Kade

 

If there’s one thing I’ve never let myself do, it’s second-guess my decisions. Second-guessing has always been the thing most likely to get me killed. Back in the trailer park, second-guessing would’ve led to being beaten bloody more than once. Second-guessing my instincts when we were in the junkyard and a group of older kids were on the prowl. Second-guessing my confidence when I charged, roaring and blustering, at a group of Duster’s bullies. Second-guessing when I ducked behind the couch before Dad fell drunkenly on his gun. And then later, second-guessing was unacceptable. Second-guessing if two unknowns could found a club; second-guessing my leadership; second-guessing the respect that was afforded me. No, a man like me can’t second-guess. It’s not in my DNA; I can’t let it be.

 

But over the next month, I do a hell of a lot of second-guessing. Lana has broken my lifelong tradition.

 

I think back to the rainy day in the shelter of the town hall, think about when she told me she loved me, think about the accusations I hurled at her. I was more of an asshole than usual that day; that’s the truth. And if that’s ’cause I thought she was fucking Scud, that’s my fault. I should’ve listened to her, given her a real chance to explain.

 

Should’ve, should’ve . . .

 

That’s a word I usually stay far away from. An acidic word which could easily eat through all the resolve I’ve spent my entire life building up. But acidic or no, it’s a word that dominates my mind. Even when I’m dealing with the Italians—the Italians, I think clenching my chest as I sit at my desk, who always seem to know when we’re coming. The Italians who most likely have a mole somewhere in the Tidal Knights.

 

I lean back in my chair, groan. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Groaning. Thinking. Overthinking. Replaying that moment with Lana in my mind. I know that Lana is safe. I’ve sent Noname up every other day since she left. The Italians don’t seem to know where she is, thank Christ. But still . . . she’s up there, with my child, alone. And I’m down here in the muck.

 

I sit up when somebody knocks on my door.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“It’s me,” Earl says. “We’ve got a problem.”

 

“What?”

 

Already I’m thinking about how another one of our men might be dead. At least it’s not Earl, I reflect grimly. Since the business with Scud, Earl has become second-in-command in all but name. I’ve steered clear of Scud, giving him orders through Earl. It makes me feel like shit, letting him roam free after what he did to Lana. But the men are on-edge. They don’t need much of a push and they’ll just go straight over, maybe start speaking of mutiny. Mountain and Duster have been here from the start, Scud almost from the start. If they three go, they might start questioning their own position. Unless Scud gives me a reason the men can get behind.

 

“It’s Scud,” Earl says.

 

Maybe I’m a sick man, because excitement runs through me at those words.

 

“What happened? Dead?”

 

No hope in my voice. That’s good.

 

“No, just beat to hell. Come have a look.”

 

“Alright.”

 

I leave the office and walk into the bar. Earl and a few of the other guys, the foot-soldiers as I’m starting to think of them seeing as this is wartime, stand in a semi-circle around Scud. He’s on his knees and his face is hardly recognizable, pulpy and puffy, soaked in blood, bulging. He doesn’t look human. He looks like some alien creature from a movie.

 

“What happened?” I ask, addressing Earl.

 

Even now, I can’t look at Scud. As soon as I look at him, I remember what Lana told me, grabbing her arm—grabbing her arm with my baby inside of her. Shit, life has got damn confusing damn fast.

 

I’m surprised when Earl kicks Scud casually in the ass.

 

I raise my eyebrow: What was that for?

 

Earl nods down at Scud: He’ll tell you.

 

I kneel down so that me and Scud are eye-level. Or, at least, my eyes are level with the bulging mass of blood where his eyes used to be.

 

“What’s going on?” I ask.

 

He barely looks like Scud, which is good. This is the closest I’ve been to him since I heard how he behaved with Lana. Even now, I want to hook him across the jaw. A cruel want, I know, because his jaw is as puffy as the rest of him. I swallow down the rage. Outside, thunder cracks and rain pours from the sky, pattering against the windows. Rain, again. This has been the rainiest summer in memory. Rain and death and love and longing. If I was a religious man, I’d say Duster was up there, sending the rain down as one of his dark jokes. Weather to match the mood, he’d say.

 

Scud sniffs, as though fighting back tears. Can’t blame him if he is.

 

“Scud,” I say. “What is it?”

 

“You’ve already told me,” Earl says calmly, standing off to the side. “What’ve you got to hide now?”

 

Scud’s shoulders slump. “I’ve been giving information to Enrique about the whereabouts of our men. But I didn’t want to!” He adds this part quickly, a kid admitting to something but then just as quickly wanting to make it seem small, not something to worry about. “It was soon after, uh . . .” He licks his bloodied lips. “It was soon after Lana left, Boss, and I was leaving the clubhouse to go for a ride and the Italians they—they blocked the whole road with their cars. They climbed out and Enrique told me that I better do as he says, or he’ll kill me. Kill me. And I didn’t want to die. No way. So I told him yes, I would. But I didn’t want to. I never wanted to. And today, today, today . . .” He breaks down, weeping tears which must sting his eyes if his wincing is anything to go by. The men watch impassively. There’s nothing worse than a traitor. “But today, he said I was lying to him. He said I was a liar and so he did this to me, Boss, and he told me to tell you—” He sobs again. We wait. “He told me to tell you he’s coming for you here, at the clubhouse. He told me to tell you he’s finishing this war.”

 

I stand up, disgusted with him, and disgusted with myself for not keeping an eye on him.

 

Outside, another blast of thunder hits, making the clubhouse tremble. My mind isn’t on Scud, or the men, or the clubhouse. My mind is on Lana. If Enrique has been holding off on hitting the clubhouse, he might’ve been holding off on hitting Lana, too. I need to get to her.

 

“What shall we do with him?” Earl asks.

 

I look down at the bloody, beaten man. Part of me wants to kill him. With my own fists. To fall on him like a wild animal and tear him apart piece by piece until there is nothing left. But then something strange happens. I start thinking about the baby, my baby. I think about the child and I think about my own father, how I was scared of him, how he, too, was an animal. I wonder if I want the same for my child and I don’t have to wonder for long. I don’t. I want my kid to be able to look at me and see a protector, not some twisted monster. Maybe that’s it . . . or maybe it’s ’cause enough Tidal Knights have died already. Or maybe it’s a mixture.

 

But whatever it is, I’m going to be a father and the mother of my child might be in danger. I feel like a moron for letting Lana go. I should’ve tied her down if that’s what it took, at least until this Italian shit was taken care of.

 

“You have twenty-four hours to get as far from Evergreen as you can,” I say. “After that, I’m putting the word out. If you’re ever seen in this State again, you are a dead man. Do you understand?”

 

Scud nods, sniveling, pathetically grateful. “Yes, Boss. Yes, yes.”

 

I nod at Earl. “Get him out of here, and then lock down the club. Make it into a goddamn fortress for when I get back.”

 

“Where are you going?” he asks, as I pace for the door.

 

“I’m going to get my woman and my child,” I grunt.

 

I push out into the hammering rain and jog across the parking lot to my bike. Already, I am soaked through, but I don’t care. I start the engine and the bike growls into life, louder even than the near-deafening raindrops. I screech across the water-shiny road and start the ride toward Seattle.

 

As I ride, my mind throws itself forward to Seattle. I imagine Enrique with his glinting gold knuckle duster punching Lana in the belly. My mind is cruel and it fuckin’ tortures me. I imagine Lana falling to the ground clutching her belly as blood seeps between her fingers. I imagine her on her back, rain- and blood-soaked, mumbling my name. The bike growls and I do, too, growl just as loud as the engine. Image crashes into image as I swerve around cars, speeding toward the city. I hear Lana, whispering close to my ear: “You let me die, Kade. You let me die.”

 

I’m halfway there when a thought occurs to me.

 

Fuck!

 

I screech to a halt at the side of the road. I’m not picking her up on my bike. And what about her friend?

 

Fuck!

 

I take out my cell, sheltering it as best as I can with my hand, and dial Noname.

 

“Boss?”

 

“Are you in the city?”

 

“On business, yeah. That lead you told me to follow-up.”

 

“In a car?” I ask hopefully.

 

“I wish. Bike.”

 

“Get a car. Meet me at Lana’s. Don’t leave the city.”

 

“Where am I supposed to get a—”

 

“Just get a fuckin’ car!” I snap.

 

I hear Noname swallow. “Yes, Boss.”

 

“Get there right away.”

 

“Yes, Boss.”

 

I hang up, stuff my cell into my pocket, and rejoin the traffic.

 

Goddamn it. Why did I let her go?

 

I’ve never been one for second-guessing, it’s true, but as I speed through the rain, I second-guess everything.

 

Second-guess every single moment spent with Lana, starting at the Twin Peaks and ending at the town hall. I second-guess the moans, the flirty glances, I second-guess the way we would hold each other, me just thinking we were a man and a woman getting close, her knowing the deeper truth. I second-guess her reasoning for agreeing to live at the clubhouse in the first place; I’d thought it was just lust, but obviously there was something else.

 

No, I’m not one for second-guessing at all.

 

But the time for second-guessing is over. I can’t second-guess now. I have my woman and my child to protect.