by C. L. Riley
I wish you and your husband the very best. Thank you for listening.
A lone tear drop hits the paper, smudging the blue ink. Why I’m focussed on the ink’s color is beyond me.
I don’t know what to think or say. I never in a million years expected to hear from my uncle. It’s almost like a ghost from the grave is speaking to me.
I glance at Rowdy. His face is a mask of concern. I believe he went to the care center to end my uncle’s existence. I’m so glad he didn’t. Letting the man reap what he sowed, without interference, was and is the best course of action.
Looking down at the letter, I read it again.
I am so far removed from the abuse now; I can actually feel my uncle’s torment through his written words. He will never find joy or peace. And as much as I’ve hated him, I’m not sure prolonged misery is what I want for him, not anymore.
I’ve always heard forgiveness doesn’t excuse the perpetrator, but frees the person doing the forgiving.
For the first time, I understand that statement.
Not today, and probably not tomorrow, but someday soon; I will write to my uncle. I will let him know I’ve forgiven him. Like me, he’s been to hell. There is no reason for him to stay there forever.
He’s not Dr. Martin.
My former employer turned evil. He was beyond repair. My uncle, on the other hand, has repented. I still won’t send him Christmas cards or invite him for Thanksgiving dinner, but I no longer wish him harm.
My tears keep falling, dripping on the page, smearing the ink and drowning his confession.
I’m not mad at Rowdy. I am amazed by him. Sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself.
“I love you,” I say through tears. “Thank you for everything.”
He doesn’t respond with words.
Instead, he takes the letter and pillow from my hands and envelops me in the safety of his arms, just holding me while I cry for a girl who hated princesses but has become the queen of her very own kingdom; handsome and faithful King included.
Trina
The next afternoon, when we pull into Ferndale, WA, I know something is up.
I’m still feeling the aftershocks from the massive emotional earthquake my uncle’s letter triggered, and now I get the feeling my husband has yet another, non-traditional honeymoon activity scheduled, so I’m waiting for a hurricane or tsunami to hit.
It hasn’t escaped my attention that we are pulling into a large casino parking lot. The casino just happens to be owned and operated by the Lummi Nation, my tribe.
Yep, we’re on the reservation, a place I’ve never visited, despite my heritage.
Looking back, it is obvious my father made every attempt to distance himself from life on the Washington reservation. I wonder now if he was running away from his birthplace or simply seeking improved employment opportunities. Because of his death, I’ll never know. It’s not like I can stop in for a family history lesson.
Rowdy is quiet. He hasn’t said much during our drive here from Seattle. I haven’t said much either. I’m still pondering our strange journey.
First a BDSM club where we don’t bother with any BDSM. A visit with my former BFF that felt more like an uncomfortable meeting with a stranger, and then...the letter.
Now this, whatever this turns out to be; I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
“So.” He parks and gives me a look that manages to convey both uncertainty and compassion. “I realize this isn’t the honeymoon vacation you were expecting. But I did a lot of thinking about the loose ends in your life. Your happiness is my priority, and I believe by the end of our road trip, you will be happy we made the journey.”
When did my husband turn into a guru, traveling the mystical path of self-awareness?
I somehow missed his transition from broody biker to philosopher, therapist, and life coach in training.
Not that I’m upset. Really, I’m not. What I am is shocked by his desire to see me finish my unfinished business.
Evidently, I didn’t recognize he’d paid such close attention to my recent conversations with Olympia, one in particular, where I shared the whole chrysalis to butterfly-wings theory that I’d pondered, during our long ago coffee-chat at the hospital.
The conversation in question took place while Boone was with Rowdy in the kitchen, and we’d spent a good hour or two at the dining room table, talking about the freedom found in confronting our fears, forgiving ourselves and others, while using the caterpillar to butterfly metaphor to describe the transition.
It appears he scheduled our restoration retreat, titled Honeymoon Part II, around that discussion.
“I’m guessing slots are not on the schedule then?” I make a jab at humor.
“We can play whatever you want. I’ve reserved the presidential suite for a few days. Thought you might like some extra time in the area to explore, and not just the casino.” Turning tour guide he adds, “The Lummi Nation is overflowing with talented artists, musicians....with just about anything you can imagine. I didn’t realize your history was so fascinating.”
I didn’t either, but I don’t mention that. It’s embarrassing to admit I’ve denied such a huge part who I am for so long...more like avoided it.
“You’ve thought of everything. Did Olympia put you up to this?” I’m starting to wonder if the two of them conspired to help me leave my cocoon behind for good.
I don’t have time to think about my suspicions, and I don’t push Rowdy for answers, because once we’re inside I’m too busy admiring the atmosphere.
Our suite is so lavish I can’t help but wander through the rooms in awe, soaking in the details. The personal bar has enough liquor choices to tempt the staunchest sober alcoholic.
There’s a sitting area by the fireplace that calls my name. I plop on the couch and lean back. We are certainly living out our King and Queen roles.
“Drink?” Rowdy grins from behind the bar. “Something new?” He winks, reaching for a bottle.
He’s the sexiest bartender I’ve ever seen. I giggle and blush, earning another wink and lopsided grin. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Staring out the massive windows, I listen to the blender and try to imagine what he’s concocting. I don’t have to wait long to find out.
A few minutes later, and I am sipping some fancy, fruity ice cream drink that that makes my sweet tooth sing. I’ve slipped my shoes off, elevated my feet, and am enjoying the luxury my husband believes I deserve. Not that our beach house is too shabby.
I lean in to snuggle up with Rowdy, who has collapsed beside me, but a few taps on the double doors interrupts the moment.
Rowdy goes rigid and rises immediately.
“Room service already? When did you have time to order?” Knowing him, he texted the request when I was blinking.
Rather than answer, he disappears, heading, I assume, to answer the knock.
I’m surprised when the attendant follows Rowdy into the room, pushing a cart loaded down with covered dishes.
I take a minute to scan his features. He’s a ruggedly handsome, middle-aged, Native American man with creases lining his face. His dark hair is cropped short and flecked with silver. He gives me a lingering look before spreading the feast out on the glass cocktail table.
There is something familiar about him. I have to tear my gaze away; he wasn’t the only one staring, and shift my attention to the amazing food selections. I don’t know what to pick first.
The attendant glances at Rowdy who nods, confusing me more.
Unsure what their silent communication means, I grab my drink and take another long pull through the straw he added.
“Have a seat,” Rowdy motions toward the leather loveseat across from the food-laden table.
Our server follows his instruction, perching on the end, his leg bouncing.
My surprise has morphed into shock. I glance between the men, waiting for someone to say something, anything to explain the situation.
&n
bsp; “I’m Jess,” our guest starts, clearing his throat. “Um...should I just tell her?” He looks at me this time and then back at Rowdy, who nods a second time.
“Trina, from what I understand, your parents never shared anything about me, or if they did, it wasn’t anything good, I’m sure.” He pauses, staring up at the ceiling before continuing. “I’m your father’s older brother...your uncle.”
What the hell?
It’s like a bomb dropped and I’m about to be lost in the fallout.
I’m automatically defensive, unable to believe what I just heard, even though I sense the truth in his statement.
“That can’t be right. Dad never mentioned any siblings. Why weren’t you at the funeral?” Surely my father would have mentioned a brother.
Worse...if he had a brother, why couldn’t I have lived with him, not with my abusive aunt and perverted other uncle.
“I wasn’t at the funeral and you never met me because I was forbidden from being anywhere close to you until you turned eighteen, and it was implied that even after, I should keep my distance.”
“But why?” I have so many questions; I don’t know where to start. I have blood relatives; an uncle on the reservation. Someone I’ve missed out on years with.
“Because I was a sloppy, belligerent drunk, a thief, and a womanizing pig, who humiliated our family. My brother didn’t want me near his daughter...near you. Looking back, I can understand why he did what he did, but at the time, I was an asshole about it.”
“I don’t care what you were like, he should have told me. I should have known I had more family. I was always curious about life on the reservation and about my Lummi legacy. He said he’d explain more when I got older, but he died...”
I choke on my last word, a rush of tears flooding my eyes.
“I’m so sorry. Maybe I should go.” His own eyes look damp, and his shoulders sag; it’s like he’s sensing rejection, something he’s clearly used to.
“No! Don’t leave! I’m glad you’re here.”
“You are?”
“Of course. I only wish we could have had this conversation sooner. Years sooner.”
Shaking his head, he continues, “I started AA when you were about nine. Even after two years of sobriety, he refused to lift ‘the ban.’ As you can probably imagine, I didn’t take that news too well either.
“My reaction was to put a hammer through his car window. His high and mighty attitude pushed all my buttons. I realize now he was trying to protect you from forming an attachment to someone he thought would up and disappear. All my previous attempts at sobriety had failed.”
“But my dad always seemed so open minded. I just don’t understand.” My uncle is revealing a side of my father I’d never seen and I don’t like. He’d always been so kind and forgiving, at least with everyone but his own brother, apparently.
“Don’t be mad at him. I did some God awful shit. I was no angel, by any means, and I’d treated him real bad growing up. I get that. What I didn’t get was him not accepting my amends. Maybe he would have, eventually. But as you know, we didn’t get a second chance.”
I remember the day he’s referring to like it was yesterday. Learning my parents had died in a five car accident. It was the day that changed the course of my life.
It’s ironic that the uncle my dad kept me away from would have been far safer drunk than the one I ended up with.
Rowdy, who has been silent, offers the reassurance we need. “I know this sounds harsh, but what’s done is done. You two have been given an opportunity, a chance to form a relationship.” He turns to me. “I learned about Jess when I got the letter, and took the time to reach out to him. He was thrilled to hear from me, and dying to meet you. That’s how we ended up here. I originally intended for us to visit this area, but when I found out Jess worked here, well, I figured―”
I don’t let him finish, flinging my arms around his neck. “I love you so much. You did all this for me. You’re helping me clean up my past so we can have a better fucking future. I will never be able to repay you.” I’m crying again, something I’ve done a lot of these past few days.
“Your happiness is all I want. Those damn butterfly wings you talked about, I wanted you to realize you already have them. You just couldn’t see them.”
Jess clears his throat. “Should I come back later?”
It’s the first time I hear a hint of humor coming from him.
I find myself smiling through my tears. “As long as you don’t mind public displays of affection, you’re always welcome.”
“Always?”
“Always.” I leave my husband to hug my uncle, who in so many ways reminds me of my dad, the man who tried to keep me from having this moment, and a man I understand thought he was protecting me.
As I embrace Jess, I understand on some level I’m embracing my culture. With him here, on the reservation, I will have the opportunity to learn where I come from.
I also think I understand why Cheryl is angry.
Like my father, I made a decision I thought would protect her, but instead it caused her harm. I’ve got some amends to make myself, it seems. Soon.
And I will find a way to repay Rowdy for the most extravagantly, bizarre but beautiful “part two” honeymoon a woman could ask for.
I intend to spend a lifetime making him as happy as he’s made me. I’ll start tonight, in the massive bed, fit for royalty.
Demon
Two Weeks Later
I never expected to be sitting at the Soul Scorchers’ formal meeting table, in the room where they hold church. I also never thought I’d see Crusher across from me.
His arms are cuffed behind his chair and his ankles shackled. Unlike me, he is no willing guest.
I wonder how long my status will stay guest opposed to prisoner.
“Why the fuck is he here?” I growl, keeping my gaze locked on the one man who has caused such unrest for both the Hells Guardians and the Soul Scorchers. I’m not sure why he isn’t six feet under by now.
“He says he has information we’ll all want to hear,” Boone answers while Rowdy stares me down with the glare he reserves for enemies, leaving no question where I stand. “And from what he’s told me, I have to agree. But first, Twila’s goodbye letter.” Boone offers no further information about Crusher’s big news.
“She’s on the run. Took off after fucking with Trina’s head that day at the hair salon. She promises to stay out of club business, and we’ll never see her again. She’s asking not to be hunted or hurt.”
“And you believe her?” Rowdy turns to his half-brother, a sneer in place.
My former prez is in a mood so foul even I’m uncomfortable.
“No, I don’t. But I’m not sure it’s worth the time or manpower to search for her. And even if we find her, are you gonna be able to pull the trigger on a woman you have such a long history with?”
“She almost got my ol’ lady killed, yours too. I’m pretty sure I can handle business.”
“But are you good holding off? Because we have a lot going on, if what Crusher says is true.”
“I can wait for now, but if she so much as blinks near Seal’s Cove, I can’t promise anything.”
Boone shakes his head and narrows his eyes at Rowdy. “You might be my blood, but I’m your president. If you run into the bitch, you bring her here. We will take it to vote. No more Lone Ranger shit.”
Rowdy’s affirming nod is barely noticeable.
Crusher makes a scoffing noise, and Rowdy is across the table in an instant, fisting his filthy t-shirt. “You think this is funny? I suggest you shut the fuck up. Because I’m all for taking a vote that has you digging Twila’s grave? Or maybe she can stay above ground, in your cell. You two can fight for food the rats don’t get first.”
What the fuck has gotten into Rowdy?
I have never seen him so antagonized. From what Cheryl told me, he spent two remarkable (her description) weeks, traveling with Trina.
She didn’t give me details and I didn’t ask. I’m not sure she even knows what they did. And frankly, right now, I don’t give a fuck. I want to deal with what Rowdy and Boone consider my betrayal and get on with things―my life or my death.
“Tell them what you told me,” Boone turns to Crusher. “All of it, and everything you left out.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I am confused. “I don’t want that fucker in here while we discuss my future.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Rowdy barks back. “Be glad he’s here. Boone thinks you can redeem yourself, considering you kept our clubs under the Feds’ radar.”
“He’s right. I did keep you looking clean,” I agree, trying not to sound too smug. I’m surprised Boone is on my side. “Why do you think none of the Guardians or Soul Scorchers are sleeping behind bars?”
“Regardless, you lied. I was your best fucking friend.” Some of Rowdy’s rage has receded, replaced by sorrow.
I prefer his anger.
Knowing how much I destroyed his trust, especially after the explosion and everything we went through together, makes me feel ashamed; a feeling that until now only my father could elicit.
“Crusher...” Boone prompts again, keeping us from a personal conversation not for a prisoner’s ears.
So rather than hashing out unresolved issues with Rowdy, I listen in disbelief as our enemy reveals he has a younger sister, road name, Calypso. She’s president of a female-only MC that has been expanding behind the scenes, gaining street cred from their nondescript home base, in Redding, California.
As a well-connect biker and FBI agent, and ex-mobster, I haven’t heard anything about the girl gang. I’m not sure I believe Crusher’s warning.
The ladies of Satan’s Sirens MC have supposedly created a kill-list. They are going after club presidents and officers, men who have reputations for harming women.
They believe their cause is noble, and they consider themselves protectors and advocates for all women abused by men.
According to Crusher, they have both male and female club whores, and many prefer women to men as intimate partners.