Hope (The Virtues #1) (3 page)

“It’s a long shot—and I really mean that—but I could try and talk to Trask.” I thought I’d see some promise in his eyes.

Instead, Nick gave me a maniacal laugh, “Perfect. Out of the frying pan. I guess I’d rather owe a renegade group of bikers than a renegade drug dealer?”

Maybe the drugs really had fucked his brain up permanently. His stab in the dark idea was the best one, but even Nick could see how big of a long shot it was.

“Hell, they might even be working together, I don’t know. Jesus, Hope. You think fucking him ten years ago is going to be enough for him to come to our rescue?”

I made a conscious decision to un-ball my fists. My heart was racing. My father had hated Trask when I was in high school, and Nick had co-opted our dad’s feelings. Dad called him trash, the irony completely lost on him.

My confusion over Nick’s comments couldn’t be contained, “It was your fucking idea! Want me to turn around and head back to school, then? Jesus, you’re a worthless junkie piece of shit, and you still think you’re better than Trask? He got his life together when you could barely string together a sentence! You don’t get to suggest someone and trash them at the same time.”

“Calm down, Hope.” Nick stepped forward, but he must have seen the red in my eyes, because he backed away again. “I’m just saying, maybe he’s in on it, like… maybe he’s the muscle, or something. I haven’t heard good things about the Rising Sons, you know.”

It was just like high school all over again. Sarcasm and disdain shot from my voice like a shotgun blast. “That’s what you heard?” I slowed my words down, trying to keep my blood pressure low. “Who’d you hear that from? Another junkie? Some dealer? If the garbage of this town think they’re bad, then they must be the devil’s minions.

“You’ve got two choices: Nick: wait for Beezer to come back and kill you, or let me talk to Trask. Either way, I don’t think you have anything to lose.”

He sighed. As always, he knew I was right and hated the feeling. “You’re right. I don’t have anything to lose.”

I would have normally felt that warm glow of satisfaction, but in this case, being right meant I had to track down an ex, a biker, and a Marine all rolled into one. I wasn’t exactly afraid of him, but I was certainly afraid of what he would do to me. Trask had that magnetic personality that melted any ice I tried to put between us.

Keep it professional.
That was going to be my mantra.

“I don’t have his number. I’ll have to take a trip. The last I heard, the Rising Sons were in that bar by the riverbed, the musical-sounding name.” It was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t remember it. In high school, the bikers fell into several urban legends, but we stayed way clear of them. Our senior year, Trask was more and more interested in Harleys, but I never thought he’d join a motorcycle club. When one of my high school friends told me, shock hit me first, but then I tried to imagine him as a big, bad biker.

“Yeah, I know the place you’re talking about.”

“Thanks, Nick. So very helpful of you.” I gave him a sneer only a sibling could appreciate.

Nick shrugged. “You know how to get there?” After I nodded, he continued. “Then it doesn’t really matter what it’s called, does it? If there’s a row of dirty bikes parked outside and Molly Hatchet blasting inside, I think you’re in the right place.”

I had to smile. Nick did have his moments. “All right, all right. Get some shit together and find a motel or something. Keep your phone on, and I’ll let you know what Trask says.” As if the world was against us in every way, Nick’s phone chose that moment to vibrate and light up in his hand.

He looked down at it, reading the text. Any warmth we had built between us vanished, and when he held it up so I could see the message, I understood why. I made the mistake of reading it out loud.

“
18 hours. Better have the cash. Don’t you go disappearing on me.
Jesus, Nick. This guy’s serious.”

Nick knew things were bad. “If Trask says no, get out of here. Don’t come back to Bakersfield for another ten years, and don’t even waste a thought on me. You did everything you could, Hope.”

I wanted to say something, but what was there to say? Nick had a moment of clarity. If Trask couldn’t help me, I had no idea what else I could do. Nick would be on the run, and I’d be making sure Beezer didn’t set his sights on me. All I could do was push all the bad blood and family drama aside and wrap my arms around my younger brother.

He was swaying and unsteady as I hugged him, and all those motherly instincts kicked back in. From thirteen on, Nick was my responsibility, and I wanted to do anything and everything to keep him from harm, even if that meant putting myself in harm’s way.

I couldn’t get those memories out of my head. As I drove toward the biker bar, the airy happiness of high school romance came rushing back to me. Trask and I had met sophomore year when he made it a point to sit behind me in algebra. Each day, he’d lean forward and tap on my shoulder with a light touch. Sometimes he forgot his pencil, other times his notebook.

Every day for a semester, he’d lay his finger on me and ask for something he’d forgotten. On the last day of class, he told me that he’d forgotten my number, handing me a blank sheet of paper and a pen. It was a good line, and it worked.

Trask was a quick learner. After spending almost every day together after school, he’d drop me off at the entrance to Cherrywood Court. My father was overprotective in an “I don't like her, but she’s mine” sort of way. Trask was kind to me, but had a temper. He would often get upset thinking about my home life. I would always soothe him by talking about the future;
our
future.

The first time we made love was on Avila Beach the summer before our senior year. Afterwards, we laid on the hood of Trask’s car and talked about our future. Maybe we both knew then, but we kept the act up to hang onto our momentary happiness. It was
Grease
without the music. We were rough and tumble, and we had one year left for our young love to burn hot and fast.

Back in the present, the wind blew my loose, dark curls around in Layne’s car, and I tried to imagine him in the Navy. He had the body for it, for sure, but Trask was always his own man. He’d worked all through high school, and the jobs he loved the most were the ones where he was trusted to work hard and alone. His aunt and uncle were proud of his work ethic.

Familiar landmarks jumped out at me through Bakersfield. Some buildings were gone, others worn down by time. I passed my high school, the road that led to Trask’s old home, and the empty lot that used to be a pizza place where I got my first job. The town was filled with memories, good and bad.

My trip down Memory Lane was soon replaced as my panic dragged me to Hell. In the decade since Trask and I broke up with all the emotion and angst teenagers can muster, our worlds had become radically different. I was close to having Dr. in front of my name, and from what I’d learned from old friends, Trask had become something like an action hero. We seemed so similar in our senior prom pictures, but I doubted that we’d look or live anything alike anymore.

The buildings began to get sparse as I reached the edge of town. The bar was just off the Kern River, which was nothing but a dusty, rocky riverbed this time of year. As the road narrowed, leading eventually to the West Coast, a building began to come into view. It could have passed as a warehouse if not for the large neon sign advertising the place.

I said the name out loud, baffled that I had forgotten it. “Los Bandoleros” shone like a rebel’s beacon. The green and white neon lit up the gravel parking lot below. I saw the reflections bounce off of the chrome and paint of at least twenty motorcycles parked in the familiar tilt.

I knew I was way out of my league as I pulled Layne’s Toyota into the parking lot. I was only one of three cars there, and the other two were classic muscle cars. This was a biker bar through and through. I was a hundred-and-ten-pound med student with no tattoos and one ear piercing.

Fear gripped me as I sat in my friend’s car. What if Trask told me to fuck off? What if he wasn’t even there? What if no one helped me?

I held my breath and counted down from ten. I had to go into the bar with confidence, because I knew I’d get eaten alive otherwise. I was going to have to use the old ER trick, “fake it ‘til you make it.” Smile through the fear, and act like you owned the place. Asserting dominance was hard when you were small and looked like you still couldn’t drink, but I’d been getting better. I had arguing with uncooperative patients during clinicals to thank for that.

After the count, I let my breath out slow and deliberate. I crossed my fingers that Trask was there and that he would hear me out. As I stepped out of the car, his last words hit me hard like a bad news breeze.

Ten years ago we stood before each other, and he told me, “This is it, Hope. You and I are over, and I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other any time soon.” His voice was trying for that soothing tone, but it was more like being read a prison sentence. What he was really saying was we were going away for life. I knew it then, and until yesterday, I had accepted that. Trask was well aware I wanted nothing to do with Bakersfield and my old life. Despite the fear slithering through my head, I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when I walked into the bar.

After locking my friend’s car, I headed for the front door. Under different circumstances, I might have laughed, but I knew there was a life on the line. I did my best to look like I belonged among the Harley’s tilted to one side outside Los Bandoleros.

Live music was blaring through the doors and windows as the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the building. The gravel below my feet was littered with cigarette butts, and I was pretty sure I saw a condom half-buried in the rocks. I didn’t stop to examine it.

I gave myself the best pep talk I could think of: “Let’s do this.” With destiny on the other side, I pulled the door open.

The smell was not unlike Nick’s bedroom. Dirty. Not just dirty, an old dirty, stale beer and cigarettes from decades past.

The music tripled in volume when I opened the door, and it sounded like it was coming from every corner of the room. It might as well have been. There was a band on stage with amps that started at the floor and ended above the rafters.

Looking around at the tables, no one really seemed to notice me walk in. If they weren’t paying attention to the band, the bikers were focused on their own conversations. There were stereotypical biker mammas at some tables and a few on the dance floor. They were the epitome of biker culture: leathers, beards, and bandanas for the men; bleach blonde hair, tight tank tops, and tramp stamps for the ladies. I had walked into a bizarro Norman Rockwell painting of the American Underground.

At the long bar, I saw leather vest after leather vest in a neat little row. They all had their backs turned to me, but I knew I was in the right place. Each vest had a large insignia on the back, a skull with rays of light coming from the eye sockets, RISING SONS on a banner over the top, and MOTORCYCLE CLUB on a banner beneath the skull.