“What about us, Stone?” Razor says.
“We just going to sit here and let that old bastard get away? I bet we could track him down, get some sweet revenge. It’s a shame to let that limp-pricked son of a bitch win like that,” Axel says. He’s got his thick arms crossed over his massive chest.
Stone looks to me. “You want to fill him in? Or should I?”
“I got it, sir,” I nod. I turn to Axel. He’s got one inquisitive, bushy eyebrow raised. “The next thing we’re going to do is go talk to FBI Agent Perez about Agent Jones’ murder. Tell her what really happened.”
“You going to confess or some shit? What the fuck is going on here? I didn’t think we were a pack of fucking rats,” Axel says. Somehow, his bushy eyebrow gets bushier. And his arms clench tighter, making his massive chest stand out even more. The man is like a boulder. A boulder with a grumpy attitude.
“We’re going to help Agent Perez get revenge on the man who really killed her partner.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Adella
I get a phone call not minutes after Snake and my father head out to confront Bowen Dale Cooper. It’s a call that I’ve been expecting and one that, under any other circumstances, I’d be over the moon to receive.
I step outside to the parking lot, phone clutched to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Is this Adella Stone?” Says an unfamiliar man’s voice.
“It is.”
“This is Bennie from the Santa Monica Arts Committee. I wanted to call and remind you that the event is the day after tomorrow and we would really, really love it if you could make it. We just got done looking at your submissions and it’s incredible stuff. We’d love to put it near the front, give it a really good placement so you can showcase your work.”
“Really? You think so?”
God, I’m smiling like such a doofus right now.
“Totally. Adella, you have a freaking great eye for someone new to the art. Did you study anywhere or what?”
“No. I mean, I read some books and I looked at what some other people have done, like Steve McCurry and Annie Leibovitz, and tried to see how they composed things.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. We can’t wait to show your stuff off.”
“You mean that? Really?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re talented. You know, the goal of our event is to support and showcase local artists. As part of that, we allow them to sell some of their works at the event. If you put some of your stuff up for sale, I wouldn’t be shocked if it were sold out by the end of the night. The things you do — blue-collar portraits, real-life small-town America — it’s hot right now.”
“Sell my photography? Really?”
I hadn’t even considered doing that; never thought I’d be reaching so soon the point where people wanted to actually buy my photographs. That all seemed like a milestone further down the line.
“Of course. If you need help coming up with prices, show up to the event a couple hours early; we keep sales records for past events, you’re welcome to look through them and see what similar stuff is selling for. Anything we can do to help new talents get off the ground.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much, Bennie,” I say. Then I take a deep breath, look back through the door inside, toward my family. “If something should come up and I couldn’t make it, are there any other events that I could show my work at?”
There’s quiet on the other end of the line for a second.
“No, not really. We do these new artist showcases to start the season. It’s one of our biggest events. If you can’t make it to this one — and I really suggest you try — maybe there will be space for you next year.”
Next year? Another year waiting for the stars to align for me to break free? I can’t wait that long. I have to go, now.
“No, no, I’ll be there,” I say.
“Good. One last thing — we’re holding a symposium the day after the event. Sort of a way to connect rising talent with experienced photographers and potential employers — magazines, websites, newspapers; you know, a networking thing. We would love for you to stick around.”
“I will. Again, thank you so much, I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
I’m valued. Wanted. Respected. Any other time, I’d be ecstatic, validated. But now? Now it just means that my life here at the clubhouse and as part of the MC family has come to a temporary end.
It’s time for me to leave.
For a little while.
To strike out on my own, to build something for myself.
And hearing one of the photography event organizers call me personally, that my photography work is being given a prime placement next to several more experienced and in-demand photographers, and that they’d like me to stick around for an artist’s symposium, drives home to me it is definitely time for me to leave.
I can make it out there on my own.
It will be hard. It will be lonely. But it is not impossible.
And the more I put myself out there, the more possible it becomes.
I hang up the phone and head back inside, brimming with both pride and regret.
“What’s wrong, Addie?” My mom says.
I’ve done my best to keep my face straight, but she knows me too well. And I feel a little pale, probably because my heart feels like it’s totally dropped out of my chest.
“Nothing, mom,” I say, making myself smile. “It was just those people from the photography thing. They liked my work.”
“Really? That’s great. When all this stuff with Bowen Dale
