SALEM

The moon illuminates the sky as Cole drives me home. I’ve never watched the scenery with this carefree outlook before. I’ve never taken the time to enjoy the serene beauty that surrounds our small, western town.

It’s breathtaking.

But with the way my life is nothing but a rush from point A to point B, I never took the opportunity to just drive and savor the backdrop that surrounds my local community.

As we pull into my driveway, sadness wraps around me.

Saying goodbye, even if for a short amount of time, has my chest concaving and my mood dampening. How this man who’s only been a part of my life for such a small span can affect me like this is dumbfounding.

“What’s wrong, babe?” Cole asks as he turns off the engine and swings me around to face him.

My chest is pressed firmly to his before I have a chance to contemplate the strength it took for him to switch our positions like he just did or how he knew something was wrong without seeing my face. I take a moment to consider my words carefully, no reason to scare him off before I can draw him in and hook him to where he never wants to leave me.

While he patiently waits for me to answer his question, he starts unlatching my chin strap and removing my helmet. He removes his shortly afterward, but while doing so, his eyes stay permanently glued to mine.

“What’s running through that beautiful head of yours, Salem?”

“You,” I breathlessly admit. “You’re all I can think about.” Where the courage came from to answer him honestly and not bullshit him is baffling. I usually tend to keep my inner turmoil to myself.

Trusting someone with my heart is not easily done for me. It’s been broken twice—those scars are profoundly embedded in my soul and the cuts are still more than skin deep.

First by my father’s death, then by the abandonment from my mother.

“What about me?” he probes, unraveling my braid and twirling a fallen strand of hair loosely around his finger. A moan escapes my throat as my scalp tingles from being toyed with. I love it when someone plays with my hair, it always soothes me, which is why I visit my hairdresser once a month for a scrub and wash.

“I can’t say it aloud, Cole,” I demurely whisper. “It’s embarrassing.”

“There’s never going to be anything embarrassing between us or about us, Salem. You will never see judgment in my eyes or hear it in my tone. Feelings are neither right nor wrong. Say it. Tell me what has you frowning.”

“I’m afraid that once you drive away, you’ll forget about me and move on with your life. I like you, Cole, and I don’t want this to be the end.”

“The road ahead of us is wide open, Salem. There’s only a beginning point, but there’ll never be an ending to that road. Not for us.”

“Can you promise that, Cole?”

“I can do you one better than that, Salem. I guarandamntee it. Now, stop wallowing, let me be a gentleman and walk you to your door.”

“Then what?” I gaspingly ask.

“Then, I’ll give you a kiss goodnight, wait until you lock your door, and call you tomorrow to ask you out again.”

“I’ll say yes,” I whisper. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll say yes to anything he asks me.

“That’s good to know, darlin’, but I’m still gonna ask you all proper-like,” he remarks with a canted smile.

“Okay,” I reply with one word.

“Okay,” he replicates. “Let’s get you safe and sound behind a locked door. I’ve gotta work early in the morning tomorrow.”

I nod my head and jump off his bike.

He swings his leg around his bike a lot more suave than I did and laces our fingers together as he escorts me to my door where he cups my face in his palms and leans down, placing a chaste kiss to my lips.

“Night,” I murmur, still wishing he would stay but not having the guts to ask him to do so.

Cole traces my jaw with his thumb before saying, “Night, sweetheart.”

With that, I steel my shoulders, unlock my door, and walk in. Letting out a deep breath, I lock the door then smile when I hear his feet carry him down my walkway.

“See you soon, Cole,” I gurgle to the closed door. “I hope.”

* * *

Aspen and I have chosen to start a competitive dance team. Today, even though it’s our off day, there are open auditions.

We will have several ranges in age and three different troupes of positions to fill. Each team will consist of fifteen girls with two backup dancers in case, for any reason, one of the girls cannot compete.

The parents have to sign non-disclosure contracts. In order for their children to be added to the team, they’ll have to agree to all of the terms and conditions around rehearsals and competitions laid out before them. They’ll also receive an itemized statement containing costs, travel expenses, and so on.

Aspen and I did a lot of research on how much everything will be and have added a ‘just in case’ fund to the calculations. Material for costumes and gas prices to fill the bus we acquired, so we can travel together as a team, change periodically and we can’t guarantee it’ll always be the same to everyone’s pocketbooks. It’s an expensive endeavor, but will be great for future college applications and scholarships.

To be fair, since Aspen has two daughters trying out, we’ve brought in an outside panel from another town to judge the entries. Also, this way, others can’t claim that Aspen was influenced by her maternal instincts to protect and make her young ones happy.

Three classrooms have tables set up in the back and there will be groups of five girls demonstrating their craft. They’ll perform the choreography we’ve been practicing for the last three weeks.

The top twenty finalists will have to memorize a two-minute routine that they won’t learn until twenty minutes before their final judging. It’s a test that’s hard to pass, but they won’t have to know it perfectly, we just need to know who’s passionate about joining the squad and willing to put their all into what we teach them.

Once the girls are separated by age, and which troupe they want to compete in, teachers span out and observe. They go from giggly, squirming young ladies to professional artists the very second the music begins playing. Excitement floats through the air as soon as each group starts.

Coaching girls who have aspirations to take their gifts further than simply doing what their friends are doing, has a smile spread wide across my face.

I foresee a lot of these gifted youngsters going far.

There is a lot of talent in our small town.

I can say to the world-at-large that I watched them grow, mature, and come into their own.

This right here is all I’ve ever dreamed about doing with my life.

Teaching.

Inspiring.

Rewarding.

Uplifting.

Invigorating young minds.

It’s an uplifting experience that I will treasure as long as I live.

POWERHOUSE

Not able to resist the pull to see Salem, even with her being busy today, I ride by the studio and glance inside to get a peek of her doing what she loves. Her face radiates happiness, and something about that settles the nightmare that woke me early this morning.

PTSD, the shortened acronym for posttraumatic stress disorder, is a downright bitch to suffer from. Apparently, I have a buttload of survivor’s guilt from my mother’s multiple attempts at ending her life and eventual successful suicide.

I didn’t understand what that diagnosis entailed until I was diagnosed, and it was explained to me thoroughly by the therapist I was forced to speak to while doing time behind bars in county lock up.

Lucia Carmichael, my mandated therapist, claims that there will always be a part of me that takes responsibility for not hovering and watching over my mom twenty-four seven.

It was my sole responsibility as her only child to keep her from taking her own life, in which I failed exponentially.

My first colossal fuck up in life was not doing my job as her son; her caregiver, the man of the house.

When I screw up, I do it spectacularly… i.e., not hiding the tools she needed to put an end to her life’s afflictions.

Even if I was only a teenager at the time of her death, I still considered myself as her protector and blamed myself for not skipping school on that day, like I did on so many other occasions, when I knew she was having a mental crisis. I always knew, but on that day, I was fucking tired and wanted to just be a kid… something I shouldn’t be ashamed about, but am.

However, that cross is still carried by me, and I doubt it’ll ever be lifted.

I saw the warning signs that morning, but I had football tryouts and the coach thought I had a real shot at making the team. In my adolescent mind, I thought that was more important than holding her hand, hiding her pills, and locking all the knives away. Never, not once, did I think of hiding her car keys or cuffing her to her bed.

Not one damn time.

If my father hadn’t lost himself in the bottom of a bottle, left us for greener pastures, his sugar mama and new kids, my life may have been somewhat normal. But he couldn’t deal with my mother’s issues, he claimed they were too hard for him to bear, it hurt too bad to watch her spiral, so instead, he left his son behind to carry that load for him.

Shutting off my bike, I replace my riding glasses by grabbing my reading glasses from their pouch which is attached to my handlebars, and plant them on the bridge of my nose. When everything clears up, and the blurry sight is gone, the smile I saw earlier from Salem is magnified tenfold. In reaction to her happiness, I find a smile breaking across my face.

She does this to me, though.

Every time I feel down and out, all I have to do is look at her and her enthusiasm for life and I catch it. Her zest for life is what draws me to her. I’m the fly buzzing around who gets caught in her honey trap every single damn time.

Being near her has become instrumental to my soul, I need to know she’s okay in order to breathe. I don’t know how she manages to do it, but that solemn place that exists inside of me is grateful that she does. She’s a breath of fresh air that I’ve needed in my life.

When I look down at my watch, I’m surprised at how long I’ve sat here content to just watch and admire her as she praises her students and floats around the studio encouraging everyone she encounters.

Aspen spots me through the plate glass window and waves at me, a sly, knowing smile and a wink sent in my direction. I shake my head and chuckle. Aspen points at me and I follow her line of sight and send a thumbs up to Oakley and Juniper who are bouncing on their feet when they notice me sitting here.

I can’t seem to help myself; I want to be close to wherever Salem is at any given time.

A sedan passing at a slow rate catches my attention. I take notice of the make, model, color, and memorize the license plate because something is suspicious about the way they’re creeping past the studio. There’s only one person in the car, they’re behind the wheel, which means that they’re casing the joint.

Conflicted on if I should ride and tell my brothers what I’ve seen or stay and keep guard over the most precious of our club has me floundering. Deciding I can do both, I hop off my bike and walk at a steady pace in order not to draw any attention to myself inside of Aspen’s studio.

Aspen, noticing the suspicion marring my face as I cross the parking lot immediately opens the door and waves me inside. “Had to unlock it, we’re closed to the general public today.”

“Appreciate it, sis. Need to use your phone and I’m gonna need a little privacy for this call. Can I use your office?”

“By all means. Let me unlock it for you,” she says, pulling her set of keys out of her pocket and jiggling the ring they’re attached to before twitchingly inserting the key in the lock and opening it up for me. “Is everything okay, Cole?”

“Everything’s fine, darlin’,” I express with a rock-steady tone not wanting to alert her. This could all be my imagination running wild, but it’s always better to be safe than to be sorry later on down the road because I wasn’t proactive. I learned a long time ago to trust my gut and since it’s screaming at me, I’m going to proceed with my earlier plan which is to get in touch with my brothers.

“Alright, Cole. I’ll put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door handle so no one bothers you.”

“Thanks, sis,” I respond, dragging her in for a hug because I can tell that, even though I told her everything is on the up-and-up, she’s still uncertain and wavering on whether or not she should believe me.

Once the door is shut behind her, I pick up the receiver and dial the digits that’ll connect me with the club’s main line. “Clubhouse,” Kong greets. He’s a member that’s always in the background and it’s unusual that he’s the one to pick up the phone.

“Kong, it’s Powerhouse. I need to speak with Gunner or Kruger.”

“They’re behind closed doors,” Kong informs me.

Usually, we don’t interrupt them when they’re in seclusion like this, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “Interrupt them.” I infuse enough force behind my tone so he knows this is serious, he doesn’t argue at all, which is a good thing because I’d likely give him an ear full when I arrived back at the clubhouse. With him being one of the elders and a founding member I have to cool my jets instead of flipping my lid and reacting with my fist like I would with a younger brother.

“Gotcha. Give me a few to give the guys a heads up then I’ll transfer you over to them,” Kong tells me.

“Thanks, brother.”

“Welcome,” he says before there’s a click on the line letting me know I’ve been put on hold.

A few minutes pass by before I hear Gunner answer, “Powerhouse. What’s up, man?”

“It may be nothing, but–”

“Your gut is telling you something else.” Gun finishes my hanging sentence for me.

“Exactly. Listen, I was sitting outside of Aspen’s studio, checking up on the ladies making sure everything is on the up-and-up when I noticed a vehicle moving past at a slow rate scoping out the place. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up on end. Did what I could to get as much shit as I could so we can hunt the fucker down.”

“Give me a sec to grab some shit so I can write this information down.” I can hear the rollers of his chair and the rustling of paper in the background as he gathers materials. “Tell me what you’ve got, and we’ll get our man on the inside at the transportation office to check into it for us,” Kruger demands. “Ready when you are.”

Recalling every detail I can remember I state, “Black sedan, four doors. One occupant, the driver, small in stature, probably female, didn’t get a close look. License plate XJG 443. It had one of those stickers from a rental car agency. Urban Rentals, I believe. It was their logo brand I saw on the back windshield as it passed by.”

“We’ll get a man to head there now and politely ask for the name of the driver and any information they have on the driver. If they didn’t use a fake, we’ll know who it is in a few hours,” Gunner supplies.

“Do y’all want me to stay here and keep an eye on things?” I ask my pres and VP. Not like I was actually planning to go anywhere, but I figure I should ask.

“Yeah, we take no chances with our women and children. Keep them safe or it’s your head, Powerhouse,” Kruger grunts.

“Will do,” I convey before hanging up the phone. No time for pleasantries, I’ve got to watch over my charges and make sure they return home without a hair out of place.