Breaking the Rules (Pushing the Limits 1.50)

“Was it the RMC?” The Riot Motorcycle Club. They’re an illegal club north of here. I’ve heard some of the guys talk when they think no one else is listening, saying that our peace treaty with them is fracturing.

Eli flicks ashes then focuses on the burning end of the cigarette. “As I said, we need you on the road.”

Our club and the Riot have had an unsteady alliance from the start. We stay on our side of the state, they stay on theirs. The problem? A new client that the business has contracted with resides in the Riot’s territory.

“This stays between us,” says Eli. “This new client we signed is skittish and doesn’t want the PR related to possible truck-jackings. We need this business, and I need people I can trust with those loads. I need you in.”

“Got it.” I throw out the question, not sure if Eli will answer. “You had his back, didn’t you? You knew there was going to be trouble so you pushed Dad to the ground.”

A hint of a smirk plays on his lips, and he hides it with another draw. He blows out the smoke and flicks the cigarette onto the ground. “Be out here at six in the morning. I’ll pick you up in the truck and we’ll go get your dad’s bike before the wake. I want him to sleep in.”

Hell, yeah. “You going to let me drive his bike home?”

“Fuck, no. I’m bringing you along to drive the truck back. No one touches a man’s bike, and in desperate situations only another brother can. You know better than that.” Eli pats my shoulder. “See you tomorrow, and be dressed for the wake when I pick you up.”

Eli starts his bike and rocks kick up as he drives off. I watch until the red taillight fades into the darkness. Through the screen door, I spot my mother still tending to my father. She uses special care as she tapes gauze to his head.

Mom smoothes the last strip of medical tape to his skin and when she goes to close the kit, Dad tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. They stare at each other, longer than most people can stand, then she lays her head on his lap. Dad bends over and kisses her temple.

They need a moment together and, having nothing but time, I sit on the top step and wonder if I’ll find someone who will understand and accept this life like my mother. Mom loves Dad so much that she’ll take on anything. His job, this life and even the club. Maybe I’ll be that lucky someday.

Copyright © 2015 by Katie McGarry

Keep reading for an excerpt from CRASH INTO YOU by Katie McGarry.

Isaiah

ELEVEN YEARS, TWO MONTHS, SEVEN days.

The last time I had physical contact with a blood relative.

The fingers of my left hand drum against the steering wheel and my right hand grips the stick shift. The urge to shift into First, slam the gas and hightail it out of the dismal gray parking lot pulses through my veins.

I force my stiff fingers to release the gear stick. Music could take the edge off, but the bass from the speakers vibrates in a way that could draw attention to my car hiding in the employee-only lot. From here, I can watch the visitors enter and exit the social services building.

Ninety minutes ago, my mother walked in. Now I need to see her walk out. With each intake of cold air, the itch to leave grows. So does the itch to meet her.

The heater died a half hour ago, and the engine stalled twice. A few more things to fix on the growing list. In need of a new resistor, the heater will be a cheap fix.

My cell rings. Without checking the caller ID, I know who it is, yet I answer anyway. “Yeah.”

“I see you.” Annoyance thickens my social

worker’s Southern accent. “She’s waiting.”

My eyes flicker to the corner windows close to her cubicle and six feet from my car. Courtney draws the shades and places a hand on her hip. Her ponytail swings from side to side like she’s a pissed-off racehorse. Fresh out of college, she was assigned my case back in June. I guess her boss figured she couldn’t jack me up more than I already am.

“I told you not to schedule a visitation.” I stare at her as if we were in the same room. What I like about Courtney? She stares back. She’s one of three people who have the guts to hold eye contact with an inked seventeen-year-old with a shaved head and earrings. The second one is my best friend. The third…well, the third was the girl I loved.

Courtney sighs and the ponytail stills. “It’s Christmas Eve, Isaiah. She showed early and brought you presents. She’s waited patiently for a thirty-minute visitation that should have ended forty minutes ago.”

Waited. Patiently. My neck tightens and I roll it from side to side to keep from blowing steam at the wrong person. “Ten years.”

I throw those two words at her every time she mentions my mother. Courtney drops her chin to her throat. “Don’t do this. She had her reasons, and she wants to talk to you.”

I raise my voice and pound my hand against the steering wheel. “Ten years!”

“It could have been fifteen, but she was a model prisoner,” she says, as if that was a concession on Mom’s part. “She wrote you once a week.”