by Max Henry
“Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help with this mess Hooch has himself in?”
Crackers smiles sadly. I can read it in his eyes: how he wishes he had something for me, if not to keep me involved, but to prove that they’re doing everything they can to bring my brother home now that Mighty in Lincoln has managed to get the sheriff’s office to look the other way.
“I’m sorry. If I know of anythin’, I’ll let you know.”
“Yeah, okay.” I stand and pat my hands against my legs. “One last question.”
“Anythin’.” Crackers laces his hands over his stomach.
“Do you have a spare gun I could use?”
He stares at me, wide-eyed. “For hunting?”
“Target practice. Somebody told me I was a lousy shot hitting that agent three times, so I thought it couldn’t hurt to sharpen my skills.”
He sighs, eyes narrowed. “I’m not all that comfortable just handin’ it over to you unsupervised.”
“Come on, Crackers.” I sigh. “You aren’t going to turn into Daddy now, are you?”
He smirks as he reaches to his left and unlocks a drawer. I stand silent as he then proceeds to pull out a handgun and a box of bullets. “You need me to load it?”
I shake my head. “I know that much. Killed time in the woods by pulling apart the gun I had with me and learning how it all worked.” I shrug. “Just a lousy shot, is all.”
He explains the whole thing to me anyway, pointing out the safety, how to load it, what to do if it jams. Satisfied I’m not about to run down the driveway and into town to go on a murderous rampage, he hands the weapon over with a sigh.
“Head down to that stand of trees at the far right. You know the one; has that rusted old bike leaned up against the stump.”
“Yeah, I know where you mean.” I made tree houses with Dana down there when we were kids.
“Come back and check in with me when you’re done, okay?”
“Yeah, sure thing.” I reach for the handle as I step out the door. “Thanks again.”
“Got all the time in the world for you, sweetheart.”
TWENTY-ONE
Dog
“Dude! You missed that before you even hit it.” I laugh at the piss-poor attempt one of the hangarounds made of sinking the last pool ball.
Derek’s been thankfully quiet since he visited a few days ago. Still can’t believe the size of the kahunas on the guy to think he could walk in here and strong arm me into returning to something I have absolutely no fucking passion for.
There’s only one reason I’ve been able to come up with that he’d want me—the black sheep of the family—involved in the company. Because I’d be one less person he has to hide his bullshit lies and underhanded deals from. I know the kind of shit he pulls: the double-dealing, the over-hyped products that strangely creep up in price after they’re contracted, the fraudulent reports … yeah, I know it all. With me around, he’d be free to do his deals without the restriction of having to watch over his shoulder. Asshole probably assumes I’d never say a thing about it, because I’m already guilty by association, right?
I snap from my inner musings as King cuts into the common room from the garage, on a dash for his office. He looks across at the three of us who are taking turn-about and scowls at me. No mistaking that look. I frown in reply, confused about what the fuck I’ve done wrong considering he’s been okay the past week while I’ve been baby-sitting his and Hooch’s guest—Dagne. Damn, maybe he’s madder than I gave him credit for about Derek’s visit?
After all, I swear the guy to secrecy and then damn near blow it all in the next breath.
“Be right back, guys.” I pass the pool cue off to the next player and then follow over to King’s office.
He barks out a short, “Enter” when I knock on the door.
“Hey, Pres. You got a second?”
Fucker doesn’t need to say a thing. The look on his face tells me he’s got an hour’s worth of seconds for me, and none of them are good.
“Just wanted to stick my head in and say sorry again for that drama the other day.”
“Sit down, Dog.” He snatches his bottle of whiskey out of the drawer, still on his feet.
I do as I’m told, holding my tongue as he pours out a single shot. Must be mad if he ain’t sharing.
“What the fuck did you do to her?”
“Who?” Can’t be Dagne. Last I saw her she was out back listening to music in the sunshine.
“The Virgin Mary. Who the fuck you think I’m talkin’ about?”
Mel. Right. I push up on my elbows, mostly so I can appear larger, you know, fool the predator into thinking you can stand your ground? The anger pulses off him in invisible waves that match my budding headache.
“Care to explain this?” He thrusts his phone at me, a message thread from Crackers on the screen.
Smack Dog upside the fucking head for me.
I shrug. “He reamed me about drinkin’ too much before I left the other week. Maybe that’s what he’s on about?”
King takes the phone back and shakes his head, finger swiping at the screen. He stabs so hard the end of his finger turns white and then twists it to me once again. This time it’s a screenshot of a Facebook post.
“The post has been removed, but enough people saw it.”
Sure enough, there’s a thumb up, sad face, and the number thirty-one next to it. I drag my eyes back up to the text, knowing in my gut I don’t want to know what it says but also that King won’t let me get away without reading it.
Searching for the meaning to all of this …
Underneath is a picture, but all I can make out is trees and what looks like hair. Dark hair.
King helpfully reaches around and swipes left to the next picture: a screenshot of the image, clear as day.
I have to open my mouth to save from grinding my teeth into nothing. Mel sits on the edge of the porch, only her back visible as she reclines, her hands braced on the wooden planks—a gun under the right. What tells most of all, though, is the wisp of dark gray that tracks down her cheek from the corner of her eye. If it weren’t so fucking disturbing, it would be a stunning black and white portrait. She’s obviously propped her phone up against the house to take the shot.
I can’t even speak—barely swallow.
All I see is that gun lazily pinned beneath her palm.
“She’s been spoken to,” King murmurs, taking the phone away, “but Crackers wants to know what the fuck you did to leave her so twisted up.”
“Why does it have to be my fault?” I protest weakly, knowing full fucking well I have a bucket load to do with it. “Fair game, Pres. She’s been through a lot. All things considered, don’t you think there’s plenty for her to be worked up about without it being because of me?”
King tips his head to the side, giving me that condescending fatherly look I hate so much. “She asked after you.”
She did? “Oh.”
I grip the ends of the armrests, my fingers curled in tight to the upholstered seat.
“She came in here lost and worried about how she’d fit back into her old life,” King says, quiet and measured. “And now here she is, sittin’ on a fuckin’ porch contemplating the reason for living.”
“Where is she now?”
“Being watched.” He sighs, swirling what’s left in the base of his shot glass. “Think it over, Dog. If she said anything to you that might help, I want to hear it.”
“Yeah, sure.” I’ll have plenty of time to think on my way down there. “Anythin’ else botherin’ you, boss?”
He came in here like a hurricane. You can’t tell me that was all because of her.
“We can’t find Hooch.”
“Fucker’s kind of hard to lose.” I chuckle.
The joke falls flat between us.
“He hasn’t been in contact for almost a week.” King stares solemnly in the shot glass as though it holds his most cherished memories of times gone by and p
eople lost. “We’re runnin’ out of ideas on how to track him down.”
“Anyone told Mel?” Might explain her mood some.
“No.”
“Shit, man.” I slap a hand to my face, drawing it down hard. “She has a right to know.”
“Yeah, I get that.” He glares at me, slamming the glass down. “But don’t you think after that underhanded cry for attention, she might just be a little too fragile to take it right now?”
“You guys don’t give her enough credit,” I murmur.
That girl’s stronger than even she knows. She’s the kind of old lady the brothers dream of: resilient, steadfast, and honest. It’s no wonder, really, why Judas was so hard on her. With a woman like her at the top, the place was sure to thrive.
She might think all her days are cloudy, but that bitch doesn’t realize she is the fucking sun. She has the power to turn this all around.
“You need me around here?” I ask.
King frowns, rubbing his palms together slowly. “Why?”
“Why do you think, man?”
“If you go down there, you fix it,” he orders. “Without involving your fuckin’ dick for a change.”
“You’re horrible when you’re angry, you know that?” I tease.
“I’ve been told.” He drops into his seat and then pours another drink. “Now get out. I’ve got a shitload to get through before Elena expects me home for dinner.”
“Consider me gone.” I get as far as the door before King calls me back.
“What if your brother shows up again, Dog? What do you want me to do with him?” he asks.
I shrug, running my palm up and down the doorframe. “Whatever you want, Pres. He’s all yours.”
I’ve long given up caring what happens to him. Derek wants to be stupid enough to come back here, he deserves whatever grief he gets.
I’ve got more pressing things to worry about. Shit that I actually care about. Things that really matter.
I head upstairs with the vision of Mel on the porch burned in my brain. How in the fuck I can screw a woman up so badly when all I did was goddamn kiss her?
Huh. Maybe that’s it.
All I did was kiss her.
TWENTY-TWO
Mel
My room looks as though a bomb’s hit it: clothes and personal belongings lay across the floor like casualties on a battlefield. It started when I had the basic urge to put on that sweatshirt I brought back from the trailer. It escalated when all I could find were tight tanks, skinny jeans, and slashed shirts.
I want to throw away everything that is the old Mel. I want a fresh start. But the more I dug through my drawers, slid things around in my wardrobe, the more I realized that I can’t escape her.
She’s everywhere. Worst of all, she’s still in me.
I wake up one day, loving how it feels to showcase my feminine curves in leather and lace, and then flip it all around the next morning wanting to shave my head like Brittney.
Check my Google history and you’ll find Symptoms of bipolar.
Only, I don’t think that’s it. I’m just … lost. Drifting out at sea with only a Harley badge as a flotation device, wondering how long I can keep kicking before I drown. I’m waiting for one of these people around here to sail in and rescue me with a purpose, something for me to do.
I’m waiting to be told who I am because heaven knows I can’t work it out myself.
“Hey, hold up!” Beth yells out in the corridor. “You should calm down first.”
The sound of boots scuffing to a stop on the floorboards is followed by a hastily growled, “Back up.”
“Look, we’re all worried,” Beth whispers.
I edge closer to my door.
“But charging in there with the kind of attitude you’ve got might be too much for her to handle. She’s …” Beth trails off, unsure of how to describe what is clearly me.
“Fragile?” The man’s voice scathes. I can’t quite pick it, but I want to say he sounds like— “Don’t give me that bullshit, Beth.” –Dog.
“Fine. But go easy on her, okay?”
Nothing else is said, but the silence speaks volumes in itself. I can only guess the look he gives her. Lighter footsteps recede as his heavier ones continue toward my room. I back up, tripping on a stray boot, and spin around to take stock of the mess around me.
Shoot. If I wanted to appear sane, I’ve got damn near no chance with my room like this.
“What the …?”
I shrink into my shoulders, cringing.
“Mel?”
I turn slowly as he takes careful steps over my mess. “What are you doing back here?” He belongs in Lincoln. This may be his club, but it’s not his home.
”I think the question is, what are you doin’ here?” He stares wide-eyed at my carnage. “Lost somethin’?”
“Only my mind,” I say with a giggle.
He sighs; the loose strands of his messed up hair hang over his right eye as he stares at me with nothing short of pity. I hate it, yet love it at the same time. I don’t need to be felt sorry for, but I sure as hell need the compassion he showed just by coming here.
I can only assume I’ve got Crackers to thank for that.
“Sit.” He points to the bed.
I do as I’m told, my chest all kinds of warm as he takes a deep breath and then proceeds to clean my room. The contrast is almost comical: a big strong biker in his leather and denim, carefully folding my clothes and placing them back in my drawers and closet.
“Dog or Koen?” I say quietly, too scared to speak fully in case it spooks this apparition away.
He can’t be real. I have to be dreaming.
He hesitates, my boots slung in one hand, and smiles softly. “I think you know the answer to that.”
“Koen.” I smile back, knitting my hands in my lap.
He nods and then gets back to work. All my makeup is lined up on top of my bureau, my closet organized by color. He rights my laundry basket, and straightens the covers on my bed, shooing me side-to-side as he does.
And all the while I watch in silence, finally feeling a little more at peace.
“There.” Dog looks around at the room, inspecting his work. “I think it’s done.”
“Thank you.” I drop my gaze, ashamed that he’s essentially come in and placated me like a toddler. “I don’t know what came over me. I just …”
“Snapped?”
“Yeah.” Once the anger found an outlet, I couldn’t stop the torrent. As silly as I knew it was taking out my frustrations on pointless possessions, the act of rebelling against order, messing everything up, held some strange meditative quality to it. As though it was the only way I could break free of this perfect persona I’ve tried so hard to feel comfortable in once again.
Strong fingers tip my chin up, and I meet Dog’s concentrated gaze as he looks down at me from where he now stands beside my bed. “Talk to me, Mel. What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”
I pull my chin from his hold and look away. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“How about starting with why you trashed your room,” he asks without any trace of irritation. “Or perhaps why the fuck I see a picture of you with a gun in your hand?”
I shrug. “It felt right at the time.” I couldn’t explain it to Crackers either when he asked.
That day had started out like all the other bad ones, with me wishing I was alone in the woods again where there wasn’t anyone to ask me how I am today or look at me with those fucking pitiful stares. I was struggling to make heads or tails of the day even before Crackers lied to me about Hooch.
He said, “Yeah, I heard from him yesterday.” But I knew he didn’t tell me the truth. All his signs were there: inability to look me in the eye, fidgeting with something in his hold and clearing his throat before he changed the subject.
There’s a reason Crackers has given up joining in on poker nights.
So I went out back and tried a little
more target practice. Firing the gun into that knot of wood had been therapeutic on the other shitty day, so why wouldn’t it be on this one? Only, the more I discharged the weapon, the more I wondered what it would feel like to turn the handgun around and point it at myself.
Weirder still, I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to feel so lost and pointless anymore.
It’s a strange place to be: happy to be alive, yet wishing for a reason not to be.
“I don’t want to be here at the clubhouse, locked away like some precious possession when I’m no better or worse than any of those people downstairs.” I look down at my hands. “Being here, where my family isn’t anymore … it’s driving me around the bend.”
“I get that,” Dog says, “but you can’t run away from the place forever, Mel. You’re home now, and pretty damn soon you’ll need to figure out how to accept that.”
“I’m trying.” I frown, fighting the pricks behind my eyes. “But the more I try to come up with a reason to be here, something to do to be useful, to earn the accolades people so freely place on me, then the more pointless I feel.”
“Why do you have to be doin’ something?”
“Because look at what this club has done for me,” I argue, meeting his hard eyes once more. “They put up with my juvenile tantrums when I stormed out of the place after Daddy matched me with Crackers. And then they risked a lot by hiding me from Carlos until it all blew over. They’ve constantly held me up on a pedestal, and I don’t feel like I’ve earned that kind of privilege.”
He sighs, shifting to take a seat beside me on the bed. “Have you asked them why they feel that way toward you? What it is that makes them want to treat you like that?”
I snort. “No.” How vain would that seem? “Oh, hey. Mind telling me why I’m so awesome?”
“Just a thought,” he shrugs.
“Can you keep a secret?”
Dog holds my gaze with a sly smirk. Right—Koen. Of course he can.
“I sat down with Beth the other day after you left to go home, and she helped me plan a rally for when Hooch gets back.”
“Yeah?” His eyebrows peak. “Where to?”