by Kati Wilde
But maybe there’s asses I need to be kicking. “What’s that mean?”
“That most people mean well, I think. I was a little nervous when I first moved here. It’s nothing like New York. I mean, pretty much everyone is white. And there’s only one other Muslim family in town.”
“That Pakistani family?”
“The Lanjwanis? Yes.” She laughs. “See? You know who they are, you’ve noticed them. They stand out.”
Can’t argue that. “Yeah, they do.”
“And I didn’t want to stand out, because I’m trying to hide. But I stand out anyway.”
“So what’s that mean? You’ve had people making trouble for you?”
“Yes and no,” she says again with another shrug. “Nothing scary. Mostly just…awkward. And sometimes there’s some passive-aggressive stuff about not having any pork items on the menu and how they’ll go down the street to Starbucks for a breakfast sandwich where no one’s trying to force them to convert. Because a single bite of turkey bacon will turn you into a jihadi, right? It’s not even halal turkey bacon.” She’s suddenly laughing and I have no idea what she means, but the sound makes me grin. As her laugh fades, she rolls onto her side again, looking up at me. “But most people are okay. I always wonder if it would be different if I covered.” As if in explanation, she sweeps a hand over her hair. “If I wore a hijab. But none of the women in my family did. Not even my grandmother. So it was just never an issue for me.”
I frown. “You just wore something.”
“Well, I was praying.” She bites her lip. “I’m actually not so good at that—at praying when I’m supposed to. But since I’m always up early, I try to at least pray fajr.”
“But not five times?” I know that much at least.
“No.” She gives me a scrunched, rueful look that wrinkles her nose, and it’s goddamn adorable. “My grandmother always did. Five times a day, seven days a week. Even in the summer like now, when praying fajr means getting up so early. My mom and dad…not so much.”
Talking about her family. She never has in all the time I’ve known her. After what she said at dinner, I think maybe she hasn’t let herself.
I don’t want to stop her now. Especially if it means she feels safe enough with me to expose this part of herself—a part that she’s protected until now. “They weren’t religious?”
“Not really. But I think it was different for them. My grandparents on my mother’s side came from Beirut in the seventies. My grandfather died when I was still a baby, but my grandmama was always observant, even though my mama wasn’t too much. She said it’s because she tried so hard to fit in when they first came to America, religion got pushed to the side. But my grandmama said she was just lazy,” she tells me, grinning.
Fuck me. There’s nothing on earth as beautiful as her smile. “What about your dad?”
“My dad’s Lebanese, too, but he was born here—and my grandparents on his side are actually Christian. He converted before he ever met my mom, and I guess he was dedicated at first—enough that my grandparents approved of him—but by the time I came along, I’m pretty sure he only prayed when he went to the masjid on Fridays. And my mom never went to the masjid except for Eid prayers.” This time her smile is a little sadder, a little wry. “I guess I’m more like them. I fast during Ramadan, go to Eid prayers, but I’m not really as good as I should be. I suppose it’s the equivalent of someone who only goes to church on Christmas and Easter.”
Is that a bad thing? Because if it is, I’m fucked. “I don’t even go then. My only church is the club meetings.”
She doesn’t seem to think that’s unforgivable, though, because her smile widens again and her husky laugh slips right through her gorgeous lips.
Then her smile fades into something tight, her eyes darkening.
Maybe because I mentioned the club—and she believes the club business means more than she does.
And believing it made her cry.
Fuck. I’ve got to fix that. Somehow.
But I don’t get a chance to say a damn thing. The ring of my phone has me frowning and rolling over again—and when I see who it is, dread grips my chest.
Grasshopper. The brother has been covering nights at the hospital where Maurice is—making sure Maurice’s old lady has everything she needs, keeping the Riders updated on Maurice’s condition.
There haven’t been many updates since he got out of surgery and sank into the coma. And those updates sure as hell didn’t come at four in the morning.
I don’t know of any good news that ever comes at four in the morning.
Sara’s watching me, and I get a glimpse of her concern as I answer the call. Shit.
I swipe a hand over my face, try to hold it together. “Bull here. You got something?”
“Yeah. Maurice woke up.”
That’s so far from what I was expecting, it doesn’t sink in right away. “You sure?”
“Well, I haven’t seen him. He’s still in intensive care and they’re only letting immediate family in. But Margo says his eyes opened and he responded to their questions. Blinking or some shit.”
“He know about his boy yet?”
Grasshopper’s voice roughens. “Not yet. He was pretty out of it, I guess. He’s back asleep now. Real sleep.”
“Good.” My throat’s tight as fuck. “When do you figure they’ll let visitors in?”
The first time I go see him, or the prez sees him, no way in hell are we going to be telling him that Osprey’s still running around alive somewhere. We can’t give him his son back, but we can give that.
Doesn’t seem like it’s worth shit in comparison.
“A few days, probably,” Grasshopper says.
A few days. Just enough time.
“All right. You call me if anything changes.”
“Will do.”
Chest aching, I toss the phone back onto the nightstand.
Softly Sara asks, “That was about your friend?”
“Yeah.”
Scooting closer, she reaches for my hand, folds it between hers. “It sounds like he woke up?”
I nod.
“Isn’t that good?”
“I don’t know.” On a ragged breath, I shake my head. “He doesn’t know about Justin yet. And I keep thinking, Christ. Maybe he’s better off never waking up if that news is what’s waiting for him.”
With a sigh, she rests her forehead against my shoulder—hiding her face. “He’s going to wish he died, instead.”
“Yeah.” Christ knows I would.
“And he’s going to blame himself.” Her voice is thicker. “Blame himself for ever walking into that store. Blame himself for buying a slushie. Blame himself for not seeing Ostertag sooner, or not jumping him and wrestling away the gun instead of trying to shield his boy, and every single day for the rest of his life, he’s going to wonder what he could have done to stop it. But most of all, yeah—he’s going to wish he’d died instead. And he’d give anything if he could just go back and trade places with them.”
Them. Not a boy. Because she’s not just talking about Maurice. She’s talking about her family being murdered.
It fucking kills me to think that she ever wished to die, instead. I turn and haul her up against me, bury my face in her hair. “Your family wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“I know.” Her breath shudders against my skin. “They wouldn’t have. They’d want me safe. It’d have destroyed them if it’d been me. I tell myself that a lot but it doesn’t make it easier.”
“I don’t know anything that could.”
“No. But it must be so much harder if it’s your child. Someone you’re supposed to protect.”
Or a woman you ought to be protecting. I stroke my hand down her back.
I’ve never lost anyone I loved. Not loved like that. I’ve lost friends, brothers. And I adored Maurice’s little boy. So I’ve felt pain, grief.
It wasn’t anything close to the terror and agony I felt yesterday
, realizing she was stuffed in the trunk of that Cadillac.
I don’t know what it’d be like to lose her…but I’ve had a taste of it. Nothing that compares to what Maurice is about to go through. Nothing like Sara went through. But loss is loss, and some things are the same. Like wishing they’d done something different before it happened.
That’ll be me, if Sara goes. If I let this club business get between us. Every moment, wishing I’d done something different.
I can’t change what’s already done. But what I’m doing now isn’t going to save what Sara and I have.
So I’ll have to do something different. Before it’s too late. Before I’m left with nothing but regrets and wishing I was dead.
I’m just not sure yet what the hell that ‘something different’ will be.
One thing about splitting wood, it gives you time to think. It gives you time to brood, too. With every swing of the maul, I hear her saying, We could have been so good together.
Instead I’ve been hurting her. Because she thinks a drug deal means more to me than she does.
There’s reasons not to tell her what the Riders are really doing by going after Osprey. I’m not just covering our asses, but protecting hers, too. Knowledge can be a dangerous thing if the cops catch on to what’s happening. Not that I’m worried about her talking. I’d be worried about her being arrested for aiding or abetting or some shit like that.
Fuck. On that end, I’m a hell of a lot more concerned with protecting her ass than mine or my brothers’. Just like if we were together, I trust that she’d do everything she could to protect mine.
Because we would be good together—and that’s part of the reason why. I know I could trust her.
I already trust her. Despite her going for the phone last night, I didn’t disconnect any others around the house. Because I figure she wasn’t really trying to call for help—she was just pissed off and pushing me as far as she could, the same way she slapped at me before she started crying last night. There’s an internet connection, too, and when she browsed through the news sites this morning on my computer, I didn’t have a moment’s concern that she’d try to email anyone about what’s going on.
She could have called the cops a hundred damn times since she got here. But even with her outburst last night, I don’t believe she would.
I know she wouldn’t. I’ve known it from the beginning. I told the prez, too.
And the prez was pretty fucking clear when he told us what we’re supposed to make Sara believe this is all about the meth. But if she’d been mine already, it wouldn’t have been an issue. If she was my old lady, it would only be because I trusted her enough to have my back. It would only be because I know she won’t fuck over me or the club.
She isn’t my old lady. She isn’t even mine yet. So I shouldn’t trust her with this.
But maybe that’s what needs to be done different.
On a heavy grunt, I swing the maul. With a thunk and a rip, the log splits clear through. The blade bites into the chopping block below.
This time I don’t pull it out. Instead I wipe my brow and glance at Pop, who’s got a wedge of firewood in each hand and heading toward the stack. “You need a break, old man?”
He scowls. “Do I look like I need a break?”
I figure he could go for a thousand years if he wanted to. But I say, “You just seem a little pale, is all. A little sickly. Like you’re withering under this hot sun.”
His derisive snort is followed by a shake of his head. “Not likely, considering you’re so goddamn big I’ve been standing in your shade all day. You need a break, boy? Then take one. And when you’re done flirting, bring me back a beer. I need it to wash away the taste of your bullshit.”
Grinning, I pull off my gloves and head up the stairs. My grin fades quick, though. The house smells so damn good, like baking bread, because she’s been cooking. Because cooking settles her nerves. And they need to be settled because she’s been hurting. Because she thinks she means less than twenty thousand dollars of meth.
But the reason doesn’t really matter. What matters is, she’s been hurting. This has been that simple from the beginning. I don’t know why I let it get so complicated.
She’s been hurting.
So I need to make it stop.
And she’s so damn pretty, her hair up in that fluffy roll and her small hands coated in flour. She’s kneading a big pillow of dough when I come into the kitchen, her cheeks flushed and her hips swinging to some pop music on the radio.
She looks up at me, and her first response is the sweet, teasing smile that’s haunted me all these months. But her smile freezes before it’s all there. Her dark gaze searches my expression, which is likely more troubled than usual.
Her hands keep rhythmically working the dough but her entire focus is suddenly on me. “Is everything all right?”
“Not so much.” To keep something between us so that I don’t just grab her and kiss her, I take the barstool and face her across the counter. “That bastard who shot Maurice’s boy. You recall hearing about him?”
Slowly she nods, her gaze fixed on mine. “Matthew Ostertag,” she says. “He’s all over the news.”
Yeah, he is. But not everything about him made the news.
“When he’s dealing, most people call him Osprey,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows knit together for an instant. I see the moment she puts it together. Her full lips round and she pulls in a sharp breath.
“Oh,” she whispers, eyes wide.
Solemnly I nod. “I just wanted you to know why this deal Thursday night is so important. And I would say more, but maybe it comes back on you somehow and I don’t want to risk that. So you’re probably putting a hypothetical together in your head—but I’m not confirming it. I’m just saying that maybe someone on the run might be real eager to get his hands on twenty thousand dollars. Maybe he’ll pop his head out of the sand long enough to pay for what he did to Maurice and his boy.”
“I see,” she says quietly.
And I see that she does. But maybe it’s not enough yet. “The Riders don’t deal,” I tell her. “I’m not saying there aren’t brothers who do, because some of them get into all kinds of shit. And maybe sometimes it ends up being part of club business. If the Riders want something from another club or they owe someone a favor, maybe it means handling product or making a trade. But anyone gets caught dealing while wearing the Hellfire Riders’ colors gets his patch stripped and an asskicking. I’ve done some of that asskicking.”
“Okay,” is all she says but I think there’s relief in her eyes. I can’t blame her. Drug dealers rank somewhere near ‘wouldn’t piss on them in a fire’ on my personal scale, too—which is saying something, because I set the bar for decency pretty low. Adults want to get high as fuck? Don’t really care. But anyone who preys on kids or takes advantage of someone who’s addicted and vulnerable is pure shit in my opinion. The only thing lower are kiddie perverts and fuckers who abuse women—or set her parents’ house on fire.
But just in case there’s any doubt left, I tell her, “And the meth doesn’t mean more than you do. This business with Osprey doesn’t, either. I’m not going to lie, it means a hell of a lot, though—seeing him get his due. And it’s a responsibility I have.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to explain any more.”
“I do.” Because she needs to know I’ll accept the consequences of telling her this, too. “Because if afterwards, your conscience tells you to go to the cops—”
Her frown is swift and deep. “Why would I do that?”
“You didn’t want me touching your old boyfriend. Even after what he did.”
Brows raised, she stops kneading the dough and stares at me. “Not because I didn’t want him hurt. I didn’t want you getting hurt or going to jail for him. He’s not worth it. I’m not worth that.”
That’s about the wrongest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. “You’re worth a couple of lifetimes in
jail.”
Her smile returns, but it’s just a faint one, and her eyes are dark and grave as she says, “You believe your friend is worth it, too. And his son.”
“Yeah,” I say gruffly. “They are.”
“Well, I’m not going to interfere. Or call anyone.” And she’s wearing her full smile when she holds up her flour-coated hands. “I’ll just have a three-day vacation doing what I love.”
Throat tight again, I nod. “Good.”
“Boy!” Pop’s boots are unusually loud on the stairs, probably using all the noise to give me a heads-up so he doesn’t walk in on something he shouldn’t. “You lolly-gagging in there? If she’s not kissing you yet, she ain’t going to! But I’ve got a whole pile a wood that still needs splitting.”
Sara ducks her head and starts giggling. Heaving a deep sigh, I push up off the barstool and head for the fridge for our beers.
“You only need to pull one out for yourself,” Pop says as he comes into the kitchen. “Thorne just called, says he’s heading up to Bend to look at that military surplus, and I figured I’d go join him. Sara, you weren’t expecting to visit, so maybe you just write up a list of anything you need, and I’ll swing by the Walmart on the way back.”
She pinches her full bottom lip between her teeth, darts a look at me that I can’t read. But when she glances back at my pop and nods, her cheeks are flushed again.
“Maybe a few things,” she tells him.
Pop nods and heads to the sink to draw a glass of water. He looks over at me, a wicked glint in his eyes. “That’s right, boy. I’m gonna be the one buying your girlfriend’s panties. What color you like, Sara?”
She doesn’t answer. With her head bowed and hands braced on the counter, she’s silently laughing so hard her eyes are tearing up and her entire body’s jiggling.
I watch her, popping the top of my beer and taking a swig to cool blood that’s suddenly overheated. That jiggle’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.
And Pop thinks he’s got the better of me? Not even a bit. Doesn’t matter who buys her underwear.