— Chapter 64 —

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In one of the quieter suburbs of Boston, a comfortable little two-story house sat at the end of a long lane bordered by skinny brownstone homes. Walls of slate-grey timber chipped paint onto its splintered porch. Black tiles sat dislodged on the roof; rusted gutters hung loose on their hinges. While the age of the place had certainly come to show over the years, meticulously cared-for rosebushes thriving in the front yard managed to give the place a sense of life.

You'd never be able to tell it was owned by the prickly grease-monkey that was the leader of the infamous Stray Dogs—Chief.

He had no wife nor children, so he resigned his time to working on cars in his driveway and caring for the rows of plants in his garden. When I was growing up, Chief's place was my only constant. It never changed, not when I was a kid tracking mud through his halls, or when I was hotboxing one of the bedrooms with Chains in high school, or even now... when his home was the only place I felt safe enough to lay my head.

The apartment was still getting repaired.

My uncle offered up a spare room in his house the minute he heard the news. Despite having leather for skin and engine oil in his veins, my uncle had a soft core. And I figured he got lonely in such a big house.

Somewhere from the kitchen, Chief snapped towards another biker, "Why so much salt, eh?"

"Salty?" Chains argued. "You said to put in a tablespoon!"

"A teaspoon, Sammy!"

"Bullshit. You don't even own any teaspoons!" Chains caught me leaving my jacket on the coat hanger by the door and drew my attention. "Edge, come tell your crazy uncle that the soup is fine."

Chief cursed under his breath, "Cazzo."

"Don't cuss me out in Italian, old man. I lived in this house long enough to know what that means."

While the two men bickered, I picked up the soup spoon and tasted the russet concoction they'd put together. A grimace followed quickly after.

"Oh—that's some goddamn seawater, man."

Chains groaned. My uncle gave an abrupt laugh.

"Hah!" He went to smack the stalky biker over the head, despite being half a foot shorter in height. "What did I say?"

Chains made a face. "Get some bloody teaspoons."

I left my phone on the counter and dusted my hands against my jeans. "Give it to me, I'll fix it. Go set the table or something."

"Bored of stress-cleaning already?" Chief teased me, nodding to the fabric cloth tucked under my belt.

Chains, who'd been busy looking for plates, stuck his head out from behind the door of an antique cupboard. "Stress-cleaning?" He asked me. "You're still doing that shit?"

"All goddamn week!" My uncle answered, downright dismayed. "He's cleaned everything! The windows, the lint traps, the goddamn trims on the walls! He goes to work and when he's not at work he's mopping my damn floors. Four times he scrubbed them! I can't even keep my socks lying around without him throwing them at my face."

Chains laughed into the air. I scratched the back of my neck and muttered, "I'm just earning my keep."

Chief said, "You can earn your keep without overworking my washing machine, for starters!"

"Now you're just exaggerating."

Chains patted my shoulder and chuckled, walking with plates to the dining table. "Never did get over your pop's hoarding problem, huh?"

"Why does everyone automatically assume that's the reason?" I grumbled. "Maybe I just like shit organized. Ever consider that?"

"An organized mess is still organized, kid," the Chief remarked.

"It's also still a mess."

Chains grinned to himself, and while he was setting up the cutlery, Chief had taken his seat at the head and was busy throwing a napkin over his lap.

Chains was the unwanted offspring of parents who were too busy drinking their lives away to raise a child. He spent a few terrible years in the foster care system before finally being taken in by his conservative grandparents. I didn't know much of the full story, but there was a point where Chains got into the habit of running from home and ditching school to get caught up on the wrong side of the law with bad fucking people.

The two of us had been close-knit ever since we met in freshman year. But it wasn't until I introduced him to my uncle that Chains finally got off the streets and into a place he felt he belonged. His grandparents didn't mind—they must have appreciated having one less mouth to feed.

Chief saw a troublemaker, a kid caught up in the wrong crowd, and managed to find the same good in him that I did. He gave Chains a spare room, clean clothes, and the opportunity to make something of his life that didn't involve prison and a jail sentence. Chief raised him. And he wasn't perfect—I didn't think any parents were—but he was the only real parental figure Chains ever had.

By the time the table was set, I'd elevated the soup from seawater to something relatively edible. It was an achievement to make anything at all with the spices Chief had to offer in his pantry. I was starting to miss my own kitchen.

"Order up," I announced, leaving the pot in the middle of the mahogany table. Chief was the first to grab the soup spoon.

Chains had to pull the pocket knives out of his pants to be able to sit comfortably on his chair. That included the butterfly knife in his sleeve, the combat knife in his brief, the switchblade in his pocket and the razor under his tongue, all of which he left resting on the table like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. His emotional support knives, as he liked to call them.

"How many times I gotta tell you?" Chief snapped, making Chains roll his eyes like a ticked-off preteen. "No knives on the table—not under my goddamn roof. We eat like civilized people."

I folded a napkin over my lap. "Guess nobody's saying grace, then."

Chains, who'd been dropping his knives onto the chair beside him, shot his focus to the Chief. "Shit, don't make us say grace."

"Us?" I smirked. "Last I recall, it's your turn this time around."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I ain't sayin' it. Wait for Thanksgiving like normal people."

"Sammy, say grace."

Chains frowned at the use of his government name, taking in a long inhale before letting out an even longer groan. He then raised his hand and recited, "I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

I grinned, "Amen."

Chief rubbed his temples and sighed. Begrudgingly, he muttered, "Amen."

Chains clapped his hands together and snickered as he reached to pour himself some warm broth. "Joke's on you lot, I'm atheist."

My uncle sipped his soup. "Not bad," he shrugged. High praise.

"How's the apartment?" Chains asked me from one end of the table. "They still plastering the walls?"

"Finished up two days ago," I told him. "Paint's dry. I just gotta replace the busted furniture... and the locks... and put iron bars over the damn door."

Maybe then I won't panic every time I step foot inside.

"Fuck," Chains breathed. "And Elliot? Still at his old man's house?"

I clenched my jaw. "Mm-hm."

"Still no word on who did it?" Chief inquired.

Chains scoffed and prodded his bread. "We know who did it. What I don't understand is why we're allowing him the courtesy of keeping his tongue."

"Chains," I warned.

"Oh, come on," he hissed. "What's the bastard's name? Midas? He had one of his boys shoot at you, Edge! He had people break into your apartment and used Elliot to get his fucking way. Why aren't we going after his head? I know guys who'd shoot the asshole for a tenner."

I passed him a look. "Then what? You want his goons to come back and rain bullets down on the bar?" I said. "Don't forget that Midas is a contract criminal. If we kill him, two more of his kind will jump back in his place. He isn't the problem, Chains. It's whoever's pulling his strings."

"And what about you?" asked Chief.

"What about me?"

"Everyone saw how you reacted after hearing Elliot on that phone," he explained. "You two have some kind of bond. Attached at the hip. Letting him wear your jacket is something I don't understand, but it sends a message. A message not everyone may like."

"Talk carefully, Uncle."

"Elliot is a good kid, not like his cop father. And he may not be a Stray Dog in the official sense, though I don't doubt his loyalty. I just can't help but wonder... are you letting him cloud your judgment?"

"He's got nothing to do with this shit."

"So you say, but the second Midas pushed that button, you lost your head."

A scowl shot over my face. "Maybe you didn't notice, but I being held at fucking gunpoint. Would you have rather I just let Elliot get hurt?"

"I think Elliot makes you vulnerable, and that's something for Midas to exploit further down the road. Because he saw how you reacted too, and if he's smart, he'll use it," Chief said, putting it plainly. "Look, I'm not telling you what you should and shouldn't do. I don't have anything against that bartender, but think rationally on this. He comes from a different world, son—and he doesn't deserve to be caught up in this kind of life."

We just come from different worlds.

"You think I don't know that?" I drew in a breath. "Whatever you might believe, Elliot's been a Stray Dog since I first put that jacket over his shoulders. He's one of us, and mine to be responsible for. End of conversation. I'm not asking you to agree with my decisions—but don't sit here thinking that I'm not capable of getting the situation under control."

Chief shook his head. "I'm thinking you have to be careful. Knowingly or not, Midas just started a war. And in war, weakness gets you killed."

I scoffed. "My old man teach you that one?"

A silence fell over the room.

Chains shifted uncomfortably. There was a tic in my uncle's jaw. A glare creased his expression while his fists clenched on the table. I watched his chair scratch against the floor when he got out of his seat, and the words he spoke to me were like thin ice—fragile, but cold.

"You've had a rough few weeks," he uttered, "so I'm letting that go. But consider your grace period over."

He left the room without another word.

I sank back in my chair and let out a heavy breath. Chains spoke up from the end of the table.

"We've been on the defensive long enough," he muttered, adjusting one of his piercings. "You know that, Edge. You know that bastard can't keep getting away with this shit. He's had the upper hand since he stepped into Boston and if we don't think of a way to beat him... Elliot won't be the only one to get hurt."

I shot up from my chair in a bout of frustration. "I've been thinking, Chains! Every day for the last two weeks all I've been able to do is think, and it's driving me fucking insane. Elliot won't answer my calls, I can't sleep, and every time I close my eyes all I can picture is that gun being put to his head."

Chains' eyes glowed with an expression I couldn't understand.

He asked, "You really care about him, don't you?"

I could feel the knots in my chest. "What difference does it make? You heard Chief. Hell, you saw it with your own eyes. Elliot's life is worse with me around."

"I don't think that's true."

I scoffed.

He shook his head and reinforced, "I don't think that's true, Edge. I mean, come on—Elliot was never like this before you met him. He was quiet. Kept his head down, did his job, never talked to anyone unless they talked to him first. Then you came into the picture... and all of a sudden, this quiet guy that nobody knew the name of was smiling. I mean, really fucking smiling. You got him out of a shitty home situation, gave him a roof over his head and a place where he could be himself. And... he kinda looked happy there, for a second. With you. I don't think that happens for no reason."

"But that doesn't outweigh all the shit I've put him through."

"I'm not saying it does. I just... I think you should have more faith in yourself, man. Have more faith in him. It'll work out in its own way." He started tucking his knives back in their places on his person. "I mean, look at you—you've been mushy since you first laid eyes on him. I'm serious. A real fucking softie. Hell, I tried to fist pump you the other day and you gave me a full-on bear hug, dude. Edge doesn't give bear hugs. He breaks noses, sure, but he doesn't give hugs. I saw my life flash before my goddamn eyes."

I suppressed a laugh, a tug at the side of my lips. "Shut up, shithead."

Chains' cheeks contorted into a smirk as he got up off his seat, bowl of soup now empty. "Come on. We'll ride to Joe's tonight and have a drink. A real drink. To be honest, I think some distractions might do you a lot of good right about now."

I sighed, slowly getting off my chair.

Chains laughed and smacked my shoulder. "Attaboy. We'll get your mind off all this shit, I promise. That or we'll drink ourselves to death."

"Don't get my hopes up."

Later, as Chains, Shooter and I were smoking with two other bikers by the front doors to Joe's, I was leaning against the building and fiddling with the chain around my neck. We'd shown up earlier than I usually did myself, and though the doors were open, the few of us had found it nicer out in the quiet of the night air.

A passing breeze blew dark-brown hairs in my face. The helmet hair had been getting worse in the last few weeks, as locks of hair fell in waves over the tips of my ears. At this rate, I might end up matching with Elliot.

The thought coaxed a gentle smile to my lips as I fished a pack of Marlboros from my back pocket.

"You guys ever think about quitting?" I asked the bikers around me as I brought a cigarette to my lips. In the distance, a shiny Mercedes in onyx-black lacquer was pulling into the parking lot.

"What? Smoking?" asked Chains. "You serious?"

Wilder, who was leaning against a wooden beam with a Bud Light in his hands, passed us an amused glance. "Edge wants to quit? Heh... are you feeling okay?"

Shooter chuckled. "Maybe the alcohol's getting to his head."

"We all wanna quit, boss," Cig remarked, pausing briefly to inhale from his cigarette. "Me? I think about it while the tobacco's burning. The smoke knocks some sense into you."

Shooter wondered out loud, "What's this all about, anyway? Seems kind of sudden." He pressed his slitted brows together, and I could smell the liquor on his breath. "Fuck—this isn't like a cancer thing, right? Don't tell me you're terminal."

"Oh, my sister-in-law had that," mentioned Wilder. "Chain-smoker, she was. Lungs collapsed. Scary shit, man. Haven't touched a ciggy since."

Sweet baby Jesus.

I rubbed my temples and sighed sharply. "No, I don't have cancer."

Cig cackled. "Then there's still time," he said, and held up his flaming zippo for me. "Light her up, brother." I exhaled a flurry of thin smoke when the end of my cigarette started burning away.

Wilder shook his head.

He joked, "How you fuckers are functioning members of society, I'll never understand."

"Why be functional in a dysfunctional society?" I murmured. With a shrug, I decided, "There's no sense in it."

Shooter raised his beer in salute. "Ain't that the truth."

The group muttered their agreements, and for a few moments after, all I could hear was the clinking of beer bottles and humming engines in the distance. Chains quietly mocked me, "You know, you should write a book."

"Yeah? Fuck off."

The biker mussed his grey-white hair and laughed at my words.

As the bikers conversed with each other, I adjusted the beanie on my head, messed with the heavy rings around my fingers, and continued to puff grey vapors into the air.

Pete, the owner of the bar, was walking up to the front doors, and when he passed us I heard Shooter mutter to himself, "Penny-pinching prick."

I gave him a look. "Hm?"

Shooter flared his nostrils ."Rusty overheard the old man talking to Eve the other night. Apparently the stingy bastard plans on firing Elliot one of these days. Doesn't 'have it in the budget' to keep paying the kid sick leave—like Elliot even earns more than minimum wage."

I found my fists tightening shut. Is that right?

"He said that?"

"Oh, you know how it is." The biker rolled his eyes. "There's always plenty of bullshit excuses. I bet the bastard's just ticked off because you stopped him from working Elliot like a horse every night."

So now he wants to fire him? My teeth gritted together as I pushed myself off the wall, ready to follow Elliot's spindly boss into the run-down bar.

Shooter, following behind me, sighed.

"Here we go."

I spotted the old man's head of golden-brown hair once I'd stormed inside. I called for him without a single care for volume.

"Pete!"

He stopped in his tracks to turn me a confused frown, but I didn't give him the chance to wonder what was going on as I harshly snatched the fabric of his shirt.

"Let's go, fucker."

Dragging him behind me into one of the backrooms away from public view, Pete quickly started to hiss his complaints. "Hey, don't just shove me like—what the hell is this all about?"

I tripped him into one of the lockers and watched him fall flat on his ass before me. My question to him was simple.

"I hear you're planning on firing Elliot. That true?"

The old man rubbed his head and frowned, annoyed. "Yeah," he grumbled, "so what? I don't see how that's got anything to do with you."

"Well, he's a pretty good bartender, for starters."

"Hell yeah he is," echoed Shooter, gesturing with his hands. "Makes some damn good whiskey sours—lemon on the rim and everything." He turned to me. "You try that shit? It's unbelievable."

I shook my head. "Can't say I have."

"Oh man, you're missing out. Stuff's legendary."

Pete shouted, "I'm not going to keep him just because you like his fucking whiskey sours!"

Gripping his collar again, I slammed the knuckles of my fist against the crest of his cheek. Not with the amount of force required to break anything, but enough to give him a solid dose of pain.

"Here's the deal," I began. "Far as I know, this bar falls apart without us here. No Stray Dogs, no business. And if Elliot goes, we go with him. So you're not firing him, understand? Matter of fact, you're going to give him a raise."

"A raise!" Pete barked back. "Are you insane?"

Shooter lightly smacked the side of the old man's head. "Yeah man, a fucking raise. You hard of hearing or something?"

"I'm not giving him a raise!"

My expression solidified into a flat glare. "What's he making now?" I asked. "Sixteen, seventeen an hour, plus tips?"

"Hah, for someone that young? Try minimum wage."

"He's twenty-three years old and you're only paying him fourteen bucks an hour?"

"He has tips!"

I shook my head and scoffed. "But he doesn't make much in tips, does he? From what I hear, you take a generous cut for yourself, isn't that right?"