Breathing heavily, I walk my way out to the porch with my bags thrown over my shoulder. The blinds in 2B shake and shudder and I give Ms. Lucille a grim salute.
“All yours, Ms. Lucille!” I shout, turning back to give Adam and The Bitch a one-fingered salute. I make a note to cancel the lease whenever I get where I’m going. We’re month-to-month and the paperwork is in my name. If Adam thinks I’m going to pay for his mediocre little love nest? Hooo boy, he’s got another thing coming.
Four years right down the crapper. Should I feel sad? Mostly I feel angry. And tired.
I heave my bags into the cargo area of my trusty old minivan. I’ve had her since college and we don’t need to go into how long ago that was. She’s a family fleet hand-me-down. A peculiar shade of “desert yellow” that has aged into a weird vomitous color. If she had been born a Westfalia or Vanagon, she might have been the perfect vehicle for vintage #VanLife Instagram-fame.
Alas, she was born in a more generic time. A more aero-dynamic, utilitarian time. I don’t care. She’s mine and her name is Betsy and she’s 189,000 miles young. We may not be young, or polished, but goddamn it we are a team. It’s me and Betsy against the world.
I hard-shift her into gear and peel out of the driveway. For the first time in my life I drive with no particular direction or destination in mind. Windows down, sunglasses on, I flip a coin at each intersection and let Fate choose my path.
“To a new beginning,” I yell, raising my fist at the tomato truck that passes me at top speed, spewing red tomato guts out in his wake. He beeps his horn at me. I choose to believe it’s solidarity and not road rage.
For thirty-eight years I’ve played by the rules. Not anymore. The rules have changed. I’m hitting the open road for a #YoLo-inspired road trip.
4 DAYS LATER
.
Clunk. Clunk-clunk. Nrrrrrrrrrrrrrkkkkkk. Clunk.
Betsy gives an almighty shudder, the van version of a long-suffering sigh, before slowing and pulling dramatically to the right.
“You ok, old girl?” I ask, as I pat the dashboard in an encouraging way. I check my phone but the battery says 9%. I make a mental note to add purchasing a second charging cable to my list of “gas station essentials.” For now, I’m shit outta luck. There hasn’t been service in hours and I am officially out in the boonies. If there’s a difference between ‘hopelessly lost’ and ‘using Fate as a roadmap’ I’m really not sure what it looks like.
Betsy makes another terrible creaking noise so I flip my hazards on and ease her off onto the shoulder. When I ease her into park, she makes another crunching noise and I know we aren't going anywhere else tonight.
One of the nice things about getting out of the city is the view of the stars. It’s a clear night and they twinkle merrily above me. Unfortunately, one of the terrifying things about getting out of the city is the sheer darkness that surrounds you. From the look of things, we’ve managed to land smack dab at the crossroads of Horror Movie Death Wish and Haunted Demon Forest. Thanks a lot, Fate.
I lock the doors and grab Grandma’s afghan before I climb back into the cargo area where I’ve made a nest out of all my earthly belongings on the bench seat. It’s less comfortable than one might think, but I’m on an adventure! Sacrifices must be made.
I settle in with a pop-tart, determined to get some sleep. Fate’s in control. Everything is fine.
CHAPTER TWO: DARREN
SEA LION MC CLUBHOUSE
“Hey Boss, we’ve got a situation. Looks like a perimeter breach of the wards out by Quadrant Five. Really minor, could just be kids looking for a quiet place to pull over. Thought we should mention it though.”
A giant yawn escapes me as I stretch, push my shoulder blades together and crack my neck. Glancing at my watch, the green dial says 0500. Rise and fucking shine. Welcome to Saturday. Just once, it would be nice if the alarms went off at 1100, or just after lunch, or some decent time to go prowling around.
The overwhelming majority of the time the wards go off because kids will always find a boundary and mess with it. Still, there’s something about a morning ride that is invigorating.
“Should I send Chuck and Trev out to look at it?” Bryan asks me, his eyes still glued to the monitor.
“Nah, I’ll take care of it. Thanks, man.”
I grab my helmet, walk out into the early morning sunrise, and inhale deeply. The air is heavy this morning and the sea breeze blows cold. It smells like possibility. Mornings in Misty Cove are why, no matter how frustrating this town can be, I’ll never leave it. With the sound of the waves at my back, I start my motorcycle and tear out of the Clubhouse yard to do my rounds.
The brilliant pinks and purples of another sunrise streak across the sky, welcoming the day. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s going to be one for the record books.
Checking the wards is monotonous work, but I love it. Any excuse to ride is a good one, but getting to ride and simultaneously protect the place you love? That’s a pretty badass job. Other than a Yeti who got lost in the early 90s and triggered an alarm, we don’t really have any problems. The people who are supposed to be here, find us. Everyone else stays away. It’s why Misty Cove has been able to keep her secrets for so long.
Quadrants One through Four are all clear, just as I suspected, but as I pull into Quadrant Five, something is very, very off.
For starters? The world’s ugliest minivan is parked on the
