Mom continues. She’s asked me to push off becoming a prospect for the MC until I graduate from high school. “Once you’re in the Terror, you’ll always be in the Terror. Why not be a normal high school kid for a few months? Find a nice girl. Go to prom. Go to keggers like other boys your age, not clubhouses. Let me live the fantasy of being mom to the jock who has the high school sweetheart. If you’re bound and determined to hang out with outlaws, at least have the decency to be arrested for cow tipping the first time I have to bail you out of jail.”
Haven’t told Mom yet the football coach is unhappy with me over the Terror. After that monologue, I’ll keep it to myself indefinitely.
“Last I checked, it’s his life,” comes a familiar gravelly voice. “Not your life and not your call on how he makes his choices. And to clear up any misunderstandings, the club decides when we offer prospect, not Chevy.”
My grandfather and president of the Reign of Terror, Cyrus, sidles up beside me at the bar. Mom tenses like a cat on the verge of attacking, and Cyrus merely strokes his long gray beard as he looks at me. “Club’s been trying to reach you.”
“Must have never turned my phone back on after the game,” I lie and try to balance the power struggle between Mom and the club and that means deflection. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just some bumps. Heard you had a hell of a game tonight.”
I nod. If Cyrus heard I had a good game, that must mean something major is going down. Like Mom, he’s always there, unless something with the club is about to go to hell.
“I heard Violet was at the game with Stone,” he says, and my head pops up. Despite knowing better, there’s a flicker of hope within me. I’ve got to cut that crap out or my heart will be hurting again.
“Don’t guess you knew that,” Cyrus continues.
No, I didn’t and it’s hard not to glance over at my mom to gauge her reaction. She, more than anyone, is aware how the breakup with Violet has gutted me.
Cyrus tilts his head to the exit. “Why don’t we go back to the cabin, and you can fill me in on what I missed. Some guys might be at the clubhouse. Bet they’d want to hear about the game, too.”
“Or he can go home,” Mom butts in, and she twists a dish towel as if she’s imagining strangling his neck. “His home. The one that has his room. His bed. His things. His home.”
I hitch my thumbs into my jeans and wish I could disappear. Give me a mirror, the fine art of distraction, and I could make you believe I did fade into the nothingness, but right now, I’ve got nothing. “Give me a few minutes with Mom?”
Cyrus is as big and bad as they come. Sixties. My height. Monster of a man. He proudly wears the Reign of Terror leather cut on his back: the half skull with fire blazing out of its eyes and balls of fire raining down around it.
My grandfather scares the hell out of most people, and he’s put me in my place more than once. He’s raised me, just as much as Mom. Half my time has been spent with him. Half my time with her. I love him, just like I love my mom.
He walks away, and before Mom begins to revel in her win, I lean onto the bar and say, “He’s right. It is my life and it is my call.”
She
