“No, thanks. You know, there’s a photography show in Santa Monica coming up in a few days,” I say, starting slowly.
Her only answer is a non-committal ‘mmhm.’
“They’re highlighting local artists. People from all over Southern California will display their work there. It’s a really big event.”
Her chopping slows, she takes in a quick breath. “And?”
“I’ve sent a few of my photographs to the organizer. They’ve agreed I can have a spot at the show, if I send them my submissions soon. I want to do it. I want to go. This is a big opportunity,” I say. My heart’s in my throat as I talk to her, so much so that it’s hard to even get the words out. I’ve been working on my photography for the last few years, and even more so lately, as life in the club has gotten crazier and I’ve found myself stuck more around home; it’s been one of my few outlets away from the club.
And I’m good at it. Good enough to get placement at an event, at least.
This is chance for me to make something of myself.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Addie,” she says.
“Why? I’m twenty-one years old, it’s only Santa Monica, the worst person I could run into down there is a vegan. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“With the way things are in the club right now, how dangerous things have been, I don’t think it’s a good idea. And if I don’t think it’s a good idea, you can guess how your father will feel about it.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can. But that doesn’t mean you should go putting yourself in danger. Besides, we’ll need you here around the clubhouse while the boys are gone.”
“Do you know how much it hurts to see how everyone else in the club — everyone wearing a patch, the prospects, and even the other old ladies — can take off, go riding, and I have to stay here? All because it’s dangerous. I’m twenty-one years old. I know how to take a few sensible risks.”
“Right. Sensible risks. Which means not doing something risky when your father and most of the club — the people who would bail you out if you got into trouble or someone tried to kill you — is on the other side of the country and tied up with business.”
I open my mouth to say something I’m sure I’ll regret later — my insides are boiling with frustration; times like this — when I know I don’t have my family’s support for something so simple — hurt especially bad.
What I want is a taste of the freedom I see everyone else enjoying, and to do it knowing that the people I love the most support me. I don’t just want to be at that photography show in Santa Monica; I want to do it knowing my family wants me to be there and wants me to succeed.
Instead, my wants are pushed aside for club business.
I take a deep breath. My voice shakes as it leaves my lips.
“I’m going to go take a ride,” I say. And, as my mom gives me a sideways look, I add, “I’ll be back quick. I’m not going far. I just need to calm down.”
Before she can say another word, I head for the door and step in to the chill air and orange glow of the setting sun.
And run right into the chest of a man in a black suit.
He’s tall, with short-cut black hair, ebony skin, and weathered features that give him a dignified look. I’d guess he’s maybe in his fifties, though he has an agelessly handsome face.
“Oh, crap, I am so sorry,” I blurt out, holding out a hand. “I did not see you there at all.”
He takes a step back. And the woman to his right — she’s much younger looking, broad-shouldered, with black hair and a complexion that hints she’s at least partially Latina — reaches into her jacket reflexively.
“It was an accident,” I start. “Again, I am so sorry. I just — it’s been a rough day, and I wasn’t paying attention.”
The man puts a hand on the woman’s arm.
He smiles at me. His teeth are dazzlingly white. And his eyes shine with intensity.
Now that my nerves have calmed a little, I can’t help but realize he’d make an excellent subject for a portrait. If his entire demeanor didn’t give me the creeps.
All that, and I can feel his eyes linger on me. Feel me up and down with his gaze.
He’s at least as old as my father, and he’s definitely checking me out.
“Don’t worry about it, miss,” he says.
With the way he says ‘miss’, I can’t tell if he’s trying to be calming or patronizing.
Either way, I hate the term. Especially coming from a man I don’t know.
I can shoot, I can ride, I can throw a punch, and I’ve spent my entire life around men who could beat the snot out of this man — who is he to talk to me like I’m some faint-hearted flower?
I put my hands on my hips, suddenly caring a lot less about the fact that I nearly ran head-first into him. And taking a serious dislike for the menacing attitude this other woman is projecting.
“Can I help you?” I say, very much in a ‘get the hell away from me’ tone.
Indifferent to my attitude, he nods and reaches in to his jacket and draws out a black wallet which he unfolds with a well-practiced flick of his wrist.
“I’m Agent Jordan Jones, the woman to my right is Agent Megan Perez. We’re with the FBI. Why don’t you take us inside so we can have
