“Did any girl ever come up pregnant and say it was mine?” I ask after a long silence.
“No.”
“If that ever happens, don’t scare her off. I want to know my kid.”
“Big talk now, but wait until some slut wants to raise your kid.”
Again, I keep my mouth shut. My words would hurt Mom, but she understands how my silence is a dig at her, too. The longer I sit here, saying nothing, the more she knows I think poorly of her. Contrary to what the club guys and their wives believe, I’m no one’s emotional punching bag. My mom fucks with me plenty, but I know how to poke her right back. I’m just sneakier, meaning I get the payoff without the guilt trip or consequences.
That’s my problem, though. I tend to analyze issues until the answers lose all meaning. I’m doing the same with Monroe—treating her like a dilemma to dissect rather than a person to know. Much of my hesitation comes from worrying she couldn’t live up to my fantasies about her. Not to mention, I worried about the ribbing and consequences of realizing she and I weren’t going to work. How does one un-call dibs on a bunny without looking like a fool?
My life involves too much waiting, analyzing, and worrying. I’ve lost the impulse to take charge and chance fucking up. I got a taste of that rash side of myself while hunting the Killing Joes with Aja. Yet, I returned to Elko and fell back into my old bad habits.
I need to accept Bronco won’t retire until I’m too old to care. I’ll never become the president of the Elko Executioners Motorcycle Club. And Monroe might be the opposite of everything I need. Those are the hard facts, but I need to own them and face the consequences of what they mean.
Tomorrow, I’ll start risking everything.
MONROE
The word ‘grumpy’ doesn’t do my mood justice. All night, I tossed and turned. My mind replayed my life’s crappy parts. Then, I imagine learning my father isn’t Lowell and my mother’s been wrong—or lying—for two decades. I actually see the test results and feel the shock and disappointment. My brain swears I need to prepare, but my heart needs a break from worrying.
Finally, I force myself to count down from a hundred while imagining myself back on Conor’s motorcycle. I zero in on every little detail—the heat from his body as I wrapped my arms around it, his rich male scent, the feel of his shirt’s fabric against my cheek, the powerful engine’s rumble between my legs. Yeah, that finally does it, and I crash hard.
But morning arrives too soon, and I wake to an alert on my phone. Topanga sends a nearby testing clinic’s address. She says my appointment is at ten while Lowell’s is at eight.
“I don’t think the test comes back that fast. It won’t be like Maury,” Amity explains while sipping her black coffee later.
“Who?”
“Maury Povich. He used to do talk shows where he’d announce who the baby’s father was. He’d say really dramatic, ‘You are not the father.’ Then, the audience would go bonkers. Real trashy stuff.”
“I missed your point.”
Amity gives me a half-grin. “Real life isn’t like that. You’ll go take a test and then leave. Then, hours or days later, you’ll get the results. Probably in the mail. I think Bronco found out about his daughter, Carina, after a day. Didn’t take long, but it wasn’t like right away. So, get your blood drawn and then focus on the fun stuff.”
“How did you know about the Bronco thing?”
“He wasn’t celibate before Lana. I fucked him the night before he went to Kentucky. All the girls wanted to be with Bronco. He’s hot and good in bed. Some guys aren’t as much. I mean hot or good in bed, you know? Bronco is, so him having a surprise baby with a stranger was big news. Everyone was gossiping. Bambi and Barbie were convinced the kid wasn’t his, even though I guess Carina looks like his family. I don’t see it. They say Carina has the same nose as Barbie, but who the fuck can tell about a nose?”
Grinning, I think of the only time I saw Bronco’s family. The bunnies were at a carnival-themed party in the Woodlands. Mostly, we babysat the kids while their parents went on rides. Bronco sure makes some good-looking girls. The youngest—Carina—kept high-fiving me and wanting to drink my coffee.
Through the entire carnival event, my mind was focused on Lowell’s son, Dunning. Mostly, I kept trying to spot a resemblance to me as proof to feed my fantasy. My possible-brother looks like Lowell but with Topanga’s blue eyes and hair closer to her blonde than his dark brown. In all honesty, I never saw even the smallest amount of resemblance between us.
Yet, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I sit down to take my blood test while completely convinced about my mom’s story. Needy offered too many details about Lowell, and I know she kept a journal throughout her life. I do the same. She taught me to write down my feelings. I only stopped when I moved to Elko because I was afraid of spies.
I choose to believe my mom. How many times did Needy look me in the eyes when she spoke of my hotshot dad? I refuse to believe she lied. Until I get my own Maury Povich “he is not the father” moment, I won’t throw my mom under the bus.
“You’re in full-on pout mode,” Conor says as he strolls over to my blue sedan after I park at the sandwich shop. “Why not smile more? I heard women are big fans of being told that.”
Ignoring his teasing, I explain, “I’m preparing for the worst but believing in the best. Whatever that means.”
“Your face doesn’t know you’re aiming for happy,” he says and gestures for me to exit the car. “Fattening food and sudsy beer will put you in a better state of mind.”
“And the company can’t hurt,” I say, shutting the door and scanning the road for any familiar faces.
Conor follows my gaze. “One day, you’ll need to tell me who you’re hiding from. That’s the only way I’ll be able to keep an eye out for them, too.”
I study his handsome face, noticing a small scar along his hairline near his right ear. With nothing to lose, I reach up and run my index finger down the white mark. This simple touch lights a fire behind his eyes. I’m not surprised when his hand slides across my cheek. He waits to see if I lean into his embrace. I can’t deny myself. Trust isn’t easy. Hope is even more difficult. But Conor is irresistible when he opens up even the smallest bit. His cool James Dean vibe falls back into the shadows, allowing me to see the passionate man hiding underneath.
I flinch at the sound of someone calling out a name. Leaning so I can see around Conor, I realize the man is calling for “Roy,” not “Roe.”
“I don’t feel safe out here,” I tell him when his mood hardens.
“Tell me the story, and I can make sure these people don’t have free rein in Elko. It’s that easy.”
Studying his face, I struggle to say, “No.”
“Why?” he asks, losing his easygoing vibe.
“Because yesterday, I got slapped and embarrassed and rejected. Today or tomorrow, I might learn Mom was wrong, and I came to Elko based on a mistake. Let me deal with those things before I dig deeper into the pool of painful bullshit I’m carrying around, okay?”