“Is the bird real?” Wren asks.
“Sort of. It’s made of paper, but it comes alive with your imagination.”
She gives me a puzzled frown. And suddenly, I have an idea.
“Want to learn how to make one?” I ask. “You can make a bird for yourself, and then I’m going to make one, too. And we’re going to take one of them with us as a present, to visit someone I’d like you to meet. How does that sound?”
“Okay!” Wren cries, nodding with a smile so angelic, it makes me want to squeeze the stuffing out of her.
We sit down at my kitchen table, and I show Wren how to transform a piece of paper through a series of simple folds into a graceful crane. It’s a little advanced for her, but with some help, she’s able to do it. When we’re finished, I make her a late lunch, and she places the small bird next to her plate so she can look at it while she eats her cheese sandwich and green grapes.
Then, when I’ve cleaned her up, I pack her into my car (which is still equipped with the car seat installed by Tank) and drive her to the retirement home to meet my Uncle Daniel.
There aren’t a lot of children who come to visit the residents of Valley View Retirement Home. So Wren is an immediate hit with the staff.
“Well, isn’t this one a cutie?” beams Rose, the nursing home manager, when she sees us coming down the main hallway. She’s standing at the front desk chatting to another employee, Janey. Rose is about fifty-five, I’d say, with a ready smile that almost masks the tiredness that’s always in her eyes. “Is this your…”
“I’m babysitting for a friend,” I finish for her hastily. Wren looks up at me and gives me a rare scowl.
“I’m not a baby!” she insists.
Rose chuckles. “I can see that. How old are you, sweetie? What’s your name?”
“I’m Wren! I’m four years old!” Carefully maneuvering the paper crane she’s carefully grasping, she transfers it to one hand and extends the other, four proud digits sticking out.
“My goodness, you’re quite the young lady!” Rose coos. “Are you here to see Uncle Daniel, too?”
“We made him this!” Wren says proudly, holding out the bird.
“Beautiful!” Rose smiles. “He’ll love that!”
“Yep!” Wren announces. We all laugh, including Janey behind the desk.
“So, Daniel was telling me the other day that you’re an artist, Cady. I never knew that,” Rose smiles.
I blush. “Well, I mean, I’m not an artist artist…”
“That’s not what he told me. He says you’re a very talented painter. He told me you’re painting him something to hang on his wall.”
“He asked me to,” I admit. “I haven’t really started yet.”
But Rose continues on as though I’ve said nothing. “I was wondering… have you ever taught any art classes?”
“Taught? No, why?”
“I’ve been reading up on art therapy for senior citizens. I’ve heard it can be a wonderful experience for them. A creative outlet, a chance to express themselves in a new way.”
“But I’m not an art therapist,” I protest. “I don’t have any training in that.”
“And I don’t have a budget for an art therapist,” Rose admits. “Unfortunately. But what I’m looking for is something fun for them. Not stressful, not even a class to teach them new skills, exactly. Just something enjoyable they can all do together. Watercolors, maybe. Maybe like one of those classes where a teacher teaches everyone how to paint a simple scene, step by step. Like a wine and sip. Except without the wine,” she winks.
I consider her words. I know the kind of classes she’s talking about. I mean, I’m no great artistic genius, but I could certainly teach a class like that, I suppose. It’s an idea. And I don’t hate the thought.
I tell Rose I’ll think about it and get back to her. I say goodbye to her and Janey, and lead Wren down the hall to Uncle Daniel’s room. Daniel is happy to see me, as always, and charmed by Wren and her shy presentation of the origami bird. To thank her, he pulls out a small bowl of individually wrapped hard candies and tells her to take some.
“You can have two, Wren,” I tell her. Obediently, she studies the bowl and then picks out a red one and a purple one.
“Can you put the bird on that shelf over there, Wren?” Daniel asks, pointing to a large bookcase on one end of the room. On one shelf is a display of knickknacks. “Maybe you could arrange things so the bird has a special place. You can play with the other things on the shelf as long as you’re very careful.” I eye him and he gives me a reassuring smile. “There’s nothing there that she can break and hurt herself with. Don’t worry.”
“Be careful, Wren,” I murmur as she goes over to the shelf, still gingerly carrying the bird with her as though it’s a real live thing.
“She’s beautiful.” Daniel turns to me as I sit down in the chair across from him. “Where did you find her?”
I laugh. “I’m watching her for a friend. Her daddy.”
Daniel’s eyes light up. “Friend?” he repeats shrewdly.
I roll my eyes. “I hear you outed me to Rose about being an artist,” I say, to change the subject. “Are you trying to put pressure on me to finish your painting sooner?”
“I was telling her I was bored off my butt in this place. Nothing much to do, and I’m sick of watching TV all day. She said she was looking into trying to update some of the activities for the residents. Chair yoga, maybe a music or art class. I mentioned you were an artist, a painter. She must have been listening.”
“Daniel…”
“What? You’re a natural choice. Good and patient with the old fogies like me.” He snickers. “I don’t think you’ll get rich off what she can pay you, but it’d be a start.”
“A start to what?”
“Making a living from your art.”
“Daniel,” I say again, this time more impatiently. “I’m never going to make a living from my art. I’m not good enough.”
“The hell you aren’t. And are you telling me your life’s ambition is to be a waitress? That’s not the Cady I remember.”
The Cady you remember might not have ever existed, I think. She’s a figment of your imagination.
“I know you love to paint, Cady,” he presses me.
“I haven’t painted in months,” I point out. “I can’t.”
“Have you tried in months?”
Daniel leans forward, narrowing his gaze at me. I don’t answer.
“I want you to do what you want to do, Cady. What makes you happy. And I know painting makes you happy. I know it was always what you wanted to do.” Daniel lets out a deep, rumbling sigh. “I don’t know why you stopped. But I do know it’s high time you started again. I wasted too much time in my own life, you see. Too much time worrying about what other people thought of me, what they’d say if they saw me doing things they didn’t approve of. Now I’m on the other end of my life, and I have a lot of time to look back on.” He pauses. “I regret the years and chances I wasted.”
“You haven’t wasted…” I begin, but he holds up a gnarled hand to stop me.
“You don’t know what I’ve wasted, girl. I do.” Unlike before, there’s an edge to his tone. “And I look at you, and I see a young woman who has so much to offer the world. So much joy to give, and to receive.” Daniel grunts, shifting in his chair, and gives me a piercing look.
“I don’t want you to turn around one day, look in the mirror, and see that you’ve let the years get away from you. We all end up here,” Cady,” he continues, sweeping his arms wide to indicate the room, the nursing home, his life. “If we’re lucky, that is. We all grow old. And when we’re here, toward the end, we have plenty of time to contemplate the life we’ve lived. The opportunities we’ve taken, and wasted. The love we’ve given… or turned away from.”
I don’t know what to say. Suddenly, I don’t know whether he’s talking about me, or him.
“Paint me a picture of you, Cady,” h
e urges, leaning forward. “Of your happiness. What it would look like. Even if you don’t feel it right now.”
Even if I don’t feel it right now…
I contemplate Daniel’s words as I drive Wren and myself back to my apartment at the end of our visit. I try to push them away, but they keep coming back to me again, with the steadiness of a heartbeat. What does my happiness look like?
I haven’t asked myself that question since before I lost my baby. Before that, even. Since I lost my little sister.
Since Cassie died, and my miscarriage, my only definition of happiness has been an impossible dream. A parallel universe, where the two people I loved most of all were alive and with me.
I make dinner for Wren and myself. I check my phone periodically to see whether Tank has texted, though I don’t expect him to until much later. We play Go Fish at my kitchen table, and soon it’s bath time. Wren makes a huge mess in the tub, splashing and playing, and it makes me so happy to see her just being a normal kid that I make a mental note to tell Tank how great she’s doing.
And what a great dad I think he is.
And that I forgive him for what he said.
A twinge of longing to be with him confirms what I think I already knew: I forgave Tank days ago. I’ve been holding on to my anger because I’m afraid of how much I opened up to him. How easily I revealed my heart.
How desperately I hope he doesn’t hand it back to me broken.
Because the fact is, I know he and Wren are a package deal.
And I want the package.
I’m in love with Tank. It seems crazy, but it’s true. Somehow, I’ve fallen in love with this sexy, crude, arrogant, moody, tank of a man. And his daughter has stolen my heart as well. And even though I know Wren has a mom out there somewhere — and I’m not trying to take her place — it almost suffocates me sometimes how much I love her. How much I want to be there to see her grow.
Wren steps out of the bathtub and I wrap a fluffy towel around her. I give her a big hug while I dry her off, and she wraps her wet little arms around my neck and hugs me back so hard I do a weird little laugh-sob.
“Okay, Wrenny-wrenny-bo-benny,” I whisper into the towel. “Let’s get you into your jammies and off to bed.”
I laugh again out in the living room when I open Wren’s backpack and see that the PJs Tank packed for her are the pint-sized Harley T-shirt and pink striped leggings to match.
“Your daddy sure is raising you to be a biker’s daughter,” I chuckle as I help Wren put them on.
I settle her into my bed behind the Japanese screen with Snoopy — of course — and she asks me if I’ll read her the book that she brought in her backpack. It’s Goodnight Moon, one of my favorites. I’ve never seen it in Wren’s room before, and it makes me happy to imagine Tank buying it for her.
We settle in and I start reading the familiar rhyming verses. Occasionally, Wren repeats the end of a verse after me in her soft voice. We’re about halfway through when a bump, and then another, sounds on the landing outside my apartment door.
“That sounds like your daddy,” I tell her. “I better go open the door. It’s locked.”
I set the book down and go to the door. I reach for the knob to unlock it and fling it open before Tank can knock. But instead, the door flies back on its hinges, so hard and fast that it almost hits me in the face.
I scream in surprise, and behind me I hear Wren let out an alarmed squeal.
Three men are in the apartment before I can react. Two of them grab me, twisting my arms behind me. One clamps a hand around my mouth before I can scream again. It’s only when his face looms inches from mine that I realize who it is.
“Cady, isn’t it?” The man from the diner leers at me, close enough for his breath to heat my skin. “The biker’s fuckin’ girlfriend. Nice of your friend to tell me that. Made things a lot easier.”
He squeezes the hand that’s clamped around my mouth, so hard I think he might dislocate my jaw. Pain wrenches a muffled scream from me.
“I’m gonna enjoy the fuck outta this,” he rasps, eyes turning cold and sadistic. “You and the kid on the other hand, are not.”
21
Tank
The gravel lot next to the address I was given is deserted. I park my truck and lock it, then head toward the building where the fights are taking place tonight. I make my way toward a fire door at the back. Two large men standing there, smoking and looking bored. One of them glances up at me. His face is barely illuminated by the crack of light coming from inside.
“Anchor,” I mutter. The password.
Silently, he moves back a step to let me pass through.
Fights move around. At least the ones that are this far underground. The irony of that word isn’t lost on me as I make my way to the fire door at the back of the under-construction high rise, follow the long back corridor to the elevator banks in the near-darkness, and hit the button for the eleventh floor.
This building was supposed to have been completed months ago, from what I understand. But problems with permits and funding slowed the project down. As it is, the place is about ninety percent done, and is already starting to smell less like new possibilities, and more like dust and desperation.
There’s no security on site that I can see, apart from the thugs guarding the back door. My guess is if there ever was, they paid him off to get gone. Or maybe the guard is in on the fight. Either way, I don’t see another fucking soul until I get to eleven and the elevator doors open. There’s another guy standing there, shorter but more muscular than the ones downstairs. He sizes me up for half a second, then nods and waves me in.
The scene in front of me is fuckin’ ridiculous. Electronic dance music is playing on the speakers like we’re in a club. The entire floor is one huge room, which will one day be filled with anonymous identical cubicles if the building ever gets finished. The people in here are ninety percent men, and ten percent chicks who are here to be ornaments. The men are a fucked-up mix of rich assholes in expensive suits, and dudes that look like they’d be beating and robbing them in an alley if they saw them on the street.
In the center, there’s a large, empty ring. No one standing near it. It’s surreal how people stay away, almost like it’s a gravesite and they’re afraid to step too close. On the far side of the space stands Striker, along with a guy I recognize as Rudy. They’re talking to one of the suits, who has his arm around a busty brunette almost half a foot taller than he is. Rudy looks over at me and raises his bottle of beer. I lift my chin but don’t go over right away.
Off in a far corner, a cluster of men who look like they came straight out of a prison yard are watching the scene. One, short and squat, is talking to the tallest, largest one, who has a shaved head, a large, belligerent chin, and a fucking unibrow. As he scans the room, his gaze falls on me. He narrows his eyes, flutters his lashes, and blows me a kiss
Striker strides across the room and comes to stand next to me.
“That the guy I’m fighting?” I ask, nodding toward the asshole.
“How’d you guess?”
“Just a hunch.”
Striker nods and grins at me. “You can take him.”
“Didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“You ready, brother? Ready to make us some money?”
“Who you fighting?”
Striker shrugs. “Just some asshole. I’ve taken him before. But apparently I hurt his feelings. So he wants another go at me.”
I snort. “That doesn’t sound like much of a challenge. Thought you said the payout was big.”
Striker turns to me and grins. “There’s a side bet. Someone who wants me to make sure the asshole doesn’t walk away from this fight on his own two legs.”
Striker doesn’t say any more, and I don’t ask. I don’t give a shit how he makes his money from this.
“So, what do you know about mine?” I ask instead.
“Calls himself Jackhammer.” Striker sneers in disgust. “Fuckin’ p
ussy name. But it gives you a pretty good idea of how he fights. No brains at all. Just hammers at it until the other guy goes down.”
I study my opponent across the room. He’s got a couple inches on me, and he’s got a solid pack of muscle. I’m guessing strategy ain’t his strong point. He probably doesn’t need it with most guys.
“Leads with his right,” Striker murmurs. “But after that he just pounds.”
I nod. “Okay. I can handle that.”
Rudy comes over and tells me I’m the second fight of the night. Striker’s after me. We stand there, Rudy jawing at me and me not bothering to answer, until an old, tired-looking guy steps into the ring and starts ringing the bell. A loud murmur resounds through the crowd, followed by a hush as everyone turns and moves forward to get their place with the best view possible of the ring.
The first fight doesn’t last long. It’s two young kids, probably neither of them even twenty years old. Both of them are scrappy as shit but inexperienced. They’re here to warm up the crowd, build up the energy and the tension. And the thirst for blood. They both give as good as they get, until the larger one connects solidly with an uppercut to the smaller one’s chin that lifts him up off the ground and lays him flat out on the sub-flooring. The crowd lets out a gleeful shout as the unconscious one is picked up by two men and hauled out of the ring. The winner swaggers around with his arm in the air, until the ref proclaims him the winner and tells him to get out of the ring so the next fight can begin.
“Make me some money,” Rudy mutters, clapping me on the shoulder. I shrug off his hand and step into the ring.
There’s a weird energy for a fighter when you’re looking out at all the faces staring up at you. They want to be entertained. Their faces are full of excitement — excitement that one or more of the fighters inside the ring might end up seriously hurt, or worse. They’re lookin’ at you, hoping you’re gonna satisfy a raw, naked lust for blood that most of the time they’d deny they ever had lurking deep down inside them. But they do have it. If they didn’t, this kind of shit would never happen. Even the Ancient Romans knew they could exploit people’s basest instincts to their advantage. Fuckin’ bread and circus, they called it.
TANK: Lords of Carnage MC Page 16