Page 37 of Roadrunner

He looked at the floor, then back up. “Son of a bitch.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t supposed to say that.” He shook his head at himself. “Forgot it was a secret. Don’t tell him I told you.”

“I won’t. But since it’s already out, you might as well finish.”

He thought it over. “Not a word?”

“Not one.”

“Fine.” He looked almost embarrassed on Riley’s behalf. “He wants a boy and a girl. Said he’d have a few more if that’s what it took to land the boy.”

“As many girls as it takes to get one boy?”

“Pretty much.” He went back to picking at his fingernails. “Boy’s the priority. Guy thing, probably.”

I already knew Riley wanted a son. Fishing trips, go-carts, motorcycles built together in the garage, the whole inheritance of things his own father had given him. Hearing that he’d said it to the club, and not just to me in bed at midnight, made it feel more like a plan than a daydream.

“I think I’d want a girl, honestly. One of each would be perfect.”

He laughed. “Anybody fucks with that little girl, this whole club comes down on him like the wrath of God.” He glanced up. “That’s the upside of a daughter. Built-in protection.”

I pictured two dozen motorcycles idling outside some seventeen-year-old’s house on prom night and felt, in roughly equal measure, terrified and comforted.

“What about the boy? No protection for him?”

“Boys learn to protect themselves. Then they protect their sisters. We’ll teach him.”

“I don’t want a mean little boy.”

“Who does?”

“You said you’d teach him to—”

“There’s a difference between teaching a kid to defend himself and teaching him to be a bully. No room in my world for a bully. Your boy starts bullying kids, and I’ll bite off his ear and spit it in his lap.”

“That’s a little extreme.”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because getting made fun of on a playground does something to a kid that doesn’t go away.” He said it flatly, like a fact he’d checked twice. “I know. I got bullied.”

I couldn’t picture it. “Who would bully you?”

“Sixth grade, I was built like a stick. Sixty-five pounds, arms like pencils. Every other kid in my class had thirty pounds on me, easy. After a couple years of getting the hell kicked out of me, I started lifting the summer before high school. By junior year I was the biggest kid in the building.”

He was the biggest man I’d ever stood next to, in person or otherwise. It was hard to reconcile with a sixty-five-pound sixth grader.

“That’s awful. I hate thinking about kids getting bullied.”

He flexed, more out of habit than anything. “Nobody bullies me now.”

The rattle of Riley’s exhaust manifold gave him away before the truck came into view. “Sounds like they’re back.”

“Cheap bastard will never pay to fix that.” He looked at me. “Not a word. Remember?”