Sean aka Diesel (Cocker Brothers Book 14)

by Faleena Hopkins

  “Pack some things. Not much. I want to meet you in person, see who the fuck you are. My daughter was the first toll. I’m the gate you need to pass, understand?”

  “Yes.”

  I write down the location of the Ciphers home, tear it off the notepad and lock eyes with Mom as he tells me I’m to show within two days allowing for travel time. From here on out, everything connected with the Ciphers is confidential. If I tell anyone anything about them, our meeting—before, during, or after—they’ll know sooner or later and I’ll pay.

  He asks again, “Understand?”

  I turn away from my mother, sign away my soul with two words. “Yes, sir.”

  As I hang up, she asks, “What now?”

  With a hug I give her a sincere, “Thank you.”

  She laughs at how tightly I’m holding her since I’m not one to show affection. I’m an introvert. Keep to myself. But she just made me the happiest man. I’m her only child, and I’ve never been happy. Always felt guilty about that, but I don’t know where in this fucked-up world I fit in, and it’s been slowly killing me.

  “Are they taking you?”

  Letting her go, I run a hand through my hair. “I can’t talk about it anymore, Mom. It’s confidential. I’ve gotta book a flight.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Today.”

  “Don’t you want breakfast?”

  Heading to my room I mutter, “Nope.”

  “Sean!”

  At the desperation in her voice, I turn around. Santosh Khalsa, gifted psychic, and the one person who gives a shit about me in this life, rushes over. Her colorful dress with angel wing sleeves blows behind her as her thin eyebrows pierce together at the thought of me vanishing without a trace.

  I didn’t used to live at home. Moved out shortly after high school and traveled from apartment to job to hell and back, like a nomad. Lost my self-confidence with each failure. Recently came back after a fight with a slum-lord who didn’t deserve my money for that roach infested pit he wouldn’t fix in order for anyone to live like a normal human being.

  I know Mom wishes I’m something better than I am.

  Sees my potential and hates that I always fuck it up.

  Probably didn’t mind my company though. We get along great. Love each other even though we’re so different. She doesn’t dote on me and I treat her and her home with respect. Take out the trash. Vacuum the floors. Catch the spiders, carry them outside since she doesn’t like killing things even though she believes spiders are a form of darkness.

  “Don’t look like that, Mom, I’ll see you again. Just don’t know when. But I need this. You know I do.”

  She grabs my shoulders and purposefully gazes into my eyes. “Shhh, let me focus.”

  It’s not the first time she’s used her premonition abilities on me. She’s always been disappointed by the visions before, so I stand here, waiting.

  For hope.

  After a few tense moments, her arms float to her sides. “This will be up to you, Sean. It hasn’t been written yet.”

  Frowning I glance to the ground, back to her. “It’s not fate?”

  “It’s up to you to claim yours. Nobody is going to give it to you.”

  CHAPTER 3

  SEAN

  T he car service drives up a lonely road away from the main part of town in South Vacherie, Louisiana. There are ranches with huge distances between them. Plus plantations telling of a darker time, around those. Finally we near the address. On my right side are fields with nothing in them but trees, marshes; weeds overgrown in residences torn down long ago.

  We turn left into a cave of oak trees up a driveway that goes on forever. It’s after dark, hard to see much. The effect is powerful. Porch lights up ahead brighten as we near. The guy slows down because the place feels a little creepy to him.

  I think it’s fucking fantastic.

  Huge, ancient plantation that probably hasn’t been painted in a century. The porch is empty, few feet off the ground, and we park in front of its steps.

  “Thanks,” I tell the driver who hasn’t spoken since the airport. I’m fine with that. I needed to sit with my thoughts, prepare my mind for the unknowable. That’s what’s got my blood pumping so fast—I have no idea what to expect.

  The front door opens and an old screen door claps against the jamb as I grab my suitcase from the popped trunk. Shutting it with finality, I meet watchful grey eyes of a man in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. Can’t tell for certain. White hair against tanned and weathered skin tells me he’s not young. But he’s got a better body than I do. Ripped arms, big shoulders in a faded black t-shirt. Narrow hips in torn jeans, with a little extra around the middle just from age not letting him keep it all the way off even though he fights it.

  “Who’re you?” he demands.

  “Name’s Sean. I was told to come here.” I open my mouth, about to ask if he’s the motorcycle club’s President, call him by name, but stop myself. Glancing to the driver I see him staring like he wants information about what the hell is going on here. Walking to his window I tap on it. He rolls it down more and I slip him some money, jog my chin to the road and say, “Go on now.”

  Guy backs out since the road is too narrow for a U-turn. He keeps locking onto us, too, interested if he can put the puzzle together. We don’t give him the pieces he needs. When he’s gone, motorcycle boots thud down old porch steps as those sharp grey eyes narrow on me. “Took a chance by getting rid of your ride.”

  “Figured you’d have sent me away if you didn’t know who I was.”

  He smirks, “My daughter said you were smart. You were about to say my name, weren’t you?”

  Sofia Sol is his kid? Oh yeah, the eyes, I can see the resemblance. But she’s definitely bi-racial. She looked more Latina than white.

  “You Jett Cocker?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Then yeah, I was about to say your name.”

  “You stopped yourself.”

  “Everything about you is confidential.”

  With guarded approval he nods. “I didn’t expect you so early. Just called you this morning.”

  “When the call of your life comes, you act on it, sir.”

  Slapping my arm he grips it. “I’m gonna pat you down for weapons.”

  My eyebrows twitch in surprise. Never occurred to me to bring one. “Do what you gotta.” Standing on the broken pavement, I raise my arms and let a biker check me for knives, guns, grenades, whatever he’s looking for. His eye movements are swift but thorough. Sofia mentioned the Ciphers do Martial Arts and it shows in the grace of this man. He’s stocky, muscular as hell, but moves like water.

  Rising up, satisfied, Jett Cocker jogs his thumb toward the haunting plantation. “Follow me.” As we ascend old stairs, me with my suitcase, I scan the forgotten splendor as Jett explains, “When we heard the car drive up, saw the headlamps, let’s just say we don’t get a lot of visitors. I guessed it was you. So I sent the others off, told them to stay out of the way while we talk.” At the screen door he eyes me one last time. “You could be on a plane tonight.”

  I give him a nod, swallow hard, and walk into a huge foyer with portraits of women in gowns, men in tights, paintings like you’d find in a museum. “This your family?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  Crazy. To the right and up a ways is the beginning of a decadent winding staircase.

  Jett walked left so I follow him into a parlor with twenty-foot-high ceilings, curtains to match, some torn, others just faded. There are several conversation areas, faded velvet chairs and sofas around stained tables. He sits in a wingback armchair that’s got a tear down the center, and throws his boot on a walnut coffee table that doesn’t seem to mind. I set my bag next to a tattered rug and clamp my jaw shut since it was hanging open. I didn’t know it until now.

  “Sit.”

  No hesitation there. But I’m on the edge, and he’s leaned back like the world is his. From the lo
oks of this place, it is. I’ve got instant respect for the man and I just met him. Never been in a place like this and I’m more impressed by its decay than if he were wearing a suit and all of this was brand new. It’s cool as hell. His demeanor, the intelligence in his gaze, the fact that his daughter was such a badass—only a unique man could have raised someone like her and encourage what she does. Plus do the same? I’m speechless at exactly the wrong time.

  “How do you like our home?”

  Clearing my throat I say, “Nice place.”

  “Think we should paint it?”

  “No!”

  He smiles. “Do you know why we don’t?” I shake my head and he circles his finger in the air. “We want to remember when people didn’t have their freedom, so that we’re always grateful for ours.” A sound from outside turns our heads. He shouts, sounding deadly, “Did I say I wanted company?” More scurrying, then silence. I frown, meet his eyes again as he says, “Sean, tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  “Not much of anything. That’s why my mom set this up.”

  “Why’d she do that, any clue?”

  Gripping my knees, shoulders tense, I steel myself at having to talk about my failures, and launch in. “I’ve been getting in some trouble. Police have put me in jail a couple times. But they were wrong. One of the fights was because a guy grabbed this waitress by her hair, pulled some out when he did it. Called her a bunch of names and dropped her on the floor. I couldn’t let that slide. Another fight was because this kid had snuck into a bar, was getting picked on because he was a teenager—really scrawny, maybe trying to prove himself. The guys fucking with him were tourists. We get a few million people visiting Sedona every year, tons on their way to and from the Grand Canyon. Most are fine, some aren’t. That many numbers you’re going to get some bad ones.” Jett nods, concentrating on my story. Shifting my weight I continue, “The bartender told the guy he had to go. Poor kid was trying to save face, acting like he was legal age when there’s no way he was. The tourists pushed the kid down. I got in the way of the kick that was coming next. Showed ‘em you don’t treat people who are smaller than you like that. Another one—”

  Jett stops me by raising his hand. “My daughter said all these fights were from you defending someone. Is that true?”

  CHAPTER 4

  SEAN

  Releasing my knees to get the blood back in my knuckles I mutter, “Yes sir, I guess they were. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t like to fight.”

  His grey eyes fire up. “You any good?”

  “I’m the only one left standing.”

  “What about a job?”

  Glancing to my feet I struggle. I’m telling opposite things of what you should say in an interview. “I uh, got fired from the last one. Worked construction a bunch of times in my life, good with my hands, but not so good at working for a guy who treats his people like shit.”

  Jett rubs his chin with the back of his index finger. “You have a problem with authority.”

  “When it’s stupid.”

  “How so?”

  “If a man isn’t worthy of respect I don’t respect him.” He waits for more. Blinking in my struggle I frown, force myself to continue, “If a man doesn’t respect the people who work for him, who enable him to have a job in the first place, then he’s not a good man.”

  I hear a giggle from beyond. My head swings to it.

  Jett yells, “Sage!”

  More scurrying. Regained silence.

  He sighs and stands up, rakes his fingers through his hair, muttering to himself, “Hard as hell to act like a badass dictator when I’ve got giggles out there. You know why she laughed?”

  Stupefied I answer, “No, sir, I don’t.”

  Gazing toward the foyer, Jett’s in profile as he explains, “She’s laughing because she agrees with you. And that asshole you described is the opposite of me.” Locking eyes he smirks, “Hang on, I’m gonna get us some beers. You like beer?”

  “Uh…yes, sir.”

  The fact that he’s getting the beers himself is noteworthy, just as much as the revelation that his gruff manner might be covering a teddy bear. I heard him shouting at her that first time, before she laughed, and thought I might be walking into an abusive household all over again. No way I’d stay if that were the case. Kicking ass out there in the world is one thing. Him doing it here at his home is something I want no part of.

  Standing up to shake off my nerves I cross to an antique hutch, gilded with real gold maybe, who knows? Sliding my fingers across it I find no dust. Interesting. So the place is clean, just weathered by time and living. His approaching footsteps flip me around. Clearing my throat at being caught investigating the man’s home, I walk over to meet his extended hand. “Thanks.” He’s peering at me as I take the ice-cold can of beer, pop it open at the same time he does. Even with us being as big as we are, this great parlor dwarfs us.

  Wonder how many invisible people await his decision? How do they live? Will I like them? Will they like me? Am I even going to get a chance to see their faces, or will I be sent out front as a car is called to pick my loser ass up.

  Jett exhales his enjoyment of the taste with a loud groan, but doesn’t move to sit down again. “Let me ask you a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Ever ride a motorcycle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind?”

  “Harley.” He pauses, eyes me with suspicion. I repeat it. “I drove a Fat Boy. My mom’s boyfriend had one and he taught me so I could take off and give them alone time.”

  Snorting he accepts this and asks another question. “You nervous?”

  I stare a beat. “Yeah.”

  “Because you don’t look it.”

  My eyebrows twitch. “No?”

  “No, you look…” He pauses, changes direction. “I’ll be honest with you, Sean. We haven’t had new blood in this house in thirty years. Tonk Sr. was the last recruit and he’s over fifty now. I’m not counting our kids because they didn’t have a choice and we didn’t select them from a strange world to become our family. There’s history here. You’d be an outsider.”

  “I’m okay with that.”

  He reacts with a slight twitch of expression, because I did not hesitate. “It’s not easy being the new guy in a family with inside jokes and years of trust built.”

  “Life isn’t easy. But is it fun?” I take a sip of beer to let my answer soak in.

  A smile spreads on the man, lights those greys up from the inside. “You think that’d be fun?! Let’s see how much fun that’d be.”

  I follow him out, sipping my beer to maintain the relaxed appearance. We head through the foyer as I’m eyeing the chandelier hanging overhead. I bet that came with the house, just like those paintings. Passing a couple closed doors, we come to stand in front of that beautiful staircase I spotted before. Just like the rest of the place, the paint is chipped and there are scratches and shoe marks everywhere. I’m in total awe.

  Jett bends backward to shout, “Family! I want you to meet someone!”

  One door after another opens. Those on the first floor around us, too. A crew of people you wouldn’t want to fuck with, finds a place to stand along the railing upstairs. The way the house was constructed you can see several bedroom doors from here, the ceiling as high as the roof in the center. The Ciphers downstairs near Jett and me stagger themselves where they can get a good look but not get too close. Everyone assumes a watchful stance. Cross-armed, hands hooked in their back or front pockets, a few holding the railing to lean over, long hair hanging down. I slide a cautious gaze across the new faces as nobody speaks. Jett’s interested in my reaction. Since he’s the President, nobody says a word—that’s my guess as to what’s going on. They’re just eyeing me, guarded and curious. Through them I see myself—sandy brown hair, blue eyes, six-two in blue jeans that aren’t torn, a flannel shirt, shiny new sneakers. White skin that needs more sun. They’re a melting pot of ethnicities an
d the Caucasian ones are tanned from riding motorcycles their whole lives. Bikers don’t wear sunscreen, I’d bet. To them I look like an All-American guy who could never understand them on a visceral level the way family does family.

  “This here’s Sean. You know what he just said to me? He thinks it’d be fun to be an outsider in a house of outlaws.” A few laugh, amused. Most remain distant.

  I nod to the group. “Why does it smell so good in here? Cajun spices, right?”

  An older blonde woman with jutted hip demands, like she’s attacking me, “You know something about cooking?”

  “My mom’s an excellent cook, but I burn boiled eggs.”

  Some snickering and a muttered male voice asks, “How do you burn hardboiled eggs?”

  A female snaps, “Like you’ve ever cooked, Atlas.”

  I glance up to see a cute redhead with golden skin and freckles sneering at the stocky Latin guy who’s probably my age. Atlas’s skin is darker than hers, copper. He’s locked on me with a wall up as he mutters, “I’ve cooked.”

  My gaze snaps right, to the beauty beside him. She seems unaffected by their bickering. Sinewy and muscular with long black hair and caramel skin, she steps closer to the railing, slides her fingers around it and stares at me with dark eyes that betray no innocence.

  Jett claps me on the back, “The redhead is Sage, the giggler who can’t take an order.”

  She sticks her tongue out at him.

  I cock an eyebrow, but he laughs instead of getting angry, shifting his gaze to a beautiful older woman with grey-streaked black hair and a body ripped with muscles and generous with curves.

  Jett motions to her as she gets closer, “What do you think of this one, Sean? Hot, huh?”

  From behind my beer I mutter, “That’s your wife, but nice try baiting me,” and take a sip.

  The Ciphers go nuts laughing. Reaction so unabashed my lips twitch.

  But Jett’s kinda pissed since he doesn’t want to be laughed at in front of the new guy. I want him on my side so before I even think, I blurt, “Hey! Don’t laugh at our President!”