Page 20 of Everest

When I cross the old bridge and turn down the gravel road to Pop’s place, I’ve almost found a semblance of peace again.

Pulling up to Pop’s house, I cut the engine. I’m greeted by the lazy symphony of the bayou at dusk—crickets, tree frogs, and the distant call of a heron. Beyond the old man’s home, parts of the water’s surface glow with the last light of the day. The smell of charcoal smoke and grilled meat hangs in the air, making my stomach rumble. I roll my shoulders and breathe in the familiar scent of a Kings’ gathering. And it looks like I’m the last to arrive.

I swing my leg off my ride and set the kickstand. Voices and laughter drift from the backyard and porch. I spot Riggs standing by a smoking grill, his arm slung around Luna’s shoulder as she balances their daughter on her hip. He’s flipping burgers, possibly steaks. Whatever it is, it smells damn good. A few feet away, Wick is holding his and Tequila’s newborn. In the distance, I see Nova and Kiwi tossing logs and various-sized tree branches into a pile for a bonfire. At the far end of the dock that stretches over dark water, I notice Catcher standing alone, hands in his pockets, looking out at the bayou like he’s searching for answers in the murky darkness.

I stroll across the yard, making my way to the house, and stop by a cooler near the front porch steps. Lifting the lid, I grab an ice-cold beer and pop it open. I take a seat on the steps and dig out a cigarette. A few feet away, Pop is rocking gently in his chair, the wood creaking with each sway. Deep lines are carved into his tanned, weathered face.

“Evenin’, son,” he greets me.

“Hey, Pop,” I reply, flicking my lighter and taking the first satisfying drag of my smoke. The nicotine hits my lungs, and I exhale slowly, feeling the last remnants of tension from the rideslip away. I raise my beer and take a long pull. The cold washes down my throat, cutting the summer heat a notch.

From my spot, I can observe damn near everything. The whole family, my brothers and their women, all scattered around enjoying the evening. Through all the chatter and laughter, the low tunes of some easy, laid-back classic rock play.

The screen door squeaks behind me, and out steps Piper, Kiwi’s woman, and London. London is carrying two wine glasses in one hand and a bottle of red in the other, laughing, the sound ringing in my chest. The late sunlight catches her from behind, holding her in a warm glow. For a beat, I watch her. She’s wearing cut-off denim shorts that show her toned legs and a black tank top with thin straps. Her wavy, dark hair tumbles over her shoulders.

I realize I’ve gone still, with my beer halfway to my mouth, just staring at her. London has a way of snaring my attention without even trying. Every damn time I’m around her.

I drag my gaze away before anyone notices. Still, after London and Piper make their way toward the other women, London looks back over her shoulder, like she feels me, her eyes flicking to mine. I feel the jolt. It’s like a live wire crackling briefly, with an unspoken charge passing between us. My fucking pulse kicks up, and I give her a slight nod, keeping my face neutral.

London’s eyes linger half a second longer before she breaks from the spell and turns away.

Behind me, Pop lets out a low chuckle.

I clear my throat and take another swig of beer, the liquid doing nothing to cool the heat coursing through me. Pop’s rocking chair creaks steadily, and I feel his eyes burning a hole through my head.

“She’s a firecracker, that one,” Pop says, his voice low enough not to carry beyond us. He doesn’t have to say who he’sreferencing. I already know. “She’s easy on the eyes, too,” he adds.

I huff and rub my jaw. Pop is not wrong. That fire London has is one of the many things drawing me to her, and there’s no denying she is easy on the eyes. That being said, there’s something more to Pop’s words, something weighty.

I don’t trust myself to comment, so I grunt in agreement and take another drag of my cigarette.

I turn, leaning against the post, where I can see Pop, whose gaze is locked on me like he’s got more to say. I exhale, the smoke curling upward, waiting for his words.

“You know.” His voice is low and steady. “A man can spend his whole life riding free and think he’s got everything he needs until he looks back one day and realizes something is missing.” He pauses to let his words sink in. “That gal has the kind of spirit that’ll mend a rough soul, but only if the fool holdin’ that soul is brave enough to take a chance.”

My shoulders tense up. Pop may as well have reached over and thumped me on the back of the head. My gaze strays across the yard to London, and my chest tightens with the all-too-familiar tug. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”

Pop chuckles. “That lie is thicker than my mornin’ bowl of grits.”

I chuckle and shake my head at the old man’s no-nonsense straightforwardness. “Is that so?”

Pop then clears his throat. “Mhm. That gal got a weight in your chest. It's as plain as the nose on my face.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ to offer her.” My tone is flat.

“Sure, you do. And you better figure out if you’re gonna fight it or fall into it, ‘cause the kind of pull I see between you and London doesn’t come around often. And if you fuck around and wait too long, some other bastard might feel it too,” he says in a tone that is both advice and a gentle warning.

I clench my jaw. His words hit a target I’ve been dodging for months. “I hear ya,” I murmur, keeping my voice low. I tip my beer back, but the bottle is nearly empty, and the taste has gone warm. I stub out my cigarette, letting the silence eat up between us, grateful Pop doesn’t push further. I stay here on the steps, turning the empty bottle in my hands, my attention shifting across the yard again, and this time London’s gaze is locked on me. I feel the same pull in my gut and fight the same urge to get up and approach her. Instead, I stay rooted where I sit.

A couple of hours later, after the sun is fully set and the fireflies light up the shadows, we circle the bonfire in mismatched chairs, some old folding ones, and a few stumps Pop cut years ago. Fender has a fresh beer in his hand, and Jo is curled beside him. Tequila is relaxing in a chair beside Wick, who’s half asleep with his arm slung around her shoulder. Like always, Nova and Promise are tucked together, and Piper’s got her legs draped across Kiwi’s lap. Me? I’m leaning back in my chair, one boot propped on a pile of unburned logs, watching the flames flick and lick at the sky while Fender recounts one of our road stories.

“This fucker had eaten three gas station burritos.” He chokes back a laugh.

Kiwi throws both hands up. “Come on, mate.”

“He was sweatin’ like a sinner in church before we even hit the highway,” Nova adds, laughing.

Fender continues, trying to keep a straight face. “We’re ridin’ down this pitch-black backroad. Middle of nowhere, and suddenly, Kiwi peels off the road, jumps off his bike like it’s on fire, and heads straight for the trees, yellin’ code brown.”

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