Hard Reality

by Debra Kayn

  Gracie blacking out when she panics could be controlled because it came from fear. She'd learn ways to protect herself. After he left, she'd go back to carrying the pistol in her purse.

  She hadn't crossed the line.

  He was so far over the line, he should be in prison.

  She grinned up at him, hopeful that he'd choose her. He kissed her and pulled back. "Give Chuck a call. I'm going to wash the sheetrock mud off my hands and head toward Wayne's house. Tell him if I don't arrive to come looking for me with a gallon of gas."

  Gracie followed him to the hallway. "Rich?"

  "Yeah?" He walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open. She followed him inside. He looked up into the mirror, anxious to get out and on his bike. Then, get a drink.

  "You'll be careful, right?" Gracie caught her lower lip between her teeth. "Sometimes—depending on the situation—missing person cases can be dangerous."

  "I'll be fine." He half-ass dried his hands on the towel and walked past her, grabbing his duffle out of the bedroom, and going downstairs.

  He always stayed packed. All he needed was a change of clothes. He'd figure out what his next step would be once he had a few miles between him and everyone he cared about.

  At the door, Gracie stopped him. He wanted outside before he changed his mind.

  "Don't forget your helmet."

  His gut hardened and he turned. The last time someone looked after him, Thalia had handed him a new helmet wrapped with a blue bow. He'd been twenty years old, and she had been excited that she'd bought him a birthday present with money she'd made at her first job.

  Her murder had broken him.

  A long time ago.

  Gracie handed him that same black, half-shell helmet, now carrying more scars than he could remember the reasons how he'd gotten them.

  He kissed her hard until she moaned and then gazed into her half-lidded eyes. What he wouldn't give to have her looking at him that way for the rest of his life.

  Then, he remembered how he'd arrived in St. John's and why he'd stayed away. He remembered the drink waiting for him. He remembered the past.

  She tilted her head. "Rich?"

  He blinked. "I got to go."

  She smiled tenderly at him and nodded. "I'll wait up for you."

  He opened the door, stepped out, and stopped, turning back to her. "Gracie?"

  "Yes?" She raised her brows.

  His throat closed at her sweetness. He removed the can of chew from his pocket and used the time to put a pinch of tobacco behind his lip. He wanted to tell her to be safe, to trust those she let into her life, to take as much time as she needed to heal and never let anyone change her. She had a beautiful second chance, and she should never waste a day of her life.

  "Lock up, honey." He put the helmet on his head and strode to his bike, not looking back.

  He couldn't.

  If he turned around, he'd never leave, and she didn't need any more hurt in her life.

  Chapter 32

  The neon flashing sign on Motel Corral cast a red glow over the parking lot onto the five motorcycles parked across from the front door of the office. Rich spit a stream of tobacco to the side of him. He'd received all the details of the missing teenage girl before Notus Motorcycle Club filled his gas tank half full.

  Half full.

  Assholes.

  Sixteen-year-old Hannah Brando left her house that morning before eight o'clock. By two-thirty that afternoon, her mother became concerned when the text message she'd sent her daughter wasn't answered. The two had texted at the same time every day to check in with each other after school for the last six months.

  After the police questioned Hannah's friends, they discovered she'd met a 'boy' online who planned to meet with her. Somehow, Notus found out the 'boy' was a thirty-six-year-old man named Michael Monroe.

  Notus found out Monroe spent the night before at the motel, and they were counting on him returning tonight with Hannah.

  Meanwhile, the police were on the streets searching for the make and model of the suspect's car.

  Rich rubbed his hands on his thighs and stared down at his gas tank. He had enough to take the Fremont Bridge into Portland, find a bar stool, and hope someone took pity on him and bought him a drink.

  He needed to forget Gracie waited at her house for him to return. That she expected a man who'd slip into her life, and her dreams would become his, and vice versa. The hope in her expression over him going out on a search with Notus killed him. She wanted him to fit into her family.

  His family.

  Fuck.

  He couldn't do that.

  The guys acted as if he could walk back into the club and the past would be forgotten. They acted as if they weren't all middle-aged men, but twelve-year-old boys who fought, got over it, and plotted their next adventure the same day.

  They had no understanding that he'd changed.

  But, it was the things that remained the same that weakened him. He patted his pocket, missing his cell phone. Everything he'd accumulated—basically another duffle bag worth of shit—remained in Klamath at the Komoon clubhouse.

  "Detective Gomez texted. One of his officers is checking out a vehicle that matches Monroe's car." Wayne handed the phone to Thad. "Text him back and let him know we're staying on post."

  Rich followed the conversation, learning how deeply involved they were with the St. John's Police Department. He looked to Glen who watched it all intently, his upper lip spasming. To Wayne, who looked out over the parking lot frowning. To Chuck, who fidgeted next to him, ready to beat the shit out of Monroe and save the girl. To Thad, who finished texting and rubbed his hand over his whiskered jaw.

  Being with them all, it felt a lot like the night twenty-five years ago when Thalia was kidnapped. Except, the police had questioned him.

  The questions.

  The accusations.

  The news articles.

  The rumors and talk around town.

  He'd faced it head on because all he wanted was Thalia to return safe and sound.

  "Did anyone get the background on this Monroe character." Glen opened the duffle on his motorcycle and removed a bag of sunflower seeds.

  "He's clean. The cops in Arizona won't have a search warrant to go through his computer until tomorrow night if they can get ahold of the judge. If not, on Monday morning." Chuck took a cigar out of his vest pocket and snipped off the end. "I gave Gomez the information off Hannah's computer. If they can I.D. him through the chats, give him motive, they can fast forward everything to Arizona, and get a search warrant tonight. It all depends on how hard they're going to work to find the truth."

  "I thought there was a twenty-four hour wait time to report someone missing like it was with..." Rich shut his mouth.

  Thad sat his motorcycle. "Hannah's a minor. Thalia was nineteen years old and legally an adult. Because of Hannah's friends talking with the police, they can classify her as endangered and skip the time requirements for the alerts."

  Disgusted by the situation, he pushed down the tobacco under his lip. "Bullshit situation," he muttered.

  "It usually is when someone goes missing," said Thad. "We went through the same shit and hit a dead end when you went missing and had no idea what happened to you."

  "I left, which was my God damn right." He spit and wiped his mouth with his forearm, not wanting to talk about that time in his life. "Every fucking one of you knew nothing happened to me. I took my Harley, my duffle, and I left every single dollar I'd saved and put it in an envelope for my mom. I only took enough money with me to get the hell out of St. John's."

  The men watched him from their motorcycles. He took out the wad of chew and put fresh in. They had to get it through their heads that he wasn't tied to them. That they weren't going to go back in time and be the brothers who swore their loyalty to the club and each other.

  "Why Klamath? Why Komoon MC?" asked Wayne.

  He shrugged. "It's where I stopped my Harley and asked for
a drink. I had nothing, but my bike. They were recruiting. I put my year in prospecting, then swore my loyalty to them."

  "Were you?" Chuck leaned forward and braced his forearms on the handlebar. "Loyal to them?"

  "No." He planted his feet on the asphalt and stood, stretching his legs.

  "Did you stay loyal to us, besides disbanding?" asked Thad.

  "Isn't that obvious by the black fucking square on my leg?" He sat back down and swept his hair off his face. Losing his tattoo — he tried not to think about it.

  He gave Notus what they wanted to hear. When he left again, they could forget about him and go on.

  "What the hell did you do for twenty-five years?" asked Glen.

  "Drank." He laughed harshly. "I'd be drinking right now, but you guys decided to tie me down, put me in the house with Gracie, took my transportation away from me. The money I had, apparently is sitting back in my old room in the Komoon clubhouse. I've got nothing."

  Thad got off his Harley and stepped away.

  None of them understood the kind of power drinking had over him. He knew. He'd watched his mom put the bottle first. He thought about taking a drink every minute of the day. There were few moments when he could say he enjoyed living in the moment sober.

  He swallowed. Gracie was that moment for him, but there were still times when he wasn't cock deep inside of her that the only thing he wanted was a swig of whiskey.

  Thad came back to the circle. "Did losing Thalia do that to you?"

  His next breath failed to happen, and he forced himself to keep breathing through a painful spasm in his chest. The loss of Thalia seemed a lifetime ago when away from Notus. There were days he could forget and times he could face the days leading up to and after her abduction in an almost detached way as if he viewed that time period as a stranger.

  He couldn't remember when it hit him how selfish he'd been wrapped up in his grief to fail to recognize that Thad lost a sister and Mr. and Mrs. B lost a daughter. Back then, his world was wrapped up in two things.

  Notus Motorcycle Club.

  Thalia.

  "Losing her pushed me off the edge." He kept eye contact with Thad. "Like it did for all of us. But, Thalia was not the reason why I started drinking. I'd never try and forget her. Knowing I'd lost her, I wanted to hurt because when I hurt, I was close to her."

  The times he could forget about what happened turned to guilt when he remembered Thalia was gone. At the time, he felt like he was betraying the love he'd felt.

  Thad studied him and finally said, "I get that."

  He dipped his chin, acknowledging the bond they shared. The one that time couldn't erase.

  If he'd had the maturity to talk about what happened back then, they wouldn't be having this discussion. But, he couldn't go back and change what happened.

  "Does your leaving have anything to do with our fight?"

  He gazed at Chuck. "Fight?"

  "We beat the shit out of each other the night before you left." Chuck held perfectly still.

  One fight meshed with another. They'd grown up exchanging blows, wrestling, and popping off on each other. It was part of their life together. He couldn't remember fighting with Chuck before he'd left, though he had no doubts that it was true.

  Like Gracie in her panic, he'd lost big chunks of time.

  "I don't remember fighting with you," he said quietly.

  Chuck rubbed the frown off his face. "Then, what the hell made you leave us?"

  His pulse throbbed. Even if he'd been in his right frame of mind, he never would've thought to turn to them. They'd all been twenty years old. Too young. Too devastated over losing Thalia.

  They were lucky to find their dick in the morning at that age, much less deal with Thalia being murdered and having all fingers pointed at him.

  "I..." He grimaced. "I became a different person. All the anger I had, that we all had, changed me in a way I needed to leave."

  "Does this have anything to do with you backing out of killing the Komoon member?" Wayne's hands landed in his lap, and he put his foot on the peg of the bike.

  The urge to spill everything, take their judgment, lose them, no longer seemed to matter because he was tired of loving and losing. He nodded. That's all he could do.

  He was tired of being alone.

  He was tired of living with himself.

  He was tired.

  "I need a fucking drink." He got off his motorcycle and walked away.

  Halfway to the entrance to the motel, he turned back and rejoined the others. The adrenaline rush too much, his stomach rebelled, and the taste of vomit filled his throat. He swallowed it down, looking at the men who'd proven time and again to stand by him, who had never forgotten him. Who had killed a man to make sure he could stay in St. John's, knowing nothing about him or what he'd done.

  He looked to Wayne, straining for him to understand. He couldn't do this alone.

  The president of Notus made it to him in three steps and grabbed him. The thumps on his back crushed him. He handed it over. He handed it all over.

  Every fact.

  Every truth.

  Every fear.

  Chapter 33

  Gracie rushed into the guest bedroom, climbed over the supplies and tools, and opened the top dresser drawer. Panic filled her with each drawer she opened.

  With her sister's voice in her ear, she looked around the room holding the cell phone to her head. "I don't understand. He left nothing behind."

  She jumped over the toolbox and left the room, hurrying downstairs to the kitchen.

  "Wayne said he'd come over and talk to you," said Clara. "You need to calm down until he gets there."

  Feeling on top of the refrigerator, her fingers came away empty. "But, Rich is okay?"

  "I haven't seen him, but Wayne said they're taking care of him."

  The relief that should've come failed to convince her. Clara had called late last night and said the search for the missing person had ended. The police found the missing girl with a sexual predator heading out of town and reunited her with her family, safe and sound, and Rich was with the bikers in the garage de-stressing. She'd finally fallen asleep, knowing the Notus members would make sure Rich wouldn't drink, and they needed the time to bond again.

  Except, she'd woken up that morning alone.

  "Taking care of him?" She groaned in frustration. "That means something is wrong."

  "No, it doesn't."

  "Yes, it does. If he were fine, Wayne would say Rich is fine. If he was okay. Wayne would say Rich is okay. If something were wrong, Wayne would say that he's taking care of it." She inhaled quickly. "Don't you pay attention to how they all talk. You have to listen to what they haven't said."

  "God, sis. Stop creating problems where there is none. At least wait until Wayne talks to you before you freak out."

  "Why won't Rich come back here with Wayne?" She opened the junk drawer, scattering the contents and making a mess.

  "Wayne didn't say, but Rich is talking. At least that's what I've been told. Okay, that's what I heard when I had my ear to the door. I don't know what they're saying, but I heard Rich's voice which means he is talking to the others." Clara paused. "Gracie!"

  She jolted halfway to the garage. "What?"

  "Stop running around. All I can hear is your breathing over the phone. Just stand still and calm down."

  "I can't."

  "Tell me what's going through your head."

  She put her hand on the empty purse at her side. "Rich has my pistol."

  "O-kay." Clara slowed her speech. "And, that means...?"

  "It means he has my pistol. Both pistols." She held the side of her head. "I don't have anything to protect myself."

  "Oh, Gracie," said Clara softly. "You'll be okay. Do you want one of the guys to come over for a while and be with you? Chuck is here. I could talk to him for you."

  "No." She only wanted Rich. "I'm going to let you go."

  "Wait."

  "What?"
<
br />   "What are you going to do?"

  She headed for the steps. "I don't know, but I'll be fine. I'll call if I need you."

  "Immediately."

  "Immediately." She walked upstairs. "Love you."

  "Love you, too."

  She disconnected the call and slid the phone into her pocket. Fanning her overheated face, she sat on the bed. On the verge of a panic attack, she needed to think rationally.

  Rich was alive. He was in St. John's. It was daytime. Her house was locked. At the moment, she was safe.

  She was safe.

  She was safe.

  Pressing her hand against her stomach, she straightened her back, and inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. Her head throbbed, and she repeated the exercise the doctor had recommended after her abduction to stop her fears from taking hold.

  She exhaled harshly. Her doctor was full of shit.

  Not wanting to take a Xanax and inhibit her ability to think about what was going on with Rich, she put on her sneakers, gathered her hair at the back of her neck, and slipped a band around the strands to hold them out of her way.

  Whatever was going on, she wouldn't be able to find out any info sitting at home, and she wasn't going to wait an hour for Wayne to come over and give her a couple little truths and coddle her from the facts. She checked to make sure she had her keys, driver's license, and garage remote in her purse, and then slipped her phone into the bag and went to the garage.

  She'd worked her way up to going to Vavoom's Bar several times a week by herself—armed with her pistol and concealed weapons permit. All she had to do was drive to her sister and Wayne's house. She slid into the driver's seat of her car and set her purse—minus a gun—on the seat beside her. Taking a few deep breaths, she pushed the button on the remote and watched the garage door rise in the rearview mirror.

  Double checking the locks on the car, she reversed out of the garage, waited until the door closed, and drove the five blocks between her house and Wayne's house. By the time she pulled up to her destination and parked on the street, her overheated body had chills.

  She counted the number of motorcycles, and a new wave of nervousness filled her, propelling her to the front door. Looking over her shoulder while she waited for someone to answer the door, she recounted the bikes.