Page 42 of Rogue's Path

“Are you sure it wasn’t to see a sexy biker?” Cordelia raises an eyebrow at me.

You mean kiss a sexy biker? “A little bit. But writing here has been amazing.” Once Rogue left, words started pouring out. I went from a blank screen to a rough outline.

“It’s like this all around Silent Valley. The whole town is peaceful and relaxing. That’s why I moved here.”

It kinda is, minus the bad boy biker who throws off my equilibrium. “I should spend some time here.” If I called it a writer’s retreat—which it really is—it might even be tax-deductible.

“Why don’t you come stay with me for a while? I have an empty guest room and a beautiful garden when you want someplace else to write.”

“I couldn’t impose.”

Cordelia shakes her head. “Nonsense. I spend most of the day baking. We could go out in the evenings. It would be fun. What do you say?”

That I haven’t lived with anyone since college, and I wasn’t good at it back then. “Let me check my schedule, and I’ll give you a call.”

“Sounds good. I’ve got to go. There’s a restaurant waiting for my cakes.”

Now I need to come up with a plausible excuse not to accept. Mine all tend to be too creative to sound real.

Church

Rogue

In the past year, Havoc has called us to church for an emergency twice. Both times, a brother was in the hospital. Once for a gunshot wound. The second was due to a car accident. We all stepped up to make sure that their families were taken care of.

I twist the throttle and fly out of the parking lot.

The desire to turn around and return to Peaches wars with fear for my brothers.

The closer I get to our compound, the more brothers join me on the road.

Together, our bikes naturally form a procession.

A chill runs down my spine.

Will we be doing this again for a fallen brother?

Let it be just an accident. Something that can be fixed.

We roll through the gates and slip into our spots almost in unison.

All eyes turn to me.

There’s nothing for me to tell. I shake my head, and a somber silence follows us as we walk in.

There’s a handful of old ladies huddled in the corner, crying.

Someone’s dead.

There would be a hive of activity if someone were in crisis.

Church will tell us all we need to know.

I follow my brother into the specially designed room.

It used to be that we called this space the church to remind people that what was said inside these walls was never to be repeated outside of them. It was like we all walked inside a confessional without the absolution for whatever deeds we might do.

Now the walls and doors are lined with sound-deadening material as well as a Faraday cage.