We drive with the windows open, the air filled with a warm, dry wind. Slade seems to become agitated, clutching the steering wheel at random intervals, as though he’s filled with anxiety. I stay quiet, not wanting to make it worse.

Twenty minutes and an entire playlist of grunge later, we pull up to a small and dilapidated-looking house. This can’t be the restaurant, can it? The gravel driveway crunches beneath the wheels of his truck. I look around, trying to find a name, but it’s unmarked.

“Wait. What are we doing here? This isn’t the restaurant, is it?” For reasons I can’t comprehend, my own anxiety builds.

“Just stopping here to pick up a few things. Wanted to come earlier but the timing didn’t work out. Be back in ten.” Moving a heavy arm to the back of my seat, he turns his head to back into a spot. Stopping the car and turning off the engine, he hops out, slamming the door with a thud.

I want to call out to him, ask more questions, but my sense of self-preservation tells me to shut up and be quiet.

The car beeps as he locks me inside. That’s when I notice a row of bikes in black and chrome sitting together like a foreboding gate. My heart quickens.

Oh shit. Is this a motorcycle club?

I pause, staring at this derelict den and wondering what the hell he’s doing inside this place. Slade seems to say a few words to the guy at the door, wearing a black leather vest, before entering. I sink low into my seat, hoping not to draw any attention to myself as I wait. I grip my phone but won’t turn it on, for fear that someone would see the light and know there was a lone person inside. This is dangerous, and I feel it in my bones.

14

Slade

The kid hanging out by the door is youngish-looking with a tough, acne-ridden face and leather vest with one small patch on the front that says, PROSPECT.

The farmhouse is smoky and full of club members and their friends. I look around, trying to find Lion in the crowd. Quickly spotting the shaved head, leather cut, and trademark smirk, I walk over.

“Get the fuck outta here,” Lion growls, baring his teeth at some girl with long black dreads hanging down her back.

She’s wearing nothing more than a white T-shirt and jean shorts so small that I can see the underside of her ass.

“You’re a piece of shit,” she hisses. “I’ll never give him up.”

“Bitch, that’s my son. You can die in a ditch for all I care. But, if you take my boy away …”

He lifts his hand, grabbing the base of her throat. The woman’s face is stricken with fear, staring at Lion as though he were the devil incarnate. He isn’t choking her, but she is scared to death.

Her breaths are labored when he says, “Alicia, if you take my boy from me, I’ll fucking shoot you in the head myself.” Her body shivers so hard that I can see the tremor moving through her small frame. “Deliver our son to the clubhouse at noon on Sunday. And get out,” he yells.