“Look at me, what?” I query with a lift of one brow.
“You used to be so fun. Now you just drink orange juice and watch Sons of Anarchy on repeat.”
“I have never once watched Sons of Anarchy,” I retort with a curl of my lip. “Are you kidding me? I couldn’t think of anything I’d want to watch less.” I pause as Sin returns with my drink. Beast pads back into the room on bare feet, shirtless and steamy from the shower. Some random Daybreaker accidentally upturned an entire bottle of whiskey down his shirt on our way out the door.
He takes a seat next to me, his blond beard growing back in. It’s a nice length now, short and manageable. I missed it a little, so I’ve decided he can grow it out for a while before he shaves again. He takes my feet in his lap and gives one a rub, making me groan in a highly inappropriate way.
Sin sets my drink down and then pulls up another chair, this red leather thing that I picked out. I also picked out a dining room table, but it hasn’t been delivered yet. I’m sure that Crown took me to buy furniture in an effort to distract me. He’s hardly had time to breathe let alone go shopping with his old lady.
I make a face as I grab the jug of OJ—Sin really did bring the entire jug in here—and put the straw to my lips. It’s extra-long, so it doesn’t fall into the orange liquid and disappear. I’ve been making half-hearted jokes about how it’s only half as long as Beast’s dick.
“You watched one episode,” Beast reminds me, and I toss him a look. He grins at me, reaching up to touch his beard in a way that reminds me of Cat. Fuck. I could barely stand the man when he was alive, but now … I miss him so much that I can barely go an hour without thinking about him.
“I wanted to see if it was realistic,” I suggest, just before Crown walks in, chucking his cut over the back of another chair and then moving over to start a fire in the fireplace. He’s getting more comfortable with the idea of us all living in his house—my house. But you know what I mean. Then again, maybe he’s just too exhausted to care about propriety anymore?
“If what was realistic?” he asks, before sighing like he could very well sink into that grave alongside Cat. There’s one key feature that gives away his true mood: that glint in his green eyes. He loves being president. As Grey was born to be Don, I think Crown was born to be president.
And what a pair they make.
“Sons of Anarchy.” As soon as I say it, he looks back at me with an expression dripping with disdain. “What? I didn’t say I liked it.” I slurp more of my juice and then lean my head back against the couch cushions, the fingers of my left hand teasing the husky’s silky fur. He lifts his head up and sniffs the air, just to make sure that everything’s still okay.
I’m guessing he’s this clingy because of the baby.
Miracle beyond miracles, I’m still pregnant.
Apparently, I had what’s called a subchorionic hematoma. Like I said, I don’t speak hospital, but apparently that means you bleed from your vagina and have bad cramps, but it isn’t overly serious. No thanks to Alvise. If Grey hadn’t killed him, I’d have gone on a mission to find him and torture him every day for a decade.
Prick.
I think about Ivan Wolfe picking Grey up off the floor and carrying him out of the barn. Apparently, he’s been on Grey’s side all along. Him, and that doctor guy. What was his name? Tommaso Setola. Pretty sure they poisoned any dissenting voices in the organization after Grey took over from his father … Anyway, I never get straight answers out of Grey so who knows?
So long as the mafia isn’t causing the club problems, I don’t care.
What’s interesting is that Grey now wears an eyepatch—just like his father. He won’t let me see what’s underneath, but he says that he can still see out of his right eye. I have no idea if it’s just a vanity thing or a trauma response or what, but if he doesn’t want to show it to me, I won’t press him.
“Please don’t ever put Sons of Anarchy on when I’m the room,” Crown suggests, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. He offers me up a genuine smile to soften his words. “I’d much rather watch more of those old-school slasher films you’re so obsessed with.”
“What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.” My words are lighthearted, but my soul is dark and heavy. I don’t want it to be. This is a whole new life for me. New house, new relationships, new baby.
Grey is alive. Reba is doing great—she’s always loved studying scripture so … cool for her, I guess. Trevone Hundley invited me to prom when we ran into each other at the grocery store and ended up with Sin scowling at him over my shoulder. That was fun.
But Nellie is struggling and needs help. The secret of Gaz’s death sits heavy on my shoulders. And without Cat, the world just looks a little different.
I pull my phone from my pocket, hooking it up to Crown’s Bluetooth speakers.
I select a song from Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons. “December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night)” starts to play. It was one of Cat’s favorite songs. I know that because when I was little, I’d hear it playing in the garage of our shitty old house while he was on his back, tinkering with his bike.
“God,” I groan, putting my hand to my forehead. You should see the way all four of those men lean in toward me, like they’re afraid I’m going to break. They should know me better than that. If this life hasn’t broken me yet, I don’t think it ever will. There’s nothing I can’t handle. Doesn’t mean it can’t hurt me like hell though, stab me right in the heart and make me ache like I’m coming apart at the seams. “I miss him. I miss him so bad. I thought I’d be glad he was dead. But not I’m not. Not even close.”
“Your daddy loved you, suge. He certainly wasn’t perfect, but he loved ya. That’s for damn sure.” Beast presses his thumb into the arch of my foot, and I groan again. Can’t help it. It just feels so fucking good.
“He was abusive toward you,” Sin agrees with a long sigh. “But you were the love of his life. You and your mom.” He looks down at his lap. “You know, it’s probably for the best that it happened this way. He was really struggling after Gaz’s death. I’m not sure that he would’ve been okay in the long run.”
That thought makes me even sadder, so I push it aside. I make myself remember that day in his office when he clamped me on the shoulder. “Nice work last night. You sure are a ruthless bitch. Can’t wait to see the nightmare of a grandchild that you pop out.” That was a defining moment for us.
Although we never quite got the father-daughter talk that I wanted, I’m glad that I was able to tell him what I needed to say. In the end, I got an I love you and that was a lot coming from him.
“He was excited to be a grandfather,” Sin offers up, as if that makes things better instead of worse. “He mentioned it multiple times.” My throat closes up, and I turn up the music. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
Crown gets up and grabs a bottle of whiskey—Crown Royal, actually—and passes it around to everyone but me. After we listen to the song a few more times, I turn it off so we can listen to the crackle of the fire in the fireplace and listen to the patter of rain on the roof.
Then the guys start to open up. Grainger first, then Sin. Even Beast. Crown is last. But they start to dig up their best stories about Cat. My initial response is to bolt, to hide myself away and let sleep take me.
I make myself stay, drinking my juice and petting Fem, enjoying the brush of Beast’s warm fingers on the arches of my feet. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must because the next thing I know, I’m waking up in Sin’s bedroom and he’s cleaning, picking up clothes off the floor as sunshine streams in through the wood blinds.
And the song he’s singing … it’s the same one we listened to last night, Cat’s song.
I keep my eyes closed, fighting a smile as I try not to love the sound of Colton’s voice or the way the beams of sunshine feel like a warm caress on my scarred legs. Yesterday, I felt like the world would be forever dulled.
You know what? Som
etimes, grief makes it seem that way. Music isn’t as pretty; TV shows aren’t as entertaining; colors are dull. Over time, things don’t necessarily return to the way they were, but the sound of the music morphs into something else. The TV shows hold different meaning. The colors change.
It’s never the same, but it can be okay again. Even happy.
“Hey,” Sin says, gently sliding the length of a leather belt across my calves. “You awake?”
I am; he knows it.
I turn over and stretch, lifting my arms above my head as I arch my back and yawn.
I’m starting to understand the purpose of funerals: they’re for the living, not the dead. I actually feel better today.
“I just wanted to hear you sing,” I tell him, and he smacks me gently with the belt on the leg.
“Naughty,” he says, and I know it’s meant to be a joke. It’s said casually enough, but then the air between us stretches, heats, darkens. Sin looks down at the belt and then up at me, and then he’s on the bed and I’m laughing as he ties my wrists to the headboard, pushes my panties aside, and fucks me in the early morning sunshine.
Yep.
Things are hard, but they’re going to get better.
We might live in the darkness, but that doesn’t mean we don’t understand how to appreciate the light.
Another four weeks later …
I’m standing in the kitchen in a pair of short-shorts and one of Queenie’s maternity shirts. A lot of her stuff is cheerful and covered in flowers, so I have a hard time making myself wear it, but this particular top is solid black with a deep V in the front that shows off a fair amount of cleavage, so I’ve taken to wearing it a lot.
I’m sort of a skinny bitch to begin with, so I feel like my stomach looks extra huge, like a cantaloupe shoved up under my shirt.
I open the fridge door as Fem waits beside me, hoping for a treat of some kind. I grab a packet of deli meat from the door and open it, peeling off a few slices and tossing them for him. Feminist likes to show off his skills, leaping in the air to snap the treats out of the sky, and then landing gracefully back on his three legs. He doesn’t even seem to miss the fourth which is a relief.
My throat gets choked up, and I close my eyes. I shouldn’t cry over my father in a moment like this. He truly deserved what he got when you think about it, when you consider that he shot my dog for no other reason than to teach me a lesson.
But that’s not how the heart works.
I miss him anyway.
With a deep breath, I remove the rest of the deli meat from the package and toss it over to Fem, throwing away the trash and washing my hands before I dig four cool, brown bottles out of the refrigerator.
Holding two in each hand, I cluck my tongue for Fem to follow me and head down the hall toward the back door. I bump my way through the screen door with my hip, pausing on the sun-warmed cement step with my bare feet.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
All four of my men are working in the yard, putting the finishing touches on what was once just a bare dirt patch. Now, there’s a fence that encloses a good quarter-acre, plenty of green grass, a small deck, and fresh plantings surrounded by mulch.
None of that is what’s mesmerizing to me; it’s all gone up slowly, over the last several weeks. Just one hard day of labor after another. I even helped with a fair amount of it. Doesn’t stop the guys from trying to pamper me or put my feet up, shower me with overprotective alpha male urges. Sometimes, I let them. Sometimes, I stay on my knees and dig into the earth, pulling plants from their pots and teasing their roots with my fingertips before I put them in the ground.
No, the reason I’m mesmerized right now, the reason I’m staring … is because all four of my men are shirtless and wearing jeans, dirt smeared on their hard chests, their arms. Sin is even wearing gardening gloves which makes me wet my panties like they’re going out of style.
Crown and Beast are maneuvering the new table into place. It’s this long, wooden farmhouse table that looks like it came straight from a magazine. But no, they built it.
You heard me: they built it. The four of them.
They also strung up lights, Edison bulbs dangling above us and waiting for later, when our guests show up and we switch them on for a warm, companionable glow.
We’re having a party here tonight; did I mention that? Not a big one. Just a welcome-home thing for Nellie. She’s just gotten out of rehab and for the time being, she’s going to be staying here with us. I don’t know how I feel about that, but I also can’t leave my mother alone right now.
She might be clean, but that’s only a for now sort of thing.
We’re selling her house—that house, the bloodstained one—and then we’ll look into finding something more permanent for her. The thing is, her identity is tangled up in the club. She doesn’t know who she is if she isn’t the president’s wife. I imagine she’ll marry herself off to one of the other old-timers.
I know René, the treasurer, has been visiting her in rehab whenever she’s allowed visitors. I think he’s lonely, too. He misses his son and granddaughter, and his wife passed almost ten years ago. He’d be good for my mom. She needs that, anyway, to be a club wife again.
She can’t really be a mother anymore, not that she ever really acted like one anyway. But with Queenie and Posey gone, with Gaz … err, missing, and me here with four lovers and a baby on the way, she needs a new hobby.
“You okay there, wife?” Beast asks, moving over to me and offering up an enigmatic smile. “You like what you see, huh?”
“I, uh,” I start, trying to remember what I came out here to do in the first place. Fem prances past me, lifts his leg to piss on a new rose bush that I planted, and then proceeds to trot after Grainger. He’s fallen in love with him. Fem, I mean. He likes Cade now. They even cuddle sometimes when neither of them thinks I’m looking. “Here. Beers. I brought you beers.”
I have this weird flashback of a memory where Nellie is bringing cold beers to Cat and his friends. It makes me a little dizzy when I think about it; I never wanted to become my mother. This though … it’s different.
“Thank you, sugar,” Beast drawls, kissing my cheek easily, even though I’m standing on the step and he’s on the ground. Evens out our height difference a bit. “You like it?”
“I love it,” I say, admiring the table as I come down the step and hand Crown his drink next. He takes it from me with a grateful sigh, reaching up to swipe his arm across his forehead as he looks back at the table.
“It was a lot of work, but worth it,” he says, nodding his head. Being president has taken up a lot of his time, but he still makes sure to make time for me. He even helped the other guys with the table construction. More like … he drew up the plans and told them how he wanted it done, and they did it. But still.
“So worth it,” I say as Sin comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist from behind, making me groan as he puts his chin on my shoulder. He smells heavenly as fuck, like fresh sweat and dirt and cloves. Oh my God. I know we don’t have a lot of time before our guests get here, but I might need to fuck … “Take your drink and stop smearing sweat and dirt all over me,” I grumble. In reality, I mean the exact opposite of that, and Sin knows it.
He chuckles at me as presses a kiss to the side of my neck, taking his drink and then moving up to stand on my other side. Grainger comes over to us last, patting my dog absently on the head as he turns around to look at the table.
“Now we just gotta drag the fucking chairs out here,” he says with a scowl. He looks down at me as I pass over his beer, and the edge of his lip quirks up in a smile instead. “Thanks, mama,” he says, and I narrow my eyes on him.
“You know I hate that,” I say. He does. But he does it anyway, just to get under my skin so that we can despise each other a little bit, and then bang it out. “The yard looks amazing.” It gags me a little bit, but I make myself say it. “Thank you.”
“Why don’t you thank u
s by getting under that table and sucking us all off?” Grainger quips, and he moves away before I get a chance to pick up a rock and throw it at him.
“Don’t you harass my pregnant wife like that,” Beast says, his voice mild but edged with a bit of a threat. He’s joking though. Mostly.
Cade ignores him, moving into the house and returning with a single chair in his hand, chugging his beer as he goes.
“Sit,” he commands, putting it at the head of the table. I do, and he sets his beer beside me. The other three men do the same, setting their drinks down, and then working to bring out the rest of the chairs. There are a dozen in total which freaks me out a little.
We’re having Nellie over obviously, as well as René, Amber, Big Jack, another couple that Crown knows and likes, and a man whose club name is quite literally Tigger—like the cartoon tiger, yes. Lord knows where he got that nickname. I truly do not want to hear that story.
When Sin comes back with the final chair, he also has a glass of orange juice with a squiggly straw for me which I appreciate. A pleased smile curves my lips even though I try to hide it.
“You’re making me too soft,” I grumble, and Sin snorts, putting his hand on the surface of the table and leaning down to look into my eyes.
“Gidge, you beheaded a mafia queen. Nobody would ever accuse you of being soft.” He takes the seat next to me, Beast beside him. Grainger’s on my other side with Crown on his left.
The boys and I sit together in companionable silence for a little while.
I look out across the yard and then lift my gaze up, past the fence and toward the trees. We got so damn lucky that the compound didn’t burn. Of course, it occurred to all of us that if we’d stayed put here, Cat might’ve survived.
That’s the thing with war; there are no right answers. We just as easily could’ve burned up or been driven off the compound into traps set by the mafia. There’s no way we could’ve known what was going to happen with the wind.
I sigh and lean back in my chair, enjoying the sunshine on my skin and the easy quiet. For a second there, I feel like I see a firefly, but then, of course, I remember that we don’t have fireflies in Oregon. It’s just a flash of sunlight off the edge of one of the Edison bulbs. Too bad.
I Will Revel in Glory Page 45