Grey Gods

Chapter Sixteen - On Edge

Angel:

When I got home from my haircut, I wolfed down a sandwich, smoked a blunt, and passed out on the living room couch until about six.

A blanket falls off me, onto the floor – probably my mom's doing. She was thoughtful like that.

I walk to the kitchen and take my phone off the charger, seeing a text from Pedro: Got everyone here at Saint's. Let me know when you're ready. One hour ago.

I text back: Ready.

There's a note on the counter by the stove that catches my eye.

Birria in the crockpot. Love you! – xo Mom

I'm feeling a little sick to my stomach, but I know I should eat before I head out. Need to stay sharp. My mom keeps warm tortillas in a separate crockpot, so I assemble a wrap with a giant scoop of meat and crumbled queso fresco from the fridge. I eat where I stand, my nose running after a few bites. My mom does not fuck around when it comes to spice.

I chug a Gatorade and feel my nerves soothing. My mom makes damn good food. She loves to cook, but she's hardly home. She's a wedding planner, always going places, planning events and happily spending other people's money. When she's not working, she's bowling with her all-girl bowling team, and she's very competitive. My dad's a commercial architect that has no other hobbies besides drawing. He designed my uncle Richard's hotel. I know he's proud of it, but he and mom have been basically living there since I got out of prison.

I feel like I'm the reason they don't want to be home.

Or maybe they're just letting me have my space. Either way, my dad has barely spoken to me.

I don't blame him.

Shaking his disappointment from my thoughts, I snatch my leather riding gloves and my cut off the hook in the laundry room. A small smile pulls at the corners of my mouth when I remember the Tiger's Eye stone Lana gave me, vibrating in my inner chest pocket.

I step out to the garage, light a cigarette, and open all four garage doors. After a few inhales, I pull out the stone. It's a shimmery golden-brown color. The golden streaks catch the garage light and sparkle. I rub my thumb across its smooth surface and smoke, riveted.

I've never known a chick that was into crystals. When I saw them on her desk, I thought they were for decoration. But Lana has a genuine belief in them, which made the small stone she gave me feel extra special.

She made me feel some type of way.

The meaning behind her gift to me...it was probably the nicest thing anyone's ever given me.

I wanted to hang out with her.

I wanted to see if this thing we had going on...was it something for her, too?

I mean, I thought she was gay. She asked me to hang out, so now she's got me thinking otherwise. I don't know. I'm just gonna follow her lead and figure out where the lines are drawn. If there are lines at all.

I finish my cigarette and tuck the stone back where it belongs, hearing motorcycles in the distance. All that nervous energy inside me heightens. I take a deep breath. Fetch the keys for my Indian Scout chopper, and my helmet, and head to the other side of the garage. I have three bikes. My Ducati was my main bike. My chopper I liked for longer rides, and my Kawasaki Ninja H2 was for certain occasions. Like when I needed to get somewhere really, really fast.

My crew pulls up the driveway.

"Look at you with your fancy haircut." Pedro shouts over the rumble of engines.

Armando pulls up beside him and shouts, "Looking like Ramey with that hair gel!"

I give them the finger and pull on my helmet, a custom Jormungandr – packed with razor-sharp teeth and wrapped in scaled armor. I clean the chrome visor with my shirt and hop on my bike, eyeing the rest of my guys as they drive up. Nobody says a word, but everyone looks tenso como la mierda. It wasn't like me to ask for space, but I needed time to think about Tito's true death without all the voices in my ear.

Being around Lana helped with that. She distracts me. I tell myself that when this meeting's over, whatever happens, she's going to hop on the back of my bike, and I'll get to spend time with her.

Selfishly, I want that more than I want answers to Tito's death.

"Follow me." I addressed the group, starting my bike and revving my engine. "We're going for a ride."