SEAN

The car service drives up a lonely road away from the main part of town in South Vacherie, Louisiana. There are ranches with huge distances between them. Plus plantations telling of a darker time, around those. Finally we near the address. On my right side are fields with nothing in them but trees, marshes; weeds overgrown in residences torn down long ago.

We turn left into a cave of oak trees up a driveway that goes on forever. It’s after dark, hard to see much. The effect is powerful. Porch lights up ahead brighten as we near. The guy slows down because the place feels a little creepy to him.

I think it’s fucking fantastic.

Huge, ancient plantation that probably hasn’t been painted in a century. The porch is empty, few feet off the ground, and we park in front of its steps.

“Thanks,” I tell the driver who hasn’t spoken since the airport. I’m fine with that. I needed to sit with my thoughts, prepare my mind for the unknowable. That’s what’s got my blood pumping so fast—I have no idea what to expect.

The front door opens and an old screen door claps against the jamb as I grab my suitcase from the popped trunk. Shutting it with finality, I meet watchful grey eyes of a man in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. Can’t tell for certain. White hair against tanned and weathered skin tells me he’s not young. But he’s got a better body than I do. Ripped arms, big shoulders in a faded black t-shirt. Narrow hips in torn jeans, with a little extra around the middle just from age not letting him keep it all the way off even though he fights it.

“Who’re you?” he demands.

“Name’s Sean. I was told to come here.” I open my mouth, about to ask if he’s the motorcycle club’s President, call him by name, but stop myself. Glancing to the driver I see him staring like he wants information about what the hell is going on here. Walking to his window I tap on it. He rolls it down more and I slip him some money, jog my chin to the road and say, “Go on now.”

Guy backs out since the road is too narrow for a U-turn. He keeps locking onto us, too, interested if he can put the puzzle together. We don’t give him the pieces he needs. When he’s gone, motorcycle boots thud down old porch steps as those sharp grey eyes narrow on me. “Took a chance by getting rid of your ride.”

“Figured you’d have sent me away if you didn’t know who I was.”

He smirks, “My daughter said you were smart. You were about to say my name, weren’t you?”

Sofia Sol is his kid? Oh yeah, the eyes, I can see the resemblance. But she’s definitely bi-racial. She looked more Latina than white.

“You Jett Cocker?”

“That’s me.”

“Then yeah, I was about to say your name.”

“You stopped yourself.”

“Everything about you is confidential.”

With guarded approval he nods. “I didn’t expect you so early. Just called you this morning.”

“When the call of your life comes, you act on it, sir.”

Slapping my arm he grips it. “I’m gonna pat you down for weapons.”

My eyebrows twitch in surprise. Never occurred to me to bring one. “Do what you gotta.” Standing on the broken pavement, I raise my arms and let a biker check me for knives, guns, grenades, whatever he’s looking for. His eye movements are swift but thorough. Sofia mentioned the Ciphers do Martial Arts and it shows in the grace of this man. He’s stocky, muscular as hell, but moves like water.

Rising up, satisfied, Jett Cocker jogs his thumb toward the haunting plantation. “Follow me.” As we ascend old stairs, me with my suitcase, I scan the forgotten splendor as Jett explains, “When we heard the car drive up, saw the headlamps, let’s just say we don’t get a lot of visitors. I guessed it was you. So I sent the others off, told them to stay out of the way while we talk.” At the screen door he eyes me one last time. “You could be on a plane tonight.”

I give him a nod, swallow hard, and walk into a huge foyer with portraits of women in gowns, men in tights, paintings like you’d find in a museum. “This your family?” I ask.

“Nope.”

Crazy. To the right and up a ways is the beginning of a decadent winding staircase.

Jett walked left so I follow him into a parlor with twenty-foot-high ceilings, curtains to match, some torn, others just faded. There are several conversation areas, faded velvet chairs and sofas around stained tables. He sits in a wingback armchair that’s got a tear down the center, and throws his boot on a walnut coffee table that doesn’t seem to mind. I set my bag next to a tattered rug and clamp my jaw shut since it was hanging open. I didn’t know it until now.

“Sit.”

No hesitation there. But I’m on the edge, and he’s leaned back like the world is his. From the looks of this place, it is. I’ve got instant respect for the man and I just met him. Never been in a place like this and I’m more impressed by its decay than if he were wearing a suit and all of this was brand new. It’s cool as hell. His demeanor, the intelligence in his gaze, the fact that his daughter was such a badass—only a unique man could have raised someone like her and encourage what she does. Plus do the same? I’m speechless at exactly the wrong time.

“How do you like our home?”

Clearing my throat I say, “Nice place.”

“Think we should paint it?”

“No!”

He smiles. “Do you know why we don’t?” I shake my head and he circles his finger in the air. “We want to remember when people didn’t have their freedom, so that we’re always grateful for ours.” A sound from outside turns our heads. He shouts, sounding deadly, “Did I say I wanted company?” More scurrying, then silence. I frown, meet his eyes again as he says, “Sean, tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“Not much of anything. That’s why my mom set this up.”

“Why’d she do that, any clue?”

Gripping my knees, shoulders tense, I steel myself at having to talk about my failures, and launch in. “I’ve been getting in some trouble. Police have put me in jail a couple times. But they were wrong. One of the fights was because a guy grabbed this waitress by her hair, pulled some out when he did it. Called her a bunch of names and dropped her on the floor. I couldn’t let that slide. Another fight was because this kid had snuck into a bar, was getting picked on because he was a teenager—really scrawny, maybe trying to prove himself. The guys fucking with him were tourists. We get a few million people visiting Sedona every year, tons on their way to and from the Grand Canyon. Most are fine, some aren’t. That many numbers you’re going to get some bad ones.” Jett nods, concentrating on my story. Shifting my weight I continue, “The bartender told the guy he had to go. Poor kid was trying to save face, acting like he was legal age when there’s no way he was. The tourists pushed the kid down. I got in the way of the kick that was coming next. Showed ‘em you don’t treat people who are smaller than you like that. Another one—”

Jett stops me by raising his hand. “My daughter said all these fights were from you defending someone. Is that true?”