Long Way Home (Thunder Road #3)(55)

“Maybe you should have been a cook,” I say, and the guys quiet down. I talk now, but not a ton.

Mom blinks several times. “Are you talking to me?”

I nod with lasagna in my mouth, then swallow the Italian goodness. “Maybe you should have been a cook in a fancy restaurant. Your food is that good. Did you ever think about it? Cooking school?”

Mom seems surprised by the compliment and accepts it with a good-natured grin. “I don’t need a restaurant when I have all these growing boys.”

Rumbles of male laughter and my own glow dies. Mom notices and her smile wanes. Why can’t anything just be about her? Why does it always have to involve the Terror?

“I stopped by your practice today,” Cyrus says, and Chevy, who had been absorbed in his food, lowers his fork. “Why was Ray running your routes?”

The air catches in my throat and my head turns to Chevy. In fact, every conversation ceases and all eyes are on him. Chevy mixes his salad around his plate, then uses his bread to push the lettuce onto his fork. “I’m benched.”

He shoves the food into his mouth as Cyrus stares at him like he announced he has leprosy. “Why? For this week? Because you missed practice last week?”

A shrug and a drink of water. “Indefinitely.”

“What happened?”

Chevy finishes chewing, then tosses his fork onto his plate of half-eaten food. “I was kidnapped.”

“And?”

“The school board has decided since I was kidnapped, then I must be involved in gang activity. Until it’s proven otherwise, I’m benched.”

My heart stops, and I reach out and touch Chevy’s shoulder. Football is his life. It’s his release. It’s his everything.

Guys are cursing, saying words full of malice, but all I can do is focus on Chevy, wishing he’d look in my direction, but he’s locked in a stare with Cyrus. Neither of them speak, don’t even blink.

Cyrus breaks first and scoops lasagna onto his fork. “I’ll talk to your coach. Get this cleared up.”

Chevy pushes away from the table and my hand falls from his body. “Coach said he’ll get it cleared up. No need for you to get involved.”

“No way. You’re family and we take care of our problems.”

“Coach specifically told me he doesn’t want you involved. He said you talking to the school’s administration, the board, will only hurt my case, not help.”

Cyrus goes red and his fork clanks against the table when he throws it down. “You’re my family and we will take care of it as we see fit. The Terror will stand behind you.”

“Not on this. Let Coach handle this.”

“We know how to handle the school board. We know how to talk to them to get them to understand.”

“No!” Chevy snaps, and I shake with his voice. He never raises his voice. Not like this. Chevy doesn’t lose control. “The football team—it isn’t your world. It’s my world. It’s completely separate from you, from the Terror, from this house. You don’t get a vote on this. If I say Coach is going to take care of it, he takes care of it.”

Cyrus shakes his head, opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but Chevy mutters, “Fuck it,” snatches his jacket off the back of a chair and goes for the back door. It creaks open, then slams shut.

When Cyrus goes to stand, I smack my good leg against the table, rattling everyone’s plates, as I struggle to get to my feet first. “Let me.”

I fumble with my crutches in haste as Chevy can move faster than me when I have two working legs. The men maneuver out of my way, and Man O’ War opens the door for me. I’m out, frantically scan for Chevy, and he’s already halfway across the yard, moving toward his bike.

“Chevy!”

He turns, and when he sees me, he stops. I’m hobbling as fast as I can, the crutches digging into my arms. As if he realized I wasn’t a dream, Chevy stalks in my direction, and when he comes close enough, I let go of the crutches and fall into him, knowing he’ll catch me. My head to his shoulder, squeezing him as tight as I can. “I’m sorry.”

Chevy hugs me back, in a bear sort of way, his body encompassing mine, his arms steel bands, his nose nuzzling into my hair as if he can’t find a way to get close enough.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. “I’m so sorry.”

“Come with me?” Chevy asks.

I press tighter to him as if there was actual space between us. “Anywhere.”

“All I got is my bike.”

And my knee is bad, plus I haven’t been on the back of a bike since Dad died.

“But I won’t go far. I promise.”

My throat knots. The back of a bike, but it’s with Chevy and he needs me. “Then let’s go.”

The air rushes out of my lungs when Chevy leans down and swings me up in his arms. He walks fast for his bike, probably wishing that no one from the Terror is watching us. That for a few minutes, we can find a way to be completely alone in our grief.

His Harley is a beautiful piece of machinery. It’s the bike his father rode and it was given to Chevy the day he turned sixteen. He cares for this bike with the same loving care he shows when he touches me.

Chevy sets me on the ground, draws his leather jacket off his shoulders, places it on mine, pulls his keys out of his pocket, and the moment he’s on, he offers his hand to me.