Rough Edge (Tannen Boys 2)

It might not seem responsible. Dad certainly doesn’t think so, or at least he doesn’t anymore. But I’m doing what I love in a way that considers all the risk factors and mitigates them as much as possible.

But tonight’s just for fun.

I pull a U-turn at the south end, lining back up and counting myself down again. And I’m off.

I listen to every nuance, feel every thrust of horsepower, knowing Foxy better than I know myself. Power at my fingertips, rumbling under my ass, all controlled by the press of a pedal. It’s everything.

I must make six or seven runs before I realize I’ve pressed my luck.

Shit. Fuck. Damn. Those cherries coming from the south side have got to be for me.

I’ll admit that I have one little moment of thinking ‘fuck it’ and seriously contemplate hitting the gas and getting out of here. I know Foxy can outrun a police cruiser. I’m wild enough to do it, too, but I’m not that stupid.

But still . . .

Shit. I am so busted.

Majorly busted.

Dad’s going to be so fucking pissed at me. I’m not even supposed to be racing anymore, but here I am, racing the sunset, racing my past, even racing myself.

Chapter 14

Brody

Some metal song I don’t even know screams out of my phone. It’s whatever Erica chose as her personalized ring tone while we debated musical genius at Hank’s. Her current favorite is something called Five Finger Death Punch, which is a band, apparently. One I already can’t stand. Mine is Tyler Childers, one she said sounded like a dog dancing on a banjo. Two tastes that couldn’t be more different, which is why she took such delight in picking whatever that racket is that’s coming out of my phone. Every time it sounds out, I damn near jump out of my skin. She thinks it’s hilarious. Fine, I do too. Not that I’ll tell her that because then I’ll have to confess that it only makes me smile because of her.

“Well hello, Lil Bit.” I drawl out the greeting, glad to begin our nightly chat.

“Brody, I have sixty seconds so listen up. I’m in Morristown county jail and I need you to come bail me out and not tell anyone. Please.”

The words are one long jumble, each word tumbling over the one before it.

Jail. Bail. Don’t tell.

All important details, but what guts me is the ‘please’ with a hint of desperation. Erica is not someone who begs . . . ever. But she is now, and that’s more than enough for me to click into handle-shit mode.

“How much?”

I hate to say I’ve done this before, but I’ve done this before. With Dad. A few drunk and disorderly charges that never stuck, but I’d have to go pick him up at the police station after he sobered up. I’d bring money we didn’t have to pay the fine, he’d bitch about me nagging him, and then rinse and repeat when he lost big at the tables again. But that was better than when the alcohol would make him sad and weepy because he’d tell stories about Mom, about how much he missed her, about how nothing was the same without her by his side. Pissed off Dad was better than miserable Dad for sure.

“A couple of hundred for tonight.”

“On my way, Erica. Be safe.”

“Bro—” She’s cut off by an officer in the background telling her time’s up. And the phone goes silent in my hand.

Motherfucker. What the hell happened? What was she doing that got her arrested? I search my brain but come up empty. Erica doesn’t drink too much, which is my first thought, of course. She has a mouth on her, but not enough to go around getting in fights, and her military background probably helps her stay cool and collected if someone else is fucking off. Wrong place, wrong time?

Or maybe . . . wrong person? What if Emily did something and Erica’s taking the fall? I could see that because Erica would do anything for her sister. But if that were the case, why wouldn’t Emily be the one bailing her out?

Erica told me not to tell anyone, and that really can only mean Emily and Reed since I’ve only met her mom the one time.

Confusion whirls though my mind, but my body’s in action. I grab my wallet and keys, step over Brutal’s old dog, Murphy, who’s lying by the front door, and fly down the grassy drive in my truck going a bit too fast. As I wait for the automatic gate to open, my phone buzzes.

Brutal: Where you going so damned fast?

Me: Erica’s.

Brutal: Guess I’ll plan to feed the goats in the morning.

Me:

I want to say thanks, but that’d be suspicious, and he already knows I appreciate it. Plus, it’s not like I can tell him where I’m going or what I’m doing since Erica asked me not to, so letting him think I’m just running out hellbent for pussy is the right thing to do. Better he thinks I’m a manwhore than that Erica’s in trouble.