Page 34 of Thick

I enjoyed writing, sharing my stories with others, and felt blessed that I could somehow manage to pay my bills with the income I received from doing so. Becoming a puppet and allowing the industry to pull my strings wasn’t on my to-do list, nor would it be.

Excited at the book’s progress, I wondered if the success was simply a result of it being the last book in the series.

I decided it was.

I checked the sales rank again, fully expecting it to have jumped to well over one hundred.

Sixty-two.

I grinned at my accomplishment. Having a book ranked in the top 100 out of all books in Amazon’s existence was a benchmark I had yet to reach, and doing so was quite an accomplishment.

For the first two years that I’d published books, I didn’t have the internet at home. I’d write a book, take my laptop to the coffee shop, and upload it through the publishing platform using their free Wi-Fi. Rankings, reviews, and sales data were observed infrequently – if at all – and only when I was able to cart my computer to the coffee shop in the saddlebag of my motorcycle.

Although the woman who later became my agent strongly suggested that I develop and maintain a Facebook profile, I had so far refused to do so. Social media, at least in my opinion, was contributing to the downfall of today’s society.

It only required a visit to my favorite coffee shop to be convinced I was right. Every girl under the age of twenty sat with her nose glued to the screen of her phone. Updating Facebook, posting Snapchat photos, and tweeting their opinions to the masses prevented today’s youth from enjoying everything else the world had to offer.

Seeing two friends sit across from one another, and then spend their leisure time with their faces buried in their phones saddened me. I realized I could do nothing to fix it, so I chose to write about characters who were far more interested in living life than spending time on social media.

I closed my laptop, pleased that the book was being held in such high regard. A ride on my bike along the coast would be my reward for a job well done. It was early morning, and neither Pee Bee or Crip – both fixtures at the clubhouse – would be there for a few more hours.

San Ysidro sat on the US side of the Mexican border, and was an hour away. If I rode the more scenic route, taking the boulevards that followed the coast, it would take a few hours, but the scenery would be second to none.

By the time I got back, the fellas should be at the shop.

The ride along the coast was refreshing. The smell of the ocean brought with it memories of my mother and father, and of having a blood family.

I was grateful for the family I had, but nothing could ever replace the family I lost.

Riding along Highway 5, I exited at East Mission Bay Drive, just west of San Diego. The ride along the less populated route allowed me to not only smell the ocean, but see it. With the wind in my face, and one of God’s greatest creations at my side, I soaked up the late-morning sun as I crept along the stretch of road.

Living along the coast was all I had ever known. I often wondered how people could live inland, or in the Midwest for that matter, and not have the leisure of using the ocean as a place to find solace.

Without it, I was certain I wouldn’t be close to sane.

I didn’t make it to San Ysidro, instead choosing to stop at Mission Beach and watch the surfers take advantage of the early morning swells. After an hour of enjoying the scenery, I rode back to Oceanside feeling cleansed of all that had been on my mind.

When I pulled into the shop, I was pleased to see Pee Bee and Crip standing in the parking lot enjoying a beer in the mid-day sun.

I flipped off the engine and rolled to a stop at their side.

“What’s shakin’, motherfucker?” Pee Bee asked.

I pulled off my helmet. “Just the ground beneath this beast. How’s the shoulder?”

“Not bad, considering the guy that fixed the fucker normally works on horses and dogs.”

Crip chose to stitch his himself, which came as no surprise. I shifted my eyes to him and arched an eyebrow. “How about your arm?”

He poked the skin bedside the wound with his index finger and winced in pain. “Good as fucking new.”

Pee Bee looked at me. “I’d ask if you saw the news about the girls, but I know you don’t have a fucking television.”

I hung my helmet on my handlebars and stepped over the seat. “What did it say?”

“All the girls are doing good. There at home. According the Captain in charge of the gang task force, some Mexican gang got in a shootout with the MS-13 and killed five of their men in the shootout. The cop who came by here was…” He paused and did air quotes with his fingers. “‘In the area at the time.’, and got to the house just as the killers were leaving. He said they were driving an old Ford pickup truck, and appeared to be headed for the border.”

I looked at Crip.