Like Demon, Muse was an enforcer. But Muse still actually did that work. Demon was staying clean. So far, he’d been able to stay clear of their work with La Zorra, a chick cartel kingpin—or was it queenpin?—who was becoming a major player in the border drug trade.
He knew it was just a matter of time before his hands would be dirty, too. He hoped that he’d have custody of Tucker before that happened.
“Morning, brother.”
Muse turned and raised his eyebrows. “Deme. You good? Saw your bike—there a problem at Hooj’s? Tucker okay?”
Before Demon could answer, Muse’s big, black German Shepherd, Cliff, trotted over. Muse brought him to hang at the clubhouse sometimes—usually when he was feeling guilty that he hadn’t been able to spend time with him for a while.
Demon squatted down and gave his buddy some love. “Yeah. We’re good. Just needed…I don’t know. But I’m okay.” He let Cliff lick his face, then ruffled his ears and stood up.
Muse’s expression was skeptical. “Somethin’ up?”
Demon considered Muse his best friend. Muse had a few stories about the foster care system himself, and he probably knew more than anybody else about Demon’s childhood—not everything, but more. When Demon had been exiled to the Nomads, Muse, about a decade older and more experienced, had stepped in and helped him work out how to be homeless again. So he felt a real, deep, solid bond between them. But Demon had never talked about Faith with him or anybody who hadn’t been around and known already. He didn’t know what Muse might have heard over the grapevine—probably at least that he’d fucked a brother’s daughter—but he hadn’t ever offered anything up, and Muse, a tightlipped motherfucker anyway, had never asked.
So Demon wasn’t going to start now.
“Nah. I’m good. You’re here early. Got a movie gig?”
He sighed and shook his head. “Diaz and J.R. got caught up in some shit with the Rats. I’m waitin’ on Connor—we’re meeting them and Bart and Ronin for some payback. Figure we’ll hit ‘em early, with their pants down.”
“They whole? What kind of shit?”
“Ran ‘em off the road. Bikes’re scraped up a little. Them, too, but they’re good.”
The Dirty Rats were another MC, much bigger than the Horde, with lots of charters—and a really vile, and well-earned, reputation. They had never been rivals before, but the Horde had put down half a charter’s worth of the bastards during a cartel fight, and now the Rats were looking for payback. No big, organized offensive, just shit like this—running guys off the road, ambushing them outside a bar, catching them off their guard.
Since the Rats weren’t known for their decorum or subtlety, it seemed like they were trying to stay off somebody’s radar. Otherwise, they’d’ve just come in for a retaliation hit. The Horde had ended their guys months ago, and all they’d faced from the Rats since was penny-ante shit like this.
Which probably meant something big was brewing somewhere.
Part of Demon—the largest part—wanted to offer his help. He wanted to be outlaw. He liked putting hurt on assholes. He liked the charge and the focus of working outside the bleeding edge of society. There was calm in it that he didn’t get any other way. And he deeply hated that two of his brothers had been attacked, and he was going to sit here at the shop screwing parts on bikes while his family took care of the problem.
There wasn’t much he could say. He wasn’t part of what was going on. It was right—he needed to do what he had to do to make his best case for custody of Tucker, and that meant staying as clean as he could. But it was wrong, too. So he changed the subject, sort of. “You got your truck? You brought Cliff. You’re not riding out today?”
“I’ll take the Sportster. It’s still here from when I thought I was gonna have to sell it. The Knuckle’s running rough lately, and anyway, I didn’t want to leave Cliff at home. Sid’s in Orange County for a couple days.”
“Problem?”
“Nah. Her mom’s winning some award, and there’s some kinda formal ceremony. Not my scene.”
Demon chuckled a little. Several of the SoCal Horde who’d taken old ladies had ended up with rich chicks. Bart was married to a famous actress. Diaz to a supermodel. Now Muse had marked a girl whose mom was a fancy lawyer like Findley-call-me-Finn Bennett and lived in a fucking mansion. Not the kind of women people thought of as the type to want a biker.
But people tended to resist type, Demon thought. Good people did, anyway. It wasn’t about type. It was about being understood. It was about finding someone you fit with, someone whose puzzle matched your own.
Demon closed his eyes and thought about Faith. For all the ways he knew they’d been wrong, in that way they’d been right.
Maybe they could still be. He needed to get straight enough in his head to talk to her. Tonight. Tonight, he’d talk to her. He would. He could.
But for now, he turned back to Muse.
“Wish I could help today.”
“No question, brother.” Muse put his hand on Demon’s shoulder. It was a gesture, a touch, meant to share strength, to calm Demon’s unsettled soul. He knew it, and he appreciated it. He always had. “It’s right you stay back. You don’t need trouble you can avoid, not right now. I told you we’d do all we can to keep you clear.”
~oOo~
Just before noon, with the guys still out on their payback run, Demon was working in the shop, tricking out a Wide Glide. Trick was there, starting a new custom build, and P.B. was doing a repair job. Jesse was working the showroom. Nolan and Double A, Missouri members on loan from the mother charter, were helping out on a couple of bike maintenance jobs. Just a regular day, though they were all on alert in case they got a call for backup.
The intercom whined and went live. “Guys!” Jesse said into the room. “Bibi brought lunch—from The Bunkhouse!” The Bunkhouse was the best steakhouse in town. Usually, they sent a Prospect out at lunch for fast food.
“Awesome!” P.B. crowed and set down his tools. Trick just rolled his eyes and kept working. He was a vegetarian or a vegan or one of those plant-eater types.
Then Bibi’s voice came over the ‘com. “We brought you a big salad, Trick. And Tuck’s lookin’ for you, Deme. We’re settin’ up in the Hall.”
All the mechanics were grinning when they came through from the shop to the clubhouse. Bibi had set up a family-style meal, pushing some of the small tables together. Cliff was walking around the table, his tail wagging, his nose in the air, smelling steak.
A meal like this in the middle of the day was unusual, especially with half the club out, but Hoosier was in the Hall, too, and he didn’t seem concerned.
“Any word on the job today, Prez?” Demon asked, picking Tucker up and hugging him.
“Yeah. They’re whole and clear, on their way back. Stirred up some sh—trouble, just like they wanted. We’ll see where it goes. I want to bring this sh—thing to a head.”
Bibi came over to Demon and Tucker. “Show your pa what you learned today, Tuck.”
Demon smiled at his boy. “You got something new, buddy?”
Tucker nodded, then dropped his head to his father’s shoulder.
“Don’t be shy, Tuckster. Tell your pa.” Bibi grabbed his foot and gave it a shake.
Lifting his head and looking at Demon with serious eyes, Tucker said, “Lub you, Pa.”
“Holy shit,” Demon whispered. Tucker had never said those words before.
“Shit,” Tucker agreed solemnly.
Laughing, Demon hugged his son. “I love you, too, Motor Man. I love you so much.”
“Lub you.”
His face felt hot, but not in the way it usually did. He held his son close and felt good and right. He felt strong. He looked down at Bibi.
“Thanks for last night.”
“No worries, baby. You needed some time alone, and you know I’ve got Tuck.”
“Thanks.”
“Did it help?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna talk to her
tonight. I think I can be cool about it now.”
Bibi went a little pale. “Deme, that’s not gonna work. She’s not there.”
Just like that, everything good Demon had been feeling withered away and left acid and bile in its place. “What? Where is she?”
“She went home—”
Before she could finish, Demon yelled “FUCK!” and Tucker flinched and began to cry. Grasping the last threads of control he could, he handed his son to Bibi and stormed toward the dorm before he lost any more of his shit in front of his kid.
Before he could get to the hallway, Bibi’s hand was on his arm. He spun and yanked his arm away. Bibi—without Tucker—jumped back, flinching, and then Hoosier was between them. “You take a breath right now, boy. You get yourself under control.”
“FUCK! FUCK!” His mind rioted. She’d left! She was gone! She’d shown up just to fuck him up and then was gone. Fuck!
Hoosier, though smaller than Demon, didn’t hesitate. He grabbed him by the kutte and shoved him toward his office. Vaguely, Demon heard Cliff barking in the Hall.
All Demon could think about was getting those hands off him. He fought back, punching his President in the face, knocking him down.
Then the hallway was full of men, yanking Demon back. He fought hard, trying to get free, thinking only about getting away. Away. Back on his feet, Hoosier punched him in the gut twice while P.B. and Trick held him, and that knocked the wind and the fire out of him.
In front of his kid, he’d pulled that shit. He could hear him still crying.
“Sit him on my couch. Christ on a crutch.”
When Demon was on the couch and alone in the office with Hoosier and Bibi, Hoosier pulled up his desk chair. Bibi stayed near the door.
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t’ve…I don’t think…I’m sorry.”
Bibi answered. “It’s okay, baby. I know. But you didn’t let me finish. She only went to pack herself a bag and get some things settled at home. She’ll be back tomorrow.”
That should have been good news, but Demon frowned. Tomorrow? How could she get all that done in a day? Why hadn’t she had a bag in the first place? It didn’t make sense. He didn’t know where she lived, but it had to be far away. Out of his reach. She’d had Dante—she’d driven. So…“Where’s ‘home’?”
Bibi didn’t answer right away, so he looked at Hoosier. “Where does she live?”
“You keep a lid on, Deme. I’m not fuckin’ around here.”
Words like that only made him more agitated. They expected him to be pissed. “Where?”
“Venice Beach,” Bibi said.
For a few seconds, Demon’s mind went blank, full of white noise. She was in L.A.? All this time, she’d been fifty miles away? He’d imagined her in New York or London or the fucking Yukon. Mars, maybe. Far away, out of his reach. But she’d been in his back yard. She’d known where he was. She’d been close. And she hadn’t sought him out. Even though her father was gone.
“You knew where she was. All this time?”
Bibi took a couple of steps closer. “She’s only been close again for a year and a half or so.”
“But she knew where I was.”
“Yeah, she did.”
“She doesn’t want to know me.”
“She’s scared, Deme. Just like you.”
“Like me, or of me?”
Hoosier answered that. “Stop it, boy. I’m sick to shit of this drama. You’re not some kind of wild animal. Did you ever hurt her?” Demon opened his mouth to say that yes, getting near her at all had hurt her, but Hoosier waved his hand abruptly. “I’m not talking about all the painful love bullshit. Did your hands hurt her body? Ever? Did you ever lose control around her?”
Not in the way Hoosier was asking, but yes. Every time he was with her, he lost control around her. Demon looked down at his hands in his lap and remembered when there’d been just no more control to be had.
memory
When a new member got his patch, his brothers set out to get him as drunk as they possibly could. Demon was a lightweight, relatively speaking, so they hadn’t had to work very hard.
He didn’t really like being drunk. It made him feel like everything around him was out of time, like it was a parallel universe where everything was almost but not quite right, and time was just slightly out of sync. It confused him; he didn’t totally understand what people were saying or doing.
Like the way his brothers had all been laughing when a couple of girls pulled him out of his pants and started taking turns blowing him in the Hall. Was that a joke? At his expense? He didn’t like being laughed at. And he sure as fuck didn’t like everybody watching that shit. Some guys didn’t mind getting off in the middle of everything, but Demon didn’t like to see it, and he damn sure didn’t like to do it.
Which was why he’d been thrown out of his own patch party, he guessed. Or, at least, told to ‘go outside and cool the fuck off.’
He was just as glad. That had sucked. He’d never had a party in his honor before, and he’d hated it, everybody paying attention to him, fucking with him, like they were trying to make him lose control. Well, mission accomplished.
So, feeling unsteady but capable of walking, he went past the picnic benches, through the lot, and right out of the compound. He didn’t know where he was going, but he went anyway.
He’d walked for a while, deep inside his head, trying to quiet the chaos that too much whiskey had only made louder, when a horn honked on the street at his side. He jumped and stopped, preparing to tell the asshole driver to shove his horn up his ass and to offer to help that happen.
But he was looking at Dante.
Faith leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. “What’re you doing?”
“Walking.”
“To my house?”
“What?”
She pointed up ahead. “This is my street. You’re walking to my house. At twelve-thirty at night. If you’re looking for my dad, he’s at your party.”
“What?” He didn’t feel as drunk as he had when he’d left the clubhouse, but nothing was making sense yet.
She pulled to the curb and parked. Standing on the sidewalk, confused as hell, Demon watched her get out and walk up to him. “Are you okay? Did you walk all this way?”
“All what way?”
“I live about seven miles from the clubhouse. Seven miles through not the best parts of town. You know that. Did you walk from there?”
“I guess.” She obviously thought that was important, but he didn’t know why. So he changed the subject. “How’s Sly?”
Cocking her head, she grinned. “He’s good. I’m not trying to keep him inside anymore. He hates my folks. He’s happier having the run of the neighborhood, I think. He comes in and sleeps with me almost every night, though.”
“Lucky cat.”
Faith gave him a surprised look. She stepped up to him and put her hands on his chest. That felt fucking awesome, even through his kutte, and he put his hands over hers. That felt even better.
“Do you want a ride back to the clubhouse?”
No, he absolutely did not want to go back to the clubhouse and get laughed at again. Or looked at weird. Or yelled at for breaking a table. He didn’t even have his patch sewn on yet, and he was already in trouble. Fuck.
“No.”
“What do you want to do, then?”
He knew exactly what he wanted to do. More than a year, he’d wanted her. He tried to stay away, but she kept showing up in front of him, talking to him, being beautiful and sweet. Since her birthday, he’d managed to keep from being alone with her. But every time he saw her, he wanted her. It was getting harder, not easier.
He was tired of fighting it all the time. So he kissed her. As soon as he did, he knew his fight was lost.
She kissed him back, moving her tongue with his, curling her fists around his kutte. He knew he wouldn’t stop this time. There was too much in his head, too much whiskey still in his snoot, too
much needing to feel okay. The part of him that knew he should stop was almost inaudible.
Almost. He pulled back. “You have to stop me,” he murmured on her lips. “I can’t stop. You have to do it.”
“I don’t want to stop. I want to be with you. I want it so bad.” She looped her arms around his neck, and he lifted her off the ground, clutching her close. They stood like that on the sidewalk, kissing deeply, Demon thinking of nothing at all anymore except his need, feeling her body touching his all the way to her feet. She felt right there. She fit with him.
Shadow & Soul (The Night Horde SoCal Book 2) Page 10