engines and tear off in front of us. When they’re all on the highway in front of us, we pick up our pace to keep up with the pack.
After riding along for no more than five or ten minutes, we pull off the barren highway and onto a dirt road the feels like it stretches for miles. Eventually, we pull up to a collection of decrepit old wooden cabins, sprawled out from one another, that make up the West Wendover Rustic Motel. Somehow, when they named the place, I don’t think this is what they had in mind.
A cabin identifying itself as the office sits in the center of the cluster. Its sign hangs precariously by the one remaining, intact chain. Its neon letters are busted with their remnants scattered on the wooden porch beneath it. The windows haven’t fared much better, nor has its neglected porch, which houses three rocking chairs, two of which are occupied by old bikers who look like they’ve got one foot in the grave already.
Just as Ryan cuts the engine, the men of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club collectively cut theirs and dismount their bikes. Our new friends watch me with curious eyes. I even have the attention of the old bikers in the rocking chairs. Nervously, I dismount as gracefully as I can. Despite some minor shaking, I make it off the bike and on my feet without incident. Ryan dismounts quickly and comes to stand behind me. He’s so close I can feel the edges of his vest brushing against my back. I catch Jim’s gaze. His brows are drawn together, and his lips forms a flat line. His eyes look so cold I can barely reconcile this man with the one who first wrapped Gloria in his arms just a few days ago.
“Who are these people?” I whisper so that only Ryan can hear me. His chin brushes my temple; the rough drag of his days’ worth of stubble scrapes at my skin.
“Family.” His breath washes over my face. I relax, surveying the scene around me. The new faces all wear vests with the same Viking warrior and the word FORSAKEN on the back. The only difference is theirs say NEVADA on the bottom, whereas the men I’m traveling with vests say CALIFORNIA. Ryan leaves me and strides across the dirt lot to mingle with his men. Once he’s gone, I feel intimidated by the gathering. The Nevada Forsaken must amount to thirty in number. I’m barely getting the hang of communicating with the men I already know, much less this crowd, which ranges in age from mid-thirties to late seventies, if I’m guessing correctly.
“What are you doing over here?” I jump at the company, not having noticed anyone approach. To my ride side stands Ian. He’s expressionless as always, but he seems to have relaxed since the last time I caught his attention.
“Am I not supposed to be here?” I ask. His jaw ticks before he shakes his head. There’s some kind of struggle going on within him that I don’t understand.
“You’re supposed to be here,” he finally says, his voice a little lighter than a moment ago. “Ruby, she uh,” he begins, but doesn’t finish. I turn and face him fully, practically begging for answers. There’s so much I don’t understand about what’s going on and why. I’m willing to take anything he’s willing to give. I can’t squander this opportunity.
But he’s all tight-lipped and silent now. I take a deep breath and push it out quickly. “Please,” I say so softly that it brings back unwanted memories of every time I’ve asked my father for lenience and he refused to grant it. The memory is anything but welcome.
Finally, Ian turns so that we’re face to face. He’s average height for a man, which means he still comes close to a foot taller than me. Searching his eyes for answers I can’t decipher, I’m struck by how much he reminds me of my brother. Though his coloring is much lighter than Michael’s, they have the same eyes. My mother’s eyes. Ruby’s eyes. My eyes.
“Just give her time, okay?” he says. I tilt my head to the side as I focus on my breathing. In and out. In and
After riding along for no more than five or ten minutes, we pull off the barren highway and onto a dirt road the feels like it stretches for miles. Eventually, we pull up to a collection of decrepit old wooden cabins, sprawled out from one another, that make up the West Wendover Rustic Motel. Somehow, when they named the place, I don’t think this is what they had in mind.
A cabin identifying itself as the office sits in the center of the cluster. Its sign hangs precariously by the one remaining, intact chain. Its neon letters are busted with their remnants scattered on the wooden porch beneath it. The windows haven’t fared much better, nor has its neglected porch, which houses three rocking chairs, two of which are occupied by old bikers who look like they’ve got one foot in the grave already.
Just as Ryan cuts the engine, the men of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club collectively cut theirs and dismount their bikes. Our new friends watch me with curious eyes. I even have the attention of the old bikers in the rocking chairs. Nervously, I dismount as gracefully as I can. Despite some minor shaking, I make it off the bike and on my feet without incident. Ryan dismounts quickly and comes to stand behind me. He’s so close I can feel the edges of his vest brushing against my back. I catch Jim’s gaze. His brows are drawn together, and his lips forms a flat line. His eyes look so cold I can barely reconcile this man with the one who first wrapped Gloria in his arms just a few days ago.
“Who are these people?” I whisper so that only Ryan can hear me. His chin brushes my temple; the rough drag of his days’ worth of stubble scrapes at my skin.
“Family.” His breath washes over my face. I relax, surveying the scene around me. The new faces all wear vests with the same Viking warrior and the word FORSAKEN on the back. The only difference is theirs say NEVADA on the bottom, whereas the men I’m traveling with vests say CALIFORNIA. Ryan leaves me and strides across the dirt lot to mingle with his men. Once he’s gone, I feel intimidated by the gathering. The Nevada Forsaken must amount to thirty in number. I’m barely getting the hang of communicating with the men I already know, much less this crowd, which ranges in age from mid-thirties to late seventies, if I’m guessing correctly.
“What are you doing over here?” I jump at the company, not having noticed anyone approach. To my ride side stands Ian. He’s expressionless as always, but he seems to have relaxed since the last time I caught his attention.
“Am I not supposed to be here?” I ask. His jaw ticks before he shakes his head. There’s some kind of struggle going on within him that I don’t understand.
“You’re supposed to be here,” he finally says, his voice a little lighter than a moment ago. “Ruby, she uh,” he begins, but doesn’t finish. I turn and face him fully, practically begging for answers. There’s so much I don’t understand about what’s going on and why. I’m willing to take anything he’s willing to give. I can’t squander this opportunity.
But he’s all tight-lipped and silent now. I take a deep breath and push it out quickly. “Please,” I say so softly that it brings back unwanted memories of every time I’ve asked my father for lenience and he refused to grant it. The memory is anything but welcome.
Finally, Ian turns so that we’re face to face. He’s average height for a man, which means he still comes close to a foot taller than me. Searching his eyes for answers I can’t decipher, I’m struck by how much he reminds me of my brother. Though his coloring is much lighter than Michael’s, they have the same eyes. My mother’s eyes. Ruby’s eyes. My eyes.
“Just give her time, okay?” he says. I tilt my head to the side as I focus on my breathing. In and out. In and
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