I hate it here. It’s small, and ugly, and backward, and there’s nothing to do, it’s laughable how pathetic all this is, these aren’t even ops, I’m working with petty, small-town drug dealers, and I hate – I hate–” He was hyperventilating.
Fox took a firm grip on his biceps, and though he was taller, and yes, as much as he hated to admit it, stronger than Fox, he was kitten-weak now, and he came when Fox towed him in and enfolded him in a tight, bracing hug. Gripped the back of his neck and let his own body absorb the hard shakes of his. Rocked him a little, side to side.
Abe had done this for him, more than once, when he was a teenager, and the rabid, uncontrollable fury at Devin had come boiling out at the eyes and nose, pathetic, wet dribbles that made him feel helpless and babyish. “This is normal,” he said, because that was what Abe had told him. “You are normal, and anger is normal, and you can’t hold it. You have to let it out. Good lad.”
Tenny shuddered.
“Life is hard,” Fox said, in as soothing a voice as he could manage. “It’s hard enough for ordinary people, but it’s harder still when you’ve been given the kind of knowledge that you have and then dropped like you have. I won’t lie and say it gets easier – only that, over time, it’s easier to pretend. The anger gets less bitter on the back of the tongue.”
Tenny sucked in a ragged breath. “He’s not angry.”
“No, he’s not. But haven’t we already established that he’s better than you?” Fox teased.
“He’s sweet.”
“He is.”
“He gave me my name.”
“I know he did.”
“I love him.”
“I know you do.”
Another breath. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You could try telling him.” That earned a hard shiver. “Or maybe start by trying to be less of a massive dick to everyone all the time.”
That earned a snort, and Fox smiled, as the sun faded blue and gold across the water in dancing crescents.
Forty-Two
Albany, NY
Mav squinted up at the leaden sky and watched a silent tongue of lightning flicker between the clouds. “It’s gonna rain, boys.” Thunder, distant and rolling, like a bowling ball down a lane. “Scratch that, it’s gonna storm. We gotta hurry this up.”
“We’re hurrying!”
Frankie was, but Stu definitely wasn’t.
“Fuckin’ – lift with your legs!” Frankie shouted at him.
“I’m trying!”
Mav cast another glance at the sky and was rewarded by another flash of lightning.
For the past five years, the headquarters of the New York chapter of the Lean Dogs MC had resided in a two-story brick house in the middle of a subdivision that had grown decidedly more hostile about late night bike start-ups and loud parties as time went by. They’d long since worn out their welcome; what had started as a temporary situation, a place for them to have church – the president, Marco’s, own home – had turned into a semi-permanent occupation. Marco’s wife, April, had grudgingly made room for larger sofas, and even a pool table, and her downstairs had been overrun by bikers and biker memorabilia.
They’d finally secured a new place, though: a proper industrial building with a bike shop in front, and a clubhouse in back, separated by a concrete lot where they could string up lights and a pavilion, and party all night, with drum fires and everything.
Today was moving day.
If these idiots would get a move on.
Frankie and Stu had been trying unsuccessfully for at least fifteen minutes now to navigate one of the long, sectional couches in through the back door of the new clubhouse. Stu almost dropped his end again, and Mav stepped forward with a sigh. It seemed he had to do everything around here. They couldn’t even find a prospect who knew how to use a mop properly.
He stepped in next to the kid and added his own hands to the arm of the sofa. “Here, we’ve gotta get it higher so the angles will work. On three, ready? One, two–”
Later, when his eyes fluttered open at last in the hospital, he would remember what happened in quick, colorful snatches, all of it disjointed, pieced together with unmatched edges as he struggled to come up with the reasons why.
He would remember being picked up like a rag doll, being thrown. A terrible force like a wave knocking him back at the beach. Something heavy on top of him: the sofa. A flash of blinding light. And, belatedly, the sound.