by Jessie Cooke
The other side of the stone said, “Nicholas Bradley Blackwell, loving son, grandson and brother.” The same date of birth was there, but his did have a date on the other end. Jigsaw felt a lump rise in his throat when he looked down at the small Hamsa engraved in one corner. It was exactly like the one he had tattooed on his chest when he was just twenty years old. The twin's Mamaw had given them both a tapestry to hang over their beds when they were little, after their parents died. The tapestries were blue and there was a black Hamsa symbol in the center of each. Mamaw wasn't an overly superstitious woman, but after she’d lost her only daughter, she worried much more about death than she ever had before. She was so afraid of losing the boys, she would have done anything to protect them. She even struggled with her faith, questioning sometimes why God would take good people. She would always come back around to the thought that God didn't take them, evil did...and even going to church and being faithful wouldn't protect you. So, she bought the tapestries, hung them up and told the boys they were “just in case.” The Hamsa was supposed to protect them from evil and keep them safe. The tapestries hung above their beds right up to the day Beau lost the house and the Hamsa was the first tattoo either man got, right after they found out that Nick had beat cancer. Jigsaw reached up now and ran his fingers across the spot where the tattoo was underneath his t-shirt. He shivered as he thought the damned thing hadn't done his brother a bit of good.
It took him a few seconds to process that the air had become calm. There was no wind blowing any longer and a warm, almost hot feeling washed over him from the inside out. It gave him a strange, almost euphoric feeling and then as quickly as it came on, it was gone and the wind picked back up. Jigsaw smiled and looked back down at the headstone. Maybe his brother's restless soul had found a place to settle after all.
“Hey Jig,” He turned toward the sound of Kimber's voice.
“Hey baby, why are you out here in the cold? Are you okay?” He'd left her back at the hotel. They were flying out in the morning to California and she was supposed to be packing. They'd already been in Jersey for almost two weeks...and Jigsaw was surprised to find himself so anxious to leave. He no longer thought of Newark as his home. Boston was his home now and he wanted nothing more than to move into the little cabin he'd put a down payment on for him and Kimber. They were going to have to put that off for just a little while longer though. Club business had to come first.
Dax was sending him to California to help out the mechanic at one of the Skulls west coast charter MCs. Someone had started a fire in the garage where they kept their bikes at night and destroyed them all. The club, the Westside Skulls, was a small one and they were low on funds. There was no way they could replace the bikes with new ones, so they'd reached out to the other Skulls chapters across the country for help and from what Jigsaw heard, they were sending it in droves. Dax promised him he only had to stay out there for a few months and he arranged for Kimber to go with him. It would probably be good for both of then to get away at least for a little while.
“I'm fine,” she said with a smile. “I was checking on you. You've been out here a long time, and you're not returning my texts.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and saw he'd missed multiple text messages. “Wow, I'm sorry baby. I was just...distracted, I guess.”
She put her hand on his arm and said, “I know. I spoke to Natalie.”
He sighed. That hadn't been fun. Natalie cried and told him that Vince didn't love her and would never be the man he was. She begged him to take her back, to take her with him...he felt almost bad about the fact that she didn't affect him at all. He knew she could turn those tears off and on at the drop of a pin. He knew that she could manipulate even the strongest man to get what she wanted. He knew that if he could live forever, he'd never know for sure what was real with her and what wasn't. But most of all, he knew that Kimber was who he wanted to be with. She was the one he loved and the one that he belonged with. He was honest with Natalie about that. It seemed to enrage her which surprised him as well. She wasn't the jealous type. She always thought so highly of herself that she didn't think she needed to be jealous, of anyone. But she was really pissed about Kimber. Jigsaw left there with mixed emotions about what he felt for Natalie...but the bottom line was that he finally knew it wasn't love. “Is she okay?” he asked.
Kimber nodded. “She's fine. Natalie is always fine.”
He nodded. “Yeah, you're right.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders and said, “I'm sorry you had to come out here in the cold looking for me. I'm ready. Let's go out to California and soak up some sun for a few months. Maybe we'll get drunk on the plane and make love on the beach as soon as we get there.”
Kimber laughed and then she leaned her head into his side and said, “I'd love to make love on the beach...but little Nicholas or Nicole is too young to drink...” It took him a few seconds to process what she'd just told him. Once he did, and he'd grabbed her up in a hug that he worried might not be so good for the baby growing in her belly, that warm feeling seeped through his veins again and filled every space inside of him. He smiled and hugged her again. He was going to be a father, and he was going to be a damned good one. Family, club, everything else. That was the motto he was going to live by from now on, and it was what he would teach his children. He'd finally found all the missing pieces of his life. He was finally whole again.
Book TWO: RUSTY
Description…
When Rusty Daniels dumped his Harley in front of a group of boys who thought he was a hero, the former football superstar couldn’t walk away from them.
They gave him no option.
It was their way, or trouble would soon be headed his way… in a BIG way.
Reluctantly he headed in a new direction in his life… a direction that would lead him to a dying man called Saint, who would teach him more about living than he could have ever hoped for.
1
Rusty stood in the doorway of the bar, resting his calloused palm against the rough paintwork that coated the door frame. The bar was old, off the beaten track, and a place he was sure he wouldn't run into anyone he knew...or better yet, anyone who knew him. Behind him he could hear the sound of laughter, somewhat muted by the sounds of the jukebox and the tinkling of ice cubes against glass. Snippets of conversations floated through the air on a cloud of stale cigarette smoke and disappeared almost as quickly into the rafters of the old building, mingling with the smell of booze, body odor and stale perfume. Rusty could even smell the despair...or maybe that was coming from his own tortured soul.
He sighed and took a step out into the late afternoon sunlight. It was reflected off the chrome tank of his Harley and burned into his bloodshot eyes like a laser. He flipped down the sunglasses that he wore on top of his head. The glasses blocked out the harshness of the sun, but his surroundings still looked fuzzy. Rusty wouldn't admit it to anyone else, but to himself he couldn't deny that the blurry vision was thanks to the four shots of whiskey and two mugs of beer he'd had on an empty stomach. Well, empty, as long as he wasn't counting the painkillers he'd eaten before leaving the house. He might be a little buzzed, but he wasn't drunk, at least not by his standards. It took a lot more to get him drunk than a couple of beers and a few shots. Of course, trying to explain that to a cop would be a problem if he ran into one on his way home. The people in this no-name bar might not know him...but every cop on the Southside surely did.
Rusty chastised himself for not calling a cab when he left the house earlier that day. He was just so sick of being driven around. Some days he just needed to feel the vibration of that big, chrome machine between his legs and the chill of the early spring morning air on his face. He'd told himself that he only had a few errands to run, he'd be home in no time...of course, he hadn't been planning on stopping by the bar. He never did.
Shit. He couldn't afford another day in court in front of Judge Gannon. The old man had focused his judgmental gray eyes on Rusty the last time
he stood in front of him and promised if he ever came back...he'd never drive in Massachusetts again. He'd be destined to a lifetime of Ubers, taxicabs or guys named Mike or Stan in cheap chauffeur caps, popping their gum and analyzing the last Super Bowl he played in two years ago, as they drove him around town. Rusty made a face at that thought...he should have called a cab, but he didn't...because of those kids. Ultimately this was their fault, the little shits.
They were there in the park every day lately, it must be Spring Break from school or something. Was it almost Easter, already? Rusty touched the cross around his neck. If he'd been going to church every week the way he'd promised his mother he would, he would know. Or maybe if he just turned on the television or looked at a calendar every once in a while. But that would require giving a fuck what was going on outside his own four walls, and he hadn't been able to muster the energy for that in a long time.
He thought about those kids again, playing football in that ridiculous excuse for a park. Back when Rusty was a kid, that park had been really something. It was in that park that his father taught him how to catch and throw his first football. It was where he'd gotten into his first fight, had his first kiss...and ultimately his first taste of the alcohol that was now ruining his life. But, he wasn't going to think about that now. He conjured up an image of the park...the way it used to be. The grass that blanketed the rolling hills had always been green and the trees told stories of the seasons throughout the year. A small pond in the center of it all provided Rusty and his siblings with hours of fun when they were kids, catching tadpoles and skipping stones...and occasionally when the sun was hot, and their mother wasn't looking, a quick dip to cool their sun-kissed skin.
The park was sad now, a lot like him. Where before it had been resplendent in its beauty, and full of life, now it was nothing more than a scrub of weeds with a muddy, mossy hole in the center of it all. The old metal benches that honored the veterans of foreign wars were now rusty and unstable. Where old men used to sit on sunny days chewing the fat and feeding the pigeons, homeless people now jostled for a spot to lay their weary heads at night. The only thing that separated Rusty from them was the wrought iron fence that ran along the property line...and of course a bank account that he'd thankfully not completely blown through just yet.
Those kids though...they didn't care about any of that. They still showed up faithfully any day they didn't have school, football in hand and filled with the kind of light and life that Rusty hardly remembered ever having. They would play until lunchtime before leaving for an hour or so, only to return and pick up where they'd left off. Rusty knew they watched the house...waiting for a glimpse of him. He mostly kept out of sight, and he rarely left when they were out there. He was once used to being the center of attention...he thrived on it. Now, the only attention he wanted was the bartenders and occasionally the paid escort that he put in an order for...even a reclusive man had to eat.
So, this morning, rising to a headache straight out of the bowels of hell and dry mouth, he'd gone out to the kitchen to make his coffee and see if he could rustle up an Ibuprofen or two. He heard the kids out there, but kept the blinds closed as he meandered around the kitchen with a rolling stomach and shaking hands. He'd opened the coffee canister first, only to remember he'd used the last of it the day before. The fact that he was out of coffee didn't piss him off as much as the fact that he'd forgotten to go out and get more. He was twenty-eight years old...going on eighty lately, it seemed.
The canister, one his mother had bought before he was even born, ended up in shards across the kitchen floor after it hit the wall he'd thrown it into. Before he let what he'd done sink in, he reached up for the little bottle of whiskey he kept above the fridge to liven up his coffee. His hands were shaking so hard by that time, that the bottle slipped, bounced off the refrigerator, and landed on the floor with a crash. Now there was a second pile of glass...only this one was surrounded by sticky brown liquid that was also splashed across the outside of the refrigerator. Thinking about the loss of the whiskey and not even considering how long it was going to take him to clean up the mess, he slammed his fist into the wall. The thin drywall caved under his meaty paw and chunks of it joined the glass and whiskey on the floor.
“Fuck!” His fist throbbed. He had no coffee. He was out of whiskey, and his fucking hands wouldn't stop shaking. That was when he had pulled open the refrigerator. He cursed again and thought that if he had the energy to pick up that damned thing he would have thrown it across the room too. There was one can of beer sitting on the top shelf just in front of the expired jug of milk and a package of turkey that was growing green hair. For some reason that turkey made him think of his mother. She'd have a seizure if she could see her refrigerator...hell, her entire house, right now. He looked around him and couldn't deny that he hadn't exactly been diligent about keeping it clean even before this morning's mishaps. He'd let the maid his mother hired go, with a large bonus, right after his parents left for Africa. He didn't want anyone coming in and out of the house that might feel compelled to send a full report to his mother and father. He told himself it was because he didn't want them bothered during their “retirement” trip, which had turned into a mission in Africa. But, the truth was, he didn't want them to know what he'd become...yet again.
With a rush of guilt, he pulled the old milk and turkey out, pouring one down the drain and tossed the other in the trash. The sight of the fridge now empty except for butter, cheese and condiments in the door, somehow calmed him down a bit. At least there was nothing rotting in there any longer...too bad he couldn't say the same about his soul. He groaned at that thought and went over to the counter where he kept his medications. The bottle of Ibuprofen felt light and after nearly taking a hammer to it to get it opened, he saw that there was only one pill left. He shot that like a basketball into the trash and popped the top on the beer. Saying, “fuck it,” out loud to the empty kitchen, he picked up the bottle of prescription pain killers and shook the last two out in his hand. Pain killers and beer...the breakfast of champions...former, washed up champions, that is.
After he took the pills and finished the beer, he thought about cleaning up his mess in the kitchen. That in no way appealed to him, however. Instead, he rummaged around the house until he found his phone in the bathroom and started to call for a cab. He was in the midst of that when he heard the tall kid with the blond hair calling out plays to his friends in the park. The bathroom window...the same bathroom in the same house Rusty had grown up in, was open. It faced the backside of the park and that was usually where he sat and watched the boys play when he was waxing philosophical for the old days. If only he had a time machine.
Rusty's fall from grace had been hard and there had been a lot of publicity surrounding it. His injury, and subsequent fight with the NFL over releasing him from his contract early, had both been ugly. His knee was torn to shreds and no doctor would sign off on him ever playing again. His contract had allowed for such an injury...but Rusty had tried to move heaven and earth to keep the only life he knew from ending. In the end, he'd lost...and the depression had set in. He began to drink too much, and he got addicted to the pain killers. His mother and father had been there for him every step of the way. His brother had flown out from Ohio and his sister from California, the day he'd gotten out of rehab. The entire family had celebrated, slapped him on the back, prayed over him, and told him how proud they were. For almost a year afterwards, he'd walked the straight and narrow. But he saw the way people looked at him and he heard the whispers behind his back. His old “friends,” the ones that had gladly hung out with him in the seventeen-million-dollar mansion in Pennsylvania, disappeared while he was in rehab. He started going back to church, at his mother's behest...but he didn't find what he was looking for there either. Yet, for his parent's sake, he kept pretending and he even talked about going back to school to learn a trade. He encouraged them to follow through with their plans once his father retired as minister of the neigh
borhood Presbyterian church, and just about eleven months ago...he'd seen them off on a plane.
Rusty started drinking again that night, and he hadn't missed a day in between, except for the few he'd spent in jail. The fact that his parents were preaching in some village in a remote area of Africa worked both to his advantage and disadvantage. The advantage was that no one from the neighborhood would be able to reach them and tell them things he didn't want them to hear. The disadvantage...he had no one but himself to be accountable to. To avoid the sad or judgmental looks of his neighbors, he'd become practically a recluse, only going into town when he had no other choice. He hated those trips and he really hated for people to see him riding around in a cab. He even hated for those boys in the park to see him getting into one. Those kids were still looking for a glimpse of Rusty Daniels the football hero, not the loser that had one strike left before the judge pulled his license for good. They wanted a glimpse of the superstar, the one that had been one of the NFL's highest paid quarterbacks. The guy with three Super Bowl rings and who had been rumored to be a Heisman trophy nominee. They were looking for the guy they used to look up to, and Rusty just couldn't let them see him climb into the back of a cab.
So that morning even though it had started out like shit, and that should have been a warning, he told himself that he was okay to drive. It was a three-mile trek into town. He'd do his grocery shopping and be home in half an hour. He'd felt an inkling of pride as the boys stopped what they were doing and watched him climb on the Harley that morning, and the drive into town had made him almost euphoric. But then he'd stopped in front of the grocery store and before he got off the bike, he saw the new pastor...his father's replacement. His hands started shaking again and he felt like he was going to throw up as the man approached him. Shamelessly, he'd pretended not to see him, started the bike and left. He rode through town to the other side, where the crummy little bar sat that he now stood in front of almost five hours later. He'd completely forgotten about the coffee...or groceries, or even the empty, broken whiskey bottle. Now all he could do was pray that the three or four officers who patrolled the Southside were either busy with real criminals, or dinner with their families. Hell, on the Southside you could almost always count on one of the Skulls to keep them busy...he'd be okay...he hoped.