And he knew she was right—at least, on the surface. His self-doubt never left, but he also knew he would be good at it—if he applied himself. Well before the accident, one of the things that set the twins apart was his own charisma. He was just a happier child than his brother was He’d always been less introspective and more able to accept reality as it was.
Eliah wanted to think all the time, Jude just wanted to live in the moment. He craved the rush of adrenaline in everything he did, and it never seemed to matter how reckless his choices were. He always felt invincible.
It was why he had darted across the street the day of the accident. It was why he had laughed at the top of his lungs as he ran into traffic, narrowly weaving around cars and hoping Eliah was watching with his heart in his throat.
Had he known then what he did now, he probably still would have done it, but he wouldn’t have allowed Eliah to wait for the light. He would have taken Eliah by the hand first and forced him to echo Jude’s steps.
The thought of what life might have been like if he’d pushed his brother to be a little bit more like him was haunting. It was the very reason he woke up at night with the sound of Eliah’s screams and squealing tires and crunching metal echoing in his ears. It was why he panicked every now and again when he saw the inside of a hospital waiting room or smelled the stench of antiseptic.
His own recklessness might have saved his brother, but his desire to have Eliah watch him take chances had ruined his brother’s life.
It was impossible not to feel the blame still resting on his shoulders, even if it hadn’t been him behind the wheel.
Dragging a hand down his face, he thought about his desk—about that letter of resignation sitting there. About more than one educated, willing, ready person who would fill his shoes better than he could. And if he really did send it, he would be fine. He’d do something else with his life that brought just as much meaning—or at the very least, lacked the same amount. He wasn’t sure what, yet, but it didn’t matter. He’d find a way to reshape his faith to fit into whatever new life he chose.
His mother had expected him to be a life-long scholar and maybe meet someone and fall in love. Buy a house. Have a family. His parents had never been quite average—both a little eccentric and wild—but they still had rigid ideas of what happiness should be, and Jude had always felt a bit suffocated by that.
He knew, at least for him, that happiness wouldn’t come in the form of a picket fence and a dog and chubby-cheeked toddlers. But he also knew that this life had no hope of bringing him peace or contentment, no matter how hard he tried.
He was not a miserable man—he was just…a little lost.
The tea began to work through his veins, so he jumped into the shower and scrubbed the last bits of that young man from his skin before he slipped into more formal clothes. He hated the way they made him feel—all stuffy and buttoned-up. Eliah had always loved looking prim. It made him feel proper and mature where Jude wanted to rip the sleeves off every single button-up and cut holes in his jeans.
But he’d grown used to it now, and it was easier to avoid accusations of impropriety than take a stand over a bloody t-shirt.
He was perched at the end of his sofa tying his shoes when his phone rang, and before he even looked at the screen, he felt it. There was something wrong. He tasted danger on the tip of his tongue, and his hands shook a little as he reached for it.
His brother’s name was on the screen, and he had a feeling this phone call was about to change everything.
3
Kicks fucking hated driving south. Anything farther than Daytona set his teeth on edge, and most of it was that he didn’t like being so far from the club in case shit went down. But the rest of it was the heat, humidity, and the people. He hadn’t been in Florida as long as Smokey or Gunner, but it hadn’t taken him long to feel comfortable where he was at, and he didn’t like being outside of his bubble.
The drive was only two hours, but he felt like he had a demon nipping at his heels as he wove through traffic. There were enough bikes on the road that his neck got sore trying to see whether or not they were wearing a cut—and whether or not he needed to take cover, and he never did shake the feeling that he was being watched.
It almost felt too easy when he pulled up to the shitty little hotel attached to a roadside diner and gas station, and he checked his phone again for the room number before he stomped up the rickety stairs and down the little walkway to the door. Swiping his palms down his jeans, Kicks curled his fist and knocked, waiting impatiently as he saw the peephole darken with an eye.
“Uh. Smokey sent me,” Kicks offered through the door when it didn’t budge. He knew he didn’t have the friendliest face, but he also knew that Smokey had chosen him because he could pull off something like normal better than anyone else in the Chains. Of all the guys in the club, he was the one strangers rarely looked at twice. Though, he wasn’t sure that was helping his cause at the moment because the guy wasn’t letting him in. “Look man, I really don’t want to cause a fuckin’ scene here, but if you don’t let me in…”
His words were cut off when the door swung open, and he came face to face with the professor’s brother.
Kicks hadn’t really been sure what to expect from the guy. He knew that he was a rabbi and that he worked at a synagogue in Port St. Lucie. His experience with someone like that came from shit on TV where they wore wide-brimmed hats and had curls by their temples and long beards.
This man was none of that.
At all.
He stood there with a towel around the back of his neck, his brows dipped in a faint scowl. He was about as tall as Kicks was, with neatly trimmed, wet dark curls that were dripping water over his forehead. He was probably somewhere in his forties judging by the lines in the corners of his eyes, but he wore it fucking well. He looked like he’d dressed in a hurry, his jeans still unbuttoned, and his t-shirt rucked up on one side, and Kicks took a long minute to stare at the well-defined biceps before he got ahold of himself.
“Uh. Can I…” He gestured to the room beyond the rabbi.
The guy raised his brows, then gestured for Kicks to come in. The room smelled rank—like old booze and a faint undercurrent of piss and meth smoke. The tang of it stung his nostrils, and he swiped a hand over his face before turning to the guy.
“Sorry, I was just stepping out of the shower. Eliah told me to expect you quite a bit later than this.” His accent was very prim, his voice was surprisingly soft, with a hint of deep-chested rumble and authority like he was used to commanding people.
The thought of that made Kicks’ stomach twist in ways he hadn’t expected, but it was quickly overrun by how desperately he wanted to get the fuck out of that room. “Yeah, well. Here I am. You ready to go?”
The guy blinked at him, then rolled his eyes, which seemed very non-religious-leader of him. “I suppose I’ve not much choice in the matter. Give me a second to grab my things.” He gestured to a suitcase, and Kicks snorted a laugh.
“Yeah, uh. That shit ain’t coming with us.” He glanced around and spied a plastic bag from Publix on the table. “Throw what you can in there.”
The man let out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t think so. My brother told me to pack a bag…”