The picnic table shakes as Pigpen climbs it from behind, then plants himself next to me. “We should change your road name to F-U-F. Fucked-Up and Forlorn.”
I flip him off and pocket my phone.
“It’s going to get better,” he says. My father chooses a seat on a bench about fifty yards away. “You’ve done good trusting us and I promise it’s going to get better.”
I haven’t seen Breanna since the night of the bridge. Dad, Eli and I brought Breanna home bruised, scratched up and dirt-stained and we were met on her front lawn by her pissed-off father. When the instinct was to toss Breanna on the back of my bike and take off for good, Dad and Eli asked me to trust them. To trust the club. To leave and trust them to fix everything with Breanna’s parents.
Killed me to do it, but I left. One month later, she’s gone and I still think about her. I still love her. I’m still trusting the club.
“Rebecca had lunch with her mom again,” Pigpen says, and I pop my neck to the side. Rebecca’s a nurse. Breanna’s mom works in accounting at the hospital. They’re bound to share a lunch hour. But there’s more to it than that. Rebecca and Breanna’s mom never talked before the day of the train bridge, but Rebecca has been trying to bridge the gap between the club and the Millers by using lunch.
My cell vibrates once, then again. I don’t bother checking the messages. They’re nondelivery notices from Breanna’s disconnected cell. Each one tears off pieces of my heart. “Found the fifth guy yet?”
Pigpen frowns. “He’s been slippery, but I’ve got him. I’ll be fucking up his world real soon.”
Pigpen produced hard evidence against Kyle and his three other buddies who had been using that Bragger site to blackmail girls from school. All of them were suspended. All of them blackballed from whatever team or after-school activity they were on. Because the justice system is messed up, no one’s sure on criminal charges yet, but Kyle told the truth—Breanna had been his sole target.
Because of that, she’s refusing to press charges against Kyle as long as he meets with a counselor every week until he does graduate. The asshole’s doing it, too, and I know for sure because I follow him there and then make sure he leaves an hour later. Breanna will get her last Snowflake wish.
Pigpen pats my shoulder. “Heads up because we’re live. Your dad gave the sign.”
Dad’s flashing two fingers. Download before we left was that someone involved with the Riot was defecting and is willing to pass us info that could protect our club. Dad, being the sergeant at arms, volunteered to be in the line of fire to meet with this person to see if he’s legit.
I scan the area and Pigpen stiffens. “Son of a bitch.”
I’m off the table. That’s my father. He and I might not have figured out our crap yet, but he’s still my dad. Pigpen jumps off as well but snatches my arm, gripping me like he means to cause pain.
“That’s my younger brother.” Pigpen reacts like a viper coiled and ready to strike.
Shock ripples through me like a drop of rain in a puddle. Pigpen and I have been tight for years and it twists my gut how little I know about him. First the fact his father rode, possibly still rides with the Riot, and now that his brother does, too.
Pigpen starts to turn and I shove at his chest. “Stay back.”
“Fucking cute, but that’s my brother.”
“And that’s my father. We agreed to a plan. Trust the club, remember?”
Pigpen practically snarls at me, but he retakes his seat on top of the picnic table. “I liked you better rogue.”
“No, you didn’t.” My attention flickers between Pigpen and Dad. The guy about my age walks up to the bench and Dad scoots over. Pigpen’s brother sits.
“Stupid kid,” Pigpen mutters. “Didn’t check his six before he sat down. I like you better true to the club, but in this moment, it sucks.”
Convinced Pigpen isn’t going to rush his blood brother, I settle back beside him. “Guessing you didn’t know he was the defector?” Which suggests Pigpen’s brother didn’t reach out to him, but to another member of the Terror.
“I also liked you better mute,” he mumbles.
Even though Pigpen’s stinging, I can’t help the slight tilt of my lips. “No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t,” he repeats. “Our club won’t take him if he patched in to the Riot.”
I may be expressing myself more, but there are times when a man talks that he needs people to be silent. This is one of those times. After a few minutes of watching Pigpen’s brother talk and watching my father listen, I attempt to be the man Breanna brought out in me. “Maybe he hasn’t patched in yet. Maybe he’s seeking asylum with us before he gets that far.”
Pigpen works his jaw like my attempt at hope is fruitless, but he says, “Maybe.”
His brother offers my dad his hand and, after two beats of glaring him down, Dad accepts. The tension leaves my body when Pigpen’s brother strides across the street. At least that didn’t collapse into an ambush and then an all-out dogfight.
Dad switches his attention to us, and when he locks eyes with me, he jerks his head for me to join him. With one are-you-going-to-live glance at Pigpen, he rolls his eyes, and I sit with Dad on the bench.
He says nothing as the two of us check out the passing traffic. Two red lights and a near collision of a minivan with a pickup later, Dad speaks. “Three o’clock might interest you.”