“Of course.”
“Who?”
“Leave it.”
“Who?”
The father’s expression darkened.
“Your brother.”
The club president stopped breathing.
The little girl looked confused.
The father continued.
“Your younger brother had gambling debt.”
“He took the emergency cash.”
“When I found out, he begged me.”
“Said his wife would leave.”
“Said his kids would lose the house.”
“He promised to put it back.”
The biker stared.
“My brother told everyone you did it.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you expose him?”
The father looked toward his daughter.
Then said:
“Because he had two kids.”
The club president stared.
“You lost your club for his children?”
“I thought I was losing a patch.”
“You lost us.”
The father’s voice turned bitter.
“You already told me how much that was worth.”
The biker looked down.
His younger brother had died twelve years earlier.
Heart attack.
The club president had mourned him.
Spoke at his funeral.
Called him loyal.
A brother.
Now that history cracked open beneath his feet.
“Did he ever pay it back?”
The father nodded.
“After I left.”
“How do you know?”
“He sent me the deposit slips.”
The biker almost laughed in disbelief.
“You kept them?”
“Somewhere.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m stupid.”
“No.”
The biker shook his head.
“You were better than us.”
The father stared.
“Don’t.”
“I mean it.”
“Don’t turn this into something noble.”
“I was angry.”
“I was proud.”
“I wanted all of you to notice I was gone.”
“You didn’t.”
The biker looked hurt.
“We noticed.”
“Not enough.”
“No.”
The club president accepted it.
The girl looked toward the photograph.
“What happened after Dad left?”
The father sighed.
“Long story.”
“We have time.”
He almost smiled.
The biker said:
“He went west.”
The father looked surprised.
“How’d you—”
“You always talked about Arizona.”
The father nodded.
He had worked oil fields.
Construction.
Long-haul trucking.
Met the girl’s mother in Flagstaff when she worked at a diner.
The first time she served him coffee she called the biker vest “a costume.”
He returned the next night to argue.
Then every night for three weeks.
He eventually stayed.
Married her.
Had a daughter at forty.
The club president listened.
“You were happy?”
The father looked toward his little girl.
“Yeah.”
The girl smiled.
“Mom sang bad.”
“So I hear.”
The father’s smile faded.