Dream & Dare

by Susan Fanetti

  Blue gave half a chuckle. “They were fine. Oughta put ‘em both to work, they spend so much time out here.”

  “That’s fine, son. Where’s your mom?”

  “Auntie Beebs and Mommy took the big girls to get a matty-patty. Mommy said I couldn’t come because I’m too little and I just ruin my nails anyway.” She held up her grimy hands to show her nails. “That’s okay. I had fun here.”

  ‘The big girls’ were eight-year-old Serenity, as well Vulture’s two youngest, who were still at home, in middle and high school: Ashley and Katie. Hoosier knew why Bibi and Margot had taken Vulture’s girls out, and it was probably for the best.

  “Well, I’m glad you had fun. You and Connor clean up now, though.” He turned his attention to his son. “Then I want you to go out to the showroom and tell the girl there…” He paused, trying to remember her name; she was new.

  “Ember,” Blue filled in. “That’s Ember.”

  “Ember. Go out to Ember. Tell her I said to keep an eye on you.”

  Connor’s expression soured. “I can watch out for Faith, Dad. I don’t need a dumb sweetbutt to watch us.”

  He wasn’t so proud his son was emulating the men in that way. “Don’t question me, boy. Do as I say.”

  Connor’s eyes flared, and then he nodded. Hoosier set Faith down and looked at Blue. “He’s gone.”

  Blue sighed and hung his head. “Dammit. Guess you’re saved from makin’ waves, then.”

  Vulture had had a heart attack on a side road and dropped his bike at sixty miles an hour. Tough old bastard had held on for almost a week, but he’d died earlier that afternoon, with his two grown daughters at his side.

  Becka and Maggie had sent their younger sisters away from the hospital, deciding that seeing their father that way was too upsetting. Hoosier hadn’t agreed, he thought the whole family should be there to say goodbye, but he hadn’t interfered.

  His attention had been on the club. They were deep in talks with a new supplier. He, Fat Jack, and Vulture had been riding back from a complicated and unsatisfying meet when Vulture had fallen.

  For a while, the doctors had thought he might live. When they’d started talking about long-term care, Hoosier had sat Blue down and asked what he thought about Hoosier taking the gavel. Not temporarily, but permanently: a clear sign to their business associates that the club was stable.

  Vulture was beloved, though, and a move like that would have seemed cold, maybe even disloyal, especially since Hoosier wasn’t the club VP. Fat Jack was. Hoosier was SAA. But Jack didn’t want the gavel, and he’d already told Hoosier that if Vulture didn’t make it, he wouldn’t step in. He liked to be at the right hand, not at the head. Hoosier had agonized over the decision, but he knew it was the right call. Because he was loyal. To the club first, to Vulture after that.

  But the decision had been taken out of his hands. Vulture had not survived.

  Their mess tidied, Connor took Faith’s hand and led her out of the shop.

  Wiping his hands on a shop towel, Fat Jack stepped up from the loose semi-circle of brothers that had formed. “Grim news?”

  Hoosier turned. “Yeah. Vulture is gone.” Though none of them was surprised, all the men paused, their heads down, and took a beat for their boss. Then Hoosier looked up and got back to business. “Dusty and Jazz are on their way back. Max, call everybody else in. Jack, Blue, you’re with me. Chapel in thirty. We’ll mourn him, we’ll send him off right. But we can’t lose focus. Let’s get the business he wanted done done. That’s how we honor him.”

  ~oOo~

  Vulture had been an original club member, and his funeral was a massive affair, with contingents from every charter across the globe in attendance. So complex were the arrangements that it was nearly three weeks before they buried him.

  Hoosier had never been prouder of his old lady.

  From the moment he’d taken this patch, Bibi’s attitude about MC life had been different. She had preferred to steer clear of the Blades, and Hoosier had never begrudged her. The Blades clubhouse was not a family place, and the Blades girls were not family-friendly.

  And here, once again, only he and Blue had had old ladies, and Bibi might have stayed away again. Vulture’s wife was dead. Jazz and Max were divorced. No one else had marked a woman. These men were more violent, on the whole, than the Blades. They were willing to go to any length in service of the club. And the club itself, as a whole, was bigger, badder, rougher. The patch now on Hoosier’s back was infamous, and for good reason, and people made way.

  There was safety in that alone.

  The vibe in the L.A. charter was different from other charters, and different even from the Desert Blades. The men were different. Where Chuck had been hostile to the idea of his men having families of their own, Vulture had been concerned that his men didn’t. He believed that men who only exercised their darkness became unpredictable and even disloyal. He’d welcomed Bibi warmly, as he’d welcomed Margot.

  So Bibi and Margot had decided that the clubhouse was a blank slate where women were concerned, and they’d moved right on in, bringing the kids with them. Bibi had found her big family. It wasn’t what she’d imagined for herself, but it gave her what she needed.

  They’d instituted evening meals and morning snacks, so that the clubhouse always had people coming in and out, looking for food, and finding fellowship with it. Patches started living in the dorm, where the good food was. The girls became more than maids and sex toys. They started hanging out together, too. Those who had kids found that their little ones were welcome in the clubhouse until the night hours.

  It was strange and wonderful to walk into a MC clubhouse and see kids running around.

  It wasn’t long before his brothers, the Prospects, the girls—everyone—were all seeking Bibi out. For advice. For a kick in the pants they knew they needed. For a shoulder. A hug.

  Maybe a year after he’d taken the patch, about the time that Vulture asked him to take the SAA seat, Hoosier looked around and realized that his old lady had changed the whole culture of the charter. Already it had been one of the saner, stabler charters, with good men seeking only to make a decent life and willing to do bad things if they had to, but now patches were settling down. Finding women. What Vulture had wanted.

  The very first thing she’d done, before Hoosier had had his patch even a month, was refuse to take the traditional club ink for old ladies: a smaller version of her old man’s scorpion club tat. Bibi had refused flat out to put a ‘bug’ on her body. Her assertion had raised every eyebrow in the clubhouse—and beyond it, all the way to Jacksonville, Florida and the mother charter.

  Margot already had Blue’s scorpion; Blue would never have let her fuss about it. But Hoosier wasn’t about to force ink on his woman. As far as he was concerned, she had his ink. She wore his name on her chest. There were no other old ladies but her and Margot, so Vulture only laughed and nodded his head in concession.

  Since that day, three other women in the LA charter had been marked. And they and their men had decided what ink would mark them. The new attitude, only in this charter, was that the claiming was strictly between the couple, and the club respected the claiming.

  Also since that day, Bibi had been queen of the clubhouse, even before Hoosier had worn an officer’s patch.

  She mothered everybody, even Vulture, giving everybody something they needed, taking care of them all. And that was what she’d needed. She was happy.

  Reminiscing over those years, how he’d seen her bloom fully and shake off old hurts, Hoosier watched her manage Vulture’s wake. With the help of Margot, the other old ladies, and the sweetbutts—known throughout most of the club as P.O.T.s—Bibi was keeping everyone fed and watered, doling out hugs and kind words where needed, and keeping careful, loving track of Vulture’s daughters.

  He took the President’s flash from his kutte pocket. The transition had been smooth and without controversy; it wouldn’t have been while Vulture had lived. If he
had made the move to set Vulture aside, there would have been conflict about it.

  Hoosier thought maybe this was the last help Vulture had offered him—stepping down on his own in this way. The man had been a stalwart friend and mentor, even when Hoosier had turned his back on the life. He’d offered a safety net and a home, and he’d stood steady while Hoosier worked his way back. And now he’d stepped down.

  He would be sorely missed.

  “Can I see?”

  Hoosier looked at his son, who was already nearly as tall as he was. A few more inches and they’d be eye, and Connor wouldn’t be near done growing. He’d been a big baby; it appeared he’d be a big man someday, too.

  “Sure.” He handed over the patch. “Lot of responsibility comes with that little piece of cloth, son.”

  “It’s so white.”

  “It’s work that darkens it and roughens it up. I gotta earn the wear.”

  “I want to earn it, too.” Connor smoothed his thumb over the embroidery.

  “Let’s see what you think when you’re older. This is no easy way to go.”

  “But you like it.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Hoosier chuckled dryly. “Yes, I do. It’s what I know, where I belong. But you’re not me. And you’re too young to be choosin’ your life. Give it time.” He held out his hand.

  Shaking his head, Connor handed back his President’s patch. “No, I already know. I want to be club. Maybe even President someday. Like you. I want to be like you.”

  Feeling a potent infusion of pride and love and worry, Hoosier reached out and pulled his boy into a one-armed hug. “You’re a good boy, Connor. I love you.”

  “Dad…” Connor cast a furtive glance around the room, no doubt feeling pubescent awkwardness at this show of affection.

  Hoosier hugged him tighter. “I know. But a man who can’t say what he’s feeling’s no real man. You remember that, son. A good man’s not closed off from the people he loves, no matter how tough he is.”

  Connor stopped resisting and hugged him back.

  ~oOo~

  “You’re a g-good…man, son. Love…you.”

  Bibi had been saying something; he’d missed it and interrupted her. Hell, maybe he’d missed a lot of the wedding talk, because now his wife, his son, and his daughter-in-law-to-be were all staring at him, shocked. Fuck. He’d been lost in that memory and had piped up out of the blue, like a senile old man.

  He focused on Connor, who looked him right in the eyes, his expression changing from surprise to serious consideration—not worry, but respect. “Thank you, Dad. I love you, too.”

  “I’m… …” He couldn’t think of the word he wanted, and he cast about in his stupid, slow, worn-out mind. When he did this, searched for a word to complete a sentence, the image behind his eyes was of being in a room full of files. When he was upset or under pressure, he ransacked the room, throwing papers everywhere. But when he focused and read the tags on the drawers, he could be methodical and find what he needed.

  Kirby, his speech therapist, had given him the image. When he’d seen Hoosier flailing and getting furious, he’d said, You’re going through your memories like you’re looting the joint. That’s not how we find what we need. Your brain needs order. Calm down and find where the word belongs. Find the context, and you’ll find the word.

  It was easier to be calm when he didn’t have such a big audience for his failure.

  Mother of hell, Hoosier hated this shit. It would be easier to be like Margot. She had forgotten what she’d forgotten. Bibi had told him—Margot no longer knew what she’d lost. He was sitting here knowing what was wrong, what was missing.

  He shook his head, knocking away those ill thoughts. No. He was getting better. His progress had impressed everyone. They were even sending him home soon. So he tried again, while they all waited. Bibi wouldn’t let anybody finish his sentences; she knew how he hated that. “I’m…” He had it. “Proud. Proud of you.”

  Connor’s face split into a grin. “Thanks, Dad.”

  He turned to Pilar. “He’s…a good man. He’ll take…good care.” It wasn’t a fraction of what he wanted to say to this young woman. He wanted to tell her what it had meant to him to put leather on his son’s back, what it meant that his son was such a good and loyal brother. He wanted to tell her how Connor had always taken care of Serenity and Faith, and of his mother, to tell her how serious and sensitive he was, under that casual mask he always wore. He wanted to know that Pilar would give his son the family he wanted. He wanted to know that she would take care of him, that she would support him through hard times, even when those hard times touched her.

  He wanted to know that she loved him enough.

  But those words were too many and too much. The emotion they carried would let a tornado loose among his files.

  So when Pilar smiled and put her hand on Connor’s face, then turned back to him and said, “I know. And I’m going to take care of him, too,” Hoosier decided that that was enough.

  FOURTEEN

  “Mommy! Mommy!”

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Hoosier turned as Tucker came in through the back door. The boy looked upset, or at least headed in that direction. Fuck. Demon was at the shop, Bibi was out with Pilar, and Faith was in the shower while Lana napped. He was going to have to handle this. Fuck.

  He waved Tucker over. “Mommy’s in the…shower, Tuck. Some-thing…wrong?”

  Tucker eyed him skeptically. He’d been away from his family for a long damn time, and he hadn’t seen much of the kids who thought of him as their grandfather. He was going to have to rebuild Tuck’s trust.

  “Sly’s sleeping in the yard, and he won’t wake up. The chickens are kissing him but he won’t wake up.”

  Oh, holy hell. Had that old bastard of a cat finally cashed it in? Hoosier sighed and cast a longing glance down the hall toward the master bedroom, where Faith was. Could he wait, and let her deal with this?

  No. No, he absolutely could not. “Okay…Tuck.” He grabbed his and stood up. “Show me.” He held out his free hand, and his grandson led him back outside.

  Faith and Demon had quite the menagerie, with chickens and goats and cats and a big goofy dog. The dog herded the kids, and Sly, the biggest, oldest cat, herded everything else, including the chickens. Hoosier saw where they were going long before he and Tucker made their slow way across the yard; not far from their coop, a cluster of hens was fussing over a dark lump under a bush.

  Fucking hell.

  The chickens scattered when he and Tuck arrived, but they didn’t go far. Tucker squatted and put his hand on a furry black haunch, shaking gently. The body moved stiffly.

  “Wake up, Sly?” It was a question instead of an instruction, and Hoosier wondered if maybe the sensitive four-year-old sensed the truth.

  Hoosier made his way to his knees and checked for himself. Sly’s body was cold and stiff. Jesus. This old guy meant the world to Faith and Demon. And to the little guy squatting at his side right now.

  “Aw, Tuck. Buddy, Sly’s not…not…gonna wake up.”

  He turned worried blue eyes up. “Why not? Is he sleepin’ like you did? You woke up, Gramps.”

  “Yeah…I did. Sly’s…different.” Damn, it was hard to find the words. “He went to…kitty heaven.”

  He knew Tucker’s parents weren’t religious and weren’t teaching their kids about God, but Hoosier didn’t know what else to say. He himself had been raised Catholic, and though it had been many long years since he’d knelt in prayer, he still believed, he guessed. But this wasn’t about any kind of religious belief. He was just trying, in his broken, halting way, to tell a little boy a story that wouldn’t seem so sad.

  “But he’s right here.” Tucker stroked the black fur.

  Fuck. Even if his words had worked perfectly, he still wouldn’t have known how to do this. They’d never gotten Connor a pet. First, he’d been too much of a handful on his own, and then they’d all been too busy for a dog. An
d Hoosier was allergic to cats—he was taking shots to be able to stay here now.

  Vulture had been the first death he’d ever had to talk to Connor about.

  Faith would have to do the talking, because he just didn’t have the words. Needing to get up off his knees, he used his cane to lever himself back to his feet. “You’re right… …I…don’t…have words to… …explain. Mommy will. Come.” He held out his hand, and Tucker regarded it for a moment, and then turned back to the cat.

  “He’s cold. He needs a blanket.” Standing, he ran off, and Hoosier stood and watched as he climbed onto the picnic table so he could reach to pull a dish towel off the clothesline. He brought it back and covered Sly with a towel patterned with daisies, and he tucked it all around his body, leaving his head uncovered.