Page 56 of Huge Dynamite
Plowing forward, I cut through an alleyway and scale a chain-link fence that reminds me of the one next to Holly’s building. It hurts like a mother to use my shoulder, but it’s pain or death. As I throw myself over, the men catch up to me but stall on their side of the fence. Two snarl at me as they try to climb it, but thank god, none of them are in good enough shape to jump it. Good. Running as fast as I can, I cut through a few more alleys and then, doubling back, I come up on the back entrance of the alley where my bike is.
Sneaking up slowly, I crouch down beside my bike. There are no Dogs outside, which means they’re all inside or chasing me down the back alleys. But all they need is one sound from my bike, and they’ll hop on theirs and chase me down.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a gang of about six thugs in colors wearing trucker hats and bandanas that cover the bottom halves of their faces. They’re coming this way. Throwing their hands up, they yell and laugh. They’re just what I needed. Hopping onto my bike, I balance it between my legs.
One of the gang members takes a gun and aims it toward the sky.
“Not yet, you stupid punk. Not yet.” Turning the engine over, I idle quietly.
Holding my breath, I wait for the thugs to get just the right distance from the clubhouse. As soon as the first one comes up hollering and dancing his way to the Dogs’ bikes, I rev my engine and take off, driving by the bikes and shooting out their tires. Taking off in the opposite direction, I look into my rearview. Dogs run from the clubhouse, yelling at the thugs. One throws a punch and then another.
It’s going to be a nasty fight.
Swallowing hard, I focus on the road before me. Shit. Yeah, I feel a little bad about causing a fight, but what the hell could I do? Besides, this gang is bad news and they fight with the Dogs all the time.
Slowing my pace, I sigh, replaying what just happened in my mind. Did I actually accomplish anything? Will Luther pull his men out of Greenville because I said so?
It hurts like hell to downshift the clutch but I do, and I take off in the direction of Greenville. No, she may not want to see me, but I need to know she’s okay.
I’ll fucking park myself in front of her building night and day if I have to.
Sighing into the wind, I know that I shouldn’t have done what I just did. I put us all in danger, and it was stupid and impulsive.
I’ve got to do better. Imagining Holly in her new building, unpacking and building her clinic—something stirs deep inside of me. I want to protect her, yes, but there’s more. I also don’t want to blow it again. I blew my chance to be a big brother to Colt when we were just kids, and it’s been freaking difficult to win back his trust. I don’t want that to happen again. Maybe it’s time for a change—Dr. Holly Boling deserves better than this. She deserves a better man. Someone who does better than throwing lighter fluid onto a burning fire.
Shaking my head, I mumble to myself as I push my bike to its limits. “Fucking Dynamite.”
Chapter Fourteen
Holly
Glancing around the country club, I’m not only uncomfortable in my clothes—my skirt and tank top feel tight and restricting after being in jeans and T-shirts all week—but I’m also uncomfortable in my skin. Yes, I always knew there was a discrepancy between the “haves” and the “have-nots”, but until these past couple of weeks, I had never lived it.
Sitting back in my chair, I lift the glass of water to my lips and scowl. My mother is conducting her usual harassment of our waiter, James, as she tells him exactly how to instruct the chef to cook the grilled fish that she eats here every single week. Poor James must have done something really bad in a past life to have to wait on Monica Boling in this one.
“Blackened tonight, please, James.” She smiles as she orders.
God love him, James just stands there and listens intently, not rushing her or screaming, “I fucking know what you want! You order the same damned, privileged food every single week! Some weeks, twice!” But he doesn’t.
I, on the other hand, make no promises.
“For you, Dr. Boling?” James turns to my father, Elijah.
“He’ll have the same,” Monica interjects, like she always does.
Rolling my eyes, I take a deep breath and swirl the water in my glass.
Poor James turns to me. “And you, Dr. Boling the Second?” He means it kindly, and it’s become something of the “thing” to say around here, but tonight it may very well be the straw that breaksthiscamel’s back.
“Side salad, raspberry vinaigrette, please and thank you, James. I know I tell you every week, but you can call me Holly. I’d prefer it.”
“Very well, Dr. Holly.”
Disapproving, my mother clicks her tongue against her teeth. Closing my eyes, I take a deep, cleansing breath. When I open them, I glance at my smart watch. Eight-fifteen. At this rate, I may not make it until eight-thirty.
“What would you like for a main course?” James waits patiently.
“That is my main course, James. Thank you.”
