by J. C. Emery
Taking a deep breath, I turn and walk toward the clubhouse for a moment to think by myself. It’s been a mostly shit day, but knowing the girls are safe helps some. Just as I’m entering the clubhouse, the deep, guttural sound of the brothers’ Harleys rumble in the distance, growing ever closer, and I know I won’t get any time alone. I guess I can deal with today’s shit later. Right now I got to put on my prospect face and suck it up.
CHAPTER 5
December
16 months to Mancuso’s downfall
“There’s something here that I’m missing,” I mumble under my breath. Christmas is nearing, and I’ve been working on this for a month now, and this is all I have to show for it—a scattered collection of sticky notes and business cards strewn about the kitchen table. I can’t make sense of anything I’m looking at, and yet there has to be something here.
Over the past several weeks, things have been getting crazy around Fort Bragg. First it was the crazy-hot and crazy-scary Italian guy showing up at my school. Then it was Dad trying to put the moves on Holly, my administrative advocate. Then it was Holly liking Dad putting the moves on her—which was totally cool because he’s way less of a jerk when he’s got someone in his life. He doesn’t think I notice stuff like this because he never used to bring women home, but he’s way obvious. Plus, Grandma has a big freaking mouth and complains about his “nocturnal habits” often enough that I have learned to stomach the idea that Dad isn’t the exception to the Forsaken rule. He likes the company of women. He just doesn’t like them to talk.
I can’t keep letting myself get sidetracked—which is really easy because research so is not my thing, but hey, somebody has to do it. I sat back and let Dad convince me that everything was okay when the Italian guy approached me at school, and I let him tell me it was okay when suddenly Holly was basically living in our house even though she and Dad couldn’t stand hearing the other talk. They so were not dating, but whatever. It wasn’t until Dad got into a screaming match with Grandma—which he lost—about Holly and her cousin Mindy being kidnapped by the aforementioned crazy Italian guy that I knew everything was absolutely, most definitely, no way in hell, totally not okay.
So I’ve been listening in and pretending to be ignorant when my dad and his brothers talk about club business, because if they know I know things are going south in town and with the club, they’ll all clam up tighter than the last time they were under DEA surveillance. Every single one of those guys act like I’m a baby and I can’t handle them being honest with me. I can, but they won’t give me the chance. So I’m going at it alone in my investigation.
I was sidetracked for a few weeks after poor Mindy was raped—not that anybody told me that’s exactly what happened, but again, I listen in. Holly was in her own head for a long while after that. I can’t even imagine having to watch something like that. For days on end she just kept saying the numbers seven and one. I’ve asked Dad about it, and then Aunt Ruby, and then anybody who I could grab ahold of, but they just all keep saying that everything is okay, and that is a huge freaking lie.
So fuck them and their patronizing crap.
I have a few business cards from a guy named Larry Jennings, the dad of a local who’s in the hospital in a coma. He’s been there for several weeks, and the news has all but forgotten about him, but for some reason, his dad’s business cards were in with Dad’s stuff on Mindy’s rape.
I cast a quick look at the clock that hangs just off center above the bay window beside me. Beneath the clock is a string of garland with colorful blinking lights that Holly hung up when Dad wasn’t looking one day. He’s not a fan of Christmas decorations, but he’s putting up with them the best he can to make her happy.
Crap. It’s well after four now, and Dad and Holly will be home any minute. I shove the business cards back in the folder and finger through the various documents inside the manila folder for one last look before I sneak this sucker back into the garage where it belongs. Toward the bottom of the stack, a name catches my attention on one of the papers from the hospital. I do a double take. There are so many papers in the folder that I’d taken it for granted that they were all Holly and Mindy’s records from the attack, but on the paper in question, it says JENNINGS, DARREN under the patient’s name. The paper is crumpled and spotted in dried blood. First his dad’s business cards and now Darren’s medical records?
What could Mindy’s attack possibly have to do with Darren’s? They have to be connected—or Dad thinks they are—otherwise they wouldn’t be in the folder together. I’d never looked this closely at the paperwork. The last time I snuck the file out of its place in Dad’s tool box, I ran into the police report of Holly’s statement. I think I cried for about ten minutes before I gave up on looking at the rest and put the folder back. I couldn’t tell Grandma why I was crying, so I just ran up to my room and told her that boys are stupid. I think she bought it, because she came up to tell me that any boy who makes me cry isn’t worth the time it takes to shed a single tear. I wanted to tell her the truth. I needed to talk to someone about what I read, but she would have snitched on me to my dad.
Why would someone want to hurt Mindy like that?
Why would someone want to hurt anyone like that?
Maybe I’m just stupid, but I didn’t know that stuff like this could happen in my town. Dad always says the club takes care of their own and the town belongs to the club, so that means that we’re safe here and I don’t have to worry about anything. But that’s a lie, because if someone can hurt Mindy Mercer like that for no reason, then nobody is safe. Not even the daughter of a Forsaken club member.
“Fuck!” Dad shouts, scaring the crap out of me. “I hate that fucking thing. Next time it ho ho ho’s at me, I’m shooting it. Don’t care how much you like it.”
“Don’t blame Santa for recognizing a ho when he sees one,” Holly says with a giggle.
“You’re in for it, woman!” Dad says loudly and with a disgruntled tone.
My eyes widen and my heart skips a beat. His voice is distant and muffled. I scurry to the hallway to find that the front door is shut, and Dad’s head bobs on the other side of the glass pane. His keys jingle as he works the lock.
“Do me a favor and just once act like a gentleman!” Holly says, her voice high and full of irritation.
The door creaks open, and the alarm beeps as he grumbles, “You sure didn’t want me to act like a gentleman when I bent you over the kitchen table last night.”
“Oh, shut up,” she says with a laugh. “Be good and I’ll let you bend me over our bed tonight.”
I back away from the hallway and rush to the breakfast nook and vow to never eat at the table again. My hands reach for the manila envelope, and just as I’m about to grab it and run, I cringe.
“So freaking gross,” I whine as I shuffle the papers into the manila folder as best I can and scoop them up from the defiled kitchen table. “No freaking boundaries. I need to move out like right the hell now.”
Dad’s heavy boots clap against the wooden floor in the hall, growing nearer as I round the living room and run down the side hall to the garage where I slowly turn the knob and slip inside. Across the garage, in a tall red tool chest, is Dad’s stash of folders that have information on cases that are of interest to the club. He doesn’t keep many paper files, not around the house at least, except when he’s in the thick of an investigation. A few years back there was a series of car break-ins around town. Nothing really went missing, and the club didn’t care much, but then Aunt Ruby’s Suburban got hit, and Uncle Jim got the club involved. Dad said either the club was going to figure it out or Aunt Ruby was going to start shooting people who look suspicious. I don’t think they ever did find the people responsible, but while they were looking into it, Dad had about twenty manila folders stashed in various drawers. If there’s one thing Dad hates more than teenage boys, it’s probably unsolved mysteries.
I shove the folder back in the third drawer down and sneak toward th
e partially open door. Holly’s voice trails from the living room but is soon overshadowed by several deep, masculine voices that are undeniably familiar. Uncle Wyatt’s baritone bark demands a beer from Dad, who then redirects, asking Holly to grab beers for the guys. My palms grow slick as my heart rate picks up. Nervously, I eye the old refrigerator in the corner of the garage where Dad keeps his expansive supply of cold beer for when the guys come by.
“Sure thing,” Holly says. Her high-heeled boots make pointed little clicking noises that get louder with every step she takes closer to the garage. Once she hits the hallway, her steps falter. “Are we expecting anyone else?”
“Baby Boy should be by any minute,” Wyatt says.
Dad makes an unflattering noise. “Babe, keep Chey in her room while the guys are here. Last thing I need is her distracting the kid any more than she already does.”
“Fuck if that ain’t right,” Duke says. “She blows up his phone, and he can’t stop fucking smiling. Doesn’t hear a word I say either.”
A blush covers my face at the thought of Jeremy wanting to hear from me.
Holly gives him a snort and a little laugh. Well, I’m glad she thinks this is funny. If Dad has his way, I’m going to die a freaking virgin. She takes a few more steps and wraps her hand around the door knob. Scrambling backward, I nearly knock into the bike Dad’s been building for the past few months and give away my location. I don’t want Holly catching me in here. Not that I’m not allowed in the garage, but without an explanation and feeling as guilty as hell like I do, I’d bet they’d have me singing like a canary before Dad got the question out.
“Right, you don’t want any… distractions. Sure. Couldn’t possibly have anything to do with you trying to keep her a little girl forever, could it?” she says a little too sweetly.
“Beer. Now,” he says. His tone darkens slightly, something he always does in front of the guys. I really hate when he acts like this. It’s not happened often, with how Holly’s only now slowly leaving her near catatonic state, but the better she gets, the more he starts to act like his old self—and that is most definitely not a compliment.
Turning away from the door and running to the tall red tool chest, I dart behind it, duck down, and hope I’m not visible from the other side of the room. The door swings open, and in trots Holly with frustrated steps that slam against the concrete floor. Her face is red, her chest is rising and falling in quick succession, and she’s counting to herself. He pissed her off all right.
As she crosses the garage and swings open the door to the fridge she mutters, “Keep being that bossy, Sterling, and you can suck your own dick tonight.”
My throat constricts as my stomach rolls, and I start gagging. Gross.
Holly reaches into the fridge and grabs as many beers as she can safely carry in her arms before trotting out of the garage and letting the door slam shut behind her. I give it a few minutes before heading toward the door and peeking out. Deep voices sound from the living room, a mixture of grunting and barking out what sounds vaguely like disagreement among the brothers. Not that I’m surprised. Those guys can’t seem to ever get along.
I creep down the hall and peek around the corner at the sight before me. Dad is perched on the arm of the couch, something Grandma hates. She always says his “big ass” is going to destroy every stick of furniture we have. Anyway, he’s sitting there with one hand on his knee and the other holding a beer. His shoulders slump and then shake as his eyes dance with mischief. In the middle of the couch with his hands folded in his lap like the good little boy he certainly is not is Jeremy. His face is a mask of indifference, but his body language tells me he’s nervous. Across the room is Uncle Wyatt. The muscles of his broad shoulders constrict and flex as one hand clenches in a fist and the other welcomes it into the palm of his hand. His brown hair sweeps across his shoulders, and his chest heaves. Uncle Wyatt is normally one of the calmest of the brothers, so it must be bad if he’s this upset.
A guilty part of me is looking forward to seeing what this little impromptu meeting is about. I might get some information out of this that will prove useful to my investigation.
“It’s bullshit,” Dad says with a nod, his eyes firmly fixed on Wyatt. “Kids will do that to you—fuck you up.”
I bite back the urge to throw something in his direction. He’s one to talk. If he thinks having me as a kid is hard, then I should let him know he’s no freaking picnic either.
“They’re not fucking kids, man. They’re goddamn adults,” Wyatt says.
Dad just shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Your kids are your kids for life. Jim’s a fucking hard-ass, sure. But he’s a father. He’s got two sons at each other’s throats over Junior and Princess. Can’t be easy, trying to decide whose needs are more important—Ryan wanting to beat the shit out of Junior to protect Princess, or Ian trying to keep Ruby happy. Personally, I’d side with keeping the woman happy, but ya know…”
Wyatt just grumbles something and turns toward the fireplace, where he places his hands on the mantle and lets his head hang low. Duke’s voice sounds from around the corner from me where I can’t see him. My heart leaps in my chest, and I suppress the feminine squeak that would give away my location if anybody were paying attention to me. Duke must be in the recliner near the fireplace on the other side of the wall I’m hiding behind. I’d peek around to see him if I didn’t think I’d be spotted.
“Yesterday I came home to find Trigger fucking terrorizing Junior,” Wyatt says almost too quietly for me to hear. “Had to move him to Ian’s.”
Dad nods. “Good. Trigger isn’t stupid enough to fuck around at Ian’s house.”
“Told Jim. All he had to say was he thought that was a good move,” Wyatt says.
“He’s slipping,” Duke says loud and clear. All eyes swing to where Duke must be. Jeremy’s are wide and fearful, while Dad’s are solemn. Wyatt’s head is turned in Duke’s direction, but other than that, he hasn’t moved. I don’t know the exact details of what happens when a member challenges the presidency, but it’s a big freaking deal. It’s not just a big deal, but it can completely destroy a man or an entire charter, depending on how it’s handled.
“And who’s going to tell him that?” Dad asks of Duke with a prodding gaze.
“Fuck you, dude. I ain’t telling him shit. Pop’s the only father I got. I say we just ride it out and try to reason with Trigger and Sin.”
“Sin?” Jeremy asks. He unfolds his hands from his lap as he repositions himself on the couch, much more relaxed. A smile plays at his lips, all signs of tension now gone. Dumbass has been around the club his entire life, and he’s never learned Ian’s nickname—as stupid as it may be.
“Ian,” Duke says. Jeremy’s head tips to the side like a confused puppy, and it’s so freaking cute I can’t help the blush that rises on my cheeks and makes me hot under the collar. Seeing him sitting among my dad and Uncle Wyatt in his prospect cut looking so confused and young and like he’s trying so hard to fit in is freaking adorable and sexy in ways I don’t know if I can verbalize. Duke was just as cute once, but then he got a little too old for me, and now that he’s with Nic, I force myself to quash every thought that he’s attractive. Besides, once I nail Jeremy down, Duke’s going to be like my brother-in-law—which brings me to another thought. Duke and Nic’s baby is going to be like my niece.
Well, first things first. I need to get Jeremy to ask me out, and then I can figure the details out later.
Cheyenne Whelan.
“Stop it,” I tell myself quietly. Sometimes I hate myself for being that girl who gets so into a guy that she imagines his last name with her first and strategizes ways to wiggle into his life in a way he’ll never want to let her go. But then I look at Jeremy, and a happy sigh escapes me and I forget what I was thinking about.
“How the hell did he get a nickname like that?” Jeremy asks, but Dad shakes his head.
“You have to ask, you don’t deserve the answer,” Dad say
s. “And I don’t know if you realize this, but prospects aren’t supposed to ask questions.” His tone is light and he’s almost… smiling? But the message is clear—shut the fuck up.
“But Duke told me—” Jeremy starts up, and Wyatt swings around from his position at the mantle, and his bulking frame strides toward Jeremy on the couch. He shuts up immediately—something he should have done before he opened his mouth that one last time. He’s cute and got a great smile, and I’ll bet a solid heart, but he’s got some learning to do if he doesn’t want to be Ryan’s butt-buddy.
“Shut your fucking mouth, prospect,” Wyatt snaps. His deep baritone strikes me in my soul. I’ve never heard him sound so angry or so serious. His arms shake with fury as he places his hands against the back of the couch on either side of Jeremy’s head and closes in until they’re nose to nose. Jeremy’s perfectly still under Wyatt’s thundering voice and intense physical presence. “My patch reads Vice President. I don’t give a fuck who tells you what unless their patch reads President. Got that? Don’t fucking look at me, don’t fucking breathe on me. Do not talk back to me, and don’t ever let me catch you forgetting your place.”
“Wy,” Dad says in warning. I can barely see him beyond Wyatt’s bull-like frame, but I catch the telltale clink of his now-empty beer bottle on the end table as he stands from his place on the arm of the couch. He doesn’t approach and makes no move to break it up, but he’s at the ready if he needs to be. The brothers don’t usually stop a patched member from banging up a prospect, but this is Butch’s son. Dad won’t ever admit it, but I think he likes Jeremy, which bodes well for our future relationship.
Wyatt huffs heavily into Jeremy’s face before he pushes back and walks back to his place at the mantle.
It’s a long moment before Dad speaks. “First up, we need to find that prick Scavo. Had the balls to approach me on Forsaken land and take my woman. Asshole needs to pay for that shit.”