Brute: The Valves MC

by Faye, Carmen

  I climbed out of my bed slowly and carefully, fearing the oncoming nausea that was inevitable, and when nothing happened, I took a moment revel in the fact that I didn’t feel sick for the first time in several days. Then, I marched with slow determination toward the bathroom. I needed to shower. I’d feel more alive when I was clean.

  I was hungry, but I wasn’t going to satisfy my appetite and risk bringing back the morbid illness that had kept me down for so long. I would let myself recover fully and feed myself when I was sure it would be safe, when I couldn’t hold out any longer. I dressed in simple clothes, loose and comfortable – my favorite yoga pants and a soft, long-sleeved t-shirt would be fine for my intentions, which involved nothing more than drawing up my courage to speak to Dawson.

  Before I called, I had to decide whether I wanted to be on my turf or his. My house was my solace, and I would feel more solid and confident here, in whatever I had to say or do. But it would be easier to end the conversation if it got heated or if Dawson wasn’t ready to back down from some argument or plea if I went to his place. I had a hard time with the idea of throwing him out, but I could readily march out of his house any time I wanted and not look back.

  Six of one, half a dozen of the other, right? I decided to let Dawson tell me where he wanted to talk. Before I could talk myself out of it, I dialed his number. It went to his voicemail, and I was about to leave a message when my call waiting beeped. I answered his callback instantly. “Hello?”

  “Sorry I missed the call, ba…Mari.” He was going to call me ‘babe’ and stopped himself. I winced. I hadn’t wanted things to come to this, ever, and I hated myself for what I had to do. “I was on the other line with my mother.”

  I wondered if he’d told his mother what he planned to do, and why. I wondered, actually, how much the woman really knew about his life. I didn’t ask. “It’s all right. You told me to call.”

  “Did you go to the doctor?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer immediately. I didn’t want to lie. Finally, I said, “I think I had food poisoning or something. I took a nap and I feel better now.” Weak and tired still, but not nauseated. Anything was an improvement at this point. “Do you still want to talk?”

  “Yes.” His tone changed, from worried to despondent. “Are you up to eating? I can make lunch.”

  I chuckled softly, not feeling the humor. “Thanks, but I doubt I could handle anything more solid than soup or tea.”

  “Then soup and tea it is. Give me twenty minutes, okay? I haven’t showered yet. I’ve been…busy.” There was the cryptic tone I had grown to hate, silently whenever possible. I gritted my teeth against it, no longer feeling I had the right to come down on him or beg for full disclosure.

  Instead, I said, “That’s fine. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” I hung up and silently watched the clock on the wall as the seconds ticked by. It became almost hypnotic, soothing, and my heartbeat synced with the ticking. After fifteen minutes, I stood and went to my room, grabbing socks and sneakers from my closet. I sat on the bed and pulled them on, glancing at the time again. It had only taken two minutes.

  I decided to take some aspirin, my head throbbing suddenly, and by the time I swallowed that, it was time to walk over. I didn’t bother locking the door, and I didn’t carry anything with me. What was the point? I lifted my hand to knock, but the door opened, and Dawson stood there in a tight t-shirt, jeans slung low on his hips, and mussed wet hair. His tattoos glistened, his skin still damp from the shower, and my mouth went dry. In that moment, I thought my nausea would have been preferable. At least I wouldn’t have debated calling a truce long enough to get my fix.

  He smiled tensely and stepped aside to let me in without a word. He closed the door and, as I stood in the entry by the kitchen, he swept past me, motioning for me to follow. I balled my hands into fists and pulled my cardigan tighter around me, suddenly very cold, though it was toasty and comfortable in his house. I saw the table set with bowls of steaming soup and hot tea. The lemon juice was next to my serving, and I smiled. Dawson always thought of everything.

  But there was something else on the table, and I frowned. The manila folder, a pen resting on top of it, looked very formal, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what was inside. Clearly, it was for me, but what was it? “Have a seat,” he said finally, and he pulled out my chair like some classic gentleman.

  He didn’t take a seat until I was settled, and I teased, “Is that where you were this morning? Taking lessons on chivalry?”

  He returned my attempt at humor with one of his own, though his expression held about as much mirth as that of an executioner for the wrongly accused. “No, I learned that from my mother, who just reminded me earlier that I should act like a gentleman from time to time. Whoever said chivalry is dead hasn’t met my mother and her determination to keep it alive.”

  I forced a chuckle and tasted the soup. Its warmth going down felt nice, and my stomach seemed quite pleased that I was actually putting something of value into it. “Thank you for lunch. I haven’t had an appetite in days.”

  He nodded. “It’s the least I can do, under the circumstances. Are you sure you’re feeling better?”

  I wasn’t sure it would last, but I nodded honestly. “I slept, took a shower, and suddenly, I could breathe without feeling sick. It’s a miracle.” I took a few more bites and sipped at my tea, but I didn’t want to drag this out all afternoon. It was my M.O., and I had to change that about myself. I needed to be more assertive as a person, as a mother, and not just when thing got too difficult to handle otherwise, the way I had at work. “You wanted to talk, Dawson. What about?”

  He looked away, not meeting my eyes. “I have some business to take care of with you. And I wanted to straighten out a few things, now that you know…what kind of person I’ve been.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Before you say anything, I want to reassure you that, whatever things you’ve done, they’re in the past. You can’t change them, and you’re working to atone for any damages you’ve caused. I believe you’re a good man in a bad situation, Dawson, and you need to believe that, too. Because it doesn’t matter what happens next. There will come a time that you’ll need to be here for Ginger, and if you keep kicking yourself for everything that it’s too late to fix, you won’t be able to take care of her when that time comes.”

  It took a lot of strength and determination to get through that speech, and my heart wrenched as I said it. I knew it was as much my forgiveness to him for what he’d hidden from me and the danger he’d put us all in as it was a reassurance that I believed in him.

  “Thank you, for saying that,” he grumbled quietly. He lifted his hand, slid it across the table, and I thought he was reaching for mine. But I couldn’t be sure, since he drew it back almost instantly. Relief and disappointment battled inside as I thought about how nice it would be to touch him, or to have him touch me, even in such a chaste manner.

  He took a deep breath and said, “I want you to know everything about how Ginger came to me. And I want you to know how important it is she never finds out about it.”

  I stared at him, blinking. He’d told me what happened to her father. I didn’t think there was anything else to it, but, apparently, I was wrong. I hadn’t been prepared for this sort of sad story, and I had to brace myself. Deliberately, I picked up my tea and wrapped my hands around the hot cup, partly to keep them warm and partly so they didn’t shake as bad as I told him, “I’m listening.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  Taking a deep breath, Dawson began what I could tell was going to be a very long, detailed, and personal story. “Ginger’s father used to be part of the Valves.”

  I sucked in a breath. Here, I’d thought he was one of the people they’d been extorting money from, or maybe a rival gang member. This was news and he glanced at me, at my reaction.

  But I screwed up my determination to hear him out without judgment and nodded for him to continue. Startin
g again, he said, “His name was Virgil, and he was sort of like a preacher in the way he addressed the club and our business, always sounded like he was giving a sermon. So, we called him Dante, like the writer. It pissed him off, but he let it go. So, Dante had been seeing a chick for a while, and they had a kid together. Right around that time, one of our rivals claimed we’d gone into their territory, blamed Dante as our second in command.”

  He closed his eyes, and I readied myself for something painful, based on the strain in his expression. When he opened his eyes, his voice was strong, harsh, and bitter. “They decided to teach Dante and the Valves a lesson. His girl – I don’t know her name, he didn’t really bring her around – had gone home from the hospital to get the nursery ready for when the baby came home the next day. And a group from the other gang broke in. They raped her, beat her, and killed her. They probably would have killed the baby, too, if she’d been there.”

  “That’s awful,” I said, choking on the horror of the story.

  He nodded, and his eyes registered the agony of retelling all of this like it was yesterday. “Dante was alone now, and he had an infant daughter. He started to back away from our business, and it raised questions until he finally said he wanted out. He swore himself to silence about the club, said he was moving out east to live with his mother where he would have help raising the baby. But on a vote, the Valves decided they wanted to keep an eye on him for a while. So, they insisted he stay local and pay his own monetary dues. It was about trust, they said, and he agreed, as long as he and his daughter could live their lives in peace.”

  He rubbed his forehead, and I sipped at my tea, trying to calm my nerves. He continued in a strained voice, “A few months later, a couple of the guys said that the cops had been snooping around Dante’s place. We were keeping an eye on him, trying to make sure he wasn’t going to turn on us to gain his freedom. By this point, I’d taken his place as Buster’s second, and I was sent to take care of the problem. I told Buster I didn’t think there was a problem, and he told me that was fine. But if I found any evidence that he’d spoken to the cops, I had to put him down.

  “It made me nervous. I hadn’t killed anyone, and I certainly didn’t want to kill a man I had always respected. I was used to putting pressure on people, leaning on them and threatening them to get money. I made the mistake of taking a couple of guys with me, in case things got rough. So, we got to Dante’s house, and I started asking him questions. He denied any involvement with the police, said he’d turned them away every time they’d tried to question him. I believed him, but the other two guys didn’t. They started tearing his house apart, looking for listening devices and I don’t even know what else. It woke the baby up, and Dante went to grab her.”

  He sniffled, and I could feel the ache in his chest already mirrored in my own. “One of the guys shouted that Dante had a gun, and I pulled mine. I swear, when he lifted his arm, I thought he was leveling a pistol at me, and I aimed and shot, got him right through the head. He fell, and I ran to grab the baby. When I looked down at his body, I saw what was in his hand. It was just the baby’s teddy bear.”

  My heart lurched, and I couldn’t breathe. I knew there were tears on my cheeks, but I couldn’t stop them. It was all too much, especially as I watched Dawson try to control his own emotions. “The other guys freaked out,” he said in an unsteady voice. “They started arguing, drew guns. One of them shot the other, and when he realized what he’d done, he shot himself. I just…stood there with an infant screaming in my arms, surrounded by blood and dead men.” He pushed his fingers into his eyes, like he thought he might be able to push the image away if he blinded himself. We both knew it wouldn’t work; the image was ingrained in his mind, not his eyes.

  I had such a tight hold on my teacup I thought I might shatter it, so I set it down and drew my cardigan tighter around me. I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to comfort him but because I didn’t know how. It was a nightmare that, even though I hadn’t been present, I knew would haunt me. I couldn’t imagine what it had done to Dawson.

  He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “I called Buster when I remembered how to dial, and I don’t know what I said. I just remember screaming into the phone. He brought some cleanup guys, and I don’t even know how they took care of things. When they showed up, I went to the nursery with the baby girl, and this utter calm came over me as I sat and rocked her back to sleep. With everything going on in the other room and how loud everyone was, it was like being in a bubble. I laid her in the crib and started gathering diapers and clothes and everything she would need.”

  His anger replaced the regret on his face. “I packed up every bag I could find, and when Buster tried to stop me from taking it all, I nearly clocked him. It was my fault she didn’t have a father, but it was his fault we’d gone after Dante in the first place. I told him I didn’t care if he wanted to shoot me right then and there, as long as he made sure the baby was taken care of, but I refused to kill anyone else, ever again. He got out of my way, and I took the sedan Dante had traded his bike for and left with the baby.

  “It took a few weeks, but Buster had some contacts, and we got all the paperwork drawn up for the adoption process. And Ginger was mine. It didn’t take nearly as long for the no-kill rule to get instated.” He met my gaze with fiery intent and said vehemently, “I will never let anything happen to Ginger, Mari, and I need to know that I trust you to be just as cautious and determined.”

  I would have taken a bullet for her, and I told him as much. “I will stand between her and anyone who threatens her in any way, Dawson. She’s like my own daughter. You know that.”

  “I do.” He touched the folder now, pushing it and the pen toward me. “But I want more than that.” I frowned, confused, and he pointed to the folder. “I want to make sure no one can take her from you, and no one but you can make the decisions that need to be made for her while I’m gone.”

  My fingers trembled as I reached for the folder, and when I opened it, I stared at the official, legal documents inside. “Dawson…”

  “It’s not what you think,” he stopped me. “I could have given up my rights as a parent, and I thought about it. But I chose to give you custodianship instead. It gives you the same control without negating me from her life. When I get out of prison, we can file more paperwork that transfers the responsibility back to me. Or we can share it.” He said the last with a hopeful tone, but I didn’t know what to think.

  “This is a lot to take in, Dawson. I know we talked about this, and I told you I was calling CPS to get custody, but I’m not going to do that to the two of you. I can’t truly take her from you.”

  “You’re not. Like I said, we can make arrangements when I’m finished with all of this.”

  I swallowed, the ominous cloud of his departure making me feel sick again. “How long are you going away? I don’t know that any of this is actually necessary, if it’s as short a time as you say.”

  But he shook his head. “I would want this if it was just a month or two, Mari. I can’t risk losing her forever, and that is something you can help me with. It’s just a signature, and there’s no other difference in our original arrangement.”

  The tears came fresh and hot, and I asked in a whisper, “How long?”

  He leaned back and folded his hands in front of him on the table. His grim expression did nothing to help ease my mind. “The DA offered five years, three with good behavior. Plead guilty to second degree manslaughter, and all the other charges would be dropped, if I gave them everything I knew.”

  “Five years?” I choked. We’d been talking about a year, maybe two. I didn’t need a calculator to tell me that Ginger would be graduating elementary school by the time he was free. “That’s forever, Dawson!”

  “Not really,” he said with a rueful grin. “It’s gone by really damn fast with Ginger.” His smile faded. “I’m waiting to hear back from the DA’s office, though. I explained the sit
uation, told them about having adopted Ginger and having demanded that no one else be killed. And I asked them to bring it down to three. Wait!” he said quickly before I could tell him that was almost as bad. “I know it sounds like a long time. But with three years, I can easily be out in eighteen months on good behavior. Even with five years, I could be out in maybe two years, tops. I know how to keep my head down and not make any noise. I’ll be a model citizen.”

  Now, he came around the table and knelt in front of me, taking both my hands in his. I didn’t fight him. My stomach was churning again, and I felt weaker than before, now that even more weight had been added to the load I was carrying. But the warmth of his hands on mine sparked a need in me that I’d been trying to deny. I had been so concerned with how Ginger would handle losing her father that I hadn’t thought about how I was going to handle not having him around. This was the sort of upheaval that destroyed people.