Page 89 of Last Mile

“That’s . . . amazing.” It was all I could murmur in response.

After all, how could you put into words what these people were doing? It humbled me greatly just standing there with them.

“Well, a lot of us have experienced abuse in our past, and we want to somehow make it easier.”

Staring intently into Rev’s eyes, I couldn’t help wondering what kind of abuse he had endured. It made me wonder if Bishop had suffered the same fate, and that was why he had also gotten involved.

As if he could hear my internal thoughts, Rev lowered his voice and said, “I was raped when I was eleven by a member of my father’s church.”

I brought my hand to my mouth as I gasped in horror. “Oh, Rev . . . I’m so, so sorry. Did you have to testify against him in court like Ansley?”

Rev and Bishop exchanged a look before Rev shook his head.

“He never went to court.”

“You mean he got away with it.”

A cold, unfeeling look entered Rev’s usually friendly eyes. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Then what . . .” I clamped my lips shut as realization of what had happened struck me. Rev’s rapist had never stepped foot inside court because someone had killed him. I couldn’t help wondering whether it was their father. Although I wasn’t a parent, I could only imagine how agonizingly devastating it would be to see your child hurt like that. I would be tempted to put the person six feet under as well. Then it hit me. I had wondered what had driven Preacher Man from his church and back to a life as an outlaw biker. Now I knew the answer.

“Your father killed him. Didn’t he?” I questioned in a low voice.

“Yeah. He did.”

Staring Rev straight in the eye, I said, “Good for him.”

Rev gave me a tight smile. “Thank you.”

Sensing we needed a subject change, I asked, “Where does everyone come from?”

“All over the country,” Bishop replied.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Most are from close by, but there’s some people who ride fourteen or fifteen hours to get here.”

“That’s really impressive they would do something like that for a stranger.”

With a teasing grin, Bishop said, “Yeah, it is hard to imagine us low- life bikers caring about anything other than booze and women, right?”

From the time I was eight years old, I had never felt anything other than disgust and utter hatred for bikers. How could I not? I had just lost my very best friend to a biker’s gun, so surely Bishop would understand how hard it would be for me to think anything otherwise. But in his eyes, and in truth in mine, I hadn’t seen bikers as men who could be trusted or capable of kindness. The Raiders were slowly proving there could be good men and women in an MC.

Heat rose in my cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“One day I’m going to totally erase those thoughts from your mind.”

I smiled at him. “You’re doing a really good job. I promise.”

He winked at me. “Thanks.”

I watched as the leader of the group went over to speak to the girl and her parents, then began to introduce the bikers and the women. Each person went around and shook the girl’s hand. While I felt somewhat apprehensive, Bishop barreled forward with a bright smile. “Hi, sweetheart, I’m Bishop.” Motioning me forward, he said,

“This is my girlfriend, Sam.”

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I replied. Feeling that I should say or do something more, I added, “I love your shoes. I had a pair just like them when I was your age.”