Nowhere But Here (Thunder Road #1) (3 page)

Hell, yeah. “You going to let me drive his bike home?”

“Fuck, no. I’m bringing you along to drive the truck back. No one touches a man’s bike and in desperate situations only another brother can. You know better than that.” Eli pats my shoulder and his expression grows serious. “See you tomorrow, and be dressed for the wake when I pick you up.”

Eli starts his bike and rocks kick up as he drives off. I watch until the red taillight fades into the darkness. Through the screen door, I spot my mother still caring for my father. She uses special care as she tapes gauze to his head.

Mom smooths the last strip of medical tape to his skin and when she goes to close the kit, Dad tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. They stare at each other, longer than most people can stand, then she lays her head on his lap. Dad bends over and kisses her temple.

They need a moment together and, having nothing but time, I sit on the top step and wonder if I’ll find someone who will understand and accept this life like my mother. Mom loves Dad so much that she’ll take on anything. His job, this life and even the club.

Emily

I’LL ADMIT IT.
I’m freaked.

Freaked that the flight from Florida to Kentucky was nothing more than a turbulence-ridden nightmare. Freaked that the man beside me on the plane puked three times. Freaked that June in Kentucky means severe storms. Freaked because I’m sweating through my favorite black dress and it’s dry-clean only. Freaked because I’ve been in this poor excuse for a cab for over an hour, with no air-conditioning and a driver who refuses to speak. Or maybe he’s mute.

Or maybe he murdered the real cab driver, picked me and my parents up at the airport and is taking us to our final destination before he chops us into Kibbles ’n Bits. Maybe...but probably not. We entered the small town of Snowflake a few minutes ago and if this guy was a mass murderer bent on a little fun, he’d find somewhere more original than here.

“Did you say Richard’s Funeral Home?” the cab driver asks. Wow, the man talked.

“Yes,” Dad answers. We flew into Louisville in order to be relatively close to Snowflake. The rental-car company botched our reservation and paid for the taxi.

The cab driver eases into the left turn lane and stops at the red light. Blood pounds at my temples in the rhythm of the car’s blinker when I spot the funeral home. It’s no different than the ones at home in Florida, except this one is surrounded by oak trees instead of palms and is one stiff breeze away from being condemned.

“You’ll be okay.” Dad squeezes my hand and I wrap my fingers around his before he can withdraw. “Keep breathing and try not to overanalyze it.”

Easy for him to say. “Did you get a hold of Eli?”

“No, I’m still going straight to voicemail.” Dad probably has to force the patience into his voice. It’s the fiftieth time I’ve asked since we disembarked the plane. Eli must have powered off his phone. Dad attempted to contact him, but I don’t blame Eli for not answering. I’d be devastated if my mom died.

Dad offers me a reassuring smile. “Eli will be thrilled to see you.”

I release a sigh...
Sure he will.
“What do I say when he asks about Mom?”

Dad’s smile fades and he lets go of my hand to readjust the watch on his wrist. “Tell them that your mother is sorry for their loss, but that she isn’t feeling well. She’ll try to attend later if she’s feeling better.”

Mom morphed into an unnatural shade of blue when she spiraled into a panic attack the moment we left the airport. Dad decided, since the viewing ends at eight this evening, that he and I would pay our respects first. Then if, after a rest, Mom was able to walk and breathe at the same time, he would go with her again.

Mom protested, but Dad, with his smooth doctor way, won. So she’s holed up at the sole motel in this dump of a town and I’m heading to a funeral home. I tried to throw myself into a panic attack in order to get out of this hellish event, but evidently holding my breath on purpose doesn’t count.

The light changes, the driver makes the turn, and I press a hand to my stomach. Oh, God. Dad has way too much faith in me.

The cab driver pulls into the funeral home, but is stuck behind two cars. Neither car shows signs of moving as they chat to the people on the sidewalk. The driver taps his fingers on the steering wheel in a ticked-off thump. I totally understand the feeling.

“My daughter and I will get out here,” Dad announces.

The cab driver assesses a group of men standing in a semi-circle outside the entrance. “You sure?”

“It’s not a long walk,” Dad answers.

I open the door and the driver freaks. “Are you sure this is where you want to be?”

No.
Dad maintains his superhero calm. “Yes.”

“Snowflake’s not exactly Disney World.” The driver waves his hand toward the men. If Dad won’t listen to me, maybe he’ll listen to our now talking driver.

I lean so I have a better look at the men standing around. They all have Eli’s style: redneck with a hint of grunge. Sort of like if Linkin Park fashioned their own clothing line inspired by L.L.Bean: jeans and T-shirts covered by flannel shirts. Some wear blue University of Kentucky baseball hats—just like Eli. A couple even have his...well, my dark brown hair.

What probably messes with the driver is that almost every man here sports over their T-shirts or flannels a black leather biker vest with the words
Reign of Terror
in white lettering. On the back of each vest is a large white half skull with red flames raining down. Fire blazes out of the eye sockets. I bet the guys who designed the emblem pat themselves on the back for the play on words.

“This is not a place for a young girl,” the driver exclaims.

He’s off on the young part. I just turned seventeen. And despite my previous hopes, Dad doesn’t share the cab driver’s, or my, assessment of the situation. “We’ll be fine. Right, Em?”

The driver rotates in his seat, reminding me of a possessed person in one of those horror movies. “Those are bikers.”

In his dark suit, deep blue tie and clean-cut blond hair, my father could be a model on the cover of a business magazine. He screams competence and authority and all that’s good in the world. So the next words cause the driver’s mouth to slacken. “My daughter is a relative.”

While the driver continues to gape in disbelief, I inwardly cringe.
I’m
related to
them
. More specifically, I’m most likely related to the men with the patch on the front of their vests stating
Mother Chapter
. Which, according to Eli, means the founding chapter of their club.

I’m a relative by blood and blood alone. We are not family in the ways that really matter. I may share genetic code with the people inside the building, but that’s where our relationship ends.

Dad and I climb out and the cab backs up, leaving us alone. Well, sort of alone. The side entrance of the funeral home opens and a woman with dark hair hurries out with a toddler on her hip. The baby’s hacking the type of deep coughs that cause chills to run down my spine.

Without missing a beat, Dad starts toward them and I follow. The woman sets the blonde girl with pigtails on the ground and the little thing is a combination of red face, tears and coughs. The woman rummages through her oversized purse, tossing receipts and pens and other crap onto the ground.

“Excuse me,” broaches Dad. “Can I help? I’m a pediatrician.”

The woman’s head jerks up and her eyes have a wild spark. “I can’t find my phone. I need my phone. I can’t get her to take the medicine. I can’t get her to take this.”

She shoves an inhaler into my father’s hand and he reads the prescription. “Asthma?”

The woman nods profusely. “Yes. We have that machine at home with the mask and that works, but this was for emergencies, and she won’t use it.”

Dad gestures to the child, who is now hacking out more air than she’s taking in. “May I?”

“Yes. Please. Help us.”

Dad kneels next to the toddler. With a few calm words and an expression that makes every toddler relax, he has the inhaler in the child’s mouth. It’s not working exactly like it should. I mean, the child is young and doesn’t suck in as much as she needs, but with Dad’s help, she’s inhaling some of the medicine and, more important, she’s no longer crying, but breathing.

The woman strokes the child’s hair as Dad continues to talk to both of them in his calm voice. He peers over his shoulder at me and my chest tightens. “Emily, I want to stay with them. Why don’t you go in, find Eli and pay your respects, and I’ll be in shortly to pay mine.”

I fidget with the purse in my hand, clasping and unclasping the magnetic strip that keeps it closed. Um...no? “I can wait.”

Dad inhales deeply and the disappointment is clear on his face. “Five minutes. That’s it. Find Eli, say hi, tell him we’re sorry for his loss and then we’ll return to the hotel, get your mother and go out to lunch.”

It’s dawning on me that Dad doesn’t want to be here any more than I do and that he’s ready to return to Mom. His words from yesterday as he was trying to explain why he was allowing us to take this hellish trip float in my head:
it’s our job to support Mom.

Got it. This is the first time Mom has visited her childhood state in over seventeen years. If we check the “we attended” box then life can return to normal.

Dad excuses himself and walks over to me. “Sorry for snapping, Em. It’s been a rough morning. Go in and pay our respects, and I’ll be in shortly. And so you know, it’s okay if you want to stay longer and talk to Eli.”

Yeah, not going to happen. I pivot away from Dad, tug at the hem of my black dress to confirm nothing rides up and start for the entrance with my purse in hand. I whisper to myself, “No worries.” Even though I have a ton.

As I step closer to the entrance, I hear several conversations at once and someone always seems to be laughing.

“...nothing larger than a 10-gauge...”

“...take a Ford over that foreign crap any day...”

“You lost?”

Everyone stops talking and stares at me. Great. I meet the eyes of the guy that called me out. He’s part of the group, yet not. He doesn’t wear a leather vest like everyone else, but somehow he appears just as dangerous.

The guy leans against the corner of the brick building as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s around my age, has black hair, is definitely ripped and he has suck-me-in blue eyes that wander over my body like he’s seeing me with my clothes off.

I cross an arm over myself and his lips edge up in response. My mom’s warned me about bad boys and I trust that she understands the world here better than I do.

I appraise my black high heels. Nice, they’re scuffed already. “I’m looking for Eli McKinley.”

Smoke rushes out of the mouth of the older man standing beside the guy my age. I’d wager he’s in his sixties and he scares the hell out of me. Well...everyone here frightens me, but him more. While the style here is stepped-out-of-a-trailer-park, he maintains the cliché of 100% pure biker thanks to his black bandanna, black leather vest and gray beard with matching ponytail. I attempt to ignore that his patch states
Mother Chapter
and
President
.

He keeps eye contact while taking a drag off his cigarette. “Eli’s inside.”

“Thanks.”

They continue their conversation and I open the door then steal a glimpse over my shoulder. The older man angles his head and his mouth moves as he mumbles something to the guy my age. The guy nods and pushes off the wall. Not wanting to be caught spying, I slip inside and the moment the door shuts behind me, I freeze.

Let’s get one thing straight. I hate funeral homes. Hate. I hate the smell of them. I hate the look of them. I hate the thought of them. Hate. And what I hate more than funeral homes are dead things. Dead bugs. Dead dried-up worms on the sidewalk. Roadkill. And since that ill-fated stroll in the woods at the age of eight when I fell into a hole and spent the night with a corpse, I hate dead people’s bodies.

I force myself forward on the red velvet industrial carpeting of this outdated house of death and rethink this entire situation. Badly painted landscapes hang every few feet over the black-and-white peeling wallpaper. My muscles twitch as if a million spiders crawl over my skin. And the smell! I cup my hand over my nose to smell something other than tragically scented potpourri and wilting lilies.

Thankfully, there’s only one viewing room, which means only one dead person to avoid. The fine hairs on my neck prickle as if eyes are trained on me. I glance back and my heart stutters when I spot black hair and a dangerous grin. The guy who called me out hangs near the door and he’s watching me. His jeans ride a little low. Low enough that his boxers peek out and it’s hard to tear my eyes away, but I do.

Not eager for anyone to touch me, I tuck myself in tight as I duck through the crowded hallway. If anyone runs into me, I’ll recall being eight and enclosed and the feel of cold skin, and me spazzing out is not part of the plan.

“...playing at the bar tonight. Plan on taking the girl...”

“...hit that hard...”

“...and she said I don’t want that trash on my property and I said I ain’t trash, bitch...”

Trash bitch woman wears skintight jeans, a tank top that exposes her midriff and, holy mother of God, flip-flops. She steps back and nearly knocks into me. I sidestep her, but I collide with someone else.

Cold skin with black markings grazes my arm and my heart lodges in my throat. I flinch and suck in a sharp breath while twisting my feet. I stumble back, completely off-balance, and my arms flail in a poor attempt to stay upright.

A warm hand grips my elbow and halts me from ramming into anyone else. My head snaps up and I’m greeted by dark blue eyes. The guy who was watching me is now touching me.
Remember to breathe.
Yes, he’s pretty, but bad things come in gorgeous packages—at least that’s what Mom says.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I whisper and immediately return my attention to the guy I crashed into. He’s not dead. He’s very much alive and he’s taking a swig from a beer. Wait. A beer? My gaze switches from him to the bottle.

“Would you like one?” He motions to a cooler full of ice on the floor.

I shake my head. Major WTF.

Black hair guy releases me and motions with his chin to the left. “Eli’s in the viewing room.”

Viewing room. Right. I mumble a thank-you, but he doesn’t notice as he’s bumping fists and accepting a beer from the guy with the tattoos.

The viewing room is beyond crowded. Like the-fire-marshal-should-be-notified crowded, which means it will be difficult to find Eli. People laugh, shout and talk as if they’re attending a pep rally instead of a funeral.

I rise to my tiptoes and clutch my purse. I haven’t seen him in a couple of months, but Eli always looks the same: dark brown hair cut short, plugs in both ears, T-shirt, jeans and a smile that, for some insane reason, can make me smile.

My stomach sinks like the
Titanic
as I catch sight of him. Just no...why-does-it-have-to-be-so-difficult no. His back is to me, but I know it’s Eli. A tattoo of stars runs the length of his arm. Like most of the other men here, he wears the black leather vest. And of course, he stands next to the one spot I want nothing to do with—the casket.