by Sophia Gray
“You don't have to thank me. Believe me, the pleasure was all mine.”
He grinned, running his fingers through his hair. “So what happens now?”
She shrugged. “Now I figure we go out, have another drink or two, and see where the night takes us. Sound good?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It really does.”
Chapter 3
Hank
As they left the bathroom together, Hank tried to stay calm, but unsettling thoughts kept buzzing through his drunken haze like persistent wasps.
Why had he done this?
Not just for the sex, surely—he'd had plenty of opportunities to get laid over the past year to distract him from his grief, and he'd ignored all of them. Did he have feelings for Beth? She'd been hanging around the club for so long he'd started to see her as a piece of furniture instead of the sexy woman she clearly was. So why did her sudden attraction to him make him feel like someone had reached inside of him and flipped on a light that had been dark for so long?
Was it because she bore a passing resemblance to Elena? Had he been so weak and liquored-up that some part of him decided to just tilt his head, squint, and pretend he was with her again for a few more precious moments?
If so, then acting on those desires made him feel like a piece of shit, especially where Beth was concerned. True, she was playing it loose and casual tonight with her whole smiling, let's-just-have-a-drink-and-see-what-happens act, but what if an act was all it was? He'd known lots of girls who pretended they were “cool with whatever” until the next morning, when suddenly they were full of expectations and demands and accusations. Before he'd gotten married, Hank had been good at blowing those girls off.
But Bib's niece? How would that go? How pissed would the club president be if Hank treated Beth like some party girl he could fuck and forget?
And anyway, what the hell kind of way was this to observe the one-year anniversary of the death of his wife and kid? What kind of selfish asshole treasures the memories of his loved ones by polishing off a bottle of cheap whiskey and banging some girl in a public toilet?
Beth was pulling Hank back toward their table for another drink, but in that moment, Hank decided he didn't want any more booze or sex tonight. Neither one would be good for him in his current condition. They'd only make his tortured mind thrash around more painfully, like an animal caught in a snare.
Sleep was what he needed, and lots of it. Maybe, once he'd had enough rest, he could re-evaluate his feelings related to Beth. Maybe there was something there worth exploring after all, as long as he didn't keep drinking tonight until he fucked it all up.
But as they passed the corner of the bar, Hank overheard some yahoo in blue jeans and a denim shirt talking loudly with an overweight slob with a filthy beard and a trucker hat.
“...so the kid starts whinin', right?” the yahoo said. “'Daddy, I wanna stay up! Daddy, my favorite show is on TV! Daddy, just five more minutes an' I'll go up to bed!'”
The trucker giggled. “What'd you do?”
“I marched right on over to 'im an' smacked his li'l face, that's what I did! Told 'im he'll go up to bed when I goddamn fuckin' say so, an' not a minute later.” The yahoo guffawed. “You shoulda seen it, man. He's got this big red hand print on his cheek, an' he's snufflin', with all kindsa tears an' snot runnin' down. My wife starts tellin' me I gotta calm down, an' I'm like, 'Bitch, I don't gotta do shit. Now get the fuck outta my face before you get a taste of what I gave the brat.'”
Beth's mouth was inches from Hank's ear, but her voice seemed to come from miles away. “Hank? You okay?”
A red haze filled his vision until the entire bar seemed soaked in blood. His hands were balled into fists so tight they ached, and his teeth were clenched so hard that the muscles of his jaw were twitching.
He'd lost his adoring wife. He'd lost his beautiful child. He'd never see them again, ever, no matter how much he hurt or how hard he wanted. Every year of the rest of his life stretched out ahead of him bleakly, each of them nothing but a grim promise that the two people he'd loved most in the world would never come back to him.
And this cocksucker had a wife and child, and here he was, bragging about beating them and making them cry.
“Hank?” Beth was looking directly into his eyes now, but it seemed like Hank had x-ray vision—all he could see was past her, through her, as he stared at the yahoo's doughy face and baggy eyes. The veins of Hank's face and neck were pulsing so hotly that he felt like his head might erupt into flames.
The yahoo noticed that Hank was staring at him and sneered. “You got a problem, faggot? Or are you just memorizin' my face to jerk off to later?”
In a split-second, the yahoo was on the floor of the bar, on his back amid the sawdust and peanut shells as Hank's fists crashed against his face. Hank couldn't actually remember lunging at the asshole, but he didn't care. He just kept punching and roaring incoherent curses, even as Beth and the Warriors tried to drag him away.
The yahoo gibbered and begged, as blood and tears rolled down his cheeks. His nose was crunched into the middle of his face. He was spitting out broken teeth between punches, and his jaw was hanging and misshapen, with several shattered bones protruding from the flesh.
Another punch, and a bone in the yahoo's cheek cracked. He stopped struggling and went limp.
Another punch, and another, and another. A whirlwind of brutal rage, unstoppable, until the combined efforts of all of the bikers succeeded in pulling him off the yahoo's prone body. Hank kept struggling and howling with anger until blue lights flickered through the bar's windows and the cops came in to cuff him.
After that night, Hank was enveloped by a numbing gray cloud of mindless drudgery that lasted for months.
There were weeks spent in holding cells at the county jail, staring at the concrete walls and wordlessly consuming trays of bland food. There were endless interviews with cops and lawyers, and forms to fill out and initial in triplicate. There were handcuffs, and a shuffling trip onto a bus which took him to the courthouse, where he spent less than half a day in a courtroom listening to witnesses tell the story of the beating. To Hank, it sounded like something that someone else had done, not him. The yahoo's jaw was wired shut, so he couldn't testify himself—he just sat at the back of the courtroom, glaring.
Then more handcuffs, and another bus trip to the jail. Then a bus trip back to the courthouse the next day to hear the judge pronounce his sentence: Two years at the Bluebonnet Correctional Facility. Then handcuffs again, and more forms to sign, and another bus.
But before any of that, Hank curled up on a cot in the jailhouse holding cell—with the yahoo's blood still under his fingernails, and Beth's intoxicating scent still clinging to his clothes—and finally slept.
Chapter 4
Beth
Two weeks after watching Hank almost beat someone to death, Beth still felt haunted by it. She hadn't known what direction the evening would go in after taking him into the bathroom with her, but she certainly hadn't expected to see him fly into a frenzy and pummel a man mercilessly just twenty minutes later.
Beth had seen her share of bar fights—she spent most of her free time with the Carnage Warriors, and they hadn't exactly earned that name based on their skills in bake-offs and quilting bees. But she'd never seen such a savage and uncontrolled display before, and she knew that if the other bikers hadn't pulled Hank off, he'd have killed the man for sure.
She knew she should be frightened of Hank after seeing him like that, but the worst part was, it had made her feelings for him even stronger. She'd heard the conversation at the bar, and she understood the rage that had driven Hank to tear the man apart. She knew how horrible he must have felt, listening to someone talk about abusing their family on the anniversary of the night he'd lost his own.
The way he'd looked right through her before attacking the man had made her heart hurt for him. He'd been able to forget his grief, just for a few precious minutes. And then i
t had all come charging back at him when his defenses were down.
Part of her even felt responsible for what had happened. If she hadn't taken him to the bathroom, maybe he'd have gone home and slept it off instead. Or maybe he'd have stayed at his table, out of earshot from the men at the bar. Maybe, in trying to relieve his suffering, she'd only succeeded in making him more sad and confused and angry.
But no. Instead, she'd been too busy trying to scratch the itch she'd had for him since she'd first met him. And just when she'd finally done it—just when she'd finally felt real happiness, after suffering in silence for so many years—he was taken away from her to face a serious aggravated assault charge.
She'd wanted to visit Hank at the county jail, but Bib had strictly ordered her not to. She was afraid that Bib blamed her for all of this somehow.
And today, on her day off from the deli counter, Bib had called her and told her to come meet him at Tucker's Garage—the Warriors' unofficial club house. She agreed to see him, but as she hung up, she worried about what awaited her.
Would he yell at her? Accuse her of fucking with Hank's head and depriving the MC of one of its most valuable members? He'd encouraged her that night, but Bib's moods could be mercurial. Who knew what he was thinking and feeling now?
She walked into the cavernous garage, surrounded by the sounds of engines, power tools, and curses from frustrated mechanics. Bib saw her and immediately waved her into the back office. She followed him in, and he shut the door behind her.
“So first of all, how are you holding up?” he asked softly. “Still shaken up by the thing at the bar?”
His concern caught her off guard. “Yes, actually.”
Bib nodded. “I can't imagine how rough that must've been for you, hon. You finally get a little taste of happiness, and then you have to watch...that. You probably think I'm a real peckerwood for telling you not to visit Hank at the jailhouse, too. Do you still have feelings for him?”
Again, Beth found herself surprised by the question. “Uh-huh.”
“You want to see him again? Show your support for him through all this?”
“I do.” She wondered where this was going. She'd been prepared for a lecture, even a fight, but not this level of earnestness.
“Okay. Good. We'll get to that in a minute. Tell me—if you could find a gig that tripled what you make at the grocery store, plus full benefits, would you want that?”
Beth frowned. What did her job have to do with anything? “I guess I would. I mean, I'm pretty sick of working the deli counter, living in a shitty studio, and never having enough money for anything.”
“I thought so. See, I've been talking to our lawyer, and there's no two ways about it—Hank's going down for this beating. There's just too many witnesses, and zero chance of pleading self-defense, obviously. Worst of all, the judge and the State's Attorney know damn well what kind of shit Hank's done for the club in the past, even if he's never been arrested or convicted for any of it. So now that they've got him, they're gonna throw the fucking book at him. He's gonna serve two years, at least.
“The one piece of good news,” Bib continued, “is that we've got a guy on the inside at the courthouse, and he can tell us exactly where the judge will send Hank—specifically, Bluebonnet.”
Beth's breath caught in her throat. Bluebonnet was a maximum-security facility, known as one of the toughest prisons in the state. The thought of Hank spending two years there quickened her heartbeat with panic.
“We've got some Warriors who are already doing time up there, including Speed Bump, our former Sergeant-at-Arms,” Bib said. “But we've been thinking about having someone who's loyal to us apply for a job as a guard, just to help watch our guys' backs. With this whole Hank thing going on, you seem like the perfect person for the job. You'll be able to see him whenever you want, bring in stuff he needs, and report back to us on how he's doing in there. That's why I haven't wanted you to go visit him—so no one will know you've got any prior connection to him.”
Beth considered this. She had to admit that it sounded like a solid plan, and she loved the idea of being able to see Hank regularly and support him while he was serving his time. And if she could make his sentence easier by doing special favors for him, well, why not?
“Okay,” she said. “But what does it take to become a guard?”
Bib smiled. “Not a lot, as it turns out. You've already got your GED. Since Bluebonnet's not a federal joint, you won't need any college credits or special experience. You just apply online, and they'll interview you a couple of times. From what I understand, as long as you don't insult the interviewer's mother or accidentally set the office on fire, you'll get the job—they're desperate for corrections officers. Then you pass a drug test, take a three-week course which includes physical training, and boom, you're in.”
“Wouldn't it be scary, though?”
Her uncle shrugged. “What's to be scared of? The inmates are behind bars. You're the one with the badge and baton, so you've got all the power. Pretty much all the bad shit that happens inside is between cons. The last time a CO got seriously injured up in Bluebonnet was over fifteen years ago, and that was because of a riot, which almost never happens.”
The more Beth thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. She wanted to be kissed and held by Hank again without waiting two years, and this seemed like her only chance. Tripling her current income was a nice thought, too. She'd be twenty-five before she knew it, and that felt a little old to still be wearing an apron to work and slicing lunch meats for minimum wage.
“But don't they run a background check on applicants? You and I are related, so connecting me to the MC wouldn't exactly be difficult.”
Bib grinned, reaching into the desk drawer and producing some paperwork. “Their background checks are half-assed. And you'll have these.”
Beth scanned the fake ID, birth certificate, Social Security card, and GED. The name on all of them was “Bethany D'Amato.”
She took a deep breath and nodded.
“Okay. Go to the application website on your computer, and let's do this.”
Hang in there, Hank, she thought. We'll be together again soon.
Chapter 5
Hank
The newly-convicted men stood in a line behind the courthouse. Their wrists were cuffed, their ankles were all chained together, and they were wearing the same clothes they'd had on during their trials and sentencing hearings—mostly cheap, rumpled, ill-fitting suits that looked about as natural on them as party hats and red clown noses.
Hank was no different. He hadn't owned a suit or tie at the time of his arrest, so Bib had bought them for him. Even though Hank had provided his measurements, the suit still felt tight on him in all the wrong places and the dress shoes pinched.
Given the predictable outcome of the case, Hank wished he hadn't bothered with the damn suit after all. If he was going to do time anyway, he would have preferred to face the judge wearing his MC patches and standing in his own two boots.
A repurposed school bus with flaking gray paint slowly backed up in front of the men, beeping. “Department of Corrections” was stenciled in black on the sides and back. The beeping stopped and the courthouse guards opened the back door of the bus, hustling the men into it. The individual seats had been replaced with long metal benches welded to the sides of the bus. The convicts sat in rows facing each other and the guards shackled their ankle-chains to bars running under the benches.
Then the guards withdrew, the door slammed shut behind them, the bus lurched forward, and Hank was on his way to prison.
He looked around to see if any of his traveling companions might be dangerous, but the other men mostly kept their heads down, staring pointedly at the floor. One of the only exceptions was a black boy sitting across from Hank, who couldn't have been older than sixteen. He stared out the windows of the bus with wide, frightened eyes, as though he was fervently trying to memorize every tree and building they passed.
His jaw was slack, and his hands kept fidgeting in his lap.
Well, we've got at least an hour ahead of us before we get to Bluebonnet, Hank thought. If all I do is stare at the dirt and boot prints on the floor of the bus, I'll be dead from boredom long before we arrive.
“What's your name, kid?” he asked.
The boy looked at Hank with a stunned expression, as though a boulder had suddenly started speaking to him. “Raheem. Raheem Jenkins.”
Hank nodded. “Nice to meet you, Raheem. My name's Hank. What did a kid like you do to get sent to Bluebonnet?”
“Oh, I didn't do nothin',” Raheem answered, shaking his head vigorously. “I'm innocent. They said I robbed Mr. Getty's store an' shot him, just 'cause I was wearin' the same shirt as the guy who did it. I ain't never even fired no gun before. My lawyer said I hadda tell people I did it anyway, though, or I'd go to prison for longer. Maybe even life.”