“I think we all put on a mask now and then,” she starts. “Not everyone wears their hurt on their sleeve, sometimes the girl with the brightest smile in the room is the one suffering silently.”
“I don’t smile,” I reply. “What you see is what you get. I’m every bit the mess I appear to be.”
“I smile,” she whispers. “And some days that smile is nothing more than a mask,” she admits, raising the masks before she sets them on the nightstand next to her.
A wave of nausea hits me and I close my eyes briefly until it passes. Lacey doesn’t seem to notice I’m in the throes of withdrawals and for a moment I consider her words, wondering if I’m not as transparent as I think I am. Maybe I’ve got a mask on too.
“I have manic depression. For a while I was afraid to admit it because knowing you’re not right in the head and saying it out loud are two different things. Speaking your truth makes it real.”
“No offense,” I start, widening my eyes. “But I’m not crazy, I’m a drug addict who hasn’t had a fix in a few days.”
“I know what you are and I know what you’re feeling. I may not be an addict but I fell in love with one. You’ve met Blackie, haven’t you?” she asks.
“Yeah, long hair? Dark eyes? He doesn’t speak much but his eyes never shut up.”
“That’s him.”
“He almost blew my head off,” I tell her, watching as her eyes go wide and her lips part.
“Well, I never said he was perfect.”
“Listen, Lacey…I’m not sure what we’re doing here, but in ten seconds I’m going to throw up all over this bed.”
Recovering, she closes her mouth and lifts her hips. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a packet and hands it to me.
“What’s this?”
“It’s called Suboxone. It’ll dissolve on your tongue and help with the withdrawals,” she informs me and I tear into the package quickly. Without hesitation, I place the strip on my tongue and close my mouth as she stares at me.
“I’m a drug counselor and work a program down at the YMCA,” she reveals. “There are different options for you, Ally. You don’t have to sit here and suffer. I can help you, and in turn you’ll learn to help yourself.”
Feeling as if I’ve entered the twilight zone, I stare at her blankly. It’s hard to comprehend why these people are so willing to help me. I’m no stranger to club life; I’ve spent years confined to a clubhouse full of bikers. It’s always about them and what I can do for them. It’s why they let me live. But these people, they were different. They wanted nothing from me and if they did, they have yet to lay their demands on the table. For Rush, I was his obsession, a drug. For the guys like Stryker, I was just another piece of ass, someone who could get them off when they were too lazy to work for it.
I was nobody.
Yet, these people made me wonder if I could be somebody.
“What if I don’t want your help?”
“If you don’t want my help, that’s fine too, but know you’re letting whoever did this to you…you’re letting those people win.”
“Look at me,” I scoff. Dropping the blanket to my lap, I turn my arms over, displaying the bruises on my skin. “They already won.”
“Is that what you really believe?”
“It’s a fact. You look at me and see an addict. You think you can save me like you saved your boyfriend, but it’s not just the drugs that ruined me. It’s everything I’ve lived through,” I say, feeling tears sting my eyes as I utter the words. In a sense she’s right, the moment I speak my truth it becomes real. I’m no longer the girl living inside her head, but the girl who freely admits she’s a victim.
“Close your eyes, picture your worst nightmare. The ugliest, most horrendous thing your mind can conjure up,” I dare her, watching as she follows my command. Her eyes close and I am the one in control. I am the person delivering the truth and knowing that provides me with the will to continue. “Now open your eyes and look at me. That nightmare, whatever it is you just saw inside your head…I’ve lived that and there is no escaping it. I can’t open my eyes and blink it away. I can’t shrug it off as just another bad dream because it’s all I know. The drugs help, they make me forget for a little while. Now you’re asking me to remember, to relive all that pain…I’m sorry but I’d rather be dead.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“It’s not your fault,” I reply, wiping away a tear. “I appreciate you trying to help but—”
“Don’t do that,” she interjects. “Don’t tell me I’m wasting my time because I’m not. The only one in this room who has lost time is you. I don’t know all the details but my father told me enough. He said you’ve been missing for twelve years.”
“Yeah, twelve years is a long time to have the same recurring nightmare,” I admit.
“Why not end the nightmare?”
Realizing there is no use in hiding my tears, I let them stream freely down my cheeks as I stare at Lacey, noticing the resemblance between her and Jack.
“I don’t know how,” I whisper. “I’m terrified that if I make that choice, I’ll have to feel all that pain again, all the shame.”
“You wouldn’t be alone. You’ll have your brother to help you, and like it or not, you’ll have all of us,” she says, reaching for my hand. “I know we’re all strangers to you and from what Blackie and my father have told me, you were with another club. I can assure you wherever you’ve been is nothing like where you are now. Those guys downstairs, they’re my family. Every single one of those men with a patch on their back are men of honor. Their beliefs may be a little questionable and they’ve made their share of bad decisions. Lord knows they’re destructible at times, but they’re not bad men. In fact, most of them have families. Your brother being one of them.”
I think about Jagger and Celeste. I didn’t get a chance to say anything to him and the few moments I spent with Celeste were sort of surreal. Then I remember cradling their daughter in my arms and something inside of me aches. For the first time since everything happened, I don’t think I can consciously turn my back on them, on the chance to be part of their lives.
For the first few years, all I wished for was to have another day with them. I remember thinking there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t give to have my brother tease me or listen to Celeste ramble on about him.
Then there were the times when I missed my parents and yearned for one more simple moment. The kind most people take for granted, like setting the dinner table with my mother or returning from breakfast on a Sunday morning and sitting down to read the comics with my father.
“Everyone mentions my brother and Celeste but no one has said anything about my parents. Have you met them?” I ask, turning my gaze back to Lacey.
“No, I haven’t,” she says softly.
“I miss them,” I rasp. Blowing out a breath, I wipe away my tears. “I don’t know where this is all coming from. I gave up on feeling sorry for myself.”
Lacey doesn’t say anything as she reaches behind her, grabs the pair of masks and hands them to me.
“Or maybe you’ve been wearing a mask for so long you forgot who you were and who you wanted to be.”
Diverting my eyes to the masks, I take them from her hands and trail my fingertips over the frown before lifting my skeptical gaze back to hers.
“You really think you can help me?”
“I do,” she replies, reaching out to give my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Nodding, I lift the smiling mask between us.
“I want to smile again,” I murmur.
“You will,” Lacey promises.
Taking the masks from me, she places them next to her and wraps her arms around me. It's awkward but when my arms mimic hers, the action doesn’t feel forced. After a moment, we pull apart and she jumps off the bed. Reaching for the folded clothes sitting on top of the dresser, she hands me a clean outfit. The Suboxone kicks in, allowing me a reprieve from hell and I take a shower.
I didn’t mean to keep Lacey waiting, but I got distracted by the fifteen bottles of shower gel in the bathroom. Each one had a different scent, all feminine and something I wasn’t accustomed to. Deciding on the coconut scented gel; I took the longest shower of my life. Stepping out of the shower, I wondered if I had just substituted one addiction for another because I was already craving my next shower and decided watermelon would be the gel of choice.
The clothes were big on me but they were clean. At the end of the day, my new clothes, like the fancy coconut soap, were luxuries. Combing my hair was easier this time around. There were no knots to fight as I dragged the bristles through my dry hair. The red was fading and the dark brown roots were growing like weeds on top of my head, something I didn’t notice before. I grabbed a clip from under the sink and twisted my hair, pinning the long locks on top of my head.
Before I put my life into Lacey’s hands, I glance at my reflection in the mirror.
“Who are you?” I whisper mindlessly.
I couldn’t answer the question yet but one day I’d look in the mirror, maybe not this exact mirror, but I’d look at myself and know who I was. Leaving my fears behind me, I step out of the bathroom and follow Lacey down the stairs. Feeling everyone’s eyes on me, I remembered her pep talk and tried to tell myself these people weren’t going to hurt me.
Lacey filled them in, letting them know we were headed to the hospital. As per her suggestion, she thought it was best if I was examined by a doctor. I’m not going to lie, the thought of a doctor examining me and exposing all my secrets didn’t sit well with me. I’d just have to suck it up if I wanted to get into treatment. Apparently, there were different ways to treat an addict and most of them relied on a doctor’s referral.
Finding the courage to meet their gazes, I glance around the room, taking in each and every concerned face until my eyes find Deuce’s. Everyone else seems to disappear as I stare into the dark eyes that pitied me, watching as they flickered with something new. Something I had yet to see and couldn’t place a name to.
Breaking the spell, Blackie steps between us and takes hold of my arm, guiding me toward the door.
“Ally,” Deuce calls. Forcing me to turn, I watch as he steps closer and throws something in the air. Reaching out, I close my palm around the object before it drops to the floor and watch in fascination as his lips quirk ever so slightly.
Curiously, I open my fist and glance down. My throat feels like it is closing as I force myself to swallow and stare at the book of matches in my hand.
Be the girl who strikes the match.
-Fifteen-
DEUCE
I needed to get the fuck out of here. There wasn’t time to play around; this was a code blue situation—the do or die type when every second counts. So why was I reaching for the fucking coffee pot and eyeing the freshly baked cherry pie on the counter? I’ll tell you why, because somewhere between getting my ass thrown in the back of a van and being chained to a chair by a bunch of assholes, I lost my fucking marbles.
The longer I stayed at the house of Parrish, the more I risked getting involved in something I had no business getting involved in. Ally had issues, fuck, she had the whole subscription, and I was not the type of guy who ignored that shit. Yes, she was a pain in my ass, a thorn in my fucking side—she was trouble plain and simple—and like a magnet, I was easily drawn to her. Give me a broken girl and I’ll move Heaven and Hell to fix her. Well, at least until one of us dies while I’m trying.
Yeah, I needed to get the fuck out of here.
Stat.
Right after the cup of coffee and the chunk of pie.
Taking the first sip of caffeine, the coffee sputters from my lips as Jack slaps me on the back.
“Take it to go, we gotta move,” he orders, shoving a travel mug in front of me. Wiping the coffee from my shirt, I glare at the bastard as he shrugs on his leather cut.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I pour whatever is left in my cup into the thermos.
“The garage,” he says, throwing my jacket at me. “Rick called a meeting.”
“Rick, the bounty hunter?”
“You know another Rick?” he retorts, pushing me out of the kitchen.
“Did I miss the memo? Are we patching him in?”
“No, you smartass, but he’s the only guy with half a fucking clue on how Yankovich operates. We need him at our table. Now, you got any other questions or you think we can get the fuck out of here?”
Deciding he’s a fucking lunatic, I keep my questions to myself and watch him kiss his wife goodbye before grabbing the keys to his truck.
“Before you ask, I’m driving, but don’t get fucking used to this chauffeur service. You got another twenty-four hours to heal those ribs then you’re riding.”
“I can ride now,” I argue, opening the passenger door. Gritting my teeth, I climb into the truck and curse Rush to hell and back for fucking me up.
“Sure you can,” he mutters as my nostrils flare in aggravation. “Buckle up, princess. Safety first.”
President or not, friend or fucking foe, Jack Parrish is a dickhead.
The ride to Pipe’s garage is relatively quiet until we hit a red light a couple of blocks away and I take another sip of my coffee.
“What’s with the matches?” Jack asks, deciding to fuck with me some more.
Realizing coffee and I aren’t going to make love today, I set the mug down in the console and shrug my shoulders.
Don’t engage in the crazy, Deuce.
“The matches,” he probes. “You gave Ally a book of matches before she left with Blackie and Lacey. Not a parting gift you usually give an addict.”
“If you’re asking me if I gave them to her so could light her crack pipe, I didn’t,” I sneer. “I told you, I flushed the drugs.”
“I was simply wondering if she smoked,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders. “I was going to pick her up a carton of cigarettes.”
Flicking my gaze toward him, I notice the devious smile he’s trying to hide.
“Just how fucking crazy are you, man?”
Giving into the insanity, he lets out a chuckle.
“Oh, Cowboy, you have no fucking idea,” he says as he pulls into Pipe’s garage. “Satan broke the mold when he made me.”
Yeah, he did.
“Come on, we ain’t got time to waste,” he orders, throwing the car into park and killing the engine. As we head toward the garage, I look around the lot, spotting only a few bikes.
“Where is everyone?” I question, tipping my chin to the two Harleys parked in front of the building.
“Blackie’s with Lacey and Ally and Wolf is at the hospital, splitting his time between Linc and Cobra.”
“Any word on either of them?”
“Linc had his last surgery, something minor from what I gather that will help him mobilize. He’s due to start rehab today so Wolf wanted to be there to make sure those pieces of shit doctors don’t throw our boy on his ass before his legs are moving.”
“And Cobra?”
“Survived surgery. Now he needs to wake the fuck up.”
“Christ, we’re fucked,” I hiss.
“Yeah, we are,” he replies.
Before we can enter the garage, we hear engines closing in on us and we both turn around as Bas and Needles pull into the lot.
“What could they want?” I ask, keeping my eyes pinned on the two men who wore Albany’s patch on their vests.
“What do you think they want? They want to come on over to the other side,” he mutters, crossing his arms against his chest.
“They want to break bread with us?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
No, nobody in their right fucking mind would sign up to sit at our table as bullets fly at our heads and shit gets blown to bits. I don’t tell him that though and instead I let the poor guy dream.
Bas and Needles dismount and stride toward us, offering Jack their hands. I watch him take their peac
e offering and follow them when he invites them inside. Riggs, Stryker, and Rick are already seated around the table when we pull up a couple of oil drums and Jack and I take our respective seats.
“Aren’t you going to take a seat?” Jack questions, pulling the meat mallet from his leather cut. Before he can slam the silver kitchen utensil against the wood, Jack’s hand freezes as Needles and Bas slowly remove their cuts and toss them onto the table.
“Respect,” Bas says, breaking the silence.
Leaning back, Jack drops the mallet onto the table and stares at them for a moment. Needles drops an envelope on the table and meets our leader's skeptical gaze.
“There’s three hundred thousand dollars in that envelope and the insurance policy to the clubhouse in Albany,” Needles reveals. “Rush left us in a mess. There’s nothing to salvage, nothing to mend. Albany is done.”
“What does that have to do with me and my club?” Jack questions.
“The money is yours. Do what you want with it,” Bas declares. “Rebuild your clubhouse, get Ally into a program…fuck, throw it off the Brooklyn Bridge for all I care.”
“That’s awfully generous of you,” Jack retorts, shoving aside the envelope as he reaches for their cuts. “And what am I supposed to do with these?”
“Burn them.”
Considering Bas’ words, Jack reaches for his knife and hands it to Riggs, silently commanding him to cut the Albany patch from the worn leather. As Riggs goes to work stripping their chapter from their vests, Jack nods for them to sit.
“We’ll have to take a vote when our men are able to sit at our table, but I like to think you two would be an asset to our chapter,” Jack says.
“Appreciate it,” Bas replies. “But whether or not we get that vote we want to help you and yours get this motherfucker. If Rush was just the tip of the iceberg then this thing you’re fighting, Parrish, it’s bigger than any regular run of the mill MC political bullshit. I’m going to assume whoever he was working with is big time and the fact that we don’t know what we’re up against doesn’t help. My gut is telling me this is bigger than everyone sitting around this table. It’s the shit you can’t ignore, the shit that’s been dumped into your lap because a higher power knows you’re destined to deliver justice.”
The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Page 74