“Good, you must be Bear’s dad. I need to talk to him…” I hesitated, unsure of Bear’s dad’s name.
“Chop,” the man filled in the blank, pointing to his name patch. “You the one King claimed?”
“Claimed?” I paused, remembering that Bear had used the same term on the dock months before. “Um, yeah. I think so.”
“You’re the girl they sprayed bullets in my house over,” Chop said, shifting the toothpick that hung out of his mouth with his tongue. “’Cause we got our own trouble here without you bringing that shit to my door.”
“No, that was Isaac. He cornered us, he tried…” I shook my head. “Please, I just need to speak with Bear, just for a minute—”
“Ain’t here.” Chop shrugged.
I dropped my shoulders in disappointment. “Then can you please just get a message to him or King for me?” I asked hopefully.
Chop narrowed his gaze at me like I’d just stepped on his foot. He pointed a finger at me accusingly. “Like I told my son a million fucking times, Brantley King was not a member of this MC and therefore was no concern of mine.”
Was?
Chop turned around but then he stopped and looked back at me over his shoulder. “King’s dead. Him and Bear both.” He didn’t wait around for my reaction before disappearing back behind the gate.
I dropped to my knees, the gravel slicing into my skin as my world came crashing down around me.
Preppy. Bear.
King.
All dead.
They’re. All. Dead.
“Nooooo!!” I wailed.
The prospect lit a cigarette and looked down at me with pity. He turned away from me, refocusing his eyes on the empty street.
“Sorry, kid.”
Doe
Never again would I be able to look at a bow tie, a motorcycle, or someone with tattoos without struggling for air.
It was only because of Sammy that I didn’t wish I was dead too. He was the only reason I was able to swing my legs over in the morning and plant my feet on the floor.
I loved the tattoo on my back more than ever because King had given it to me, and it was something I would carry with me forever. A permanent piece of him.
An idea hit me, and once it took hold there was no letting go, and there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do to make it happen. Because for the first time since finding out that King was dead, a little sliver of hope cracked through the cloud of despair.
It took me forever to remember where the house was where King had taken me when he’d parked and waited, hoping for just a glimpse of his little girl.
I’d only seen the back of the house then, and with only a vague recollection of where it was; it had taken me the better part of the morning to finally find it.
I reminded myself that foster kids moved around from place to place all the time. The possibility was high that she wouldn’t even still be there.
I had to try anyway.
I waited across the street in a vacant lot, for what seemed like hours, in the blistering heat. When the front door opened, out came a short haired woman holding the hands of two little kids about the same age.
Between the picture on King’s dresser and the small glimpse of her I’d gotten the only night I’d ever seen her, I recognized her right away.
Max.
The woman maneuvered the children into a waiting mini-van. I followed them to a building where other men and women were shuffling their kids in through the door. A wooden sign, barely legible, having been faded by the brutal Florida sun, announced that the place was called Maria’s Learning Academy and Day Care Center. The woman who brought Max inside, emerged childfree. I waited until she drove off to make my move.
I tried my best to unwrinkle my knee-length pleated skirt with the palms of my hands, but there was only so much I could do after hours of straddling the moped. I ran my fingers through my hair and took a deep breath.
Bells chimed when I walked through the door. Sounds of laughing and crying children sailed through the air. It smelled like disinfectant and sugar. “Can I help you?” asked a bright-eyed pudgy woman sitting behind a partition.
I plastered on the biggest and brightest smile I could muster.
You can do this.
“You sure can, ma’am. I’ll be taking classes at the university in the fall and I’m looking for a great day-care for my son. I was hoping to tour your facility,” I said sweetly.
The woman examined my face like she was waiting for me to tell her the punchline to a joke. “You’re just a baby yourself,” she quipped. “You ain’t old enough to have babies of your own.” Her eyes were soft and kind.
“Don’t I know it,” I agreed. “So how about you show me around a bit?” I pressed.