Jace

by Jessie Cooke

  “How much do you know about Angel?”

  “Fuck you!” Dax had murder in his blue eyes.

  “Man, don’t get pissed. I’m not accusing her of anything…”

  “Bullshit! That’s fucking exactly what you’re doing.”

  “Okay, maybe I am,” Handsome said with a shrug. He was a brave son of a bitch, Jace thought, or stupid. “I like Angel, I do. But don’t you think it’s strange how this shit happens not long after she shows up? I mean, you said it yourself that none of us would have talked to the cops…”

  “Shut your fucking mouth. This wasn’t Angel.” Dax clenched his fist at his side and Jace knew that posture well. Dax wanted to slam it into Handsome’s head.

  Handsome put his hands up. “Okay, man. I’m sorry.”

  “Fuck you,” Dax said again. He drained the new glass of whiskey that Mikey had set in front of him and took out his phone. He dialed a number and after a minute the phone ended up on the floor with the last glass and the blue liquor from the shelves. Then he just sat there, next to Handsome, and they both stared at the wall while the rest of them waited. For what, Jace didn’t know. He sat there and wrestled with whether or not he should talk to Dax about Bobby’s heading him off before everything went down. Bobby was probably just being protective because he was new, and Jace had been told by Dax to follow the patched brothers’ orders to the letter, but still, he couldn’t help wondering if Bobby would be in the hospital and on his way to prison if Jace had stuck by him. He was smart enough, once he swam through the guilt he was wallowing in, to look at Dax and know that now was not the time.

  It was close to midnight when Dax left. The rest of them stayed there in the bar, sleeping in the booths, or just with their head on a table, buried in their arms. Jace fell asleep a few times, waking up in a panic each time after dreaming about Carly taking Rosie away and never letting him see her again. The last time he jerked himself awake, the sun was beginning to stream in through the dirty windows of the bar. He was headed to the men’s room to wipe the sleep out of his eyes when Handsome said, “I just spoke to the ranch and then Dax––we can head back.”

  There was a collective sigh of relief. The men gathered their few things, thanked Mikey for all he’d done for them, and headed down to the barn to get their bikes. Jace couldn’t wait to get into bed and at least close his eyes for a few hours. Then he’d try the old man again and see if he was willing to team up to stop Carly. They were saddling up when Handsome received his third phone call of the morning. Jace didn’t know who was on the other end, but when he watched the color drain from Handsome’s face, he knew it was more bad news. Handsome ended the call and said, “The Sinners just raided the ranch. They shot Bruce at the gate…Hawk shot Bruce, that motherfucker.” Jace sighed and waited for Handsome to tell them what to do. He didn’t think he’d get that three hours of rest or have time to talk to the old man again. The only thing he did know for sure was that it was bound to be another long-ass day.

  After the Sinners hit the ranch and killed Bruce, they all seemed to disappear. Jace hung around for three days, helping with the funeral preparations for the guys they’d lost, and then he headed back to Connecticut. He had to get back to work, but most importantly he still had to figure out how to deal with Carly. He was elbow-deep in grease the first day he got back, trying to catch up on things that had fallen behind while he was gone, when he got a surprise phone call. He looked at it twice before he believed the old man was actually calling him back.

  Cautiously he said, “Hello?”

  “You in New Haven?”

  “I’m at the shop.”

  “Meet me at that coffee shop in front of the mall in an hour.” He didn’t give Jace an opportunity to accept or decline his “invitation.” He ended the call as soon as he barked out the order. It was typical, but it still pissed Jace off. He reminded himself to be grateful the old man had called and was willing to at least talk, before cleaning up and telling Mark he’d be back in a few hours. Mark acted annoyed with him, but since Jace was technically still on vacation for two more days, he didn’t give a shit if Mark was annoyed or not.

  Within the hour he was pulling his bike up in front of the coffee shop when he glanced over and saw the old man climbing out of his car, eyeballing Jace’s Harley. The first thing his father said to him as he climbed off the bike was, “Doesn’t look like you’re hurting for cash. Maybe I should start letting you pay your sister’s bills.” Jace didn’t respond to that. He had promised himself on the ride out that he wasn’t going to engage the old man in a fight. He followed him into the little shop and they each ordered their coffees and paid for them on their own before carrying them to a table outside and taking a seat opposite each other. Jace had always held out hope that as his father aged, he would lose some of that edge that had cut so deeply for Jace’s entire life, but he was beginning to realize that the old man’s edges had just gotten sharper with time. His eyes were on the thick scar around Jace’s neck and Jace could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Surprisingly, instead of saying something about that he said, “I’m meeting with the accountant this afternoon. I’m going to have him take Rosie and Myrna both completely out of the will. When I die, if you’re still living,” he said, with another glance at Jace’s scar, “the money will go directly to you, all of it.”

  Jace’s mouth went dry. Of all the things he expected the Colonel to say, that one wasn’t even on the list. The way the will was set up now, at least from the snide comments the old man had made in the past, Rosie and Myrna were the primary beneficiaries, or their guardians were…which in Rosie’s case would be Jace…but there were stipulations as to how he could spend it. Jace was completely okay with that. He didn’t want the old man’s money, he just wanted Rosie to be taken care of. “Okay,” Jace said, unsure of how to respond. Should he thank him? No, because he was sure that would get turned into an “I’m not doing this for you.” The old man waited, expecting the thank you and smirking when it didn’t come before saying:

  “The will is going to stipulate that your sister’s bills be paid until she dies and if you die first, the money will be transferred to her new guardian, and that Myrna’s bills will be paid until she dies. I’m also transferring her guardianship to you upon my death.” Shit. Jace was afraid of that. Had it been up to him, he would have let Myrna go when she was in the acute hospital. She’d been lying in a bed for years now, being fed through a tube, wasting away. Jace hadn’t seen her, but he was sure she must be pathetic and as much as he and Myrna had their issues, he hated the thought of it. If anything ever happened where he couldn’t take care of himself, he would want them to let him go. “Don’t kill her,” the old man said. Jace resisted rolling his eyes and with an attack of guilt over the look of sadness in his old man’s eyes when he talked about Myrna he finally said:

  “I’ll make sure they’re both taken care of.”

  “Okay then,” his father said as he got to his feet. “Carly problem solved. Unless one of us marries the bitch or gets her pregnant, there’s no way she can get anything. I’d be willing to bet as soon as she hears, she’ll no longer be interested in you, or in being Myrna’s guardian.”

  “Dad?” The old man had turned toward the parking lot already. He stopped but didn’t turn toward Jace. “Thank you, not just for this, but for always making sure we had everything we needed.” The neglected boy in him wanted to say, “materialistically anyway,” but the adult in him left it at that. The old man took another step and Jace thought that was going to be it, but then he looked at him over his shoulder and said:

  “It was my job.” That was as close as a “you’re welcome” that Jace would get, and he knew it. He was okay with that. He had long since stopped yearning for the old man’s love and affection and only recently truly began to appreciate what he had done. Maybe it was the best Colonel Bell could do. It could always have been worse, he supposed.

  25

  One Year Later

 
; Jace sat on his bike and watched people gather underneath the blue canopy. They weren’t mourners. They were staff from the funeral home, the preacher, and army staff as well. The absence of mourners might explain the ball of grief in his gut. It was almost overwhelming, and the most surprising thing was that he never imagined it would be like this. He even remembered times in his life when he imagined this day, and how sometimes it lifted his spirits when he did. Of course, he always suffered afterwards for it, feeling guilty for having those dark thoughts and wondering if he might burn in hell for them someday. He couldn’t force himself to feel differently, however, even when he tried. He’d been taught for so long that he wasn’t allowed to feel love, and if he did he should keep it to himself or it would only be shoved back in his face. The Colonel never wanted his love, his admiration, or his affection…his sympathy now would probably only piss the old man off. The only thing he ever wanted or demanded from his son was obedience, and respect. The obedience faltered, a lot, as Jace got older, and the respect…never existed. The Colonel had died at seventy years old without ever learning that respect was not something you could demand, respect had to be earned, and the absence of mourners at his funeral was the final proof of that.

  Jace felt sad, though, and he didn’t really understand why. Obviously, no one was going to miss the old man…but maybe that’s what he was sad about. The Colonel’s life was practically a life wasted. He’d been blessed with two wives and two children and plenty of opportunities to love them all, the way they wanted to be loved. Instead he chose to live a life of darkness and loneliness, all the while surrounded by warmth and light that he refused to feel. Jace failed to realize it before, but the only true worth his father ever saw in himself was his ability to support his family, and that was why he couldn’t let them love him. Maybe. Maybe all that time, the Colonel had felt like he didn’t deserve to be loved.

  The Colonel must have treated his army brothers and sisters as poorly as he treated his family. Jace hadn’t ever thought of that before now, but the Colonel only had “acquaintances,” he never had friends. The color guard was there because the funeral home had arranged it, and of course they’d be sending him off with Taps and a twenty-one-gun salute…all arranged by the funeral home through whatever branch of the army did that sort of thing. But the obituary and the funeral announcement hadn’t even drawn a handful of people. Decades of a life that instead of being celebrated was being forgotten, and that was where Jace was sure the grief that threatened to consume him stemmed from.

  He took that grief now and balled it up tightly, making sure that none of it would escape and leak down his face. Not that anyone was there to see it, but somehow he felt like he was being disloyal to himself, and his sister and even Myrna, if he cried for the loss of this old man. Once he felt like he had it under control, he finally stepped off his bike. He took a deep breath of the cold winter air, allowing it to invade his lungs. As he began to walk toward the canopy, it stung his eyes and he had to skirt around a pile of dead, brown leaves. The gloomy day at least felt fitting.

  He reached the canopy but didn’t step underneath it. He ran his eyes along the row of white chairs in front that had been set up for the “family.” Jace and Rosie were the Colonel’s only family. Myrna had been gone for a long time now, in Jace’s mind. Rosie wasn’t here, because in her mind, the Colonel had been gone just as long. Jace had tried to tell the funeral director that they didn’t need all of those chairs, but maybe protocol dictated that they at least make it look as if they expected people to show up.

  His eyes moved back to the now flag-draped coffin and then to the picture of the Colonel in his uniform. It had been blown up and proudly displayed on an easel in the midst of wreaths that had been bought and paid for rather than received as memorials. The Colonel was so young in the photo; Jace couldn’t help but wonder if he’d imagined his life differently then. Did he have hope, before Jace’s mother left him, saddled with an ugly kid that nobody wanted? Or did he lose it when the wife he adored gave birth to another child, prettier, but just as defective? He wondered if the Colonel thought of them at all, just before he died, and he was trying to imagine what those thoughts may have been when the sound of motorcycle engines distracted him.

  Jace turned and looked toward the road where he’d just left his bike and he saw what looked like a parade entering the parking lot. In the lead was a black limousine and stretching at least a quarter of a mile behind the long black car was a line of Harley Davidsons. They rode two by two, their custom paint and chrome turning into an almost blinding glint when it hit the late-afternoon winter sun. The limousine pulled to the curb and the bikes lined up to park behind it. Jace watched the driver of the limousine get out and pull open the back door of the car. Mark stepped out first, dressed in a black suit, and then came Sammy, one of the mechanics. Sammy was in jeans and a button-down shirt. Jace had never seen him in anything other than a pair of coveralls. Kevin followed Sammy out the door. Kevin was the artist that took an ordinary bike and gave it a custom paint job that would take your breath away.

  Jace was rapidly losing his grip on the ball of grief coiled in his gut. He felt it rising up to his chest as he watched Clay get out of the limo, walk over to the first bike in the line, and hold out his right hand. Dax Marshall took it and the two men shook. Jace hadn’t told Dax about his old man’s passing. He hadn’t told anyone other than Clay, and now his grief was leaking down his cheeks. He started to wipe it away before his “family” saw him crying…but he changed his mind at the last minute. Maybe that was the first step toward not having a life that amounted to no more than the Colonel’s life had…showing your emotions. Instead of wiping them off his face, he smiled through them and remembered how lucky he was.

  The Southside Skulls were hot and heavy into a war with the Sinners and it seemed that almost daily another brother was shot and wounded, killed, or arrested. The ranch was beginning to look like a ghost town when Jace visited. Things were getting more dangerous each time as well, but that didn’t matter––if Dax called, he went. He’d been there for almost a week this time, and it was almost time for him to head back home, at least for a few days, long enough to check on Rosie, and Clay. Clay had been under the weather a lot lately. He was pushing eighty years old and he still ate nothing but pure sugar, smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, and drank bourbon like it was going out of style. That all seemed to work for him up until the past month, when he began to lose weight and look as pale as a ghost every time Jace saw him. He had a cough too, and Jace had witnessed him coughing up blood and trying to hide it in a napkin. No amount of nagging by Jace, Mark, or any of the guys who worked for him would convince the old man to see a doctor, however, so they all took turns checking in on him. He acted annoyed when they showed up on his doorstep, but they all knew he secretly loved the company and the attention. He’d end up pouring them a shot or handing them a beer and sitting down to tell one of his long, drawn-out stories that they’d all heard a hundred times before. The men all loved him, and they were all polite, but Jace was the only one that genuinely loved listening to the old man talk about his life. He’d led a colorful one…a full one…and Jace could only hope that when he reached his eighth decade of life, he’d have a few good stories to tell too.

  He had his things packed and was on his way down the stairs when the door to the club opened and a tall, brunette man with shoulder-length hair walked in. He was young and, Jace supposed, good-looking. He thought that because the eyes of every woman in the vicinity seemed to be drinking him in. He was wearing a denim vest and because of the way Dax did things, Jace assumed he was a new prospect. But after glancing around the room, he reached back and opened the door again. The man that walked in after him didn’t need any introduction. Jace had seen dozens of pictures of him on the walls in the club, and he’d heard many a story. It was almost as thrilling as laying eyes on Doc Marshall that day when he was only fourteen years old. Today he was in the presence of Coyote Lee,
former Southside Skull and founder and president of the Westside Skulls in California.

  The tall, young guy looked at Jace since he was the only man in the room and said, “We’re here to see Dax.”

  “Took us a fucking half an hour to get through the fucking front gates,” Coyote growled.

  “We’re locked down…” Jace began.

  “Yeah, I heard that from a couple of prospects and Cody. It was nice to see the kid, but maybe he shouldn’t be greeting your guests. Where the hell is Dax?” Before Jace could respond, Beezy was busting in the door behind them.

  “I got this,” he said.

  Coyote scowled at him and said, “Thought we lost you.”

  “Sorry, sir, right this way.” Jace had never heard Beezy call anyone sir. At least he wasn’t the only one that was starstruck. He waited until Beezy had ushered Coyote and his prospect into the office where Dax was apparently waiting and then he stepped up to the bar and asked Callie, who was cleaning behind it, for a beer. She made a funny face but set a bottle on the bar in front of him and twisted off the top.

  “What’s the face for?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, “You just usually don’t drink so early in the day.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m headed home, but I have a stop to make on the way that I’m not looking forward to.” Before Jace went to visit Rosie, or check on Clay, he had to go by the long-term care home. The doctor had called him that morning, about Myrna. He was a fairly new doctor and it wasn’t the first time he’d called Jace. He was insistent that Myrna was suffering and if they continued to feed her through that tube she might live forever…in pain that she couldn’t verbalize. Jace didn’t doubt him, but he knew how badly the Colonel had wanted Myrna to live until she died of “natural” causes and he was trying to respect that. It was getting harder all the time, and after the doctor’s second call that morning Jace decided that the least he could do was stop by. It had been years since he’d seen Myrna and he wasn’t looking forward to it. As a matter of fact, he dreaded it and he thought that maybe a beer or two would help.