Page 5 of Property of Bull
“Stryker, sweetheart, I have something for you,” Jordan had said reaching into the drawer under the register as she indicated that I should meet her at the end of the counter. “Your mom, she’s going to send letters here for you. And if you ever want to write her back, you just get it to me.”
I remember standing there, staring at the envelope, a million thoughts racing through my mind—the foremost being, what would happen if Dad found a letter from Mom? Just then, as if summoned, I heard the roar of bikes on Main Street and shook my head at her.
“I’ll come back another time,” I told Jordan. “He can’t find out.”
She opened her mouth to reply just before her eyes widened, looking over my shoulder. Without another word, she pulled the letter back and hid it under the counter.
Knowing what was about to happen, I pointed at an oatmeal cookie; unable to get any words past the knot in my throat.
“On the house today,” she whispered, throwing me a wink just as my dad entered the shop.
“A cookie?” he asked, suspiciously looking between us. “Isn’t it more of an ice cream day?”
“Ice cream makes me sick,” I answered him, throwing him off kilter.
“Since when?”
“Since every time I’ve ever had it,” I smarted back and didn’t have to wait for the smack over the back of my head.
“Yeah, it gives me the shits for days,” my uncle grunted, half-heartedly coming to my defense.
“Well, Jordan, I guess I’m the only one having a chocolate cone today,” my dad said, turning his grin in her direction, blatantly ignoring her glare, before making a fuss over paying for my cookie.
To this day, I hope she overcharged him.
*
By early afternoon, I know there’s nothing for me to work on while I wait for the mud on the new dry wall to set, so I grab the keys to my truck and head to the clubhouse.
“What the fuck?” I bellow, not three minutes after walking into the building where I was practically raised.
There are empty bottles, not to mention a body or two, scattered around the room. I have zero issues with a good party, I’m just accustomed to being at the top of the invite list.
I know I said I was out for a few days, but it’s bullshit that no one clued me into this.
Just then, Rage enters the room from the door leading to the kitchen. He had just popped something into his mouth from the plate he’s carrying, but his eyes go wide when he sees me.
Waving a hand in front of him, as if to ward off my temper, he finally makes enough space in his mouth to speak.
“I just got back an hour ago. I got no fucking idea what happened,” he spits out around the food he shifted to one of his cheeks, before shrugging. “Well, we can see what happened, but you know I was on the road.”
“Sswas an assident,” Thunder, our treasurer slurs out, his eye are mere slits, and he barely raises his head from where he’s lying on top of the bar.
“Man, I’ve seen better looking roadkill,” Rage snickers in response.
And he ain’t wrong. On second thought, I’m glad no one called me.
“There any food back there?” I ask Rage. None of the girls have gotten around to cleaning this room, so I can only hope they’ve been cooking.
“Yeah, there’s more chicken,” he responds, holding his plate up as a peace offering.
“That’s not chicken. Those are fucking over processed dino-nuggets made for three-year-olds,” I growl back, shaking my head at him.
For all of my dad’s—many—failings, that man could cook. On his watch, none of the food I ate as a child came from a bag, can, or a box, that was a point of honor inhishouse. Not to say that when he was away Mom and I didn’t indulge in her favorites—Captain Crunch for breakfast and Mac and Cheese for dinner.
To this day, my eggs and chicken come from the coop behind my house, not far from the small greenhouse where I grow my vegetables. Beef comes from a rancher I know, and I hunt for the rest of my meat.
Speaking of my meat, another quick glance around the room tells me that the chances of me getting off around here today are slim and none.Where the fuck is everyone?The question pops off in my head.
