The Four Stages of Loving Dutch Owen - Debra Kayn Page 0,39

behind him.

As they stood at attention, waiting for the guard to lock the gang-chain around each of their wrists, Dutch whispered, "You're a dead man."

The first chance he had, he'd kill the motherfucker.

Chapter 17

SKULL WALKED INTO THE house. Trudging behind him, Marla veered to the hallway. She thought they'd never leave the clubhouse.

"Don't forget to bring your dirty clothes to the laundry room. I'll start a load for you," said Rachel behind her, shutting the door.

"Fine." She stood in her bedroom and looked around at the scattering of clothes everywhere.

If they would've let her stay home today, she could've done the washing. She hadn't wanted to go hang out at the clubhouse. There was nobody her age there, only the adults.

Scooping everything up in her arms, she dumped them in the empty basket and carried her laundry to Rachel.

"Good Lord, Marla. When is the last time you've done your laundry?"

"I don't know." She dumped everything into the washing machine.

"Hang on." Rachel moved in front of her, reaching inside and pulling out a sweater. "You need to separate them.

"It doesn't matter," she mumbled.

Rachel sighed and took the basket out of her hands. "I'll do it. Go ahead and make sure your homework is done. Tomorrow's a school day."

"It's done."

"Then, go copy your work schedule for the week. Make sure you put it on the fridge, so we know where you'll be."

"Fine." She walked back to her room.

Digging through her backpack, she found the paper she needed and sat down at the desk to search for a pen.

The phone rang. She jotted down the days and hours she'd need to go to the feed store. At least she'd have twelve hours of pay on her check this week. It would only take her two more months to have enough money to buy the used car she'd already checked out at Bellevue Auto.

"Marla," yelled Skull.

"Yeah?"

"Phone."

She put the pen in the drawer. "Who is it?"

All her friends knew to call her cell phone, but lately, only Alyssa stayed in contact with her.

"It's Dutch. Hurry up," said Skull.

She jumped from the chair and grabbed the cordless phone in the hallway. "I've got it. You can hang up."

Inside her room, she closed the door. "Dutch?"

"Yeah."

She sagged in relief, plopping down on the edge of the bed. "What happened? Are you okay? Are you in trouble? You didn't call on Wednesday."

"Slow down." He paused. "I'm good. I got in a little scrap, and they kept me from the phones."

Her heart raced. "You're okay."

"I said I was."

She wanted to know more. Every time she went to visitation, he seemed to have gotten in a fight. There were always cuts and bruises on his body, even though he ignored all the injuries.

It wasn't like he was fighting at the clubhouse. He was in prison. Anything could happen.

"Ready for school tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yeah." She looked around her room. "I spent the day at the clubhouse."

"What's going on there?"

"Nothing." She leaned back and placed her head on the pillow. "Rachel and Skull wanted to go and hang out with everyone. Nobody was there that I wanted to see, so I spent most of the time sitting outside."

"Is it sunny?"

Sometimes, his questions seemed silly until she remembered that he wouldn't know what the weather was like or why the WAKOM members gathered at the clubhouse.

She closed her eyes, imagining what it would be like for him not to see the outside world. "Really hot. Around eighty-five degrees."

"What were you doing outside?"

"Getting a tan."

"What were you wearing?"

She put her left hand on her stomach. "A tank top—the red one with spaghetti straps. A pair of cutoffs with a pair of Vans. So, I'll probably wake up tomorrow with another line mark on my shoulder, but it gets rid of the tan marks on my arm when I wear T-shirts at the feed store."

He grunted. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, remembering the way he'd get tan on his arms without even trying. The long hours on the road, wearing a leather vest, the sleeves of his T-shirt would blow up to his shoulders in the wind, showing off his muscles.

She bet he missed his Harley.

"Skull brought your motorcycle home. It's in the garage," she said.

"Is he starting it?"

"Twice a week."

"Good."

She swallowed, hating how every time she walked into the garage, she got excited, thinking he had come to the house to see her.

Then, she hated how she forgot that he was in prison. Sometimes, it made her feel as if