Long ago, Magaskawee had reconciled her feelings for Prosper and for Jack. And when Prosper had come to visit in those years since, there was not so much as a look that passed between Maggie and him that hinted to the longing they may have felt or the secret love they still shared.
Sometimes Maggie would look at Claire and wonder how Prosper did not see himself in her eyes, her chin, and her stubbornness. She had promised herself that she would tell him, that if Prosper ever guessed, or even hinted that he had the slightest inkling that Claire was his daughter, she would tell him the truth.
But he never did.
He never questioned the amber flakes in her brown eyes that were so like his own or the strength in her little chin.
Maggie thought it was probably wrong to keep Claire’s parentage a secret to herself.
Wrong for Claire, wrong for Prosper, and wrong for Jack.
But honestly, she wasn’t quite convinced exactly just how wrong it was. Maggie’s world had never functioned from a place of absolutes. Nothing ever seemed to be all white or all black, all true or false, all good or bad. She lived in a world where those lines of social norms were blurred and fundamental truths were … not so fundamental, after all.
In starting his club, Prosper had found the tribe, the sense of belonging, the marginalized family that he had been looking for. The one percent of the population who lived outside the laws and guidelines of polite society—those were his people—and he was their overlord, their chieftain. He fulfilled his role with honor and purpose. The world he ruled over had no place for a child.
And even if it had, there were her girls to consider.
As different in temperaments as they were, Raine and Claire were as close as sisters could be; two little peas in a pod and one could not do without the other. Maggie knew that to survive what was to come, the girls would need each other. The strong bonds they had, the blood they shared, and the ties that bound them hard and fast should never be put into question. Those two little hearts would always beat stronger when they beat together. As long as her girls had each other, Maggie knew they would be fine.
In truth, it was Jack who worried Maggie the most.
That was just one of the many things she would need to talk to Prosper about when he arrived. She would need to talk to him about helping Jack learn how to live without her.
It had been a long ride on this journey that could only end in heartbreak. When Prosper had finally reached that town line, he realized he still wasn’t ready to face Maggie or the devastating illness that was hellbent on tearing her from everything she knew and everyone she loved.
Feeling that he needed a little more time to face what he knew was waiting, Prosper got himself a cheap motel room just outside of town. He’d have a late dinner then get shitfaced drunk.
In the visits he had made over the years to Jack and Maggie’s house, he had often stopped at Raising Cain. It was a typical neighborhood bar and grill where regulars met up to share local news, maybe grab something to eat, or play cards, darts, or billiards. They had an impressive menu, which included breakfast all day, juicy, fat angus-beef burgers, wood-fired pizza, and fried pickles. The coffee was always hot and fresh, and the beer was on tap and ice cold. The Lion’s Club and Rotary met in the “banquet” room in the back once a month, and many adulterous affairs had begun in the dark, tree-lined parking lot. The booths were covered in red vinyl, and the lighting was low. The sports schedule for the local high school’s teams were taped on the wall behind the cash register while a civic bowling trophy gathered dust next to it. Raising Cain was family-owned and the same waitstaff had been there forever. Jack had introduced Prosper to the place, and whenever Prosper had been in the area, he and Jack spent a least one night having a few brews and maybe sitting in on a couple of pickup games of cards or darts. Over the years he had gotten on a first-name basis with the owners and knew several of the regulars as well.
When Prosper hesitated just inside the door, Petey McCabe lifted his chin by way of greeting, so Prosper made his way to the free barstool next to his buddy..
“Wondered when you’d be back around.” Petey clapped him on the back, and called out to the owner who was working the grill. “Sean, look what the damn cat dragged in!”
Sean turned, wiped his hands off on a bar towel, then extended his right one out to Prosper. “Good to see you.” Sean, who was in his mid-seventies, gave Prosper a firm handshake. “Jack’s gonna be happy as hell to have you back around too. Ain’t been easy.” Sean shook his head, then he changed the direction of the conversation. “Swiss-mushroom-beef-baconburger deluxe with a double order of cajun fries?”
Prosper gave him a small grin. “My mouth started watering for it the minute I hit Route 95.”
“You got it, and it’s on the house,” Sean told him. Then he proceeded to put three shot glasses on the bar and fill them with Jack Daniels. Sean raised his glass in an old Irish blessing: “Here’s to beefsteak when you’re hungry, whiskey when you’re dry, all the women you’ll ever want, and heaven when you die.”
The three men clinked their glasses together and downed their shots all in one gulp. Sean went off to cook up Prosper’s burger while Petey gulped down his beer. When the food came, Petey ordered another shot and kept on drinking as Prosper enjoyed his burger and fries.
“Jack been around?” Prosper asked in between bites.
“Yeah, a few times. Doesn’t stay too long though. Sometimes grabs a couple of orders of food to bring home to the girls.” Petey shrugged. “He’s holding up okay, I guess, considering. That’s why you’re here? To lend a hand?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m here.” Prosper nodded, and then, because he didn’t want to talk anymore about it, he changed the subject. “How you doing? How’s the family?”
“Can’t complain. Got my kid playing little league. He’s damn good at it too. He’s got a strong arm and the coach has got him pitching. Reno and the rest of the little hellions on the team have been away at training camp this week, so Dolly and the other moms are up there now. They all went together a day early to spend some time shopping and shit. I got no responsibilities until Sunday, and I plan to use this time to get blasted and then go home and sleep it off until at least noon.”
“I love my wife, I sure as hell do, but don’t mind telling you, Dolly can be a pain in the ass. Gets up with the goddamn birds, all cheerful and shit. Never seems to occur to her that not everyone is a damn morning person. My grandpa told me never to marry a redhead. Shoulda listened.”
Petey snorted then reached into his wallet and pulled out a picture of his boy outfitted in a baseball uniform, smiling at the camera. “They got these pictures taken of the team. Individual shots that look like baseball cards. Cost me a damn fortune, but the kid looks good, huh? I think he’s kinda skinny and small for his age, but Dolly says the doctor told her he’s damn perfect. She’s on top of shit like that, so aside from slipping him a couple of candy bars when his ma ain’t looking, I leave it for her to handle.” The obvious love and pride Petey felt for his wife and son belied the rough cadence of his voice.
At the mention of baseball, Sean clicked on the television and half the bar turned to watch the ballgame from their seats. Prosper had needed this time to unwind, and knowing he was only about twenty minutes away from Jack and Maggie’s house made him feel better. So, he shot the shit with the guys, watched the game, and relaxed for the first time in what seemed like forever.
“Hey Petey, your sister’s calling.” The bartender brought the phone over to the bar and placed it there.
“Aw, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Petey swore under his very intoxicated breath. When he went to pick up the phone and missed the receiver twice, Prosper answered it for him.
“Petey? Petey? You there? For the love of god, Peter Mckenzie McCabe, you better pick up this damn phone. I need you to get your sorry Irish ass off that barstool and come get me,” an exasperated woman’s voice sounded out.
“Where
are you?” Prosper asked.
Pinky hesitated on the other end of the line, then responded, “Who are you?”
“Just a guy at the bar. Your brother is …” Prosper really didn’t want to tell her that Petey was too shitfaced to take her call.
Pinky said with exasperation, “He’s dead drunk, isn’t he?”
Prosper swung his gaze to Petey, but he didn’t respond because she was not wrong. In the short time Prosper had been on the phone Petey had done a face-dive on the bar, and his snoring was creating bubbles in the small pool of spilled beer next to him.
“Listen, can you do me favor? Just call a taxi for me. I’m stuck here out on the road, and I don’t mind telling you it’s damn creepy.”
“What’s wrong with your car?” Prosper asked.
“What the hell isn’t? Just call me that cab? Sean keeps a list of cab companies behind the bar. If you don’t see it, just tell Sean to call one. I’m at exit 33 off the interstate in a blue Buick.”
Then she let out a yelp of alarm.
“What? What’s going on?” Prosper frowned into the phone.
“Oh, my god. There’s a bear foraging in the trashcan.” Her voice was shaking.
The operator cut in and asked for another coin to be deposited.
“I’m outta change … Please just call for the cab and for the love of god, hurry,” she implored him.
Then the line went dead.
Pinky McCabe lit a cigarette, put her nose to the glass of the phone booth, and watched the big old bear take a nose dive into the garbage can. She tried to remember everything she had ever learned about bears and came up with … nothing.
Damn.
What a day. First, she gets stiffed on a tip from a bunch of college kids who took up three tables in her section at the diner, then they turned what should a have been a half-hour meal into a two-hour study session. On the way home she hits a pothole and blows a hole the size of a dinner plate in her worn tire, and the one night she needs her big brother to help her out, he’s dead drunk in a bar.
Noise! The notion burst through her head and pushed all other thoughts aside. She had seen it once on one of those morning television shows. It was an interview with a guy who scared a killer grizzly bear off in a state park by making a ruckus.
She needed to provide enough distraction to get the bear away from the garbage can so she could get to her car. The damn phone booth only had three glassed-in sides, and the garbage can next to it was overflowing with Styrofoam takeout containers. It was only a matter of time before the animal went searching from one trashcan to the other.
Pinky began to dig frantically in her deep purse to find just the thing that would make enough noise to scare off the bear: lipstick, tampons, mascara, hair ties, half a pack of chewing gum, hairspray, nail polish, wallet, lighter, pack of cigarettes, birth control pills, and a joint. She scoured further into the large bag, her hand moving past an impressive amount of loose breath mints, until she landed on it. With shaking fingers, Pinky opened up the lavender hard-shell case and retrieved what she liked to call her “lady gun.” The Beretta’s handgrip was bedazzled with pink crystals and that custom job alone had set Pinky back a month’s salary. But with the hours she kept and the neighborhood she lived in, the sense of security that owning the gun allowed her was worth it … and adding that little bit of bling was just a no-brainer and something she couldn’t resist. Really, who could?
Pinky threw the purse over her shoulder, gripped her handgun, squared her shoulders, and planted her feet apart for balance. Then she took careful aim at the empty garbage can to the left of the foraging creature, squeezed the trigger, fired off the shot, and … missed. It took her two more shots before she managed to hit her target and be rewarded with the ping … ping … sound of the bullet hitting the empty metal can.
Unfortunately, the bear was unimpressed with the noise the shot had made and continued his rummaging. Pinky thought about just shooting the damn bear, but she had never shot at a live anything. And she sure as hell didn’t think this bear was where she should start. Her best guess was that she’d probably just wound him, and everyone knew what they said about a wounded animal.
While the bear stayed busy, head deep and furry ass up in the garbage can, she decided to make a run for the car. Pinky was small but she was fast. Once in the car, she locked all the doors then leaned on the horn. Nothing. He didn’t even pause in his quest for a leftover meal to glance her way. Pinky was afraid that the cab driver would pull into the stop area, take one look at the bear, and pull out again. She started the car and despite the blown-out tire, pulled out of the rest stop. She drove on the tire’s rim until she felt far enough away from the bear to be safe, then pulled over to the side of the road and put her flashers on. Pinky shut down the car, turned the key once more for the radio, and lit up a cigarette. Then, she got out, leaned against the hood, and waited.
It wasn’t long before the sound of a motor caught Pinky’s attention. She looked down the road to see one headlight pull into the rest stop she had just vacated and then exit out. Pinky watched with interest as the vehicle approached. She quickly went back into the car and grabbed the gun out of her purse. Pinky shoved the bedazzled firearm into the deep pocket of her waitress uniform … because better safe than sorry.
The motorcycle pulled in behind her car. A man got off and started making his way towards her. Pinky put her hand in the pocket where the gun sat waiting.
“You Petey’s sister?” The man stopped a couple of feet away from her. He was a big guy and Pinky had to tilt her head up to look at his face.
“Yep.”
“I’m here to help you.”
He didn’t look like a “I’m-here-to-help-you” sort of guy to Pinky, but more of a “I’m-here-to-rob-rape-and-leave-you-for-dead” kind instead. Big, grim, muscular, and menacing, he was dressed in black from head to toe: black biker boots, black road leathers, black t-shirt. And the parts of him that weren’t covered in black clothing were enveloped in black ink. Tattoos covered both his arms and extended down to his fists, and he wore heavy silver skull rings on each one of his fingers.
“You don’t look like a cab driver and that sure as hell isn’t a cab.” Pinky eyed him with suspicion.
“And you were supposed to be waiting a quarter mile back there.” Prosper looked around her to the flat tire. “Driving on that flat just cost you a rim. I can’t change that tire now.”
“Yeah, well better than being eaten by a damn grizzly bear,” Pinky told him. “Did you see that trash all over the ground back there? That was one hungry big boy who did that, and I didn’t want to be dessert.”
Prosper grinned despite himself. “I don’t think they have grizzly bears around here.”
“Well, could be that you’re wrong. Besides, black bear, brown bear, grizzly bear, polar bear … a bear’s a bear. Unless, of course, it’s a koala bear. I don’t think I’d be afraid of a koala bear …” Pinky bit her bottom lip as if considering it.
Prosper took a moment to examine her. She looked like … well, no one he had ever seen before. Pinky was short—five foot … maybe five-one, tops—but had this big head of blonde hair all puffed up on top that made her seem taller. The puff gave way to a mess of curls that ran down her shoulders and back. Her lips were covered in pink gloss and her teeth were small and white. Pinky’s blue eyes were huge and fringed with lashes thick from mascara. She had barely-there breasts, a small waist, rounded hips, and her legs were long and skinny. But it was her ears that caught and held Prosper’s rapt attention. They stuck out and came to a little point at the top, giving her the odd appearance of a wood sprite.
Or a fairy. Or a genie who had lost her bottle.
The outfit she had on was short and tight, and looked to be some kind of uniform. Prosper leaned in to read the badge that was sitting jauntily on her left breast.
PINKY was spelled out all in capital letters.
“Pinky?” Prosper couldn’t help but grin. Na
me was damn perfect for her.
“Yup. And if you’re gonna ask me what I named the other one, don’t bother. Every working woman who has the shit luck of having to wear a badge gets that old joke at least a couple of times a week, and it’s never funny. What’s your name?”
“Prosper.”
“First or last?”
“First,” he told her, then he nodded to the bike. “Only way I’m gonna be able to get you home is on the back of my bike. Only do more damage to the car riding on that rim.”
Pinky took a closer look at him then. “How come you didn’t call me a cab like I asked you to?”
Prosper shrugged because he really didn’t have an answer except that it didn’t seem like the right thing to do. “I don’t know. You sounded like you needed help, so instead of sending someone else, I came. Why?”
“You just don’t look like the kind of guy who would give a shit about a minimum wage waitress who was stuck on the side of the road.”
“What kind of guy do I look like?”
Pinky cocked her head and gave him a cool once over. The cost of only one of those tattoos inked all over Prosper’s arms would put her back a full month’s salary, and the Harley he rode was chromed-up, fully dressed, and top of the line. His leather cut sported a full rocker with a patch over the front pocket that boasted the words President HSMC. Prosper was a one-percenter, for sure.
“That’s a no brainer,” she told him. “You’re tough. And rich.”
Prosper was surprised. The tough he got, but rich? Nah. Then he looked at the dented hundred-year-old Buick with the bald tires and rusted rims, her cheap shoes, and that god-awful bohemian cloth thing she used as a purse. In comparison, his custom Harley, his road leathers, and six-hundred-dollar biker boots must have spelled money to her. Still, he protested.
“How do you know I’m not tough and poor?”
“That’s easy,” Pinky told him. “Because I’m tough and poor.”
The two were back at the bar looking at Petey, who was in the exact same place Prosper had left him: passed out, dead drunk, and snoring in that puddle of beer.
Prosper (Hells Saints MC Book 7) Page 10