CHIEF_A Brikken Motorcycle Club Saga

by Debra Kayn

  "Do you need anything while I'm here?" asked Keeffe.

  Johanna. He shrugged any concern about him away. "I've got enough money in my JPay account to get what I need in the commissary."

  "Five minutes left to visit with the prisoners," announced the guard.

  The tension in the other dozen prisoners and their visiting loved ones filled the room. Chief leaned his weight on his forearms. He hadn't been in prison since he was twenty-five years old and spent eighteen months behind bars for aggravated assault.

  He understood what would happen to him next and the direction he'd need to move to make sure he and his men on the inside stayed safe. Members of other motorcycle clubs and gangs would start trying to divide the Brikken members onto sides.

  They would not be separated.

  His refusal would cause fighting and threats. He'd need to watch his back and those of his MC brothers. Most of all, he had to protect his son. He used his reputation to keep him safe, so far. But there would always be some dumb son of a bitch who believed taking out the son would get to him. He wouldn't let that happen.

  Luckily, at the moment, he had a cell to himself. The authorities were trying to keep his influence away from the others.

  A position he preferred.

  "Push Johanna to take care of the women of Brikken." He shifted, and the chain hooking one ankle to the other pulled tight. "Tell the women that they need to look to her for support. She needs to step up as my woman and keep the women in line."

  "She's young, Chief."

  "She's seen how Brikken works practically her whole life. She can handle it. It'll give her something to believe in while I'm away." He lowered his voice. "Don't let down your guard, Keeffe. Komoon fucked us over. I want to know who is responsible for me sitting here."

  Keeffe nodded.

  "Wait two weeks and start up again. We've talked about what I want to happen if Komoon is taken out of the equation." He glanced at the clock. "I want to make them hurt."

  "It'll put a target on your back." Keeffe blew out his cheeks. "They have too many connections here that are in contact with the incarcerated members down south."

  "That's what I’m counting on." He dipped his chin. "Make sure Johanna answers my call on Saturday."

  "Got it."

  "Visiting time is over. Family and friends must stand up from the tables and line up at the door," announced the guard.

  "Be safe, Chief," mumbled Keeffe.

  "I plan on it. Make sure you keep my girl safe." He watched the crowd in the room dwindle down to the dozen prisoners chained to the tables.

  He made eye contact, challenging anyone to start shit with him. Saturday would come in three days, and right now, the only thing that mattered was that he made it to the line waiting to make a phone call.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thorn and D-Con walked out the front door. Johanna stuck out her lower lip and blew away the strands of hair falling in her face. She wished everyone would leave her alone and understand her when she said no, she meant it.

  No matter if her cell phone could go with her. When Chief called, she wanted to be by herself, in the house, with no distractions.

  She shut the door and looked at her phone again. It was already three o'clock.

  Keeffe had promised her cell phone would be able to accept collect calls from prison. All she had to do was say yes.

  Her hands shook. She sat down and put the cell on her thigh, afraid of dropping the phone and missing the chance to hear Chief's voice. Not knowing when he would get his turn to make a call, she'd charged the phone twice and sat beside the wall until the battery was full because she'd been afraid she'd miss the incoming call.

  Leaning over, she snatched the list of rules for talking to Chief in prison. Keeffe told her she didn't have to write them down, but she'd repeated them in her head until it was necessary to write them down so she could see them.

  Don't mention Brikken by name. Say family instead.

  If you talk about other people, use their initials but switch the initials backward.

  Do not discuss Chief's sentence or the verdict.

  Do not ask to come visit.

  Chief's good, so don't ask him how he is doing.

  When you ask him questions, it's easier for him to answer yes or no. Remember, his conversation will be overheard by other prisoners and are recorded.

  Calls only last fifteen minutes and they disconnect automatically.

  Don't cry.

  The last rule Keeffe mentioned at least half a dozen times. Her chest ached, and she rubbed her hand between her breasts. Physically exhausted and emotionally wrecked, she'd acted like a crazy woman over the last three days while waiting for today.

  She put the paper beside her on the couch and rubbed her eyes. He wouldn't even have to talk to make her feel better. All she needed to sustain her was to hear him breathe.

  Her life fell apart when he'd left. Despite trying to find joy in her friends and the club, she couldn't see past the haze that remained when he'd left her. She put on a happy face at work and inside she cried over the injustice of the situation.

  The stress put a toll on her life, and she failed to pull herself out of the depression that overwhelmed her.

  In all her nineteen years, Chief was the only person she hadn't lost. No one had to tell her she had abandonment issues. Before eight years of age, she'd been left with more strangers than she could remember and never knew where she'd wake up or who would be with her. Most of those experiences, she'd blocked from her mind over time, because Chief had swept into her life and promised to never leave her.

  The phone rang.

  She yelped in surprise and picked up the cell. Disappointment clogged her throat. Ashley.

  Even though she had call waiting, she let the ringing continue until the incoming call went to voicemail. With her luck, if she would've talked to Ashley, she would've pushed the wrong button if another call came in and missed out on talking to Chief.

  Silence crawled over her skin making her shiver. The bare walls inside the house irritated her. While she'd lived here with Karla from the ages of twelve to eighteen, Karla had made the house a home. She'd taken the knickknacks, pictures, personal items with her when she'd moved out, of course.

  The furniture, beds, kitchen supplies, and appliances came with the house. That and her meager possessions got lost in the barren house. Thorn, Olin, and a few of the Brikken members moved her in the day after Chief got arrested and she hadn't done anything to make the place hers.

  She couldn't face buying any decorations or new furniture because this was supposed to be her and Chief's home. They should decorate together.

  The wind rattled the screen door. She closed her eyes.

  "Please, call," she chanted over and over until her tongue twisted and the words became unrecognizable.

  Opening her eyes, she looked at the time. "Are you kidding me?" she whispered.

  Only fifteen minutes had gone by.

  Her stomach growled. She ignored the noise. Even if she ate, food only upset her stomach. Lately, she lived off coffee and snickerdoodle cookies. Not her choice of food, but readily available at work.

  The phone rang.

  She jolted and read the screen. Restricted.

  Connecting the call, she said, "Hello?"

  "This is Seattle Penitentiary; will you accept a collect call from inmate... Dean Stanton?"

  Her heart thundered in her chest, unused to hearing someone call Chief by his real name. "Yes. Yes."

  "I'll connect your call."

  Her skin tingled. Nervous about breaking the rules, she held her breath waiting for Chief to say something.

  "Bug?" said Chief in his normal gruff voice.

  "Oh, my God. Yes." Hysteria vibrated her chest. "It's me."

  "Fuck. It's so good to hear your voice." His tone lifted. "We don't have long."

  "I know," she whispered, breathing heavily.

  "I heard you're not taking care of your
self."

  "I'm doing okay."

  "You need to eat and get more sleep," he said.

  "I will."

  She closed her eyes and listened to his voice. He could lecture her for the fifteen minutes they had together as long as he kept talking.

  "You need to quit working. Told you that before and meant it. I don't like hearing that you're not doing what I told you to do. I'm not asking."

  She opened her eyes. "I need to stay busy."

  "Then, you stay busy with family." He paused. "There are things you can do. Ask V.P."

  V.P.? She rubbed her forehead. "Okay."

  She'd figure out later which member had the initials V.P. or P.V.

  "Tell your boss Monday morning, bug."

  "I said okay." She sighed, needing to know more about him. "Are you...sleeping well?"

  God, she had no idea what to ask him. There were too many rules, but she needed to find out if Keeffe told her the truth that Chief was doing okay in prison.

  "I've got a lot of time to sleep. It's all good. They have some bars for pull-ups and sit-ups and shit in the yard, so I get some exercise. Books I can read in my cell."

  "I'm glad you're taking care of yourself. I've..." She grimaced. It wasn't fair of her to tell him she worried about his health and safety. He had enough going on being locked up.

  "Bug?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I've got you taken care of there. You need to trust me and let things ride for a while, but you'll be okay. You need to give it time, and you need to let others be around you. You're not alone. Your friends and family will support you," he said.

  "It's hard," she whispered.

  "But, it'll get easier. Be patient."

  She nodded, realized he couldn't see her and said, "Okay."

  "Can you do something for me?"

  "Yes."

  "Get one of the men to bring over my things to the house. I want you to put them in the bedroom. Take some of the money I have going toward you and redecorate the room."

  She sat straighter. "Like paint the walls?"

  "Paint, furniture, whatever kind of shit you think we'd like. I want that room ours when I return."

  Return.

  Return.

  He was coming back to her.

  If she quit her job, she could work on the room, and when he came home, the bedroom would be perfect. It would be new, and not a reminder of when Karla lived in the house.

  "I can do that," she said.

  "Listen. The call might cut off any minute, and I'll be gone."

  "I know." Her body tensed. "Chief?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Will you think about me?"

  "Every second," he whispered.

  "Me, too. I mean, I think about you all the time. I can't think of anything else. I'll think of something and want to talk to you, and then I forget that I can't pick up the phone or go to...to the family. I dream about you and wish you were beside me when I sleep. Just to hold me, and not let me go. You're not going to let me go, are you? You're going to come back for me, and not forget that I'm here?"

  "Never."

  "Promise?"

  "I love you, bug. Remember that," he said.

  "I love—"

  "Your call has ended," said a female-voiced recording.

  "No." She pulled the phone from her ear and looked at the screen. The word ENDED blurred, and the tears she'd held back all day rolled out.

  Holding the cell to her chest, she careened to the side and laid on the couch and cried for the pain coursing through her. She'd never survive three and a half more years without him. Six months had practically killed her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chief dug into a chunk of nutraloaf using his prison supplied spoon and swallowed the nasty mixture without tasting. He had four more days of looking forward to eating the same damn thing after receiving a two-week punishment for assaulting a guard.

  He would've taken solitary rather than consume this shit.

  "Swallow it down," muttered Leech across from Chief, lifting his spoon, eating the same thing.

  Chief scooped up the last bite. "Yep."

  He licked his spoon clean and rolled it into his sleeve. Along with the nylon plastic spoon, he had been issued a plastic cup he kept in his cell. There was no use trying to melt them down or carve them because the material made it impossible. He'd tried during his first stint in prison when he'd served his sentence in Eastern Washington.

  "You still clinked alone?" Leech cleaned his spoon.

  He lowered his chin. If he planned it right, he'd have his cell to himself for four more months. After that, the guards would get a clue about his intentions and give him more severe punishments than nutraloaf and cleaning the fucking showers.

  He wiped his beard down with his hands. "What happened to Graham?"

  "Caught with a roll."

  "Damn," he muttered.

  Smoking was banned in prison. It was Graham's first incarceration. Their MC brother would learn to quit or be smarter about hiding.

  "Put your trays away and line up," shouted the guard.

  Chief shifted and stood. "Two. Make it loud."

  "Yeah," answered Graham, walking behind Chief.

  Every day they switched the warning code. He was the only Brikken member with a phone hidden in his cell. Graham's cell was first in line on the block and could watch the door, giving him two minutes to get off the phone with Keeffe back at the clubhouse and hide the contraband.

  He slid the tray onto the pile and crossed the room to the door for the stairwell. Keeping his eyes forward, he lined up and waited for the guard to escort them. When the head guard used his radio, Chief looked over his shoulder. The two guards at the rear of the line focused on the prisoners near them.

  Right now, he needed to get to the nurse's room or miss his chance at seeing his son.

  While he had a distraction, he swung his elbow against the cement wall three times, and then lowered his arm, fisting his hand over and over to get the blood flowing.

  The whistle blew signaling the door opening. He walked forward. The wetness on his arm soaked through the material of her orange jumpsuit.

  One of the guards from the rear walked past him. Chief spotted the stairs ahead, his adrenaline pumping. Once on the block, he'd lose his chance.

  "We've got a bleeder," shouted the guard behind him.

  Without giving anything away, he stopped when the others in front of him quit walking.

  "Hold the line." The guard in front walked down the row, his gaze sweeping over each prisoner. He got to Chief and raised the radio to his mouth. "Prisoner #20045 needs an escort to the nurses."

  The guard stepped up to him. "What did you do?"

  "I don't know, sir," said Chief, holding his position.

  "Out of line," shouted the guard.

  Chief stepped around the guard. The door opened at the stairwell and Forteris, a guard, walked in.

  "I'll escort the prisoner." Forteris motioned Chief forward. "Walk."

  He looked forward and strode in the opposite direction from his block. Going through two doors, he entered a long hallway that took him to Block A. Without losing his stride, he said, "Where is he?"

  "Waiting for the nurse. She was called away," said Forteris.

  "Good." He stopped at the last door. "Hit my vice president up, tell him how you helped me, and he'll pay you."

  Forteris never replied. Instead, he ran his security I.D. badge through the checkpoint, and the door automatically swung open.

  "Walk." Forteris stayed beside him halfway down the hallway and stopped in front of a door.

  Chief waited while the guard gained entrance into the nurse's room. Then, he walked inside and sat on the stretcher. Forteris handcuffed him to the bed before walking out.

  When the door closed, he waited thirty seconds to make sure the room was clear and said, "Son?"

  "I'm here."

  Ten feet from his boy, unable to see him behind the hanging curta
in, Chief closed his eyes briefly. It'd been over six months since he'd watched the Feds take Jett away. Not even twenty-five years old, Jett got an eighteen-month sentence.

  Refusing to ask if his son was okay, he kept it light, giving Jett what he needed. Support to stay strong for his remaining time.

  "Who's in your cell?" he asked.

  "Guy named P-Jones," said Jett.

  He knew of him. A big black guy in his mid-sixties incarcerated for a ten-year sentence for assault with a deadly weapon. A straight shooter who usually stayed out of trouble.

  "Does he know who your old man is?"

  "He's mentioned it, though I never told him," said Jett. "He's decent."

  "Don't rely on him. You do your own thing. Don't let others get to you. You'll do okay." He pulled against the restraints and gave up when he wasn't getting anywhere. "There's a guy on your block named Wilkerson. If he approaches you, stand up to him. I don't care if it lands you in the hospital, you beat the shit out of him."

  "He's in solitary." Jett exhaled loudly. "I've got five of the family with me."

  Chief swallowed. "Good."

  "You okay, Chief?" asked his son.

  "Yeah. Don't worry about me." He watched the door. The nurse would be in any minute. Forteris couldn't hold her off for long. "What did you do to get here?"

  "Headbutted the fucking wall." Jett chuckled. "The nurse was getting ready to put in some stitches when she left. I've got blood dripping down my damn nose."

  Chief allowed himself to grin. Hearing about Jett made the last six months bearable. Having raised three sons, he'd had Doc—a retired member of Brikken—at Karla's house almost weekly stitching up kids or setting broken bones.

  "What did you do?" asked Jett.

  "Elbowed a wall." He chuckled. "I'm too damn old to mess up my face."

  His son laughed softly.

  Several minutes passed in comfortable silence. Having his boy in the same room with him probably did more for him than Jett.

  "Chief?" asked Jett.

  "Yeah?"