Page 52 of Awry
I shrug.“How many flavors of milkshake does this diner serve?”
He huffs as if he’s not going to answer me.But after a moment, he says, “Five or six.”Then his attention is pulled back to his phone.
That part of theknowingisn’t for me to bother with.The aftermath, who those bikers were, and what or who they wanted.
It took me years to understand that messing with aknowing, even as gentle as the one that had pulled me and Grinder away from the motel, comes with even bigger ramifications than following one.
“Rath got waylaid on his way to … Presh and you,” Grinder mutters quietly.Not like it’s a secret, but as though he’s not sure I’d be interested.
My interest, however, is oddly piqued at the mention of Presh’s overbearing brother.A genuinely out-of-character reaction, because Coda wasn’t wrong.I don’t go for that type.At all.
Granted, I don’t really get riled up — sexually or emotionally — by many people.Maybe even by any people.I don’t think about that too hard, examine it too closely, because there are all sorts of reasons I might have held myself back from genuine connection …
Starting with the fact that everyone I love will eventually die, even while I am meant — some fundamental aspect of me, at least — to be Everlasting.
“Waylaid by other bikers?”I ask.
“With silver bullets locked and loaded.”
“There was another biker at the … with the berserker,” I say, feeling my way around what Grinder is trying to tell me.
“Chains.We’re tracking him.And yeah, could be he called in reinforcements when he lost Presh and you.”
“But that would mean … we’re in Outcast territory.”
“Yep.So was Rath last night.”
So it could be unrelated club business — because I have absolutely no doubt that the Outcast MC gets into violent disputes all the time.Or Chains might not be willing to go home to his boss empty-handed.
“Don’t worry,” Grinder says.“Presh is with the Outcast.A small army couldn’t get through the security on the main pack property.”
TheOutcast— aka Presh’s and Rath’s uncle, president of the club.
Grinder glances sideways at me, gauging my reaction maybe?“And you’ll be under guard at all —”
“I really don’t need a babysitter.”
“I know,” Grinder says, completely obligingly.“But you’ll have one.”
I don’t bother to even shrug him off.I don’t really fight or argue.With anyone.I just do what I want to do, and the only influence dictating those choices — more often than not— is the destiny handed down to me by the fucking universe.
Hard to argue with the universe.
Or destiny for that matter.
The main sectionof the town of Cannon Beach is spread along the seaside.A long row of white-, blue-, and gray-painted buildings filled with restaurants and cute shops line a boardwalk that edges the open ocean.A large hotel is set over the beach on pilings — currently closed for the season, according to the sign.The whitecapped surf is a muted thunderstorm lashing the beach, the relentless noise somehow comforting, grounding.
The opposite side of the street is geared more toward the locals, or summer residents perhaps.People, seemingly cheerful but focused on their own business, come and go from a quaint pharmacy, an even more adorable post office, a grocer literally overflowing with fruit and greens, plus a barber and hair salon.I can see signs for a gas station and a mechanic farther along.
No one does more than glance in our direction— which isn’t unusual for me.Occasionally, the universe all but masks my presence, most often when I’m not fully functional, like now.But also completely randomly and unreliably.But I would have thought that Grinder, even without his bike and cut, would draw more attention.
The entire town feels very … curated.Not false or fake, but definitely a well-loved business enterprise.And I have no doubt whatsoever that it’s overseen closely by the biker pack that claims this territory.I also don’t have to be able to decipher the patches on his jacket to know that the grizzled biker at my side is high up in that club.Which makes my next leap of logic an easy jump.
“An entire town to launder money through,” I say teasingly.“Nice.”
Grinder snorts and laughs.We’ve been quiet during our walk.He’s modified his stride twice since we started out.I’m not winded or anything, but it’s a longer distance than I anticipated— and I was dead, like, less than twenty-four hours ago.Though I might be a bit off on the timeline.
“The prez started pushing the club legitimate when he took it over almost thirty-two years ago and we became the Outcast.Well, more legit.We keep our hands in less savory biz because that’s always going to exist, and needs to be regulated.For safety.”
