"They? As in the stores? No, angel baby, no," he said with a lip twitch. "But I have friends who love the idea of traipsing around buying pretty girl things. They will also be picking up a new cell for you. Handbags. Some girly shit for your lady business."
"You have friends that would pick up girly shit for my lady business?" I asked, completely unable to wrap my head around such a person.
"Well, boo, my friends don't have lady caves, so there is no embarrassment for them picking up stuff to stick all up in there," he said, waving a hand at my crotch. "Now. Go shower that public transit off of you. Wrap yourself in the spare kimono. Then come back out here for some food and pampering. What?" he asked when I felt my lips tipping up.
"I'm trying to wrap my head around having a single kimono, let alone a guest one."
"Um, Winifred, angel, I know you've been locked up for a long time. But I'm sure there was some lady cave digging or licking or whatever goes on with that whole situation you have down there. And just like there is lady-on-lady lovin' on the inside, there is man-on-fine-ass-man lovin' on the outside. And when one of those fine ass men stays over at my home and hearth, honey, they need to have themselves a kimono."
Since I had never worn a kimono in my life, I couldn't quite agree with the necessity of it in general, let alone for romantic encounters. But, hey, what the hell did I even know about anything anymore?
"Okay. If you say so."
"Oh, and there is a package of hair products on the vanity. You use them as instructed, you hear? Otherwise, I won't be able to do a damn thing with that dried out mess you have going on."
I snorted at that, shaking my head. "I love you too, Thad."
"Girl, you know how we show love in this family," he countered, shrugging.
"With food."
"With food. That's right. Now go get your scrub and shave on. Some private self-loving if you so require. I will be out here with my fine ass, cooking you a four-course meal."
My stomach rumbled in response as I gave him a smile before making my way toward the hall where I found the bathroom behind the first door on the left.
There were some strange things you forgot about when you were on the inside. Fluffy, not stiff blankets. Real glass mirrors. Pretty shower curtains. Shelves where you could put - and keep - personal care products. Of which Thad had about two dozen. Shaving foam, powder, exfoliator, body lotion, facial moisturizer, face masks, eye cream, toner. The list was endless.
I turned on the water to get warm as I read the instructions on the bottles of my specialty hair products before setting them on the edge, sliding off my clothes, then slipping under the hot spray. Without the worry of other women seeing me. Without concern about guards yelling at me.
It was just me.
In a shower.
What a small, yet monumental, luxury.
I was in there until the steam tufted up thick in the room, making the air hard to breathe, until the water ran cool, until every inch had been scrubbed, exfoliated, shaved if it needed it, and pumiced when it came to my feet, knees, elbows.
It wasn't for another half an hour of adding in the products Thad had given me and covering myself in lotion, then sliding in the admittedly amazing feeling of the guest kimono that I emerged from the bathroom to the sounds of Prince coming from the speakers, Thad swaying his hips to a song that talked about titties bouncing while he mixed something in a pan.
The air was full of too many smells to place any one dish. Onions danced with garlic who lightly kissed the starchy smell of cooking pasta. Underneath that, a smell I knew only from my aunt who always had a bottle open and breathing on the counter after work, not from any personal experience with it.
Red wine.
Sweet, yet vinegar-like somehow at the same time.
On the long list of things I had never done, tasting alcohol was right there in the middle. Not a taste of wine at Church. Not a vodka cran sucked down at a house party. Not a foul-smelling beer some friend's brother picked up.
Nothing.
Not a sip.
Don't bother. She's a goodie-goodie.
If I had a dime for every time I heard that growing up, well, I'd have had enough money to hire a decent attorney and maybe avoid incarceration as a whole.
"Alright, girl. I didn't know what to make you. So I made you everything. We got mac n' cheese noodles cooking. Creamy tomato soup bubbling. Breaded chicken in the oven with some potatoes, carrots, and onions. Brownie batter just waiting for the chicken to finish. I got all the comfort foods, boo. And if you want takeout later, I got a drawer full of menus."
There was something pulling me across the floor, a string situated in my chest, dragging me toward the one attached to his, making me move up behind him, wrapping my arms around his comfortingly strong frame, resting my head on the jut of his shoulder blade, taking a deep breath of him, and squeezing hard.
"I'm happy to have you here too, boo," he told me, closing his giant hand over my finer boned one.
"I didn't know how to ride a bus," I admitted to his back as though there was anything to be ashamed of in the first place.
"Honey babe, that is because people as fine as us shouldn't be taking public transportation," Thad told me, his voice funeral serious, something that made a laugh bubble up and burst out until I could feel something long-buried, something almost foreign, move through my body.
Happiness.
And it was warm. Hot even.
That was why I had been so unbearably cold for so long. Because there was nothing even akin to joy in the world I had been in for so long.
Feeling it there in my brother's kitchen while he made me dinner and talked about how he was planning to chop off most of my hair, I realized that maybe things wouldn't be as easy as I thought.
To go through with my plan.
To, likely, head back to jail.
Possibly for life.
It had been so long. I had forgotten how it felt to love and be loved. Under the daily drudgery of prison life, I had somehow lost these parts of me. The ones that knew humor and food made of love and the touch of affection that wanted nothing but to soothe, to make things better.
As I sat across a little round table loaded down with more food than I had seen in years, made with flavor and familiarity, listening to my brother talk about the men in his 'rotation,' and telling me about all the things he had planned to do with me now that I was home, I wasn't sure how I could do it.
Give it all back.
Give it away.
Willingly, this time.
It wasn't just about me, either. It wasn't about all these soft, warm things I would be refusing for myself. It was about my brothers. It was about what I would be doing to them. With purpose. Fully aware of what I was doing to them all over again. Making them worry about me. Knowing they would continue to fill my commissary even if I told them not to. Having to deal with the back flack that would inevitably come from having a family member spending the rest of their lives in jail.
Could I do that to them?
Be that selfish?
As Thaddeus rubbed red lipstick on my lips, fluffed my hair, then moved me in front of the mirror, I was almost sure I couldn't.
The woman who looked back at me was a me I didn't recognize, a me that hadn't looked back at me in a mirror in a decade. This was a woman who had people who loved her, who wanted to spend meals with her, go to movies. This was a woman who had places to go, people to see, a future to make.
Thad was true to his word. He chopped off the shoulder-length, dried-out hair I had been abusing for ten years, shortening it to just under my ears, the tresses falling in bouncy, yet loose curls, giving it the volume it had been needing to set off my cheekbones, he cut somehow making my eyes more of a focal point. Mascara darkened and lengthened my lashes. My brows were perfectly tweezed. And my lips were a bold shade of red that I never would have chosen for myself, but found myself loving.
"And that, beautiful, would be Benny with y
our clothes," Thad announced when there was a knocking on the door with what seemed like the tip of a shoe.
Benny, as far as I remembered from the somewhat lengthy list, was not part of Thad's rotation. Just a friend. The one who let him borrow the salon chair in the first place.
The next few hours were a whirlwind. I was plied with wine that made me both light and heavy at the same time, making my head feel floaty, but my heart feel slow and sad as I was stripped down to my panties and dressed, undressed, and redressed while being inspected by the keen eyes of both Thaddeus and Benny who debated each piece of wardrobe as if the fate of the country depended on them being the right shade for my skin tone and the right style to accentuate my waist and behind while making it seem like I had more up top than I actually did.
By the time I was shuffled to bed wearing a silk camisole and short set in a sweet soft yellow color that felt buttery soft on my skin, staring up at the white ceiling fan whirling around lazily enough not to even rustle the sheer drapes on the windows, I understood one thing.
If I had to continue this path, if I chose to let the rage simmer and overflow, if I took out long-sought vengeance, my brothers would never forgive me.
I'd have to give them up.
I'd have to be okay with having no family left, never knowing warmth again.
And, quite frankly, I wasn't ready for that yet.
I wondered if I ever would be.
If I could live with myself if I didn't make him pay for what he did to me, what he stole from me. If I could face myself every day for the rest of my life knowing he was out there with a clear conscience, getting off Scot-free. If I could ever truly move on from a youth stolen, trust annihilated, happiness ripped away.
I didn't, as it turned out, get a restful night sleep.
While the world around me might have been silent for the first time in years, the voices in my head screamed louder than anyone else possibly could.
TWO
Virgin
There were, by my count, eight kids running around the compound.
Freeze tag.
Simon Says.
Cops and robbers.
High squeals, gut laughs, end tables toppling to the floor with choruses of Oooh, you're gonna be in trouuuuble.
Leaned back against the bar, long-buried memories tugged at the edges of my consciousness.
Eight dropped down to two.
Me and Sugar.
Two kids in a place never meant for squishy, impressionable minds. Boys forced to shoulder the responsibility of manhood far too young, never allowed to cry, to feel affection and love.
Fuck. I didn't even know what those words meant, to be perfectly honest.
I was a product of a clubhouse. Of rough men with sharp edges that didn't hesitate to cut even young flesh if it got too close.
"What's up?" Sugar asked, sidling in at my right, following my line of vision to where one of the smaller kids - head blocked by the edge of the pool table, making them unrecognizable save for solid foundations and light hair - was doing a real shit - so bad it was comical - attempt to hide from the seeker who was counting down from twenty, missing a few numbers here and there.
"They don't belong here," I mumbled.
"Don't be a fuck," Sugar shot back, shaking his head.
"Not like that," I insisted, shrugging my shoulders. "They don't belong here like we didn't belong in a clubhouse."
"Yah, maybe. But this isn't like that," he reminded me. "Look around. No one is getting head in plain sight. Not a single Devil's Triangle to be seen. No heroin powder on the coffee tables. This is different."
That was true enough.
A lifetime - literally - in MCs had given me a full picture of what they had to offer. And, for the most part, it was some none-too-subtle misogyny, oftentimes horrific hazing of probates, addiction, and violence.
Coming to Navesink Bank had been Sugar's idea. The Henchmen had a great reputation of being stable, of having great leadership, and - thanks to an unfortunate incident that culled their numbers - were needing new members. He said it was time to find some roots, a place we could really settle into instead of jumping MCs every few years because the leaders got locked up and things fell apart.
I hadn't been an unwilling tagalong either. I had participated. I had come to the open house. I had met the crew. I had tried to impress Reign and Cash and Wolf so we could get in.
And there had been no shortage of action thanks to the complex underworld in this particular town on the river.
I had even been happy for a long while.
I didn't know what was going on.
Something was bothering me. Some phantom itch under the skin that no scratching could ease.
Maybe it was as simple as Sugar settling down. Though, maybe, 'settling down' was not the right phrase for what he and Peyton were doing. Anyone who knew Peyton knew that the woman would never do something as mundane as settling down. Not her. Not this woman who had turned over the booth in the diner when we had been out to eat after overhearing some young shits talking about making a girl come and demonstrated with her fingers where the G-spot was located and what rhythm to work the clit to.
No.
Peyton would never settle down.
But she had stolen most of Sug's attention and time.
I had to admit, it had been an adjustment.
If there was one thing I could count on from age of four on, it was that Sugar was going to be around, be down for whatever trouble I wanted to get into.
And it seemed as soon as bonds were formed with my new brothers, a woman came crashing into their lives, dragging them away from the club.
Pagan and Kennedy. Cy and Reese. Edison and Lenny. Reeve and Rey. Adler and Lou. Roderick and Liv.
It was just me and Roan and Cam, the latest addition.
Roan spent most of his time swearing some storm was coming. And Cam, well, he was around. He brought donuts every morning. But, yeah, you couldn't exactly get to know the man. He didn't speak.
If ever I was feeling like an outsider, it was here. Now. In this club full of happy couples and contented children.
I had jobs, duties, allegiances.
But I didn't feel like I had a place, not really.
"You know how I hate the touchy-feely shit," Sugar said to my silence. "But Peyt thinks I am being a shitty friend if I don't say something."
"Something about what?"
"About you. Something's going on. And since you aren't exactly a conversationalist, I guess I have to ask."
"Guess I'm just bored," I said, shrugging it off.
"Bored? Here? Christ, wasn't it just like a year back that we took down V and saved the girls. And before that all the uncertainty about who was after us. Think there's been more action here than the other MCs combined. Raids aside."
"Can't argue with that."
I could feel his gaze on the side of my face, trying to burrow in, trying to understand something that I didn't exactly understand myself.
"Maybe you need to go out and get some tail," he suggested. "It's been a while."
Now that he mentioned it, it had been a while. While I was fine going out alone, hitting the bar by myself and waiting for the right woman to walk in was boring as fuck. So I had been spending most of my free time picking up extra guard duties at the compound to give all the guys with better things to do a break.
I did need to get out.
Get laid.
Clear my head.
"Yeah. You're right," I agreed, jerking my head over toward Cam, knowing that Roan was a lost cause. He'd been worse than usual lately. Like the storm wasn't just some Farmer's Almanac prediction, but an ache in his bones. "You up for Chaz's?" I asked when he gave me a raised brow.
His nod was all I was going to get.
"Let's go. Tell Peyt I said hey," I told Sugar, knowing that was where he would be when I got back. Peyton wasn't opposed to spending time in the clubhouse. In fact, she got a kick out of it. But she had
this circle of friends all around her, ones that crashed at her place all the time, and she - understandably - would take their company over ours.
An hour and four beers later, I was starting to think my luck was going to run out. It was a fight night - some bullshit feud between two men faking bravado when you knew damn well they respected the shit out of each other in real life, but, hell, that didn't make great TV. The place was packed full of people not willing to shell out the cash to watch the fight in the comfort of their own homes. And women, well, they stayed far the fuck away from a bunch of drunk ass men cheering on brutal violence.
Cam was kicked back in a booth, head lulled back, a drink cradled in his hands, staring at one of the TVs, but I got the feeling he was looking through it instead of actually watching it, leaving me to do just about the same.
Cam wasn't a bad wingman.
In fact, in the time he had been with us, he had somehow managed to bag his fair share of women when we went out to the bars. How, when he couldn't talk to the women, I wasn't exactly sure. But it was a level of suave most men could only dream of aspiring to. Because you had to have a fuckload of game to get a modern-day, cautious, suspicious, untrusting - rightfully so - woman to go home with you when she didn't even catch your name.
After a cursory scan of the room once we stepped in, he seemed to abandon the idea of getting laid and set to just about ignoring everything.
Or so I thought until I felt a jab - elbow into my ribcage - making my head jerk over, brows lowered, finding his eyes on me. As soon as I caught his gaze, his chin jerked outward toward the bar I had been sure he'd been all but blind to.
Turning, I saw her.
And there was only a gap between seconds where I was curious as to how Cam had spotted her before me.
Especially because she was a living, breathing version of the perfect woman. Or, at least, my perfect woman.
We all had our preferences. Cam, for example, went for the soft girls. Creamy skin, lighter shades of hair - blondes and strawberries and ashy browns. Tall and willowy. Delicate, almost. The quiet ones who tagged along with their ballsier girlfriends. The introvert that the extroverts adopted and made it their mission to bring them of their shell.
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