Page 23 of Friar
I absorbed his words, understanding better now his loyalty to the club, to Beast.“They saved you.”
“They did.”He drained the last of his beer and set the empty bottle aside.“Club’s not perfect.We’re not angels.We operate in gray areas sometimes.”His gaze turned searching, almost wary.“That bother you?”
The question hung between us, loaded with implications about our future.I thought about my uncle’s black-and-white view of the world, how restrictive it had been.How little room it left for human complexity, for growth, for redemption.
“No,” I said honestly.“I spent the last several years with people who thought they were righteous.Who threw me out when I needed them most.”My hand drifted to my stomach, to the life growing inside me.“I’d rather be with people who know they’re flawed but still try to do right by each other.”
Something shifted in Friar’s expression -- a softening around the eyes, a release of tension I hadn’t realized he was carrying.He reached across the table, his large hand covering mine.The warmth of his touch seeped through me, steadying and sure.
“The club protects its own,” he said, his voice pitched low.“No matter what.”
In that moment, with his hand covering mine and his eyes holding secrets I was only beginning to understand, I believed him.Whatever came next -- the paternity test, the challenges of building a life in this new world -- we would face it together.He had claimed me, claimed us.And in that simple gesture of protection, I had found something I’d never expected: belonging.
* * *
The next evening found us on Friar’s front porch, the weathered wooden boards creaking beneath the weight of our rocking chairs.The air had cooled as dusk settled, painting the sky in deepening shades of purple and orange.I wrapped my hands around a mug of herbal tea Friar had made -- he’d stocked the kitchen with it after someone told him it was better for me than coffee.A thoughtful gesture I was still getting used to, these small ways he accommodated my presence in his life.
Friar sat beside me, one boot propped against the porch railing, a cigarette burning between his fingers.He’d been quiet most of the day, working on his motorcycle in the garage while I’d sorted through the baby supplies we’d bought, washing tiny onesies and folding them with care that surprised even me.The domesticity of it all felt strange -- this tentative routine we were building together, neither of us acknowledging how fragile it might be.
The distant rumble of motorcycles drifted through the evening air, a sound I once would have found intimidating but now recognized as familiar, almost comforting.Crickets chirped in the overgrown grass around the porch steps, their chorus rising and falling in waves.Somewhere down the street, a dog barked, the sound echoing in the quietness of the neighborhood.
“You know, I was fifteen when my parents died,” I said, the words slipping out before I’d fully decided to speak them.After Friar’s openness last night, I felt a need to reciprocate, to share pieces of myself I normally kept hidden.“Car accident.Drunk driver crossed the center line on a rainy night.”
Friar turned to look at me, his expression softening in the fading light.He didn’t speak, just waited for me to continue, giving me space to find the words.
“The funeral was on a Tuesday.”I could still see it with perfect clarity -- the rain that had fallen all morning stopping just as we’d arrived at the cemetery, as if even the weather respected the solemnity of the occasion.“I remember how everything smelled like wet earth and those sickly-sweet flowers they put on the caskets.Lilies, I think.I can’t stand them now.”
I took a sip of tea, letting the warm liquid soothe my suddenly dry throat.“Everyone wore black, of course.I had to borrow a dress from a neighbor because I didn’t own anything appropriate.It was too big, hung off me like a sack.”The memory of it -- standing there in that ill-fitting dress, feeling as though I was disappearing inside it -- made my chest tighten.“The relatives all whispered about what would happen to me.Where I would go.Who would take me in.As if I couldn’t hear them.”
“That’s rough,” Friar said softly.“Too young to lose your parents.Too old to forget them.”
The simple understanding in his voice made my eyes burn.I blinked rapidly, determined not to cry.I’d shed enough tears over my parents to last a lifetime.“Uncle Pete and Aunt June were the only ones who stepped forward.My mother’s brother and his wife.Very religious, very proper.The kind of people who thought children should be seen and not heard.”
Friar took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the gathering darkness.“Doesn’t sound like a warm welcome.”
“It wasn’t.”I stared out at the yard, watching shadows lengthen across the grass.“They took me in because it was their Christian duty, not because they wanted me.Made that clear from day one.Everything in their house was about rules and appearances.No crying after the first week -- it showed a lack of faith in God’s plan.No questions about my parents -- it meant I was dwelling on earthly attachments instead of heavenly ones.”
My voice caught on the last words, the memory of being scolded for keeping a photo of my mother by my bed still sharp even after all these years.“I wasn’t allowed to grieve properly.Wasn’t allowed to be angry or sad or confused.Just grateful and obedient and quiet.”
Friar’s eyes never left my face, his gaze steady and attentive.He reached across the space between our chairs, his hand finding mine.His palm was rough with calluses, warm against my skin.I turned my hand over, letting our fingers intertwine, drawing strength from the simple contact.
“I used to sneak out at night sometimes,” I continued, “just to sit in their backyard and cry where no one could see me.I’d look up at the stars and talk to my parents.Tell them about my day, about how much I missed them.”I could still feel the cool grass beneath me, the night air on my tear-streaked face.“Uncle Pete caught me once.Said I was practicing paganism, communing with the dead.Made me memorize Bible verses about the sin of necromancy.”
Friar’s fingers tightened around mine.“Jesus,” he muttered.“No wonder you rebelled.”
I gave a small, bitter laugh.“The rebellion came later.For years, I was the perfect niece.Quiet, obedient, never questioning.Went to church three times a week.Youth group, Bible study, the works.I thought if I was good enough, God would love me again.Would stop punishing me.”
“Punishing you?For what?”
“For whatever I’d done to deserve losing my parents.”I shook my head at my own childish logic.“I thought it must have been my fault somehow.That’s how kids think, right?Everything comes back to them.”
Friar’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek.“That’s fucked up.You were just a kid.”
“I was.”I looked down at our joined hands, at the way his larger one enveloped mine.“By the time I was seventeen, I started to see the cracks in their perfect Christian facade.The hypocrisy, the judgment, the conditional love.I started questioning everything.And they hated that more than anything.”
The memories rose like ghosts -- Uncle Pete’s thundering sermons about rebellious spirits, Aunt June’s tight-lipped disapproval when I’d asked why women couldn’t be pastors.The increasing restrictions, the constant monitoring, the suffocating sense that I was always one misstep away from condemnation.
“The Reckless Kings…” I said softly, “They were my first real taste of freedom.I’d heard about the parties at the clubhouse.Everyone at school talked about them in whispers.Forbidden, dangerous.”I smiled despite myself.“I snuck out that night looking for… I don’t know.Something real.Something that felt like my choice for once.”
