Cain was the toughest motherfucker around but he had a soft spot for me. He was troubled himself, so he didn’t care too much that I was damaged goods. I used to think he took pity on me and that was why he made me a prospect. Truth was, it was unethical for a man in my condition to be a part of something as big as the Satan’s Knights. When it came time to patch me in, some brothers voted against it, they called me a liability. Cain didn’t give a fuck and encouraged the vote to go my way. It wasn’t until the man was on his deathbed that I learned he was my advocate because he saw a younger version of himself in me. He saw the good in me and not the shit that everyone else did.
I lifted the picture frame from my dresser and stared into the eyes of my boy. That’s all I had these days, a fucking lifeless photograph, a captured moment to get me through the rest of my life. No more memories to be made, experiences to be had, nothing but a picture that would wear one day. I would never see my boy look up at me again; never do all the things a father should do with his son.
I grabbed the orange prescription bottle from the dresser and turned toward my bed. I took a swig of the bottle of scotch I had nearly finished and sat at the foot of the bed. My loaded gun right beside me. I stared at the RX label and the one word that could have changed everything.
Lithium.
If I had listened to Connie, and yielded to the warnings, we’d still have Jack. I was too proud to get help; too worried people would think I was a pussy. I was a fucking biker that walked a thin line between right and wrong. I wasn’t some bitch who needed a shrink.
But I was.
I was a manic depressive.
I wasn’t the devil my mother thought I was. I was sick. I was a sick man who never sought treatment for his illness. The same illness that left me in a manic state the night my boy got hit by a car. I should’ve been paying attention to him. I should’ve been on medication.
But I wasn’t.
And he was dead.
It should’ve been me.
I dropped the prescription bottle, watched as it rolled across the carpeted floor and stopped once the door flew open and rolled back toward me. A leather boot stopped it from rolling and I lifted my hazy eyes to take in the man who had now picked up my medicine.
“Get out, Cain,” I growled, looking away and taking another swig of my bottle, my hand closing around the gun as I did.
He stood tall, around six foot three, and was a wall of muscle. He took a few shaky steps in my direction, grabbed onto the dresser to steady himself before his bloodshot eyes pierced me with a glare. He was fucked up. Not an unusual occurrence. Cain liked his drugs, didn’t limit himself to a particular one, shot anything you put in front of him through those veins of his.
We were a lot alike, both of us needed help but only one of us wound up getting it.
“You take your pills today?” he asked, as he leaned against the dresser and crossed his arms against his cut.
“I don’t need no babysitter,” I slurred. “Think I told you to leave, brother.”
“Think I’m the boss around here and I don’t take orders from anyone,” he retorted angrily, pausing for a moment. “What the fuck you doing, Bulldog?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Gonna ask you again, you take your pills?” he questioned hastily, walking toward me and grabbing the photo of my son.
I saw red.
I reached for my picture. He pulled back.
“Give me my fucking son back,” I hollered, lifting my gun and aiming it at him.
“Can’t give you your boy back, Jack. Wish like hell I could,” he replied calmly. He turned around and righted the frame, delicately fixing it so it rested on top of my dresser where it belonged. He turned around and stared back at me. “One more time Jack. Did you take your pills”?
“Yeah,” I ground out, dropping the gun to my side.
I didn’t need anyone to remind me of what I needed to do day after day. The hole in my heart was the reminder, my own personal alarm clock that alerted me every morning to take my medication.
“Good,” he replied, before tipping his chin toward my gun. “You got something happening you want me to rally up the boys for?”
“One-man job, Boss,” I said, shrugging my shoulders and glancing down at the pistol in my hands.
“Why’d you call me here?” Cain asked.
“I need the shit,” I said, lifting my eyes to meet his. He knew what I was asking him but still his eyes questioned mine. “Don’t make me say it.”
“You can’t bring yourself to say it then you ain’t meant to have it,” he retorted.
“The H,” I slurred. “You had your fill, right? Sure you can spare some for a brother in need.”
He stared at me for a moment before taking hold of my arms and turned them over. My gun dropped from my hand as he tugged my sleeves up and exposed my forearms.
“Not a track, not a mark,” he declared, dropping my arms before rolling up his sleeves.
“You want this?” he asked angrily, referencing the tracks that trailed up his arms, a reminder of all the years he shot heroine through his veins. “You got a daughter I reckon you haven’t seen in close to a year. You going to let the next time she sees her daddy be at his funeral?”
“I didn’t ask for your input,” I said, through clenched teeth.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he replied. “Wake the fuck up, man. Yeah, it sucks you lost your boy. It’s a pain no man should ever have to live with but you got a little girl who needs her daddy.”
“She has her mama,” I muttered. “My son has no one. He’s in that ground all by himself,” I stated, my voice trailing off and my throat closing.
“So, that’s the plan? You going to join your boy in his grave?”
That was the plan. He knew it and so did I. The thing was I had no problem pulling the trigger on someone else but I was too much of a coward to take my own life. I tried several times but every time I closed my eyes and lifted the gun to my mouth I saw my daughter’s face.
“Look at me, Bulldog,” he whispered. “You’ll never see your boy grow into a man but do you want to miss out on that beautiful girl of yours too? She’s a looker, Jack, going to have bastards like us banging down her door to get a piece of her. With you gone, no one will be there to filter through the shit and find her the one that deserves her heart.”
I ran my fingers through my hair and diverted my eyes to the ceiling. My tears blurred my vision as his words sliced through me, inflicting doubt where I was sure there was none left.
I tapped my knuckles against the table as I reminisced about the man who saved my life. Cain knew he was living on borrowed time that night, knew it was only a matter of time before the drugs caught up with him. All those years of using, swapping dirty needles and what have you, finally caught up with him and he contracted Hepatitis C. Two years later, Cain was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. The doctors gave him six to eight weeks. He survived two.
I was voted in as president of the Satan’s Knights the same day Cain passed.
I leaned back in my chair, reached into my jeans and pulled out a pack of Marlboros as a knock sounded on the door. I lifted my head as I lit my cigarette and tipped my chin to my vice president, Blackie.
Dominic ‘Blackie’ Petra and I didn’t always see eye to eye. He patched into the Satan’s Knights before me, had done more dealings with Cain and he saw a lot of fucked up shit under his regime. He was loyal to his brothers but didn’t agree with the direction we were heading with Cain as our leader. Cain was big on making money, and we were rolling in the dough for a while. We sacrificed our consciences to pay our bills, dealing dope and selling crack to any sucker begging for a fix. Dominic’s wife was a junkie, married three years and he had no fucking idea she was dipping into his product, feeding her habit at his hand.
When Cain passed, the club not only had to decide on a new president, but whether we should re-evaluate the path our club was on. Drugs had made us a lo
t of money through the years but it cost a lot too. We lost Cain, some of us lost our families and we all lost our dignity.
Cain’s body was barely cold when I propositioned Blackie, promising to clean up the club. I told him we could make it something we could be proud of, to hold our heads up high to be a part of this club. He didn’t hesitate jumping on board and I knew he’d always have my back. He’d be my right-hand and we’d make things right again.
I was diagnosed a manic depressive but I’d be damned if I would let a diagnosis dictate who I was. Sure, some people thought it was a glorified word for crazy and even argued I had no place getting in deep with the Knights, let alone be their leader. I proved all those motherfuckers wrong.
And I’d keep proving motherfuckers wrong.
I was crazy.
But I was in control now. I had a handle on my illness and a good handle on my club.
“Yo,” he said, as he closed the door behind him. “You wanted a word?”
I nodded toward the chair to the right of me and watched as he took his seat.
“Been something on my mind,” I started, flicking my cigarette. “Something I’ve been keeping to myself.”
“You ready to share?” he asked, reaching for my cigarettes and taking one for himself.
“You know about my visit with Victor Pastore,” I continued.
“I know that Riggs is a permanent fixture at Xonerated because he asked you to protect Bianci,” he replied. “Now I know we used to be in bed with Victor, played nice and all that shit but the man is locked up. He’ll probably die in jail and we’ve got a guy sitting on his son-in-law making sure not a hair on his pretty little head is harmed. Not really sure where we’re going with this one. This some good Samaritan bullshit or you cut a deal with the don before he traded his designer suits for prison blues?”
“Vic came to me a couple of months ago with a dilemma. The Fed’s were investigating him. They discovered a body and were putting together a case on him, probably gathering enough shit to put half the organization away. He sent me Bianci…” I continued, only for him to cut me off.
“I remember,” he clipped, leaning forward, eyes set on mine. “You going to tell me where this is going?”
“Danny was the one working the case,” I paused, running my fingers through my hair. It didn’t matter that my brother was dead for months now—the nagging pain never vanished from my gut. I learned a long time ago there was no time limit on grief. I never got over the loss of my son and I wouldn’t get over my brother being murdered. We may not have been close—I may have resented him for not being there for me when Jack Jr. died but he was still my brother. He was still the kid I looked after and shared half my life with. I made peace with my son’s death because it was out of my control. It took a long time and a lot of therapy for me heal.
Danny’s death was different. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t an unfortunate occurrence. It was murder. There was no excuse valid enough for him to be in the ground. I could avenge his death. I could make the bastard who took his life pay because he knew what he was doing. Jimmy Gold was in control when he killed my brother.
“I had Bianci in my pocket. He would let me handle Danny my way. All I had to do was give him my word that the case would die. I could’ve made that happen. I would’ve done it but I was robbed of the chance.”
“Because of the fire,” Blackie said pointedly. “Man, if this is about his house going up in smoke and you putting that blame on yourself…”
“This is about Victor Pastore handing me his underboss on a silver platter,” I interrupted.
Blackie’s eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his chair. I turned around and pulled the manila envelope from the shelf and slid it across the table. He reached for the envelope, keeping his eyes on mine as he opened it and pulled out the contents. He dropped his gaze to the photographs of my brother’s corpse and I looked away. Those images were embedded in my brain, when I closed my eyes, night after night, they haunted me. His body charred, his finger gone.
“Christ,” he hissed, turning the photos over so they were face down.
“Riggs sits outside Xonerated because Victor gave me the proof I needed to kill Jimmy Gold.”
“Whoa, hold it,” he said, drawing in a deep breath. “I’m all about an eye for an eye, you know that, but what you’re talking about is a whole different ball game.”
“I’ve made up my mind, Blackie. No one is going to change it either,” I declared.
“Then why you telling me this?”
“I’m going to take care of that motherfucker with or without the Knights behind me,” I said firmly.
“The fuck you are,” he shouted, shaking his head and crossing his arms against his chest. “You’re talking about taking out a made man, a fucking boss. That shit don’t just happen without consequences. You give Gold what he has coming to him and you bring war to the Satan’s Knights.”
“Dom, you’re not hearing me,” I said as I leaned forward. “This is happening,” I whispered harshly.
He exhaled roughly and ran the back of his hand along his jaw before piercing me with a hard stare.
“Then it happens in a way we’re covered,” he insisted. “Let me sit on it, figure out a way where you get your revenge and we still get to breathe. Pastore didn’t cut you no slack. He gave you a gift man, something he knew you wanted but he knew the rules. Fuck, he had a hand in making them. He knew you’d be fucked if you killed Jimmy now that he’s running the show. He used you to protect his interests. I’m pulling Riggs off Bianci. Let them guinea’s take care of their own.”
“Bianci is good people,” I said.
“Maybe so, but he’s not your brother,” Blackie stated. “Give me time, Bulldog.”
I stared at him for a moment knowing I’d bide my time. I would let him do his thing but I wasn’t going to let him pull Riggs off Bianci. Anthony Bianci may not be a part of the Satan’s Knights but he was a good guy, dealt a shitty hand, and finally has a bit of happiness in his life now. I would not be the guy to take that away from him.
“Riggs stays with Bianci,” I said finally. “You do your digging, find me a way to get the job done,” I glanced at the clock plastered to the wall, stood up and gathered the photos of my brother, shoving them back inside the envelope and tucking it under my arm. “I got someplace I gotta be.”
I felt his eyes follow me toward the door as he muttered a curse. I pulled open the door and glanced over my shoulder, tipping my chin toward the table.
“Oh, and have Bones sand down the table, maybe slap a coat of varnish on the fucking thing while he’s at it.”
“Fucking hell,” Blackie hissed as I walked out the door.
Chapter Two
I heard the engine even before I could turn around and peer out the window, I knew he was there. I watched him as he threw his leg over his bike. He parked right in front of Dee’s Diner; just as he did every night I worked the graveyard shift, which was five nights a week. I didn’t mind the hours, favored them even, the less people coming in and out of this place, the fewer who saw me. But him? He came in every night I worked and he saw me. It was unnerving the way he looked at me, those eyes of his seeing right through my armor, down to the scars that marked my soul.
The bell chimed above the door as his boots scraped across the laminate flooring. I poured him a cup of coffee. He took it black with two sugars. I didn’t lift my eyes, or acknowledge his presence but I knew he parked his ass in his usual seat at the counter.
Five weeks.
Five nights a week.
He came into Dee’s.
Each night I poured him a cup of coffee and slid a menu across the counter.
Each night he pushed the menu back.
I reached behind me and pulled out my pad and pencil. As I kept my eyes focused on the blank ticket I spoke the same words I recited to everyone that came into the diner.
“What can I get you?”
“I’m good for now,” h
e said. I felt his eyes travel over me, pleading with me to lift my head and look at him.
It wasn’t that I had anything against him. I treated all my customers the same. I took their orders and served their food but I didn’t give them anything more. Dee asked me a time or two why I wasn’t more personal with the customers, told me I’d make better tips if I treated them to a smile here and there. I didn’t want to disappoint Dee, nor did I want to lose my job but I wasn’t so sure I knew how to smile anymore.
“Pie,” he said, jolting me from my thoughts. He never ordered anything other than a cup of coffee. It was a shock, an ad lib in a well-rehearsed script and it caused me to lift my head and stare into his eyes.
They were dark brown, almost black, not a spectacular color, not even something that deserved a second glance. Yet, I gasped when I looked into his black irises. Dark eyes that hinted at a dark soul. There was hurt behind those eyes. There was pain.
I wondered if it was his own pain or if it was just mine reflected back at me.
“Cherry,” he added.
I swallowed, tore my eyes from his and tried to focus.
Pie.
It was an uncontrollable force that brought my eyes back to his. His lips twitched slightly as he cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. God, there was something about this man. He was familiar yet he was foreign. I took a minute to take in his features. He had a strong jaw lined with the slightest hint of black and silver scruff. His lips weren’t thin but not quite full, just right and perfectly in tune with the rest of him. His nose was somewhat crooked—probably broke it once or twice and never had it set properly. There were lines at the corners of his eyes and something told me they weren’t from laughter. His dark hair, almost as black as his eyes, had some traces of gray scattered through it. He didn’t appear old, but rather a man who had lived and lived hard.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered and shook my head when I realized I had been staring at him for quite some time. I went from barely glancing at him to ogling him.
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