Running with the Pack

“What’s the problem?” Price asked.

T.J. wondered if he really came across that nervous, that transparent. He was trying to be steady. “The crash last week. What really happened?”

Price shrugged. “You were there. You saw the whole thing.”

T.J. shook his head. “Yeah. I saw it. You shouldn’t be standing here—your legs were smashed, your whole body twisted up. Everyone else can write it off and say you were lucky, but I’m not buying it. What really happened?”

He expected Price to deny it, to wave him away and tell him he was crazy. But the guy just looked at him, a funny smile playing on his lips. “Why do you want to know? Why so worked up over it?”

So much for playing it cool. “I need help.”

“And why do you think I can help you? What makes you think I can just hand over my good luck?”

He was right. T.J.’s own panic had gotten the better of him, and he’d gone grasping at soap bubbles. Whatever he’d seen on the day of the crash had been his own wishful thinking. He’d wanted to see the impossible.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Never mind.” Ducking to hide his blush, he turned away, looking for a place to set his untasted beer before he fled.

“Kid, wait a minute,” Price called him back, and T.J. stopped. “What’s your name?”

“T.J.”

“What would you say if I told you you’re right?”

“About what?”

“I’m invincible. I can’t be killed. Not by a little old crash, anyway. Now—what are you looking to get saved from? What are you so scared of?”

Now that he’d said it, T.J. didn’t believe him. Price was making fun of him. And how much worse would it be if T.J. actually told him? He turned to leave again.

“Hey. Seriously. What’s wrong? Why are you so scared of dying that you need me?”

T.J. took a long draw on the beer, then said, “I just tested positive for HIV.” It was the first time he’d said it out loud. It almost hurt.

“Rough,” Price said.

“Yeah.” T.J. kicked his toe in the dirt. And what did he expect Price say to him? What could anyone say? Nothing.

“Hey,” Price said, and once again T.J. had to turn back, obeying the command in his voice. “What are you willing to do to turn that around? You willing to become a monster?”

“You talk to some people, I already am,” T.J. said, putting on a lopsided smile.

“You know about the Dustbowl?”

“Yeah.”

“Stop by tonight, seven or seven-thirty. If you’re really sure.”

“Sure about what?” he asked.

“Just show up and I’ll explain it all.” He walked away, past the trailer to the cab of the truck. Meeting over.

It seemed like an obvious trap—he’d show up and walk into a beating. The Dustbowl was one of the bars up the road; some of the riders liked to hang out there. Not Gary—he was serious about riding and didn’t feel much of a need to show how tough he was off the track. T.J. had stayed away; the place had an uncomfortable vibe to it, a little too edgy, though it was hard to tell if the atmosphere was just for show. He preferred drinking at one of the larger bars, where he didn’t stand out so much.

He didn’t know whether to believe there really was something different about Price, something that had saved him from the awful wreck, or if Price was making fun of him. He could check it out. Just step in and step back out again if he didn’t like the look of the place. Make sure Mitch knew where he was going in case something happened and he vanished.

That would solve his problems real quick, wouldn’t it?

He hitched a ride with some friends of Mitch who were on their way into town. T.J. must have sounded convincing when he said he was meeting somebody and that everything was okay. The sun was close to setting, washing out the sky to a pale yellow, and summer heat radiated off the dusty earth. The air was hot, sticky, making his breath catch.

The Dustbowl was part of a row of simple wooden buildings set up to look like an old-west street, but without disguising the modern shingles, windows, and neon beer signs. At one end was a barbeque place that T.J. had heard was pretty mediocre but cheap. The place smelled like overcooked pork, which made his stomach turn.

Walking into the bar alone, he felt like an idiot. Not just a loser, but a loser looking for trouble. The bullies would be drawn to him. He had to shake off the feeling—if he looked scared, of course he’d get picked on. He straightened, rounded his shoulders, and took a deep breath to relax. He had to look at ease, like he belonged.

Feeling a little more settled in his skin—he tried to convince himself that everyone in the half-filled room wasn’t staring at him—he went to the bar, ordered a Coke, and asked if Alex Price was here.

“He might be in back,” the bartender said. “That guy’s nuts—did you see his crash last week?”

“Yeah,” T.J. said. “I had a front row seat. It was bad.”

“And he gets up and walks away. Crazy.” Shaking his head, the bartender turned away.

T.J. put his back to the bar and looked around. TV screens mounted in the corners showed baseball. Tables and chairs were scattered, without any particular order to them. A waitress in a short skirt delivered a tray of beers to a table of mechanics from the track. No sign of Price. He’d give it the time it took to finish the Coke, resisting the urge to upend it and down the whole thing in a go.

Halfway through, a woman came out a door in back and sauntered along the bar toward him. She was petite, cute, with softly curling brown hair bouncing around her shoulders and a size too small T-shirt showing off curves.

“Are you the guy looking for Alex?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Come on back, he’s waiting for you.” She gave him a wide smile and tipped her head to the back door.

And if that didn’t look like a bad situation. . . “There a reason he can’t talk to me out here?”

“Not scared, are you? Come on, you can trust me.” She sidled closer, gazing up at him with half-lidded eyes and brushing a finger up his arm.

He never knew in these situations if he should tell her she was wasting her efforts, or just let her have her fun. He let it go and went with her. He was good enough in a fight—he just wouldn’t let anyone get between him and the door. It would be okay.

She led him through a hallway with a concrete floor and aged walls. A swinging door on the left opened to a kitchen; doors on the right were labeled as men’s and women’s restrooms. At the end of the hall was a storage closet. Through there, another door opened into a huge garage—four, maybe five cars could fit inside. Nobody out front would hear him if he yelled. He tried not to be nervous.

A tall, windowless overhead door was closed and locked. A few cardboard boxes and a steel tool closet were pushed up against the walls. Right in the middle sat a steel cage, big enough to hold a lion. A dozen or so people were gathered around the cage. Alex Price stood at the head of the group, drawn straight and tall, his arms crossed.

Oh, this did not look good. T.J. turned to go back the way he’d come, hoping to make it a confident walk instead of a panicked run.

The woman grabbed his arm. “No no, wait, we’re not going to hurt you.” Her flirting manner was gone.

T.J. brushed himself out of her grip and put his back to the wall. She gave him space, keeping her hands raised and visible. None of the others had moved. Their gazes were curious, amused, watchful, suspicious—but not hateful. Not bloodthirsty.

Price just kept smiling. “The cage isn’t for you, kid,” he said. “Remember when I asked you if you’re willing to become a monster?”

T.J. shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I can cure you, but it won’t be easy.”

“It never is,” T.J. said. He met Price’s gaze and held it, refusing to be scared of this guy. “I still don’t understand.”

“We’re a pack,” he said, nodding at the people gathered around him. “We’ve talked it over, and we can help you. But you have to really want it.”

“Pack,” T.J. said. “Not a gang?”

“No.”

The people only looked like a group because they were standing together; they didn’t look anything alike—three were women, a couple of the men were young, maybe even younger than T.J. A couple wore jeans and T-shirts, a couple looked like bikers, like Price. One guy was in a business suit, the tie loosened, his jacket over his arm. One of the women wore a skirt and blouse. They were normal—shockingly normal, considering they were standing in an empty garage behind a bar, next to a large steel cage. T.J. felt a little dizzy.

“He’s not going to believe anything until we show him, Alex,” the woman with the curling brown hair said.

“Believe what?” T.J. said, off balance, nearing panic again. She had a sly, smiling look in her eyes.

“You want to do it?” Price said to her.

“Yeah. Sure.” She looked at T.J., then quickly grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Her skin was hot—T.J. hadn’t realized that his hands were cold. She whispered, “I want to help. I really do.” Then she went to the cage.