Cliff
"So," I drawl, lighting a cigarette. I hold out the pack to Mercy.
"You mean, I can have another cigarette that ain't stale?" He plucks one out and sticks it between his lips. "Red Dog, you're spoiling me."
I roll the Jeep toward the only toll booth on the way back to Connecticut. Naturally, it's the one closest to home. Now that it's afternoon and all the rush hour traffic has cleared, we're making just as good time as I made coming down.
It's taken me the whole trip to work up the balls to ask Mercy about Bastard. About Olivia. We've mostly been listening to the radio and trading war stories—that is, stories about Lewisburg.
"Did you know it only takes twenty minutes to boil water using one of the pipes in the SMU cells?" Mercy exhales smoke while he talks.
"Never had a craving for ramen while I was in seg," I say, pulling up to the toll booth window. "Hand me those singles in the center console?"
"Sure." When the attendant announces the fee, Mercy counts out the ones and passes them to me.
I hand the money to the attendant. She waves me through, and I press down on the gas. Tolls are one of the worst things about living in the tri-state area. Can't go anywhere without paying out the nose in gas and tolls.
I drive in silence for a few minutes, continuing along 84 and crossing the Connecticut state line. "I've gotta know something, Mercy," I say finally.
"You're gonna get off at Straits Turnpike," he says.
"Straits Turnpike? Don't you want to go to The Wet Mermaid?"
"Nah." He flicks the remainder of his cigarette out his window. "I wanna go home. See my dog."
"You've got a dog?"
He laughs. "Yeah, a Red Dog." Reaching across, he clasps my shoulder. "It's good to have someone to talk to who gets where I'm coming from."
"To think, we'd have nothing to talk about, had you not gone inside for me." I shrug his hand off. "Why, Mercy? Why would you do that?"
"I told you. Bastard was my best friend. I was his VP, for Christ's sake. Who do you think initiated the vote to take him to the river? The goddamn club, though . . ." He reaches for my pack and holds it up in question.
"Go for it."
"The vote had to be unanimous, and some brothers thought we made up the story about Bastard so I could be Pres. They'd rather believe that than believe their precious Bastard was molesting a little girl." He spits out his window. "I could've killed them all, the cowards." He flips the Zippo open and lights the flint, then snaps it shut without lighting his cigarette. It dangles between his lips, wiggling and jutting from his mouth as he speaks. "You took the burden off Ravage, Mark, Beer Can, Donny, and myself. No more internal fighting, thanks to you. But there were a lot of brothers who weren't happy about a boy killing his own father, either."
I mentally flip through all the faces from my time at Lewisburg. "Guy with the long, nasty white hair? Scar running down his cheek?"
He grips my shoulder again. "That greasy old fuck wants you dead, Red Dog. Lucky for you, he's going to rot in there. Serial rapist, across four state lines, I believe. He had a thing for mothers and young daughters." He spits again. "He and Bastard were cut from the same cloth."
Grimacing, I reach for the cigarettes and light my own. There isn't enough nicotine in the world for this conversation. I need a drink. "Why would you want to watch my back? Why would you leave—" I almost say "Olivia" but catch myself last minute. "—the club for a kid who isn't yours?"
"I love my club," he growls, patting his cut. His palm slaps the leather, the sound reverberating through the Jeep. "I was fucking VP, Red Dog. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into that club—literally. But I knew that if you were gonna live long enough to take your father's place—take your birthright—someone had to keep you alive. You're not cut from his cloth, Cliff. I knew that even back then. I hope you know it, too."
I concentrate on the road. I know I'm not my father. I'm some other kind of monster. Bad things run in my blood.
He lights the Zippo again, holding the flame to his cigarette. "You're gonna be Pres someday, kid."
I say nothing. I need to clear my head.
"Straits Turnpike," he reminds me, pointing to the upcoming exit.
He directs me to a white Cape Cod style home. I pull into the driveway, brows pulled together.
"This is really you?"
"My pride and joy." Opening the passenger side door, he extends a hand to me. "Thanks for the ride."
"Will I see you later at the club house? I've got a shift tonight. I think your daughter does, too." I can't wait to hear about Olivia's first day at DCF. I've got no idea how we're going to work this whole thing now, especially with Mercy around, but that doesn't change how proud I am of her.
"Nah." Mercy climbs out of the car, his brown paper bag tucked under an arm. "I'm gonna hit the road. Thank Beer Can for watering my plants for me, will ya?"
It takes a second for my mind to catch up. I imagine Beer Can coming to this house every week for the last twenty years, keeping the house in shape for when Mercy returns. My chest tightens. Despite my initial misgivings about the MC, I've walked into a real family.
Then the other thing he said hits me.
"Hit the road?" I repeat.
Mercy unlocks the door to the one-car garage. Placing the brown bag on the ground, he hoists the garage door open. There's no car inside, only a white, chrome, and black Softail. "It's a beauty, isn't it?"
I get out and approach the garage. "To think they gave me a Screamin' Eagle when this baby was sitting out of commission."
"Hey, be grateful," he says, flipping on a light so I can see better.
Before the club folded me into its arms, I never would've considered myself a motorcycle guy. Looking at the Softail, I think I might be turning into one.
This thing is sleek. Classic, even. To my uneducated eye, the Softail is the definition of a motorcycle. My eyes roam over the exposed gears, the low handlebars, the sort of caps that helmet the wheels. I don't know what to call them.
"Oh, I'm grateful," I say, walking around the Softail in a circle. "I'm grateful I've got a job so I can save up for one of my own."
Mercy straddles the bike and flips up the kickstand. He turns the starter and gives it some throttle. The Softail roars to life. Unhooking the house keys from his bike key, he throws them to me.
I catch them with one hand.
"You water my plants," he says, pointing a finger at me. Then he puts both hands on the handlebars, a smile creeping across his weathered face.
"Where are you going?" I ask. "Don't you want to see Olivia?"
"I'm going to find Bree," he shouts over the engine. With a final nod, he rolls out of the driveway. Then he takes off down the street, disappearing out of my sight.
I stand there, rubbing a hand over where my beard used to be. How the fuck am I going to explain this to Olivia?
23
Olivia
From the hall I watch Glace throw her hands up over and over, her lips barely pausing for breath. Diane leans on the edge of her desk, her arms crossed, head bobbing with everything Glace says.
I'm so fired.
I turn away, but my view of the cubicle maze isn't much better. Everyone in the office either openly stares at me or they keep glancing over, trying to be inconspicuous but failing. This is probably the most entertainment they get. Maybe they even throw bets down on how long each newbie will last. I remember reading somewhere that there's a high turnover rate of DCF social workers.
Not everyone is cut out for this, and apparently neither am I.
The door opens. I straighten. If I'm going to get fired, I can at least do it gracefully.
Glace slips out, holding it open for me. As I pass, she smiles, her lips tight. Not a good sign. I step into Diane's office, not sure whether I should take a seat or remain standing.
Glace shuts the door behind me.
I lift my chin, clasp my hands in front of me. It's better to make the first
move, give myself the advantage. "I was out of line today," I tell Diane. "I was only supposed to observe, and I overstepped."
I don't say that I'm sorry, because I'm not.
"You're damn right," Diane says from her perch. "Glace said you weren't even in there for five minutes before you started yelling at the mother."
I cross my arms. "I told her like it is."
"Glace said you made her cry." Diane gives me a stern look.
I refuse to wither. I won't apologize. She can fire me if she wants, but I know I did the right thing. Because of what I said to Renee, she and Rhett will stay together.
"Renee called Glace to set up a therapy appointment for this afternoon," Diane says.
"Good."
"It's very good. Glace has been trying to crack that woman for months. Because of you, we'll be able to close the case soon." She gestures to the chair in front of her.
I put one foot in front of the other on my way to it. It's got to be a good sign that she hasn't kicked me out of her office yet.
"Your approach is . . . not something we use here," she says. "We're supposed to follow protocol, nothing more. I should be firing your flaca blanca ass right now, but you've got heart, and we need that now more than ever. We're about to be inundated with cases, and I'm going to need people who'll fight for these kids. While not going off script, of course. Do you think you can handle that?"
I nod, because I don't want to make any promises. I'm not exactly sure I can keep them. Not if we have more parents like Renee, who just need a gentle kick in the ass and a little bit of empathy in a system run by checklists. "I just want to help," I say instead.
"Good." Diane pushes off from the desk and returns to her side of it. She passes me a folder. "Let's get those tax forms handled."
Taking the folder, I glance up at the standard issue clock on the wall. Cliff and Mercy should be back by now, maybe knocking back shots at The Wet Mermaid. I'm supposed to work tonight, but I'm sure the guys are throwing a party, so maybe they'll let me off the hook.
As I write my last name on the form, I try to imagine what it'll be like to have a beer with my dad after so long. When the Demmels adopted me, I could've taken their name but I didn't. I didn't know who he was or where he was, but I liked to hope that one day, my dad would be back for me.
I could never count on Bree, but I know I can count on Mercy.
* * *
I clock out for the day and stop at home. I need to wash the stuffy, mildew tinged scent of working for the state off of me. I can't believe I'm working for the same people who were once my enemies. I hope Mercy understands the same thing I've come to realize: I can do more from behind enemy lines than I ever could from without.
"Hi, Esther," I shout to her closed door. I nudge the front door shut with my foot and scoop Dio from the floor. He's almost perfect, minus the little crook in his tail. If it weren't because of Eli, I'd think it's cute.
Esther moans from her bedroom in response. I smirk. Must be Donny in there. In my hurry, I must've missed his bike outside.
"I'm taking a shower. You all set with the bathroom for a few?" I settle Dio into one arm and march into my bedroom.
"Oh God, yes," Esther yells in response.
Jealousy wraps around my spine, tightening its grip. Esther and Donny have it so easy. They just . . . are. Neither of them have any misgivings about moving in together. Hell, Donny's even willing to play house and help raise the girls. Cliff, I know, would do the same for me.
The only thing standing in our way is me.
I've already broken so many rules with Cliff. I can't give in any further. Right now I've got to focus on my career, on repairing things with Mercy. Maybe get fully patched if I'm lucky and don't kill anyone else.
"What do you wear for a father/daughter reunion?" I ask Dio. I stare at the clothes in my closet. A dress feels so childish. Besides, I've got to ride. I run a hand along crop tops—perfect for pulling in tips while serving drinks and drugs, but probably not for hanging out with my dad. I want him to think . . . I don't know. There's so much I want to tell him, so much I need to ask.
I need him to be proud of me.
Dio squirms out of my arms and jumps down nose first—a kitty kamikaze. He gives me a heart attack every time he does that. Just like every other time, he lands on all fours.
Cats are incredible little aliens.
He parades through my open bedroom door and into the bathroom like a prince. He's probably just going in there to use his litter box, but still, he's got a point.
I need to just get in the shower and stop procrastinating.
Once I'm clean, I blow dry and straighten my hair. With my luck, it'll frizz up outside anyway, but at least I can say I put in my best effort. I grab my box of makeup and pull out mascara and concealer, then put it back. My teeth sink into my lower lip. I don't know why I'm so indecisive. I should just be me, do my regular thing: a little cat eye and some lip gloss. I reach back in, fingers pushing past eyeshadow palettes and tubes of lipstick before I find my gel liner.
Grabbing a brush, I dip it into the pot, coating the fibers. Gel liner is magic, now that I'm used to it. It glides right on and it doesn't run or smear throughout the day.
Naturally, I completely fuck up my first attempt.
Hand shaking, I draw the flick too thin and too long on my left eye. Scowling, I put the brush down and start hunting for makeup wipes.
"You coming out of there?" Esther raps her knuckles on the door. "I've gotta pee before I get a UTI or pregnant. Or both."
"Jesus," I mutter. I raise my voice so she can hear me. "Don't you have enough kids to worry about? Donny needs to wrap that thing up."
"I like the rush," he says in his velvet baritone.
I fuck up the flick on my other eye.
"At least let me in to pee!" Esther rattles the door knob, but I locked it. I trust Donny, but I always lock the bathroom door when men are around.
Scowling, I reach over and let her in.
"You look nice," she says as she waddles over to the toilet, thighs pressed together. "Oh, damn! What the hell happened to your face?"
I rub the liner off with yet another makeup wipe. "Nerves," I mutter.
"That's right," she shouts over the stream she's unleashing. "Your daddy's back!"
"Please don't call him my daddy." I pick up the brush and take a deep breath. I can do this. I've painted on this pinup look a million times. Tonight should be no different.
"Speaking of daddy issues," she says, flushing the toilet, "did you get anywhere with mine today?"
I close my eyes. Shit. After my chat with Diane, I completely forgot about Esther's case. "I'll pick Glace's brain tomorrow."
Esther's shoulders fall. "Oh. Okay."
"I'm sorry," I tell her. "It was a crazy day."
"I get it." She smiles, her face lighting up. "I really do." Plucking the brush from my hand, she makes a turn motion with her index finger. "Close your eyes."
In just a few strokes, she gives me the perfect wings. She even finishes it off with mascara.
"Don't want you to smear it all over your face, Nervous Nelly," she says.
Guilt sends a bubble up my throat. I let her down, yet she's still a good friend to me. "Thanks. Are you guys stopping by The Wet Mermaid?"
The door opens a smidge. "Everybody decent in here?" Donny asks.
I glance down at the towel wrapped around me. "Sort of."
He pokes his head in. "Essie, I've got Church." His eyes flick to me, then back to her. "Can I take your car? Olivia, you'll give her a ride?"
Her eyes go as round as saucers. "You want me to ride with her? The girl who can't even draw eyeliner?"
I swat at her with a hand towel. "I'm an excellent rider."
Help me, Esther mouths to Donny.
He kisses the top of her head. "I gotta go." Without another word, he sprints out of the apartment.
"Where's his bike, anyway?" I ask, putting away my makeup.
&
nbsp; "Shop. Some asshole backed into it in a parking lot. Let's get you dressed." She dances into my bedroom, humming to herself. I love that a good lay is all it takes to get Esther singing.
After a few minutes of careful consideration, Esther picks out a gray duster cardigan, maroon tank top, and black jeans for me.
"Keep it simple, stupid," she intones while I dress. She passes me several delicate silver chains of various lengths and I put them on.
I don't even bother looking in the mirror. At this point, I've got to trust that I look all right for this occasion. Otherwise I'll never get there.
I take us over to The Wet Mermaid, riding extra careful because if I put so much as a scratch on Esther, Donny might put me six feet under. We head inside, Esther's cloud of curls catching the rainbow lights strobing through the club. A familiar voice croons from the stage. My skin breaks out in a cold sweat.
Oh Vile Eye is playing.
"He's a piece of shit if he doesn't love you," Esther says, putting a hand on my arm.
I put my hand on top of hers and give it a squeeze, more so for my own reassurance than out of appreciation. We walk like that to the bar, my heart slamming painfully into my sternum. I can't work here if he's going to keep playing here. All I have to do is say the word to Cliff, and Oh Vile Eye is a band of dead men.
But.
If I always let men solve my problems for me, I'd never keep my power. I am small, and I've been a victim, but I am not weak.
I'll take care of Greg myself.
The strip club is full of the club's hangarounds and regulars—we're still open to the public. Usually, when we throw a party, it's friends of the MC only. I frown.
My frown deepens when I see Cliff standing behind the bar. "Where the hell is Trish?" I say into Esther's ear.
"Who?" she shouts back.
"The little tart who's always fucking up my shelves." I tug her up to the bar with me. There's no telling how much organizational damage Cliff has done. As much as it pains me to say so, Trish is probably a better bartender than the guy who's only just recently had tequila for the first time. "What are you doing back there?" I ask Cliff.
A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2) Page 10