Long Way Home. Katie McGarry
Chevy’s adorable smile falls into a frown and it’s really a shame. Brandon looks over at me for confirmation that I’m not mad at him for spilling about my fight with Mom, because I’ve reminded him several times that personal conversations should stay personal, and I step toward him, then briefly squeeze my fingers around his wrist.
My brother isn’t trying to tattle, he’s nervous being out in the dark and upset over the fight Mom and I had before we left for the game. He has a problem with letting negative emotions go. They circle his brain like vultures do with roadkill.
Headlights shine in the distance, and my shoulders relax. Last thing I want to do is get into a discussion with Chevy as to why I didn’t tell Mom that I handed Chevy my note. This has been an awful day, and I’m ready to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed for days, maybe weeks.
I step out onto the road, and using the flashlight app, wave to signal Mom. This isn’t the first time Dad’s car has broken down, and unfortunately, it won’t be the last. Mom has passed us before. Though I’m not convinced those times were a mistake as much as Mom attempting to teach me another lesson of how unsafe I am in the world.
Footsteps against the rocks and Chevy eases beside me. The car weaves in and out of the center lane, and my arm hesitates in the air as unease tiptoes through me.
Chevy places his hand on my biceps and forces it down. “That’s not your mom’s car.”
It’s not. Mom would never drive like that and those aren’t the headlights of a minivan. Those belong to something with some muscle. A scary sixth sense creeps along my skin.
Growling engines, then three single beams appear. Motorcycles. Those motorcycles aren’t chasing the car, they’re following. My stomach lurches as I stumble back. Chevy steps forward and he draws his knife out of the sheath.
I swallow as my hands begin to shake. The Terror never come from this direction unless they’re driving to see me and none of them have a muscle car they would be following. “Brandon, get back in the car.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
My internal warning system blares like a foghorn, and instead of slowing down, the car picks up speed. I grab Brandon’s arm and I shove him toward the passenger side. “Get in the car, lie down on the floorboard in the backseat and don’t pop your head up until I say.”
Brandon moves with me and slides in when I open his door, then close it behind him.
“Get in there with him, Violet,” Chevy demands. “In the backseat, on the floorboard.”
“They’ve already seen me,” I hiss. “Odds are they didn’t see Brandon. We have to protect him.”
Chevy glances over his shoulder at me, his expression that of the grim reaper ready to take someone’s soul. “Then in the front seat. Doors locked and call the club.”
“Chevy,” I begin, about to ask him to join me, but he cuts me off.
“They’re looking for someone and I’ll be it. I’m the first wave of keeping them off Stone. You’re second. Call the club. Get me backup.”
Absolute fear seizes my body. I can’t leave Chevy to stand on his own. For the same reason I gave him my late note today. I care too much for him.
“Get in, Violet,” he demands.
But as the headlights draw closer, I remain cemented to the ground.
“You and I can’t take them alone. I need help. Get me help.”
That, I understand. My pulse races as I dash for the driver’s side. The engine of a Camaro roars as it pulls in front of us. Half of the car sticks out into the road, the other half blocks us in as if my car could actually move. The grille of the Camaro so close that the heat from the engine slams onto my legs.
I open my door as two doors on the Camaro open and two looming figures emerge. Nervous adrenaline crashes into my veins and I curse as I frantically roll up my window. The hand crank type, made in the ’70s, and it doesn’t go fast enough. By pure will alone, the window rises with a whine, and when mine is finished, I glance over to Brandon to reassure him we’re safe in the car, when terror seizes my lungs. The passenger-side door is unlocked.
The car shakes as the open hood crashes down. A towering man with weathered skin slams his hands onto my car and stares straight at me. He has on a leather vest, and I briefly close my eyes at the patches. Nausea roars through my gut and I fumble for my phone. This is the Riot Motorcycle Club, and we’re in serious trouble.
“Get out of the car,” the man shouts.
Chevy protects the passenger-side door and he’s surrounded, but he’s not backing down. His arms are stretched out wide, knife in his right hand. Fighting past the fear, I select the contacts on my phone, and right as I’m about to press Eli’s number, there’s a crash to my left.
My hands cover my head as a man takes a lead pipe and hammers it against my window. The glass cracks and he shoves the lead pipe against it again. Brandon whimpers, and I suck in a breath as I try to refocus on the cell, and it’s hard to do as shards of glass rain down over my head and into my hair. I push the call button, praying Eli answers.
“Get out of the car or we’ll drag you out!” the man in front of my car yells.
A scuffle, someone springs toward Chevy, his knife slices in their direction, but then two more guys join the mix. My eyes fall to the unlocked door, and I lunge. My fingers brush along the lock as the door swings open. Fear shakes through me when big meaty fingers shoot in and grab me. From the floorboard in the backseat, Brandon seizes my hand, and my heart pounds when I spot the horror in his eyes.
It’s going to happen again, and I promised him it wouldn’t. Months ago, bullies from school beat him until he could no longer lift his head. These men—they’re going to hurt him over something neither Brandon nor I have control over. Over politics of a club we have never belonged to.
They are going to hurt him, not like the bruises from earlier today, but like what happened to him months ago or maybe worse. Like those bullies, these men are going to make him bleed, and I promised him he would never hurt like that again.
The man pulls at me, and I release Brandon, my only hold to staying in the car, and drop my phone next to him. Without Brandon grounding me, I’m yanked from the car, and as I struggle with the man, I kick the door shut.
“Get on the ground!” a man shouts.
I struggle, wrenching myself from side to side. My arm breaks free and I swing hard. My fist connects with a face and there’s swearing. Pain through my knuckles, then pain from my scalp as my head is pulled back by my hair.
I gasp and fight to not make a sound and then scream when my legs are kicked out from under me. A blinding white lightning strike to my kneecaps and my vision doubles. Snapping, and then another wave of revulsive agony.
My shins hit the ground, and my heart beats frantically as I glance up at the older man with the weathered and dirty face. He has a blue bandana on his head and a gun in his hand and I can’t decide if I’m scared or numb.
Don’t find my brother. Please don’t find my brother.
On a warrior’s shout, Chevy strikes one man with a punch to the face and then Chevy is moving, pushing off two people, and my blood grows cold when the man with the blue bandana points the gun at me.
“I’ll shoot her.” The man doesn’t yell it, but he says it loud enough that the scuffles stop.
My mouth runs dry, and I find just enough courage to peek out of the corner of my eye to see Chevy hold his hands up in compliance. His knife is gone. Not sure if they took it or he lost it in the fight. Guess it doesn’t matter. Maybe none of it matters. Maybe Chevy should still be trying to fight his way out. Maybe they’re going to kill us both anyway.
Chevy looks at me and I tilt my