It’s kitchen mindfulness in a world of chaos.
I’ve always wanted to give people an anchor in their tumultuous lives. As a kid, I was always outside, camping in the yard, then farther afield as I grew older. Anything to get away from Dad. Beneath the trees and stars, I felt closer to the God Dad held over us like a sword of Damocles than I did anyplace else on earth. The summer before college, I hitchhiked Route 66 to prove my faith in the basic goodness of human beings. Dad called it rebellion and abuse of people’s charity.
Yet the man has been saving up congregational cash like he’s going to be picked to fund the next ark.
While the pancakes cook, I set the small table. Cutlery, plates, butter, and syrup. Would be better with blueberries, but all I’ve got are bananas. It’ll have to do.
My club phone rings; it’s King. “Yo, what’s up?” I say, glancing toward my bedroom door.
“Spark said you guys ran into some trouble last night. You good?”
Lying in this job has been second nature for years. My whole identity is a lie. My father would have a cow if he knew what my real job entails. He’d have some beef with how it’s at odds with what the Bible teaches. All thethou shalt not lierhetoric. Which is ironic, for as much as I have started to get comfortable lying to my bosses, I find myself less comfortable lying to these men, these outlaws who have become my brothers.
“It’s all good. Got her shelter.” It’s not a direct lie. And sheissheltering.Here, in my home. It’s the dumbest decision I could have made. For a moment I wonder why I lied, beyond it becoming my MO these days. Then I realize the less everyone knows about her, the safer she is.
“Okay. Good. You think it’s anything we need to worry about? The last thing we need is sex traffickers flowing through here. Especially if they bring law enforcement with them.”
“Pretty sure the people being trafficked have it worse than we do,” I say and then curse silently. I don’t usually disagree with King. I go with the flow.
“Yeah. Well, I’ll let someone else worry about them. Just don’t want anyone sniffing around here looking for ’em. Don’t need any more eyes on us than we already have.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Fair. But I think we should definitely monitor the situation to be sure.”
“I’ll let Vex know.”
“I got some errands I need to deal with today. Call me if you need me, otherwise I’ll see you at the club tomorrow.”
“Deal. Catch you later.”
When he hangs up, my other phone rings. “What’s up, Weicker?”
“The request you made for the cash to buy those guns from ...”
“Niro,” I add helpfully. He’s selling a handful of his weapons. Offered them to me. Well, he offered them to Spark first, but Spark suggested I might want ’em. Truth is, if I buy them, they become evidence. His fingerprints. Bullet tracing to every death at the hands of the club.
“Yeah, well, didn’t get approved.”
“You wanna turn your back on evidence?” I whisper, my eyes focused on the handle to the bedroom.
I step through the door into the rear yard. The previous tenants left a load of shit. Old car bumpers, a broken swing set. The lot had never been tended. And while that plays on my last nerve, it fits the character I’ve built.
“Nickel-and-diming from the top,” Weicker says in agreement.
I need to remember that out of everyone at the ATF, he’s the only one I feel truly has my back.
“They’re getting impatient,” he continues. “Right now, we would rely on your testimony for much of what you’ve seen. We have one audio worth any salt. They want you in a full wire for the next weapon drop at the docks. And they are going to intercept it.”
Intercept it? Jesus Christ.
And that’s my first sign of the day that I should tap out. Because I don’t get the usual buzz of excitement at the idea of a sting. My head isn’t whirring with ideas about how to make it error-proof. Or how we could catch as many club members at one time as possible.
Instead, my head goes to evasion. How do I ensure Spark, as sergeant at arms, knows he needs to be prepared? How does Halo, as road captain, ensure the exit route is open and protected?
A screeching siren pierces the air, and I run back into the house and see smoke rising from the pancakes still in the pan. “Fuck, I gotta call you back,” I say, slamming the phone down on the counter.
Tugging the pan off the heat, I reach for the dishcloth and wave it beneath the smoke detector six times before it turns itself off. My heart is still racing as I open the window and waft the back door open and closed a couple of times to let some air flow through.
“That’s one heck of an alarm clock,” Briar says, her voice thick with sleep. As she inhales deeply, she stretches her hands over her head, reaching for the top of the door frame. She hangs there, stretching her spine for a minute before letting go, a puff of air escaping those plump lips of hers.
