Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
“You’ve got a point.”
He blows out a tired breath. “We can’t force anyone to face their demons, no matter how good our intentions.”
That should probably be our club’s motto. “Rock, I say this with brotherly love, he’s a genius with plants, but we both know without the club, Sparky’d be living under a bridge by now.” Or worse.
He shifts his gaze to the side and tilts his head in subtle agreement without actually saying the words.
“I’ll help get him through this run,” I promise. “And if he spends the whole time anxious and miserable, maybe we’ll have to think about an exception to the mileage requirement for him. No one in this charter’s gonna question it.”
“You’re right.” He nods slowly. “Teller had a point, though. Sparky had fun when we went to Florida and Texas. There was the normal amount of stress before we left—well, normal for him. This time it seems…excessive.”
“Maybe it really is the funeral thing,” I suggest.
“He’s been to other funerals.”
“He’s also been getting high on his own supply, nonstop,” I point out. “Besides smoking it, he’s eating it all day now too.”
“Good point.”
“Shelby’s had him out in the sunlight. Maybe we’ll all keep taking turns getting him out so he can wean himself off the weed before the trip.”
Rock snorts and shakes his head. “I can’t believe we’re discussing this.” He slaps my shoulder in a thanks-for-the-chat sort of way. “Thanks, brother.”
“No problem.”
Surprisingly, I talk Sparky into riding out to Zips with us. Maybe he thinks if he does this little chore, he can get out of the Deadbranch trip. Whatever the reason, I’m glad he’s out on the road. We ride in a looser formation than we’ll be doing on the trip, but this will start to get him back into it.
As usual, Zips looks like it was left abandoned in the early 2000s. I slow my bike and pull into a spot behind the bleachers. The rest of the guys do the same.
Eraser must’ve been waiting somewhere nearby. He jogs over to meet us as I’m unstrapping my helmet and resting it on the seat.
“How’ve you been, brother?” he greets.
I pull him in for a quick embrace and the rest of my brothers, except for Sparky, do the same.
“Thanks for coming out.” Eraser’s tone is full of brotherly respect.
“Anytime, you know that,” Murphy says.
“Griff around?” I ask.
Eraser jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s over by the food shacks. Supposed to be starting the grill but I don’t see any smoke yet.”
More people than I expected this early in the day fill the track. I recognize Griff’s black muscle car with its purple and red pinstripes parked in a long line of classic cars against the fence line.
While I’ve been out here a few times, I’ve never poked around the buildings. Doesn’t seem like my place to nose around. The food shacks are just that—little white buildings with large, wide-open pass-through windows. Like something you’d find at fairgrounds. They’re old; a few lean a bit to the right, like they’re tired of standing up to the winter winds. The sides gleam under the sunlight, though. Someone must’ve slapped a fresh coat of paint on them recently.
All the serving windows are shuttered and locked. A mammoth grill and concrete picnic area are to the right of the buildings. There’s a bag of charcoal bricks in front of the grill but no flames.
Where the fuck is Griff?
Ah. The side door of the last food shack stands wide open. It’s dark and shadowy inside, so I can’t see shit from where I’m standing. I walk up to the door and I’m about to call out Griff’s name when something like a moan breaks the silence.
Finding my brothers in a clinch is nothing new. From the size and shape of the guy, I’m pretty sure it’s Griff. The girl he’s with is sitting on a counter with her arms around his neck. They both seem to be fully dressed, otherwise, I’d walk away and close the door behind me.
I clear my throat, but they still don’t come up for air.
“Griff,” I bark.
“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling away from the girl.
For some reason, she keeps her face hidden against Griff’s chest.
Griff squints in my direction. “Give me a sec, Dex.”
This little motherfucker.
Unlike some of my brothers who might have stood by and happily watched the show, I prefer to demonstrate respect by giving privacy in these situations. But Griff specifically asked to see me, so my temples throb with irritation at the delay.
I step back and to the side of the door. The two of them speak quietly. Too low to make out their words but enough to understand the girl isn’t happy about something.
For fuck’s sake. I flick my gaze toward the sky. I’ve done something to anger the universe again, haven’t I?