Emily pivots on her heel and returns to the truck. I should announce everything as a family issue and she’ll run back to Florida on foot.

When Emily slams the door to the truck, Violet loses her crap. “Why on earth would you tell Brandon about Emily being in town? He can’t handle secrets. I had a tough time getting him to go to sleep last night because he was scared he was going to spill about Emily being at the funeral home and now he has to be worried about spilling that she’s staying with Eli. Call me crazy, but I’m assuming that’s a secret, too.”

Stone begins rocking back and forth. This day keeps getting better.

“Hey, man,” offers Chevy to Stone. “Don’t obsess over it. You just don’t bring up Emily. It’s nothing to worry over.”

“That’s it!” yells Violet and taps her finger repeatedly to her head. “He can’t stop thinking about it. You boys with your stupid concept of making things better, and you only make things worse! He doesn’t need you. I don’t need you. You are nothing to us.”

A muscle in my jaw ticks. “Once upon a time we were tighter than blood family.”

“Once upon a time the two of you cared for me more than the club.” Her eyes land on Chevy and he rolls his neck to keep his anger in check.

I’ve seen Violet like this a lot since her dad died. I don’t pretend to fathom her grief, but I’m not dealing with irrational. “What’s going on with the car?”

“Tire blew,” Stone answers despite Violet’s disgusted grunt. “And it was the spare. I was explaining to Violet that we need to get one of them fixed.”

I lift the blown tire off the ground. “Stone, grab the other tire and throw it in the back of the truck.”

“No! We’re fine without them.” Violet seizes her brother’s arm. He pushes past her and does what he needs to do: accepts our help.

“Get in the truck, Violet,” I say with forced patience. “We’ll fix the flats at the clubhouse and then get them back on the car for you.”

Violet leans into me. “I really hate you.”

I offer the tire to Chevy and he stays solid, glowering at Violet before shouldering the tire and heading for the truck. When Stone and Chevy are out of hearing range, I step into her space, uncaring that she’s praying for my death. “You might not want our help, but your mom and your brother do. And if you can’t behave like a sane person around Chevy, then fake it with silence. The truck, Violet. Now.”

“You’re an asshole, Oz.”

I shrug. “Not the first girl who’s called me that today.”

“It should upset you that you’re being called that.” Violet tenses like she’s willing to take a swing. In response, I cross my arms over my chest and plant my feet. History has taught me that she owns a mean right hook. “It should make you wonder what it is about yourself that people can’t stand.”

“Truth doesn’t bother me.”

“Normal people would be bothered that everyone thinks they’re crazy and an asshole and an outlaw, but you’re more than happy to live in your sick world of whatever you say goes.”

“It’s a family, and it’s your family.”

“We are not related!” A wildness strikes her eyes as tears line the edges. “I don’t want to be a part of your family because your family kills!”

To keep from reminding her that her father died when a pickup hit him while he was driving without a helmet, I breathe deeply. “Our family is the type that fixes tires and offers help. Come or don’t come, but I’m taking your brother with me. He looks like he needs a damn meal.”

“I’m not one of you anymore.” Her voice cracks. “I’m no longer fourteen and I’m not a follower like all of you. I don’t listen to you and ask how high when you say jump.”

I turn my back to her and go for the truck. “Razor is the oldest of us. He’s the leader.”

“You’re wrong,” she calls out. “It was you we followed, but I stopped and Brandon’s going to stop and soon it’ll all stop.”

“You don’t make any sense.”

“I do. You know I do.”

She doesn’t and I continue walking so I won’t chew her out for breaking the heart of my best friend and for making her mother and brother feel guilty for welcoming the club’s help. I chased snakes out of the barn with her when we were seven. At eight, with Chevy’s help and a baseball bat, we scared away the monsters under her bed.

Me, her, Chevy and Razor—we were tight.

Were is a son-of-a-bitch word.

Chevy watches us from the front of the truck and Stone stands in the bed with his hands resting on the roof of the cab.

A twig snaps behind me and footsteps pad against the dirt. I swing into the driver’s side and Emily has the good sense to stay silent as Chevy opens the passenger side. He offers his hand to Violet to assist her up the two-foot lift.

Instead of accepting, she grasps the console and hauls herself up with a struggle. Chevy waits, but the stone set of his face tells me we’ll be throwing a few beers back soon in the interest of forgetting Violet’s name.

Once she’s in, Chevy closes the door and joins Stone in the bed of the truck. Two taps on the roof and I rev the engine.

With a fourteen-year-old in the back, I move along at thirty and the truck gently jostles from side to side. This time, Emily’s not crashing into me, but I’d prefer her soft body pressing against mine instead of the awkward, heavy silence.