Misrule

by Kelly, Kathryn C.

  “You taught it to him and he learned it well. He’s just using his lessons on Creighton.”

  “Can we not talk about this?” Roxy returned to her seat. “Let’s focus on the reason we’re here, sugar.”

  A few moments of silence went by before a question occurred to Roxy.

  “What makes you think I’m acting any differently?”

  Bailey cocked her head to the side, then nodded to Roxy’s left hand. “That ring for one. I know it’s an heirloom but it is…not you. The Roxanne I know would’ve told Knox the truth.”

  “This is a small matter, Bailey, and this ring is important to Knox.”

  “Not as important as you are to him,” she insisted.

  “It’s fine,” Roxanne said stubbornly.

  “Okay, if you say so. That’s fine, but what about what Lucas is doing? Forcing Knox and you to live separately. Why aren’t you saying go fuck yourself?”

  From her tone, Roxy got the sense that Bailey now agreed with Mortician. “I’ve asked myself the same thing,” she admitted, then shrugged. “The truth is it feels good to have someone take care of me and think about my well-being.”

  Sitting back in the slipper chair covered in ivory satin and tied at the back with a big bow, Bailey folded her arms. “I’m sure that’s true, Momma. You take care of everyone. But this isn’t you. You’re stronger than that.”

  “Maybe, I’m scared,” Roxy confessed. “No matter the reason I married before they didn’t work out and I…Knox is nine years younger than me and refined. Classy. What am I?”

  Bailey gasped, then narrowed her green-gray eyes. “I’m sending Lucas to kill Duke. He’s gotten into your head and is ruining you.”

  “Leave Duke alone,” Roxy ordered. “It’s not only our differences…Or, maybe, it is…I’m afraid this is a dream and I’ll wake up and he’ll be gone. Besides, I want Knox to be accepted by the boys. If he listens to Lucas, this will go a long way in them accepting him.”

  “Please don’t let Duke do this to you. The problem is his. Not yours. You’re perfect just as you are.”

  Roxy forced a smile. “Kind of hard to believe that when one of your own kids thinks you nothing but garbage.” It was meant to be breezy. Yet even she heard the dismal hurt. “Let’s plan our lovely weddings, sugar. I promise I will give myself a good talking to.”

  “Yeah, okay, Momma,” Bailey said grouchily. “I still want to punch Duke.”

  “I understand, baby.” Roxy opened to the black bridesmaid gown she’d seen a bit ago. “Get Mrs. Whittlestone so we can have our measurements taken and talk numbers.”

  Bailey nodded and got to her feet, opening the door and leaving Roxy alone. Watching as her daughter left, she felt a deep gratitude for the woman Bailey had become.

  “I know you’re so proud of our little girl, K-P,” Roxy whispered, smiling, then turning her attention back to the gowns when Bailey followed Mrs. Whittlestone in to get on with the planning.

  Knox stared at the tattoos staining Mortician’s back, chest, and arms, as the tailor took the biker’s measurements. He stood in their private room in only a pair of black boxer briefs, not caring that he was nearly naked in front of other people. That was bad enough. But he’d had to de-weaponize himself, removing guns strapped underneath his clothes and on various parts of his body. The four weapons sat in a neat pile on a bench, right next to his clothes.

  “That grim reaper tat is cool, Mort,” Grant gushed. “I want one when I grow up.”

  Mortician smiled at Grant, holding his arms out as Mr. Whittlestone spread out a tape measurer. He was standing on a stepstool to reach Mortician’s arms and shoulders.

  “Are you getting a tat, Dad?” Grant asked.

  “No,” Knox answered with irritation. The very idea! “And neither are you. Ever. You’re not a biker.”

  “I want to be!” Grant complained. “CJ said he’s going to be a big biker like ‘Law—”

  “Outlaw,” Knox gritted.

  “CJ said I can call his dad ‘Law.”

  “CJ is four years old, Grant! You do not do what that little boy tells you to do. If anything, you should be trying to impress your good manners on him.” Christ! What was he saying? “On second thought, don’t. Just leave him alone.”

  “Mr. Harrington, have you reconsidered allowing me to take your measurements?”

  “No.” Why bother with measurements when he didn’t know what Roxanne—Bailey—had chosen? Besides… “I have my own haberdasher. The same one my father uses.” He smirked at Mortician. “In North America, a haberdasher is a dealer in men’s clothing.”

  Instead of answering, Mortician began strapping up again.

  “Can I get measured here?” Grant asked hopefully. “Mr. Hocking is too mean.”

  “He is no-nonsense and firm,” Knox stated. “And, no, you will get measured with me and your grandfather.”

  Grant’s face fell.

  Whistling, Mortician pulled on his jeans, then grabbed his T-shirt.

  “Tell him, Mort,” Grant said.

  Heat rose up Knox’s neck and into his face.

  “Can’t, little dude.” Mortician said and put on his socks, then began pulling on his boots. “Knox your old man. I’m not.”

  “Will that be all, Mortician?” Mr. Whittlestone asked.

  “Yeah. Whenever Bailey tell me if I’m wearing a vest or cummerbund, I’ll call you so you can order it. She might be telling your woman, though, so just get whatever she says I’m supposed to wear.”

  “Wait a damn minute,” Knox said, outraged. “You’re just allowing Bailey to choose what you want to wear?”

  “It’s her fucking wedding, Knox,” Mortician said flatly. “I don’t give a fuck if I walk down the fucking aisle in my drawers.”

  Grant giggled.

  “That isn’t what civilized people do, son,” Knox said.

  Mortician shrugged into his cut. “Civilized motherfuckers sure got a lot of fucking rules. Glad my ass so uncivilized.”

  “Refinement only comes from years of gentle living and good manners,” Knox retorted.

  “Wealth, you mean,” Mortician told him.

  “Those weren’t my words,” he said smugly. “But, yes, wealth.”

  Mortician sat next to Grant on the sofa, lit a cigarette, then grinned at Knox. “What is it like to you to be rich?”

  Knox drew himself up. “It isn’t easy to explain to someone like you.” He glanced at Grant. “Besides, I made my own way in the world. I didn’t want my father’s money to give me an easy ride.”

  “Pure bullshit. Whether you wanted it or not, you got it. You never had to worry about a poor man’s problems.”

  “The families we were born into isn’t my fault,” Knox pointed out.

  Eyeing him, Mortician blew smoke sideways. “True,” he agreed. “Still, you made your own way after having the luxury of deciding to do so. If you’d wanted to, you could’ve been nothing but a trust fund brat.”

  “Never! My father wouldn’t allow me to slack. If I hadn’t followed my own career path, I would’ve had to work in the company.”

  Another puff in, then out. “You’re your father’s heir. Shouldn’t you want to learn the business? Unless he has someone else in mind.”

  “You don’t understand the workings of trust funds and inheritances.” Knox shook his head. “I don’t have time to explain the intricacies to you.”

  Mortician’s amused grin rankled Knox. “Didn’t you investigate us before you ever came to the club?”

  Knox would never admit he hadn’t investigated all the members. “And?”

  “Bet you a thousand dollars you didn’t investigate me.”

  “That is gambling, and I don’t gamble in front of my son.”

  “Do you piss in front of him?” Yawning, Mortician leaned back and placed his hands behind his head, not displacing his manbun. “Fuck, man. What the fuck do you do in front of him? He know you got a cock like him?”

  “Cover your
ears, son,” Knox said in alarm.

  His face red with laughter, Grant stuck an index finger in each ear. Knox knew the rascal could still hear, but he’d followed his instructions so that was good enough. “Around Grant, we have penises.”

  “You might have a penis,” Mortician said. “I got a cock.”

  Delight lit Grant’s eyes, confirming Knox’s suspicions that he could hear.

  “I don’t understand you people,” he confessed.

  “Us people don’t give a fuck, son. I don’t understand you. You say you want the privilege of being under Roxanne roof until the wedding, yet you acting like a stupid motherfucker and not getting your measurements taken. Not because a tux hasn’t been decided on, but because you one uppity motherfucker. Any shop we frequent not good enough for you.”

  Embarrassment coursed through Knox, and he turned to Mr. Whittlestone. “I apologize for my friend’s vulgar behavior. I know better than to discuss such things in front of proprietors. My choice to not do business with you is nothing personal.”

  Mortician snorted. “It’s very fucking personal. The Whittlestones own this place. Despairing it casts aspersions on them.”

  “Can I unstop my ears, Dad?” Grant called.

  Knox rubbed his temples. He’d had his son sticking fingers in his ears for five minutes to deal with a moron. It had been an exercise in futility, anyway. Mortician was beyond educating and Grant had heard everything. “Sure, son.”

  “If I consent to do business with the Whittlestones, it’ll make you think you’re in charge,” Knox spat to Mortician, taking up the conversation where they’d left off.

  “In case you didn’t realize, I am in charge.”

  “The hell you are. I might not be able to get around your living arrangement rule—yet,” he added with supreme smugness. “But that’s the only other thing you’re getting over on me with. You’ve already muscled your way into my wedding to Roxanne.” He shrugged. “I understand. You want a big wedding and I can pay for it legitimately.”

  Mortician cocked his head to the side, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Bailey being here your first saving grace. Grant your second,” he said coldly. He nodded to Mr. Whittlestone. “Him and his woman your third. Don’t need to fuck up their shop with your blood, brains, and bone.” He got to his feet. “As I said, you don’t know shit about me. If you had really investigated me…”

  His voice trailed off, so Knox seized the opportunity to continue. “What would I have found? A rap sheet a mile long? Records of foster homes? Some sob story that explains why you turned into a criminal who marks up his body and carries more guns than a cop? Tell me what would I have found? I didn’t need to investigate you. I wanted Outlaw. Once he fell, the rest of you would, too. You don’t know what power is. You have it through force. I have it through money. Legitimate business that is the hallmark of the Harrington family. I am my father’s sole heir. Being around all of you has made me realize what it means to have true wealth. True power. And I revel in it. I thank God that I was born with the world at my feet, not in a gutter that turned me into trash.”

  Grant’s eyes widened, and Knox realized the vitriol he was throwing Mortician’s way. Fury tightened the enforcer’s features, darkened his eyes. He looked ready to kill Knox.

  Instead, he nudged Grant’s shoulder. “Tell your old man not to be so uptight and nervous. He might not lose his temper.”

  Grant gave Knox an uncomfortable look, then turned back to Mortician. “You’re not mad? Dad doesn’t mean what he says. He gets like that when he’s stressed.”

  “I’m pissed like a motherfucker, Grant,” Mortician said. “But I’ll let it go, this time, if you promise me two things.”

  “Okay, Mort.”

  “First, teach your old man to be more down-to-earth. His current attitude has a high chance of getting his teeth pried out, one-by-one, with a butcher knife.”

  Mortician glared at Knox. Still angry, Knox glowered right back.

  “Next, have your phone out to take pictures of the moment Roxanne finds out Knox didn’t get measured. I want to preserve that shit for prosperity.” He held out his hand. “Deal, little dude?”

  “Deal, Mort,” Grant said happily, shaking the hand Mortician offered him to seal the deal and ignoring Knox when he sat down heavily in the closest chair.

  Mortician was right. Roxanne was going to be furious. It would play right in her fears and superstitions. He swallowed.

  “Grant, I think you might be right. Why don’t you let Mr. Whittlestone measure you?”

  “Oh boy! Really? I’ll be able to dress with CJ and the others.”

  Knox nodded.

  Shaking his head, Mortician looked at Mr. Whittlestone, who’d been standing silently by. “I’ll be back in a few days with my brothers for their fittings. By then, we’ll definitely know what the fuck we wearing.”

  “Thank you.” The old man smiled. “You don’t know what this means to us.”

  Mortician shrugged. “Boy and his woman slayed in their wedding shit. He referred me.”

  “Danicka is our daughter,” Mr. Whittlestone announced.

  “Who?” Knox asked.

  “That’s Boy’s old lady, Dad,” Grant informed him. “He’s the president of the Night Fliers. One of Outlaw’s support clubs.”

  “Who told you this?” Knox demanded.

  “Nobody—”

  “No one,” Knox corrected.

  “I went with Mort and Bailey one time when they had to stop in.”

  “You took my kid on club business?”

  “I took your kid on personal business at a club house,” Mortician stated without humor.

  “Danicka found the man of her dreams in Boy,” Mr. Whittlestone inserted.

  Mortician smiled and held out his hand to the old man, who shook it eagerly. “We think he a good dude, too.”

  Knox had a very good idea who was included in the we Mortician referred to. The guys at the club, mostly especially Outlaw.

  At this very moment, the man was having lunch with Emily Riser. That not only threatened to ruin Knox’s wedding day but his entire relationship with Roxanne. He prayed they’d pull this off, get rid of Kendall and continue on with their lives as if the woman had never existed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “MegAnn say we going to see Mickey Mouse,” CJ admitted, leading Christopher into through the pencil-shaped, staggered fence, painted in primary colors. “I want to see that lil’ fuckin’ rat.”

  Christopher hid a grin, but he knew he couldn’t let his boy’s language slide. “Son, it ain’t…it’s not lil’ fuckin’ rat. It’s little fuck-ING rat. Hear, boy?”

  “Yeah…yes, ‘Law. I hear.”

  “Motherfuckers think you ain’t got no fuckin’ sense when you talk the fuckin’ way my ass do.”

  CJ stopped and looked up at Christopher. “You got sense!”

  “Yeah, I got…” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I fuckin’ mean I have sense. You do, too, boy. Don’t let no motherfucker ever tell you no different.”

  “’Kay, ‘Law.”

  “You gonna get a good education. Be a doctor or some shit.”

  “No, I not. I gonna be a biker. Prez. Like you.”

  Christopher crouched down and smiled. “Listen up, boy, you be what-the-fuck-ever you wanna be. I ain’t ever gonna stop lovin’ you and bein’ proud you mine. You wanna be a biker, a wizard, a lawyer, a fuckin’ badge, a goddamn genie, Ima be right the fuck in your corner.”

  CJ gave his exaggerated nod.

  “My ass just askin’ you try to talk better than me. You ain’t got to say I not and I gonna.”

  “Ransom, him talk like that, and MegAnn clap for that bitch-ass baby, ‘Law. I still Mommie’s baby when I say it, too.”

  “A bitch-ass baby a bitch-ass baby, CJ. If you callin’ Ransom that cuz he a lil’ kid, then you one as-fuckin-well.”

  “Nah-uh!” CJ declared. “I MegAnn’s potato. Him just a lil’ motherfucker. That�
�s what you call them, ‘Law.”

  “I call your lil’ ass that, too, boy,” Christopher reminded him.

  CJ scrunched his face up in a scowl so similar to Christopher’s, he stopped short of puffing his chest out in pride. “I not no bitch-ass baby or lil’ motherfucker. I MegAnn potato. Case-fuckin-closed, ‘Law.”

  “I ain’t gonna stop callin’ you no lil’ motherfucker cuz that’s my special fuckin’ name for you lil’ motherfuckers. But we can both fuckin’ agree you Megan potato.” He held out his hand. “Shake on it?”

  Nodding, CJ placed his chubby little hand in Christopher’s and shook.

  “Can we keep going to the treehouse?”

  Christopher stood. “Ain’t that’s why we out here?”

  “Uh-huh.” Starting forward again, CJ resumed his conversation. “When we goin’ to see that lil’ rat.”

  “Mickey a mouse.”

  “I know,” CJ said in exasperation. “MegAnn told me. You call him a rat.”

  “Okay, son,” Christopher said on a sigh. “You got my ass.”

  “Motherfucker still a rodent, huh, ‘Law?”

  “Yeah, boy, motherfucker is.”

  “MegAnn was telling Aunt Bunny that you said that and she couldn’t stop laughing. Her say I just love Christopher so much, but I had to point out that Mickey is a mouse so he wouldn’t call him a little fucking rat in front of the kids. That’s what her say, ‘Law.”

  Before Christopher responded, his burner phone beeped—the one whose number he’d given the Riser chick—so he took it out of his cut, discovering a message from Emily. He clicked it open and saw her in a dress that managed to reveal her curves while still being high-class. She worked fast. He’d left her at the diner just about three hours ago.

  CJ grabbed his arm, tugging on it to see the cell phone. “What MegAnn say?”

  Evading CJ’s grasp, Christopher shoved the phone back into his cut. “This not your ma.”

  At another beep, CJ gave him a curious look, but Christopher decided not to even bother with the phone.

  By the time, the sixth notification came through, he knew he had to respond. “Give me a few fuckin’ minutes. This business. I gotta answer.”