“If you aren’t in federal prison.”
Keyes just stared at his uncle. It was like he could read Keyes’s thoughts. Clyde always did that shit.
“Well, federal prison should make you happy. I’d technically be out of the club then,” Keyes said after a minute, hoping to lighten the mood. Yeah, it didn’t. His uncle’s face crinkled in a sad look. Keyes sighed. “It’s gonna be okay. Trust me. I’m stayin’ clean. I promise you that. They didn’t find shit at my place yesterday.”
“They’ll drag you down. They always do.”
His uncle didn’t get it. How could he? The only point of reference he had was his sister, Keyes’s mother, and she had run fast and loose. She’d had a death wish. People who wanted to live didn’t do the things his mother had done.
Clyde blamed the club for his sister’s young death. But he’d never witnessed her shooting up more meth than Keyes had ever seen anyone do before or since or the violent rages she had when coming off her bump. His mother would have fist-fought the devil himself if given the chance. Keyes had been a regular punching bag until he’d learned to get the hell out of the way. As far as he was concerned, his mother’s deal rested solely on her.
Keyes was different than either of his parents. More than that, he saw the value of being a member of the club. It wasn’t a right. He’d worked hard to earn his colors, but he also ran on the outside fringes of the members. Without question, his brothers would do anything for him and he would for them. They just didn’t understand him. He liked dick and stayed away from the hard stuff. Their differences created a natural distance. Keyes spent an extraordinary amount of his free time alone, much of that time right here in this shop.
“Do you need money?” his uncle finally asked.
“Nah, I’m good.” Keyes nodded, and his uncle did too, his eyes still locked on Keyes’s.
“Whose Camry was here so late last night?” Keyes asked, changing the subject. It worked. His uncle’s expression changed—he grinned, maybe even blushed under the happiness there. That had Keyes laughing at such a response to a simple question.
“The guy I’ve been seeing. We made it official last night,” Clyde added.
“Official?” Keyes asked. In all their years, he couldn’t remember ever knowing that Clyde even dated, let alone got serious. Wow.
“Yeah. He’s on his way over for dinner.” His uncle jumped off the stool in a sudden panic. “I’ve got a chicken in the oven. Stop by. Have a bite before you leave.”
“I can’t tonight. I’ve gotta get. Raincheck?” If Dev hadn’t texted back, he needed to stop by the club, check on things.
“Sure.” His uncle started to leave, stopping at the door, his voice stern as he spoke. Keyes always assumed that was Clyde’s teacher voice, trying to corral a rowdy group of children. Keyes suspected, he was as rowdy as it got. “Keyes, you be careful. This is big. They know somethin’ even if you don’t.”
Keyes nodded, knowing he wasn’t giving his uncle what he wanted. Refusing to think too closely about the sadness creeping back in his uncle’s eyes, Keyes went for his Harley.
“I’ll get the door. You go on.”
“Thanks, Uncle Clyde.”
“No problem. Think about what I said. We can get you far away from here.”
Keyes nodded and threw his leg over the leather seat. Starting the bike, he let it rumble underneath him before lifting the kickstand and slowly pulling out of the metal building. Clyde pointed to his head, indicating he needed a helmet. Keyes rolled his eyes at such a fatherly move and took off for the clubhouse.
“Good, you’re alive. The biker didn’t kill you after all,” Blaine stated in a condescending tone as he pushed through Alec’s kitchen door. He hadn’t bothered to knock, but he never did, so nothing new there. He treated Alec’s home as if it were his own, going straight to the refrigerator and pulling out a Dogfish Head’s 60 Minute IPA—his preferred beverage. “I admit I got a little worried when you didn’t answer your phone.”
“Ha. Right. It’s been over nineteen hours since I got home. You called twenty minutes ago. You weren’t too worried,” Alec chided, mixing his stir-fry.
Blaine leaned back against the counter, facing Alec as he worked at the stove. “That the Asian noodle salad that Ming Tsai made?”
“For one. Yes.” Alec nodded, adding the sauce he’d made from a recipe Ming had shared with him at his sister’s college graduation party. Alec had spent most of the evening in the kitchen with Ming, the hired celebrity chef for the evening. Although Alec wrote down every measurement exactly as Ming instructed, he suspected something hadn’t been explained accurately. The dish never tasted quite the same until a few months ago when Alec got bored and started playing around with the different components.