But what he’d planned to do this weekend, he’d never done before. Never executed a hit, never picked a target and planned to kill him, never killed in cold blood. Only shot in self-defense.
“It’s different, when you start out meaning to kill a man. It’s a heavier weight, even if he deserves it. Changes who you are.”
Becker had become a man by killing a man. It had changed everything about who he was.
He blinked the thought away and tossed back the next shot. “You square with the ‘Dogs, now, then?”
“Yeah. He was pissed I told you, but he understood why I’d alert a friend, and I guess he liked that. He likes the deal, too. He’ll work with the Horde.”
“Good.” Becker slapped Isaac’s back and stood. “I gotta go. Stay the night if you want.”
“Nah.” Isaac took his shot and stood as well. “I gotta get back to the park and finish packing up.”
“You’re a weird fuck, Isaac,” Maverick said, laughing. “Come to Tulsa to sell wooden birds and kill a man in your spare time.”
Isaac smiled his one-sided smile. “Figured it was decent cover. I already had a reason to be in Tulsa—and I’m towing a big trailer, in case I needed to deal with the body.”
Again, Becker was impressed. The kid had tried to think it through. It would have been a damn nightmare if he’d gotten it done, but when he’d given Becker the respect to tell him what he meant to do in the Bulls’ home, he’d headed off that trouble, too.
Isaac and Becker headed toward the side door, on their way to their bikes. Before he made it out of the party room, Rad grabbed Becker’s arm. Becker turned to see what he wanted.
Rad gave him a simple nod and let his arm go. “Did good, Prez. Have a good night.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sage lay under the little peach tree in the back yard, a paperback neglected under her hand, and stared up at a cloudless summer sky. A nasty storm had chugged through the area earlier in the week and pushed the high temperatures and higher humidity out when it left, so the day felt more like early June than late August. They had the AC off and the windows open to let a summer-scented breeze waft through the house. A fresh load of linens billowed on the clotheslines.
The ground was still damp from the storm. It leached into the blanket with light kisses to her bare shoulders and legs, and the rich scent of dark earth rose up around her. A robin chirped nearby, and Lemmy’s new tags jingled as he bounded back and forth across the yard.
Off in the front corner of the yard, Becker was in his shop, working on his old bike. The door and windows were open, and the syncopated metallic clangs and whirs of his efforts mingled with the Black Sabbath CD playing on his little stereo. Somehow, that strident noise made a harmony with the gentler summer sounds of nature. It all made peace here in the middle of the yard.
Lemmy ran up and dropped a soggy stuffed frog on her face. With a grossed-out laugh, she sat up and tossed it away, and he ran for it—and then plopped his butt down where he was to gnaw on a frog leg for a while. He hadn’t quite grasped the concept of ‘fetch’ yet. She lay back down and closed her eyes.
More than a month had passed since she and Lemmy had been beaten, and though only a fence separated their homes, Sage had seen her mother exactly once since then: the day Becker had helped her gather her things. The distance of two small, abutting yards might as well have been a whole continent.
How did she feel about that? Too confused to know for sure. In those weeks, her life had become something completely new, something shiny and bright and good. She had Becker, and they had Lemmy. She had a home to be safe in, rather than a house to avoid. With only one job, and that part-time, she had more free time than she’d had in years, and she’d discovered a homey streak she’d never known she had. Cooking, organizing, even crafty things—never before had she lived in a space that gave her comfort, and she enjoyed making it pretty.
Deb, Simon’s wife, had a huge loom, and Sage had spent a day at their farm, watching her weave and rooting around in her crafting room. A room-size loom was not in her future, but Deb did all kinds of crafts, and she let Sage try out any she wanted. She’d discovered a talent for painting. And macramé. Now she had an itch for supplies of her own.
A hobby—what a strange thing to contemplate. Normal people had hobbies.
She’d gone out with Cecily and Leah again, the next time Becker had been on a run. That was a regular thing—the old ladies got together, all of them at once, or in smaller groups, when the Bulls were out of town.
Lemmy ran over, sans frog, and dropped onto the blanket beside her, rolling to his back and squirming around until she tucked him close and rubbed his belly, laughing at his happy groans.
After twenty years of a life with her damaged, damaging mother, Sage now had love and a home, friends and leisure, safety and security. But those twenty years had been spent in constant worry and sympathy. She’d wanted to protect her mother, to save her, and had raged at herself for failing. Feelings etched so deeply into her psyche didn’t die easily.
How did she feel about the loss of her mother from her life?
Too confused to know for sure.
A dense shadow fell over her face. She opened her eyes and squinted up at Becker’s silhouette.
“Hey, shortcake. Napping?”
Lemmy flipped up to his feet and clambered over Sage’s stomach to get to him. His not-so-little puppy paws dug in on his way over, and she helped him along before he disemboweled her.
Becker sat beside her. He smelled of engine grease and gasoline, and even that didn’t clash with the summery calm. It was sexy, the things her man could do with his hands, and the way he smelled of work he enjoyed.
She rolled to her side and set her head on his lap, claiming a thigh before Lemmy settled in and took the whole lap.
“Tired?” His fingers brushed her bangs back.
“Not really. Just thinking.”
“What about?”
“I don’t even know. Everything.”
His soft chuckle had just the slightest hint of fatherliness. She didn’t know how else to think about it. He was a lot older than her—fact. He had a lot more experience in just about everything than she did—fact. He took care of her like no one else ever had—fact. She didn’t want a ‘daddy’ and he didn’t want to be one, he didn’t treat her like a child and she didn’t treat him like an old man, but still, there was wisdom and protection in his love for her, a sense that he was responsible for her.
The surprising thing was that she didn’t mind it. It felt good to be cared for.
Becker felt good about it, too. He liked coming home to a home-cooked meal. He liked that she hung the laundry out to dry on the lines he’d put up for her in the yard. He liked the way she made the bed. He didn’t expect those things from her, but he appreciated them.
Somebody get her a strand of pearls and a feather duster, because Sage had discovered that all these things made her happy—to be cared for, to take care, to make a nice home. To have a nice home to make. To have someone to make it for.
“I’m thinking I’ll get a couple chops out of the freezer and grill ‘em up for supper,” he said, setting a warm hand on her shoulder. “Sound good?”
“Yeah. And baked potatoes.”
“Mmm. Will you make that salad with the red raisins?”
She laughed and sat up. “Cranberries, dope. Cranberries. And yes. I’ll do drop bis—”
A sudden explosion of sound cut off her words and their thought. It took only a heartbeat for Sage to shift from stunned surprise to complete understanding, and she leapt to her feet. That had been a shotgun blast. Coming from the direction of her mother’s house.
“Mom!”
After a half-second to set the puppy aside, Becker was on his feet, too. “Shit—hold on. I gotta get my gun.”
Becker ran back toward his shop, but Sage couldn’t wait. She ran to the fence.
“SAGE, NO! WAIT! FUCK!”
She h
eard his shouts, but she was already at the fence. Gripping the top, she heaved herself up and threw herself over, landing in an awkward crouch. Then she ran at full speed to the back door. Yanking the screen door open, she grabbed the knob for the main door—and it didn’t budge. It was locked. She threw her body at it, but accomplished nothing but a scant rattle. “MOM! MOM!”
“Son of a fuck, Sage!” Becker’s low voice snarled at her ear as he grabbed her arm and pulled her down the stairs. “You don’t know what’s in there.”
“My mom’s in there!”
“I know, hon. Quiet, and let me lead.” He had a gun in his hand, and when she was clear, he lifted his leg and kicked the doorknob. The door burst in at once, and Becker grabbed her and yanked her sharply behind him as he climbed up the last steps and went through the door.
They entered into the kitchen—twilight-dark except for the block of sun from the doorway—and Sage slapped her hand over her nose and mouth at once. The air was tomb-like, muggy and hot, full of rot and infestation. Becker’s nose bunched up, but he didn’t react with Sage’s same shock.
The smell came from the filth on the counter, in the sink—crusty dishes and utensils, stained cups and glasses. Flies buzzed over the remains of microwave meals gone white with mold and maggots. Old coffee cups and dented pie tins overflowed with ashes and butts, and with the detritus of other, harsher drugs.
Becker pulled on her arm again, drawing her tight against his back. Sage went where he wanted her; she could think of nothing she should do or nowhere she could go. She could think of nothing at all. Her mind had filled with packed snow—cold and white and dense.
He went through the doorway to the room that should have been a dining room, if they’d had a second table. Instead, it had been dead space, where random crap got pushed out of the way.
As soon as he pushed through the saloon doors, Becker stopped short and spun around. “Okay, let’s go.” His bluntly shaped mouth had narrowed to a gash across his face, and his eyes shone under a furious brow.
He pushed her backward, headed back the way they’d come, to the back door. Sage tripped over her sneakers, and he caught her, sweeping one arm around her waist. “Come on, honey, I’m gonna get you outta here.”
“Stop! Wait! What?” But she knew what, didn’t she? Only one thing could have turned Becker around, made him so intent on getting her out of here. A shotgun blast, and now Becker didn’t want her to see. Sage could add one plus one and come up with a dead mother.
And she had to see.
Letting her knees buckle, she sagged and spun, escaping his determined hold, and ran around him, through the door to the would-be dining room—and stopped short in the same place Becker had.
The shotgun was on the floor, the barrel pointed toward a decaying box of old towels. One side of the box had split when they’d moved into the house last year, and threadbare terrycloth pushed out like fat at the edges of a deep wound.
On the floor by the window, a couple feet from the butt of the gun: there were her mother’s feet, in her faded blue slippers with the pink flowers, the embroidery loose and frayed. There were her pale, bony legs, in a pair of black bike shorts. There was her chest, in a white tank top with a cracked logo from the 1988 Tulsa State Fair. There were her arms, bared and bruised, showing fresh tracks. Red rain had spattered drops over her hands and forearms, her elbows, her belly, her breasts.
There wasn’t anything above her breasts. Just a sludgy sea of red. On the floor, the walls, the boxes, the stray old chair that had followed them to every house they’d ever lived in. Her mother stopped at the breasts.
Dangling off the tattered vinyl seat of that old chair was a dripping hank of brown hair.
Sage didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.
She stared, and turned to stone.
“Sage. C’mon, honey.”
She heard him, felt his hand circle her arm, the callused caress of his palm and fingers, but those sensations were little more than memory.
“Honey, don’t. Don’t look anymore.” He moved to stand before her, so all she saw was his bare chest, gleaming with sweat. His hands cupped her face, turned it up, made her look away, up at him, into his eyes. “I’m gonna take you home. I’ll deal with this.”
“I ...” It should be her who dealt with it. But what did that mean? How did she deal with the ‘it’ that her mother had become?
“You don’t have to do anything. When I get you home, I’ll call it in.”
It.
He lifted her up, hooking her legs around his waist. Feeling really very tired, Sage let her head droop to his shoulder, and he carried her out of the house.
~oOo~
When Becker handed her a couple of the pain pills left over from her broken face, she took them and washed them down with water from the glass he handed her. When he turned the covers back and took off her shoes and shorts, she laid her head on the pillows that had become hers and let him tuck her in. When he lifted Lemmy onto the bed, she hooked her arm over his soft body and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, Lemmy was gone and the room was dark. She heard voices from the living room, several of them, pitched low, trying to be quiet. Lying quietly, her brain still muzzy with Percocet, she listened and heard Becker. And Willa. Rad. Cecily. Caleb. The jingle of Lemmy’s tags.
She got up and went to the living room. Lemmy trotted over to her, and then Becker saw her. He was leaning on the wall beside the entry to the dining room—a dining room with a table and chairs and with no headless mother. The others she’d heard talking were sitting or standing around the room. They all turned to her.
Becker’s face shifted from concern to surprise, and he crossed the room in a few long strides.
“Hey, shortcake. Let’s go back to bed.”
“Is my mom okay?” That wasn’t the right way to ask the question she wanted to ask. She didn’t know what words to use.
Becker didn’t answer. He picked her up, scooping in his arms like a child, and she felt his arm under her thighs.
Oh. She wasn’t wearing pants.
“It’s okay, hon. You’re okay.”
He carried her into the bedroom and set her back on her side of the bed, but she didn’t want to sleep more. Not now. She wanted to know if it was over.
That wasn’t the right way to say it, either, but it was better. “Is it over?”
Sitting at her side, Becker smoothed his hand over her head. “The cops took her away. I told them I found her just like she was. And that’s true. I didn’t tell them you were with me. You don’t have to talk to anybody.”
The picture of her mother, stopping at her breasts, the glob of hair and scalp draped on the seat of the chair, a little wedge of hard bone in the scalp, dripping blood onto the scarred wood floor, flashed vividly across Sage’s brain, and she shuddered. Becker drew her into his arms.
“Did she do it?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered. “But I think so.”
So did Sage. Her mother had killed herself. She hadn’t believed she could live without a man.
And she’d been right.
Sage thought of the kitchen, the rot and debris and neglect. Days’ worth of neglect. Weeks’ worth. All the days and weeks since the day she’d found Lemmy being tortured in the back yard. Since Denny had beaten her and Becker had taken care of it.
“Did I do it?”
“What?”
“I did. We did. We took Denny away. We left her alone.”
His hands were tense, almost rough, when they clasped around her face and made her look at him. His eyes were tense and rough as well. So blue. So bright, so blue.
“No, we didn’t. Not your fault, not mine. Don’t do that, Sage. That’s a well you don’t want to fall down.”
“She—”
“Was weak. That’s all it is. She was weak. But you’re strong, and I don’t want you thinkin’ like that.”
Sage didn’t fe
el strong. Not at all. “I’m tired.”
“Okay. Lay back down.” He tucked her in again and set Lemmy on the bed again. Sage rolled over on her side, but when she reached for Lemmy, he was at the food of the bed, jumping back down.
Becker pressed his lips to her temple. “Sleep, hon. I’m gonna be gone for a bit, but I’ll be back soon as I can.”
“Why are people here?” It seemed a strange night for a party.
She remembered the pork chops they’d meant to grill for supper. And baked potatoes. And salad.
“Willa and Ciss are here for you while I deal with things. Rad and Cay are gonna help me clean up now.”
“Clean up?”
“Shhh. Don’t worry about it. Just sleep.”
That seemed like a good idea, so Sage closed her eyes.
~oOo~
Sage bolted upright into a pitch-black room. Her lungs were made of heavy rocks, jagged chunks of lead, and she pressed her hands to her chest. A dream she already couldn’t remember snapped a last lash of hurt across her mind and was gone.
But as the dream sputtered out, reality rose up, and Sage saw her mother’s truncated body, lying in a chunky red pool.
Becker sat up beside her and laid his hand on her knee. “You’re okay.”
That was an untruth, so she shook her head.
“Yeah, honey, you are. C’mere.” He pulled her to him and lay back down, settling her head on his chest, snugging her body inside the sweep of his arm. “You’re here with me. You’re okay.”
His chest was warm and strong, the spray of hair over his pecs soft. His heart beat against her cheek. His arm held her close, held her tight. She felt his lips in her hair when he kissed her head.
“You’re okay,” he said again.
She was. She hurt, she was sad and confused and guilty and horrified. But she was okay. She was here with him. Safe. She was safe and loved.
Her mother had never felt this. Maybe not a single day ever in her life had her mother felt what Sage felt right now: that she was okay. That she would be okay. She was safe. Loved. Loved well—without fear or rancor, without pain or threat. Loved gently. Loved truly.
Lead (The Brazen Bulls MC, #8) Page 26