check the rearview mirror as I floor the gas and pray I don’t see headlights.
WE’VE DRIVEN IN silence and, mile after black mile, I keep wondering if I’m in a dream. I’ve lost all sense of direction as we’ve ridden through a maze of back roads and a few minutes ago we ended up on blacktop so narrow I consider it more of a path than a road. There was a crudely made street sign at the turn and it read Thunder Road. Frightening how the name describes the storm I’ve been sucked into.
The truck gently jostles back and forth and dips with the occasional pothole. From the limited range of the headlights, I can tell that the sides of the road are thick with brush and trees. Every now and then a low-hanging limb smacks the cab of the truck. There’s no moon. There’s no light. There’s only darkness.
My teeth chatter and Oz turns his head to look at me. “Are you cold?”
I don’t know. Am I? Oz flicks a few switches, points the vents toward me and heat begins to dance along my skin. Even with the added warmth, my teeth chatter again and I run my hands along my arms. The cold...it’s not in a place that a heater can reach. It’s past my skin, past my muscles and into my bones.
“Maybe we should go back for my parents.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he responds.
“Are they okay?”
His phone has rung a couple of times. Oz answers it, listens, then mumbles some sort of an “okay” and drops his cell back into the cup holder. Surely, he’s heard something. We’ve been driving for too long. Forever. But according to the clock, forty minutes.
“We’re almost there,” Oz says as an answer.
“I asked about my parents,” I snap.
His forever-roaming eyes check the rearview mirror again. “They’re safe. At least they were the last time the club checked in.”
I close my eyes as the tension escapes from my neck. “Why couldn’t you say that?”
“Because I don’t know how long that will remain true and I’m not about false hope.” Before the shock of his words can set in, he continues, “The club’s with them, but the next couple of hours are critical. Your job is to lay low and not contact anyone. Do you understand?”
No. I don’t understand any of this. I draw my knees to my chest in an effort to fight the freezing temperatures in my veins. “Where are we going?”
Oz switches the hand on the wheel and leans against his door. “Olivia’s.”
Olivia’s. My head hits the back of the seat. “Oh.” Oh.
“I spend a lot of time there. Sometimes more than at my own home,” he says, and before I can respond he continues, “And here we are.”
My breath is stolen from my body as I take in the sight. It’s an overgrown log cabin with every window lit up like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Running along the wraparound front porch are rosebushes tangled with vines of honeysuckle. It’s beautiful, picture-perfect and surely not the place where bikers live.
“Shocked?” There’s a bite in Oz’s voice and it causes me to stare at him. He parks the truck off to the side of the house and shuts off the engine. “Considering what most people think of us, shocked is the most common reaction.”
Because they are bikers and this...this place is gorgeous. Oz swings out of the truck and I’m surprised when he meets me at my side, opens the door and then offers me his hand. “It’s a jump.”
He’s right. I didn’t notice it on the way up, but now facing the prospect of down, I have a respect for the two feet. He has a strong hand. It’s a bit rough, but not sandpaper. It’s a hand that leads, not a hand that follows, and I really shouldn’t be thinking too much about this anymore.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod then jump. Once on the ground, Oz pulls on my fingers, encouraging me to move forward. I barely trust him so I slip out of his grasp and he doesn’t fight the distance I crave. “The next time someone calls, can I talk to my parents?”
Oz’s forehead wrinkles and suddenly the big, scary guy doesn’t appear so big and scary as his eyes soften. “Let’s go inside. We’ll know more then.”
“What if you’re lying to me?” I ask, because I’d prefer that to my parents being in danger. “What if this was some sort of elaborate scheme to get me to talk to Olivia? I mean, you guys kept my father from me today.” Well, yesterday.
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“What if this is a—” air quotes “—misunderstanding?”
“Not that you’d know, but I don’t jack off to shoving hot girls into spider-infested crevices between vending machines, so how about you cut me some slack?”
I blink. Several times. Did he just call me...? And did he just say...? Heat flushes my cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and shock. The door on the porch squeaks open and a figure made of solid muscle stalks onto the porch. “Oz.”
The porch light flips on and it’s the man with the long gray beard and ponytail who stood beside Oz outside the funeral home. He’s dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt and an open red flannel with the sleeves rolled up. Seeing him, I empathize with Jack swaddling the stolen goose in his arms as he faces down the very ticked-off giant.
His gaze lands on us and I don’t miss how it lingers on me. I inch closer to Oz and my side brushes against his. I don’t know why, but my instincts scream that Oz means safety. He presses a hand to the small of my back and it’s as if an invisible force field forms around us.
Oz doesn’t push me ahead. Instead, he skims one finger along my spine. I shiver and this time it isn’t from the cold.
“That’s Cyrus,” Oz says so only I can hear. “He’s Eli’s dad. Your grandfather.”
My heart aches. The pain comes sharp and fast and it hits so hard that I know it will leave a scar. “I didn’t know I had one.”
Eli mentioned Olivia before, but he never discussed his father and I never cared enough to ask or imagine one existed. Maybe Eli did mention him and I blocked it out.
Oz inclines his head to the house. I walk forward and Oz is kind enough to match his pace to my slow stride.
“You’re being nice to me,” I say. “Thank you for that.”
“Did you think I was an asshole?”
Um...yeah. “Well...”
“Your first instinct was right.”
“Why are you being nice to me then?” I ask as we reach the stairs.
Oz pauses on the bottom step and glances at the bear of a man towering by the front door. “Because nobody deserves to be thrown into the middle of a tornado.”
