She ends the call and tosses the phone into her purse. Looks at me. “I have to go home. My dad rolled the tractor. He’s in the hospital.” She scrubs her face. “I need a plane ticket—it’ll take too long to drive.”
“Get dressed.” I’m already in motion, jumping into jeans, a T-shirt. “I’ll take you.”
“Wh-what?” She stands in the doorway. “Rev, I—”
“Get your ass dressed. We’ll swing by your place for a bag.” I’m already putting boots on. “We’ve got a private jet.”
“A jet? You do?”
I take her face, tilt it up. “I don’t. Our employer does. For emergencies, and this is one. I’ll arrange a ride when we get where we’re going.” I bend, grab her clothes off the floor and hand them to her. “Now. Dress.”
She stares at me a moment longer, and then tosses the clothes on the bed. I kick the door closed, pocket my things as she rummages in her bag again and comes up with clean underwear. Shimmies into them—and shit, if this wasn’t an emergency, I’d enjoy that a bit more. Track shorts, a plain gray tank top from her bag. Socks, those kick-ass boots.
“Ready.” She shoulders her bag. “Are you sure about this? I can go alone.”
I just glare at her. “Like I’m leavin’ your side, after all that.” I wave at the bed. “Not a fuckin’ chance…babe.”
She grins, it’s wobbly, worried, but it’s a grin. “Then let’s go.”
I precede her out the door.
Chance heard the call, has a burner cell in his hand. “Jet is warming up. Just tell ‘em the destination when you get there, and there’ll be a car ready for you.”
Myka gulps. “Chance, thank you.”
“Get to your dad, sweetness.” To me, then. “We got you covered here. Just, you know, try not to take too long.” He grips my shoulder in one hand and my forearm in the other. “Watch your six, brother.”
I touch my forehead to his, squeeze his forearm with mine. “You know it. Thanks.”
He shoves us. “Go.”
13Home And Family
Myka
Rev is driving, and I’m navigating.
It’s weird being back here, passing through town, past all my old haunts, all of which now seem so small, so provincial. Out of town, into the countryside, rattling along the dirt roads toward my parents’ spread.
The jet was…impressive. A six-seat jet, sleek and expensive, all dark leather inside. No waiting, no security, just up the steps and settling into absurdly comfortable seats. A fast flight, which I was too worried to appreciate.
There was an SUV identical to the ones at Sin waiting for us on the tarmac when we landed.
Rev seems to understand that I’m too worried to talk, so he just drives. At one point, early on, I reach out and take his hand, mesh our fingers together. He looks at our hands, at me, but says nothing. I can feel him, though. Like the terms of endearment and the affection, it overwhelms him.
Now we’re trundling down the rutted narrow lane toward my parents’ house, an arch of trees overhead filtering the late afternoon sunlight. Trees to our right, acres of green pasture to our left, just beyond the rim of old oaks lining the road.
“Beautiful, out here,” Rev remarks.
“Sure is.” I smile. “Wait till you see my parents’ house.”
The road curves—there’s the lightning-forked elm on the right, older than the Constitution, which marks in my mind the “almost home” point. The single track leading off into the woods, to the Parson’s hunting shack a few miles in, marked only by a handmade wooden sign, pitted with bullet holes.
Then, home.
The road ends at the property, simply widening into grass, dirt giving way to gravel which Dad adds to and regrades every year. Mailbox on the left, right before the road ends, and then the gravel driveway circling wide, curving past the house before rejoining the road. In the middle, a grassy area in the middle littered with kids’ toys—plastic dump trucks, pink strollers, shovels, bats, balls.
The drive is clogged with cars—everyone is here.
