Wind Therapy - A.J. Downey Page 0,45
to Dragon from our sitting position.
“Your boy got a death wish going up against Reaver in a knife fight?” Dragon asked. Mav smiled and shook his head.
“Reaver asked and Fen isn’t one to back down from a challenge. He may surprise us,” Maverick said.
Dragon gazed out over the sand at the two of them who locked hands around the other’s forearm in a strange handshake.
Dragon grunted and said, “I doubt it. No offense.”
“Truth be told, I think the only thing those two do match up in is they’re both fuckin’ crazy,” Mav said.
Dragon chuckled and nodding, said, “I know that’s right.”
“Sun’s gettin’ real low,” Buff said, and Dragon nodded.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” he said with a heavy sigh and he plodded forward, out toward the dock.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“Memorial,” Maverick murmured.
“Oh.”
He urged me up, and it seemed everyone was filtering down to the lakeside – and I do mean everyone – from club member to ol’ lady, prospect to prostituta del club.
I stayed by Maverick’s side and drifted along the sand with him to a place at the water’s edge.
Paper lanterns were being passed through the crowd, the sun dipping low in the sky, darkness starting to rise from the water and filter out from the surrounding trees, creeping out from doorways and seeping from beneath the lodge’s deck. Bics and Zippos alike clicked, flints hissing and spitting, flames passing among the tea light candles as Dragon gave his benediction from the dock.
It was beautiful. Even more beautiful still when Sunshine, one of the ol’ ladies from the mother chapter that I’d met and hung with earlier in the day, began to sing as paper lanterns sailed softly out on the water, pinpoints of softly glimmering light to match the holes poked by God in the sky, letting his heavenly light shine through the dark.
I kissed my thumbnail and pressed my knuckle to forehead, heart, and each shoulder in the sign of the cross, murmuring my good wishes and prayers into the night.
The somber moment flitted along the breeze filling each of us in turn with deep emotion, the heaviness of the moment gradually lifting, dissipating slowly like thick and heavy mist under the onslaught of rising temperatures.
The rising temperatures in this case were more due to the free flow of alcohol and the excitement of the impending fights, though. Maverick had me go get him another beer while he chatted with some of the other guys. When I returned, one of them looked me over in a way that made my skin crawl. I didn’t know him, had never seen him in Washington, anyway.
“So, she your ol’ lady?” he asked, licking his bottom lip suggestively while staring at me a little too hard, a little too long.
God, he was old enough to be my father! Dirty, hair stringy around the red bandana that cut a wide swath across his forehead, his face had a scar that ran in a vertical seam under one eye in a straight line to disappear under his chin.
His dirty patched vest read ‘Dumpster’ and honestly it fit for a variety of reasons.
Maverick’s smile never faltered as he tucked his arm over my shoulders and drew me into his side.
“She’s with me,” he said flatly, and Dumpster’s eyebrows went up.
“Yeah, but is she your ol’ lady?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Maverick declared and reiterated with emphasis, “She’s with me, brother.”
“Alright,” Dumpster said with a laugh, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, no disrespect.”
“None taken, no lines crossed,” Maverick said but his look wasn’t friendly or nearly as nonchalant as the motion of taking a swig from his beer.
“No lines crossed,” Dumpster echoed, eyeing me one last time. I suddenly felt an extreme need to shower as we all shifted and started heading for the ring drawn in the sand.
The back of Dumpster’s vest read ‘New Mexico’ and I was grateful that our paths would likely never meet again. Still, I tucked myself a little tighter into Maverick’s side and made sure that if for some reason I couldn’t stay close to him that I would remain close to one of the other guys who had ridden out here with us.
I felt better when Tic-Tac and Derry walked over and took up the space on the other side of me from Maverick. I felt even better when Mav muttered to them, “Keep an eye on him where Marisol is concerned,” when Dumpster’s retreating back was far enough out of earshot.
“You got it, Boss,” Derry said,