Circle of Death (5 page)

I can see my mother’s nose wrinkling from across the room the moment I step into the restaurant. There was no time to go home and change before meeting my parents for lunch, and I know my hip, urban duds are sure to make Mom’s skin crawl. She made a reservation for us at a swanky Italian joint nestled in one of Boston’s more upscale neighborhoods, and I couldn’t very well say no. They’re in town for a couple of days to see me receive my supposedly “useless” diploma, which means they’ll be expecting me to spend every spare moment showing them around Boston. I really do love my parents, don’t get me wrong, but shepherding them around the city while my mother nitpicks everything and my dad zones out is not exactly my idea of a good time.

“I don’t know why you insist on dressing like one of those Brooklyn hippies all the time,” my mother says in way of greeting. “You’d look so pretty if you put in a little effort.”

“Hello to you too, Mom,” I smile tightly, sinking into the free chair at their table. “Hello there, Dad. How’s tricks?”

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he says amiably, giving my hand a squeeze from across the table. That’s about as affectionate we ever get in our family, truth be told. We’re not exactly the hugging sort.

“Are you wearing jeans?!” Mom asks, aghast. She looks anxiously around the restaurant, checking to see if we’re getting the stink eye from any other diners on account of my scandalously casual attire.

“I’m sure they won’t kick us out because of my poor taste,” I drawl, plucking up a menu and burying my nose in the wine list.

“I hope you’re right,” Mom sighs, taking a prim sip of her sparkling water. The conversation lapses as she and I return to our corners. Dad, in all his absentminded peace, is none the wiser to the tension between his wife and daughter. Some things never change.

“So, Logan. Are you excited for your graduation?” he asks, smiling at me warmly. His rounded, friendly face, bespectacled eyes, and open expression put me at ease, just as they always have.

“I’m excited to be graduated,” I allow, “It’ll be nice, finally being out in the real world.”

“Have you actually found some kind of job, then?” my mother asks, downright surprised.

“Well. Yes. I’ve received a pretty interesting offer,” I begin.

“Interesting...” my mother echoes suspiciously, “That doesn’t sound good.”

“On the contrary,” I reply, “It could be very good. I was just at the interview before I came to meet you. Which explains my less-than-formal outfit, actually. I wanted to match the company’s aesthetic.”

“Oh no...” my mother groans, “You’re not going to be one of those hackers, are you? Like in House of Cards? I saw that episode where they were are sitting around some dreadful office in bean bag chairs—”

“I’m pretty sure those were bloggers, Mom, not hackers,” I correct her. “And no, that’s not exactly what I’d be doing. The job I was called in for today is more along the lines of long form journalism.”

“Journalism!” my dad exclaims happily, “That sounds great!”

“I’ve read that it’s a dying field,” Mom grumbles, “But do go on.”

“Well, the place I interviewed was a publication called
FootSoldier
,” I tell them. “It’s an outlet run by Advance Media.”

“Oh, I think I’ve heard of them,” my dad nods.

“I’m sure you have,” I reply, encouraged by his enthusiasm. “They have tons of different magazines, papers, online publications, all across the spectrum. But
FootSolider
is all about investigative journalism and essays, focused on politics, culture, lifestyle, that sort of thing. The editor is willing to let me take a crack at my first assignment right off the bat.”

“If it requires Occupying any public spaces or whatever, I think you should turn it down,” my mom nods sagely.

“It doesn’t, I assure you,” I go on. “But it is definitely unlike anything I’ve ever taken on before. And if I do a good job with this first story, I’ll be officially hired. There’s a pretty big bonus attached to this first assignment, too.”

“That’s wonderful!” my dad says. “How big of a bonus are we talking?”

I hesitate before responding, unsure of what my parents’ reaction might be. “It’d be...um...a ten thousand dollar bonus, actually.”

A heavy moment of silence falls upon us like a slab of cement. My parents stare at me, baffled by the figure I’ve just spit out. But it only takes a second before my mom recovers.

“Logan,” she says sternly, “That kind of money doesn’t just fall out of the sky like that. There’s no way this is a legitimate opportunity.”

“I have to agree with your mother here,” my dad says earnestly. “It sounds like you might be falling prey to some kind of hoax, Logan.”

“It’s not a hoax,” I say, annoyed by their condescending tone. “Do you really think I’m naive enough to get wrapped up in some kind of scam—?”

“Well, of course you are!” my mother laughs, “You have no experience dealing with the real world, Logan. You don’t know what people are capable of. And how eager most people are to take advantage of a young, desperate girl like yourself.”

“So now I’m desperate and an idiot?” I ask testily. “I thought you two would be happy for me. Jobs like this aren’t exactly dime-a-dozen.”

“We’re just worried, Logan,” my father says, “We’d rather you take a job that came with a bit less risk, is all. You know, it’s not too late to start thinking about graduate school for next year, honey.”

“You could take the year to apply, live at home with us, and get yourself on track for a real career,” my mom says. “Enough of this high-stakes blogging nonsense.”

“This job offer you’ve been given...It just doesn’t sound right to us,” my dad goes on, “It sounds like those people are just trying to take you for a ride.”

“You just don’t have the life experience to be able to see it,” my mom remarks, signaling for the waiter to refill her water glass. “Take it from us, dear.”

I can practically feel the steam pouring out of my ears as I look back and forth between my parents, smiling serenely at me from across the table.

“I don’t have the life experience?” I say slowly, my voice filled with concentrated outrage. “I’ve been taking care of myself for years, now. Ever since I started school. Or have you forgotten that I’ve been putting myself through college on my own?”

“It was your choice not to study something practical,” my mom says. “You know we would have paid the way if you’d gone for math, or science—”

“But I didn’t. I chose to study the thing I’m actually passionate about. Are you familiar with the term, passionate?” I fume.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Logan,” my mother warns.

“Don’t talk to me as though I’m a petulant child,” I shoot back.

“Then stop acting like one,” she all but hisses. “And keep your voice down. We’re in public, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Why don’t we all just take a breath and order some lunch, OK?” my dad puts in, trying to play the peacekeeper. “Let us treat you to a nice meal, Logan.”

“Sorry Dad,” I say firmly. “I seem to have lost my appetite. Besides, I wouldn’t want to go on mooching off your generosity. I think I’d better just leave you to it.”

“You’re overreacting as always, Logan,” my mom sighs. “But if you must go blow off some steam, then by all means do so. We’ll see you at the ceremony tomorrow.”

“Actually Mom, I don’t think I’ll be attending graduation,” I say, rising to my feet. “But you two are welcome to go and have a good time.”

“Why are you doing this?” my mom hisses. “Why can’t you just show us a little bit of respect, Logan?”

“Because you can’t seem to show me any in return,” I say sadly. “Maybe, once I’ve shown you that I can support myself while doing what I love, you’ll start to see what I’m made of. But honestly, Mom, I’m not holding my breath. Enjoy your lunch.”

I turn away from my parents and hurry away from their table. The last thing I want is for them to see the disappointed, frustrated tears that stream down my cheeks. Nothing I’ve done in the past has ever been good enough for them, but I honestly thought that this job might finally be the thing to impress them. Maybe even convince them that I’m as determined and intelligent as they always hoped I would be. I guess that was just more empty, wishful thinking.

Boston is absolutely packed with happy families in the midst of graduation festivities. I pick my way through the boisterous, smiling groups as I walk back to my apartment alone, unable to hold back my tears. I’d give anything to have a whole, supportive, loving family. A group that always had my back, no matter what. Maybe Juliet had the right idea, seeking one out somewhere else.

By the time I finally make it back to my apartment, I feel like I’ve been hit by an emotional wrecking ball. Emma is out gallivanting with her artsy friends for the afternoon, so the apartment is totally empty. I glance around at the threadbare space, listening to the muffled city sounds filtering through the walls. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this lonely in my life—not when I left home for college, not even when Juliet left. With no one around to see me, I sink onto the dusty hardwood floor and have the good, honest cry that’s been building up inside me for longer than I care to admit.

I don’t know how much time goes by before I feel like I can solider on. But my tears have been restorative. By the time I rise shakily to my feet once more, I’ve come to a decision. I’m not going to let doubt or uncertainty hold me back any longer. So what if I don’t have a support system holding me up? That’s not going to stop me from stepping out onto the high wire any longer...no matter how risky and downright insane that might be.

With steely determination, I sit myself down in front of my laptop and compose a new email to Elliot Simmons.

Hi Elliot,

It was really wonderful meeting you this afternoon. I’m so thrilled that you called me in to discuss a position at
FootSoldier
. I know I told you that I’d like the day to think about your offer, but a few hours have been plenty. I’d be happy to accept my first assignment—the story we discussed this morning—and will begin working on it immediately. Thank you again for giving me this incredible opportunity. You won’t regret it, I promise you.

Sincerely,

Logan Farrah

I’ve only just hit send and stood up from my desk when a response from Elliot comes whizzing into my inbox.

Logan,

Fantastic news. Glad to have you with us. Go ahead and start your preliminary research at once. You’ll have all the resources you need from
FootSoldier
along the way, that I can assure you. You’re going to do a great job—let me know if you have any questions.

Cheers,

E.S.

You’re going to do a great job. I read those words over and over again. Encouragement is such an unfamiliar concept to me that it almost feels like a foreign language. But no more moping about that. I’ve got work to do.

I spend the rest of the evening combing through my classmates’ social media pages, university forums, and obscure chatrooms, searching for ways into The Club. It’s surprisingly easy to figure out which of my college acquaintances have been there before. In no time, I stumble upon a Facebook exchange between a few well-off girls who lived in my freshman year dorm. Their ringleader, a girl named Kari, seems hell-bent on visiting The Club, and is trying to talk her friends Ani and Brie into coming along.

Sounds like just the ticket to me.

Chapter Five

Devlin

The Circle of Death Clubhouse

Coastal Maine

Bracing myself against the solid oak bar, I draw a huge breath into my lungs. The smells of whiskey and woodsmoke fill me with ease and satisfaction as I drink them in. Goddamn, it feels good to be home.

My every muscle aches as I lift the cool bottle of beer to my mouth. It’s a good ache, though—the ache of a long, hard job well done. My brothers and I have been on the road for a solid week, tightening up our operations along the coast. There were a few heads that needed knocking together, a little roughing up to be done, but all told the Circle of Death MC is stronger than ever. And I don’t mind taking a hell of a lot of pride in that.

“What’re you drinking, Dev?” someone asks from over my shoulder.

“What else?” I reply, lifting my bottle as I turn to see my right hand man, Packer, standing right behind me. Even now, in the safety of our own clubhouse, he’s got my back. That’s what I call loyalty.

“Looks like you could use another. And that makes two of us,” Packer says, striding around the bar and snatching a couple of cold ones from the beat up but well-stocked fridge. He pops open the bottles and slides one across the bar to me. “To another successful run,” he says, clinking his bottle against mine and taking a long swig.