I turned away from Bishop’s questioning gaze. With bile rising in my throat, I fought hard to keep my dinner down. Fucking Breakneck! I wanted nothing more in that moment than to beat his ass for dredging up the long-buried shit of my past. I also knew he was desperate for help, and in his desperation, he thought the best way to reach me was to appeal to that broken eleven-year-old boy he had treated.
Bishop cleared his throat. “Look, man. It’s not fair he’s playing on your tender heart. We can put out some feelers, do the best we can to find her.”
I shook my head. “No. I’ll handle this myself.”
“Excuse me?”
Flicking the cigarette onto the grass, I stomped out the glowing embers and met Bishop’s wide eyes. “You heard me.”
“How in the hell are you supposed to lead the club straight when you’re about to go death wish on the Henchmen?”
Grabbing him by the collar, I stared him down. “Don’t question me on this, Bishop. You keep what was said between us. Don’t go flapping your jaws to the other brothers. This stays contained—you got me?”
“Wait a minute. Does this have anything to do with what happened the night Pop killed that guy and left his church?”
I had to fight the urge not to close my hand tighter around Bishop’s throat. “Once again, don’t question me.”
Releasing him, I stalked off into the night. I had some calls to make, favors to call in, and packing to do. I’d be leaving before dawn. The unlikely hero had some avenging to do.
As I escaped my tormented unconsciousness, I came awake to find someone shaking the hell out of me. Flipping open my eyelids, I stared up into the concerned blue eyes of my brother Bishop. His hands gripped my shoulders so tight, I figured there would be marks left. “What the fuck, man?” I questioned, flinging him away.
He tumbled back on the mattress. “You were having one hell of a nightmare.”
I sighed as I rubbed my shoulders where his hands had been. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean I want to wake up to your ugly mug with morning breath in my face,” I replied, trying to ease the palpable tension in the air.
Bishop didn’t laugh. He didn’t make a move to get off the bed either. He continued staring at me like he hoped he could somehow work his will into making me talk. He’d been giving me the same stare for the past few days we’d been on the road. Whenever we’d stop for food or to gas up our bikes, I would find him staring at me, chewing his bottom lip like he wanted to say something. He had been desperate since three nights ago when Breakneck’s personal tragedy allowed Bishop a tiny glimpse at my long-buried secret.
Breaking the silence between us, I asked, “What time is our meeting with the El Paso Raiders?”
“Seven.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the glowing digital clock on the nightstand. “That doesn’t give us much time to make it across the state. Better get crackin’ and hit the road. You want the shower first?”
“Nah, you can have it.” As I rose off the mattress, Bishop said, “I’ll go grab us a quick breakfast.”
“Thanks, brother.”
When I started across the threadbare carpet to the bathroom, Bishop’s words froze me. “Rev … you know it doesn’t matter to me what the fuck happened to you—it ain’t gonna change a damn thing about the way I feel about you. No matter what, you’re my big brother and my prez.”
Since I was both too emotionally conflicted and too stubborn to respond, I ignored him and pushed on into the bathroom. After locking the door behind me, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. Two days of driving across Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana with minimal sleep had taken its physical toll. That, coupled with emotional stress, had left dark circles under my eyes. After packing up to leave so abruptly, I hadn’t bothered with a razor, so my beard was growing in. I looked like the hell that raged inside me.
Turning on the water full blast, I then stepped inside the shower. I placed my palms flat on the tiles and stood with my head under the stream. Rolling my shoulders, I tried to ease my tense muscles.
Two days ago felt like two years and another world ago. It was hard to imagine just forty-eight hours ago I’d been dancing and drinking at Deacon and Alexandra’s wedding. Then one phone call from the Raiders’ unofficial doctor, Bob “Breakneck” Edgeway, had changed everything.
Whenever I closed my eyes, I had my pick of which face would haunt me. It was either the sinister evil of my rapist or the fresh-faced innocence of Breakneck’s daughter. It had been five years since I had seen Sarah at any of the Raiders’ events. She’d been an awkward thirteen-year-old girl in braces who had spent most of the BBQ fawning over Eric, our then-president, Case’s, teenage son. Now she was a college freshman at Texas A&M. From the picture Breakneck had texted me, she’d grown into an auburn-haired beauty with an innocent smile—the kind of girl low-life traffickers always had a jonesing for.