Page 65 of Freak
Chapter Nineteen
The bonfire was rollinggreat; flames already rose a good twelve, fifteen feet into the night sky, and dozens of couples, families, and groups of friends were setting up blankets and camp chairs, or settling on one of the good, big logs that ringed the fire in two rows. Four people had acoustic guitars on their knees, a couple had fiddles on their shoulders, and one hippie dude from a kid-music band who’d played early in the day had an African drum between his knees. They were all playing, though not yet really together. Just quiet notes floating through the night.
As usual, the Horde had rolled their smoker over, along with their biggest Yeti cooler, and No Place had their rolling bar set up beside it as well. Brats and burgers, French fries, macaroni salad and coleslaw, beer and soda for anyone who wanted it, courtesy of the Night Horde MC.
Most attendees of the Harvest Festival left around dusk. Even in a year like this, when summer stayed overtime and late October was still only jacket weather, the temperatures dropped with the sun, and a lot of people thought hanging around in the dark chill wasn’t so fun. Those folks probably left superhero movies before the credits ran, too.
The people who knew better hung around for the bonfire like they hung around for the stinger at the very end of the credits.
This year was a strange one; the Horde presence, with all three charters in attendance, was overwhelming to a lot of the civilians, and the vibe throughout the club was way off. Petty jealousies and minor conflicts were hotter than they should have been. Relations were sour with Montana, which was a potentially serious problem—maybe as serious as war. If SoCal hadn’t arrived and immediately been a calming presence, maybe Missouri and Montana would have really gone at it. Instead, they were trying to be brothers, though that brotherhood felt performative, in at least one direction.
Mel was more convinced by the minute that combining a club ‘rally’ or reunion or whatever the fuck it was with an established town event was stupid as hell. But the bonfire was the bonfire, and that was always calm. No longer on the clock, he could look forward to it wholeheartedly. A beautiful fall night to be cozy with his lady.
Wending through the settling crowd, Mel led Abigail to the far side of the field, where Thumper and Dom had made them up a station: three big wool blankets, two personal coolers, one collapsible wagon full of snacks and supplies, and an assortment of pillows and extra blankets. They’d chosen a perfect spot: a little distance from the crowd, so they could be chill, but close enough to enjoy the fire and the music and the general ambiance. A romantic bonfire spot.
Dom was, surprisingly, on his own. The guy was pretty shredded and had long, gold hair like a shampoo model, so he was popular with the ladies. Looks like his were like a +10 buff to the bad-boy mystique, and he generally availed himself liberally of the feminine offerings. Tonight, though, he sat alone—which appeared to be exactly as he wanted: he was propped up on a couple cushions he’d taken from his couch, his legs stretched long and a bottle of Stella in his hand, gazing quietly at the fire.
The really shocking sight was Thumper, who sat on a side of their patchwork of blankets with his arm around Mindy Jasper.
Mindy was ... well, she was a skank. It was a shitty thing to call a woman, yeah, but sometimes shitty words fit best. Just about every unattached patch had gone spelunking there—including himself—but that wasn’t what made her a skank. Most club girls had been with all the single patches, and a few had been around long enough to know some of the attached guys carnally as well. (In Signal Bend, once guys got attached they stayed where they belonged, as far as Mel knew). Guys tended to favor one or two, but any girl who hung around the clubhouse long enough was going to get the full tour eventually. It was what the club wanted: women who willingly, and hopefully eagerly, fucked patches.
Mindy was a skank because she was a scheming, back-stabbing cunt who had been exiled from the clubhouse for being a scheming, back-stabbing cunt. And here Thumper sat, arm around her shoulders like they were on a date.
Vividly aware of Abigail’s fingers linked with his, Mel didn’t want to start a thing about Mindy in front of her—and Mindy was famous for starting a thing on the tiniest provocation, real or imagined. Besides, Dom didn’t seem bothered by the skank incursion on their little turf here.
So Mel simply said a general, “Hey” to the group and helped Abigail down to the blankets as Thumper and Dom echoed the greeting. He flipped up the nearest cooler and snagged a couple sandwiches, a bottle of water for Abigail, and a Stella for himself.
Abigail arranged herself gracefully on the striped wool of Mel’s camp blanket and smiled at the others as she said, “Hi, y’all.” For Mindy, she deepened her expression into something more personal and said, “Hey, Mindy. You have a good day, hon?”
Settling at her side, Mel heard something substantial in that slight change of tone. He read it as Abigail being who she was, patient with everyone, always giving the benefit of the doubt, and making a little extra effort for those who didn’t normally get that benefit.
It was a reason he was reluctant to tell her who’d attacked her home during the summer: she’d forgive them—especially knowing they were kids—and he didn’t want that. Heshouldwant it, it made things better for the Horde if the problem simply went away, but fuck. They’d killed a man over it. Tommy had been badly hurt, maybe permanently, because of it. And Abigail had beenattacked. It was too big to just stop mattering. Even if he was the only one who still cared, he still cared a lot.
But he loved her compassion, how readily she trusted, how easily she forgave.
“I did, Miss Abigail,” Mindy was answering. She glanced at Thumper with a shy smirk. “I had a real good day.”
