Long Way Home. Katie McGarry

for him, he thinks he can con anyone into loving him.”

      “You love me,” I say.

      “And I regret it most days.” But she says it with a smile. Brandy then offers her hand to her newest employee. “Come on, let me show you where the real magic happens.”

      “My magic’s real,” I call out, and Brandy’s only response is a loud laugh. I can’t help but chuckle with her because she’s going to be pissed in a few minutes when she realizes I lifted her watch...again.

      The new girl waves as she glances at me over her shoulder. I nod in response. The twenty in my pocket says she won’t be here when I pick Mom up later. Being a waitress here requires an iron shell.

      With a thud, Mom props her overly large purse on the bar, slides off my leather jacket and hands it to me, revealing her low-cut tank and what she refers to as her jeans-that-make-her-money. She asked me to drop her off early, since the other bartender called in sick.

      I usually drive Mom in her car as she hates motorcycles, but her already pieced-together Ford from the 1980s died again this morning, and I haven’t had time to figure out what broke.

      Mom sighs heavily when I slide Brandy’s watch to her. “Will you please stop stealing from people?”

      “It’s not stealing if I give it back.” I grin, then grin wider when Mom’s lips twitch. Everyone’s born with a gift. My gift is fast hands. Too bad my only career options with it are street magician or thug pickpocket. Some days, my feet are as fast as my hands and that’s what makes me one hell of a football player.

      “Tonight should be a moneymaker.” Mom uses her phone to check her makeup.

      I case the dimly lit place that’s occasionally brightened by the beams of colored lights bouncing off the dance floor and the stage where the DJ mixes music. Being near the army base is great for business, but can bring in a mix of a crowd.

      Because it’s too damn cliché, the place crawls with army boys. Most of them too loud, too cocky and too lonely. A gang of boys with frat symbols on their T-shirts take up three tables near the stage. Odds are they’re under twenty-one, so that’s why they drove the forty-five minutes from their school.

      The bouncers don’t give a rip who’s here as long as they pay to get in and pay for their beer. All those guys watch the girls on the dance floor. Most of them like starved wolves in search of raw meat.

      Friday and Saturday nights make me nervous, so I offer to drive Mom, and when she doesn’t accept, I don’t give her a choice. There’s a lot of psychotic bastards in the world and most of them seem to gravitate to bars late at night in search of those who drank too much and are easy prey.

      “Why do you do it?” Mom leans in so she can hear my answer over the pounding music. It’s nearing ten, about an hour before this place will be wall-to-wall shaking and shimmying bodies. “Why do you always give the girls around here flowers?”

      Because they often walk out of here with a vacant expression and hollow eyes. Exhausted from being on their feet and having to pretend they’re someone’s fantasy so they can make more money from tips. “Question should be, why don’t more guys do it?”

      Mom goes into one of those blinding smiles that reminds me how young she is—early forties. If she wanted, Mom could still marry and pop out a new, normal family. Create the American dream of two kids, a dog and a white picket fence. That is if the American dream means working at a bar and already having a soon-to-be eighteen-year-old son.

      She grabs hold of my chin and guides me down to her short height so she can kiss my cheek. “You’re one of the good ones, Chevy. Never forget that.”

      Mom sees enough bad ones to know the difference. That’s why I drive her to and from work on the weekends. Why I don’t just drop her off, but also come in and get the lay of the land. I eyeball a few guys so they can spread the word to the others who might be thinking of going too far with my mom that I’m their personal grim reaper.

      “Hell of a game tonight, Chevy!” Mike, the bouncer, bellows from across the room. A round of claps and cheers from the locals and then an echo from people who have no idea what we’re celebrating.

      “Nobody plays like my boy!” Mom shouts. She’s been to every game I’ve had since I started in third grade.

      I’m a running back for my high school team. Scored three touchdowns tonight, took a hell of a lot of hits, and I got a bruised shoulder to prove it. It’s October and we’re halfway through regular season games. With the team kicking ass like it has, we’ve got a decent shot at going to state. I don’t miss the fact that the reason we won, the reason I played was because Violet made a sacrifice.

      My cell pings twice and Mom’s proud smile morphs into a frown. From the number of pings, she knows it’s from Eli, my uncle, my father’s brother, and the most respected man in the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club.

      Eli: You need to stay off the road tonight. Confirm receipt. This is my third text about this. Don’t make me text you again.

      Not what I need. I crack my neck to the side. When the club thinks there’s trouble from a rival club, they warn me off of being visible.

      I’m a senior in high school and not yet a full member of the MC, but being a child of the club, I often get crap from people in town and can have a target on me from other MC’s. But no way was I letting Mom drive herself. No way was I leaving her to be on her own.

      “Club stuff?” Mom asks like she’s not pissed as she rifles through her purse. The Reign of Terror and my mother have a complicated relationship. Between her and them, I’m constantly the knot in the middle of a tug-of-war rope.

      “Eli’s checking in.” I shrug my jacket on and dig out the keys to my motorcycle.

      “Sure he is,” she mumbles, then goes behind the bar. Mom’s black hair falls forward when she places her purse in the safe. When she stands, she tucks the strands behind her ears, showing off the hoop earrings I bought for her birthday last month.

      Mom and I don’t look much alike. She’s short with a small frame and has an olive complexion, while I’m built like a McKinley: tall, strong shoulders, brown hair and eyes. According to pictures, I favor my father. Mom never says much about him. The MC thinks he’s a saint. I do my best to stay neutral.

      Across from me, Mom taps her finger on the bar. “Have you thought about what I said?”

      The muscles in my back tense. I’m reaching a tipping point in the tug-of-war game. When I turn eighteen, the MC will expect me to continue the blood legacy of the Reign of Terror and become a prospect. Eli’s a key member of the club, my grandfather is the president and my father before his death was on the fast track to being a board member.

      There’s no doubt the board will take me, but there’s a rhythm to becoming a member and I’m expected to play along. My prospect period is the initiation time frame where the club decides whether or not I should be a full-fledged member. It’ll be a lot of me cleaning toilets and doing whatever the board says when they say it.

      “There’s no reason to rush this,” Mom continues. She’s asked me to push off becoming a prospect for the MC until I graduate from high school. “Once you’re in the Terror, you’ll always be in the Terror. Why not be a normal high school kid for a few months? Find a nice girl. Go to prom. Go to keggers like other boys your age, not clubhouses. Let me live the fantasy of being mom to the jock who has the high school sweetheart. If you’re bound and determined to hang out with outlaws, at least have the decency to be arrested for cow tipping the first time I have to bail you out of jail.”

      Haven’t told Mom yet the football coach is unhappy with me over the Terror. After that monologue, I’ll keep it to myself indefinitely.

      “Last I checked, it’s his life,” comes a familiar gravelly voice. “Not your life and not your call on how he makes his choices. And to clear up any misunderstandings, the club decides when we offer prospect,