Nowhere But Here (Thunder Road #1)(33)

“Don’t be too sure about that. Trouble has always followed that child, whether she knows it or not. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing her again.”

“What does that mean?” A wave of tension ripples through me. So does an annoying twinge of protectiveness. The way Emily held on to me tonight...she was defenseless. That’s the reason for this confusing reaction. “The Riot going after Emily has to do with club business. Not Emily being...Emily.”

Olivia remains unusually quiet.

“I’m right on this,” I add.

“I hope you are, Oz. You have no idea how much I hope you are.”

The whine-creak of the porch swing creates a soothing effect that silences us both. There’re secrets involving Eli and Meg. We are all aware of that. Secrets that have been buried deep and if something’s been hidden that well, it’s typically the type of news that can kill.

“I’d love a cigarette,” she says.

I’m sure she would. “You were allowed one pack at the wake.”

“Ingrate,” she mutters. I maintain the constant rhythm of the swing. It’s after six in the morning and the hypnotic creaking is starting to put me to sleep.

Olivia’s breaths become consistent and when her eyes dart behind her lids, I pick her up, carry her inside and tuck her into bed. A huge shadow floats in from the hallway.

“The club is guarding the property,” says Cyrus. “I need to sit with her.”

I touch Olivia’s hand in a goodbye then head for the door. Can’t argue when a man wants to tend to his wife.

Emily

OLIVIA WAS ASLEEP when we left and I guess that’s good, even though a heavy weight sloshes in my stomach. I had no idea what to say to her and I probably wouldn’t have wanted to know what she had to say to me.

I gather my hair in a ponytail at the base of my neck, but, thanks to the wind ripping through the rolled-down window, wayward strands break loose. Eli’s in the driver’s side of what turns out is his truck. He props his arm on the open window and lightly grips the roof. His other hand steers.

Sweat forms along my hairline and I stick to the pleather seat. We’ve been riding along back roads, blowing past cornfields and forests, for an hour. There are two motorcycles in front of us and three behind. Passing cars reduce their speed so they can gawk at the procession.

“Did you go to junior prom?” Question number fifty-four from Eli’s endless reserve.

“Yep.” My eyes flicker to the passenger-side mirror. Oz is on one of the bikes trailing us. As the group of men was getting ready to leave this afternoon, I caught Oz watching me a few times, but each time my gaze fell on him, he glanced away.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit a thrill would run through me when I noticed him staring, which is moronic because he doesn’t like me. At all. And stupid me can’t stop stupid thinking of stupid him. The latest Oz train of thought: Did he go to his junior prom?

“Who did you go with?” Eli asks.

“Some friends. The guys rented a limo so it was cool.”

Eli switches his hands on the wheel. “Are you still in the advanced program at school?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Oz weaves so that he reappears in the passenger mirror. He wears a folded black bandanna and his hair blows in the wind. He doesn’t wear a helmet. Real smart. A car smashing into him would mean brain damage.

“Was one of those friends you mentioned your prom date?”

That question trips me up and I peer over at the walking, talking gene bank. Junior prom then advanced program and then back to junior prom. “Why the subject shift? Are you concerned a girl who’s smart can’t have a date to prom? Like all I do is stare at the walls in my room when I’m not scanning Wikipedia for mistakes? If so, you’ve been watching too many teen movies. Our generation believes in being well-rounded.”

A smile plays on his lips while he shakes his head. “Just answer. Did you have a date?”

Yes, and I went to his senior prom. At the end of that night he tried to kiss me and it was comparable to kissing Lars the dog sans the handkerchief. “There was a large group of us. Guys were a part of the group. We had fun.”

I didn’t directly answer and the way his smile reverses into a frown lets on that he’s aware. This is why I hate my annual visits with Eli. He’s nice to me and he does what he’s doing now: asks a million questions with this hopeful gleam in his eye that I’ll answer.

Because I hate hurting people, I’ll reply, but only so much because in the end there’s this deep, dark voice that whispers, Why does he care and what right does he have to ask?

“You don’t have your driver’s license.” Eli returns to one of his previous and safer topics. “How is that possible?”

“Where are we going?” I ask, not even bothering hiding the exasperation.

“Somewhere,” he answers. “Why don’t you have your license?”

“I don’t know how to drive. That’s how it’s possible.”

“Do you want to learn?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I hedge, then nibble on my bottom lip. Dad attempted to teach me this past fall, but I accidently pushed the gas when I should have chosen the brake. I creamed a row of bushes in our front yard and totaled the front of Dad’s Mercedes. Since then, neither Dad nor I have been eager to resume my lessons. “This past year has been busy. You know, school and stuff.”