Still, she’s the only woman to know Al and not Wolf. The man before the leather and mayhem. The man who kneeled before God and not the Devil. The guy who prayed to his grandmother’s rosary beads and still carried them in his back pocket.
Reaching behind me, I pull the beads from my jeans and drop them into her open palm.
“Chapel is down the hallway,” I tell her.
Turning to her sister, she closes her hand around my grandmother’s wooden rosary beads and leads her down the hallway without another word.
Once she is out of sight, I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. The odor of gasoline still clings to me, reminding me what transpired moments before my sons pulled into the garage and this nightmare began. If a low-class pimp was standing in my shoes, he’d get more respect than I’m getting now. His fucking posse would be circling him and making sure he had clean clothes and a cup of fucking coffee. The streets would rally around him as he waited on word of his son.
The sound of heels clicking behind me causes me to shake away the thoughts polluting my head. As I turn, I catch sight of Maria from the corner of my eye. To be honest, I forgot she was there.
“Jesus,” I growl. “You’re still here.”
Her heels do a little more clicking as she walks towards the row of seats lining the wall.
“What are you doing?” I ask as she tosses her fancy purse on one of the chairs.
“My feet are killing me,” she complains, taking a seat herself.
Leaning back against the plastic chair, she lifts her eyes to mine and takes a stance.
Seen a lot of shit in my life, battled a lot of women too and I learned when a woman takes a stance there ain’t no use in arguing. Especially if that woman is as hot blooded as Maria Bianci.
“Someone once told me, even the strongest people sometimes need a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on,” she says simply. “It stuck,” she adds, patting the empty seat next to her.
There is something familiar about those words and for reasons I won’t even begin to make sense of, I start for her. Exhaustion wears at me, and I drop into the seat next to her.
“You don’t have matches or anything else that might be flammable on you, do you?” she asks as she waves her hand in front of her nose.
“No,” I mutter.
“Good,” she replies. “At least I know I won’t catch fire sitting next to you.”
Turning my head, I study her for a moment as her words ring in my ears. Of all the people that have come and gone throughout my life, this woman, with all her sass, is the last one I ever expected to be lending me a hand or a shoulder. Yet, here she is, in her fancy shoes, giving me her time.
“Quit looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like, you’re waiting for me to hit you with a frying pan.”
“Word on the street says you keep one in your purse,” I tell her, tipping my chin to the oversized bag beside her. “That why they always so big?”
“The bigger the purse—”
“Thank you,” I say, cutting her off.
Keeping my eyes pinned to her brown ones, I touch my hand to her knee.
“Thank you,” I repeat.
Her gaze holds mine as she brushes my hand away from her knee.
“You’re welcome,” she replies. “But after your son comes out of surgery go to the gift shop and buy a razor. While you’re at it, see if they have a bar of soap.”
“Yeah, lady,” I reply. “I’ll get right on that.”
After all, I wouldn’t want to catch fire either.
Chapter Two
I thought watching my son’s back as he stood with his head hung low and his wrists bound together by a pair of silver handcuffs was the worse moment of my life. That there was no greater pain a mother could ever endure. The sound of his shackled feet shuffling across the floor as they dragged him to the bus that would take him to prison, haunted me for years. It was far worse than being a frightened fifteen-year-old girl and finding out I was pregnant by my father’s bookie. A man who later became my husband and the bastard who walked out on me and our two children. Knowing Anthony was losing three years of his life for a crime he didn’t commit, trumped all the hardships life dealt me.
Until the day I learned my pregnant daughter had been shot.
If I close my eyes, I can remember standing perfectly still inside the emergency room as I stared at the man my daughter loved. Covered in her blood, Riggs’ eyes pleaded with mine for forgiveness as he revealed Lauren was not only shot but her and their unborn baby were in critical condition. Again, I was forced to play the role of the helpless mother, something I was never very good at.
If you’re a parent, then you know there is no greater misery than knowing your child is suffering and there isn’t a thing in the world you can do to change it. Feeling out of control and knowing my daughter’s life was in God’s hands, I needed to cast the blame on someone. I needed to project every emotion, all the anger, and fear, I needed to unleash it and I did so on Riggs. Hell, I even pointed a finger at my son.
In hindsight I knew they both feared for Lauren and the baby as much as I did but if it wasn’t for their lifestyles and the choices they made to ride on the wrong side of the law, my innocent daughter wouldn’t have been a victim caught in the crosshairs of a gang war and her baby wouldn’t have been born prematurely.
The days that followed Eric’s birth were just as grueling. My daughter was in a coma and my grandson was in an incubator with a breathing tube. Riggs, being the father, was the only one allowed in the NICU so he spent most of the time with the baby while I stayed with Lauren. Neither of us left the hospital. Not for a shower or to change our clothes. Not for anything. Yet we each had clean clothes and three-square meals every day. We also had coffee, magazines, and toiletries. We had everything we needed at our disposal because we had Riggs’ motorcycle club banding behind us.
Make no mistake about it, I am not a fan of the Satan’s Knights. I will never forget their dealings are what nearly cost my daughter and grandson their lives, but I will also never forget the generosity they showed me. In times of despair, those men and their woman have rallied around both my children and I can’t turn my cheek to that.
And I certainly can’t turn my back on a man who sat next to me and held my hand as I cried.
There aren’t many people in this world who have seen me cry but Wolf is one of the few.
God, that is such a ridiculous name.
Almost as fucking ridiculous as Tiger but I won’t go there.
Anyway, it was the day after the shooting. Lauren was still unconscious, and I was sitting next to her, holding her hand as I stared at the machines keeping her alive. I remember the sound of the air pumping into her body and the insistent beeping of the heart monitor. If I try really hard, I bet I can still recall the sterile scent that filled the room.
I had spent hours talking to Lauren, willing her to open her eyes and telling her all about her little boy. I begged, and I pleaded for her not to leave him…for her not to leave me. When I couldn’t stand the sound of my own voice any longer, I sat there quietly. Then I noticed the stack of magazines one of the fellas had dropped off. I thought back to the days she was a teenager and she and I would lay on the couch taking those silly quizzes Cosmo always published. Taking one from the pile, I coincidentally flipped it open to a quiz.
I barely made it through the first question before the tears started to fall from my eyes. Soon I was sobbing uncontrollably, tearing out the glossy pages of the magazine.
“Lady,” a gruff voice called.
Ignoring the man, I continued to thrash, tossing the discarded pages around like confetti. When the cover of the magazine was all that was left, I grabbed the side rail of the hospital bed and leaned close to my little girl.
“Open your eyes, Lauren. Open your damn eyes so you can meet your son.”
“Lady,” the man growled, touching a hand to my shoulder.
/> Snapping, I turned and glared at him.
“Get your hands off me,” I sneered, taking him in.
The sight of his club’s insignia only fueled my anger, and I shoved his chest. He didn’t move. Not even an inch. Instead, he held his hands up in mock surrender and kept his worn boots firmly planted to the floor.
“Not lookin’ to ruffle your feathers, lady,” he said, tipping his chin to the plastic bag dangling from his wrist. “I brought you something to eat.”
“I don’t want anything,” I argued, stepping away from him.
That wasn’t true.
I wanted to look into my daughter’s blue eyes.
I wanted to snap pictures of her as she cradled her boy in her arms.
I wanted to watch her be a mother.
I wanted her to wake up.
Dropping his hands, he opened the bag and pulled out a twelve-inch sub.
“Maybe so but ain’t gonna do your girl any good if you’re in the bed next to her. I went to John’s Deli. Didn’t know what you might like, so I grabbed you their roast beef. Also got some fresh mozzarella and half a pound of prosciutto.”
I was channeling my inner Sally Field, stealing a scene out of Steel Magnolia’s and this guy, this crazy man whose patch declared him some kind of wolf, was unwrapping a sandwich and setting out a plate of cheese.
“Sit down, lady,” he demanded, pointing to the chair I had spent the last twelve hours in.
If I wasn’t so bewildered by the beast of a biker, I might’ve put up a fight. I may have damned him and his leather clad brothers to hell in a handbasket. Instead, I dropped into the seat and watched as he wheeled the tray in front of me.
“What do you want to drink?” he asked, pulling out a variety of drinks from the bag. “Pipe said you go heavy on the coffee,” he continued, twisting the top of a Manhattan Special. “Here.”
“Does that mean the other hooligan left for the day?” I questioned, taking the bottle of iced espresso from Wolf.
Despite the bushy beard covering his lips, I swear I saw him smile.
“Ain’t going to lie, lady, hearing you call Pipe a hooligan makes me almost like you.”
At that, I rolled my eyes.
None of these guys liked me.
They all thought I was a pain in the ass and I’m pretty sure the frying pan story will go down in history.
I might not know much about their culture but, I’ve been around street guys my whole life. Whether its silk suits or leather vests, the values are all the same. These guys tolerated me out of respect for my son and daughter. Wolf wasn’t there supplying me with half the pork store out of the kindness of his heart but rather out of loyalty to the reaper on his back. It was a code of honor all these men lived by.
“Thanks,” I said lifting the bottle and tipping my chin towards the spread on the tray in front of me. “But it isn’t necessary. You can leave.”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Excuse me?”
“A pain in the ass. A thorn in the side. Whatever you want to call it,” he said, dragging another chair towards the tray. Sitting across from me, he crossed his leg over his knee and leaned back. Stroking the beard on his face, he studied me. “Your daughter is property of Parrish, lady,” he drawled, diverting his eyes toward Lauren. “Means she’s family,” he clarified before turning his gaze back to me. “Makes you family too and every Knight takes care of his family. You can fight it but you’d be wasting your breath. Now, why don’t you do us both a favor and eat the sandwich.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. I also didn’t have the stomach to eat. Pushing the cart away, I looked at my daughter.
“Lady, sometimes, even the strongest people need a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on,” Wolf said, causing me to glance back at him. “Not going to ask you to hold my hand because you might break it. But you need to cry, you can do it in front of me. I promise I’ll still think you’re a badass mouthy broad tomorrow.”
“Got promoted from pain in the ass, did I?”
His lips quirked.
“I like your girl, lady. I like her a fuck of a lot. You did good raising her.”
Pride swelled deep in my heart at his words and as much as I didn’t want to cry in front of anyone, I couldn’t help myself. The dam broke, and the tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared at my young daughter.
“Damn you,” I cursed, wiping my cheeks.
“There, now,” he muttered coming up behind me. “Let it out.” Patting me on the back he reached around me and offered me a box of tissues. Snatching them from his hands, I pulled a few out and blew my nose. “I think I told you to take your hands off me.”
“Yeah, you’re definitely a mouthy broad. Stubborn as fuck too.”
“And you’re crude.”
“Sticks and stones, lady.”
“Stop calling me that,” I said shoving the box of tissues against his chest.
“I take it back,” he replied thoughtfully as he crossed his arms. “Maybe I do want to ruffle your feathers.” Stepping closer, he plucked a few tissues from the box before tossing it to the side. Lifting his hand, he gently wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes and I was paralyzed by his touch. The tears somehow subsided, and he curled his fist around the tissue before taking a step back. “Eat the sandwich, lady,” he ordered, dropping into one of the two seats. It was the position in which he remained until my daughter opened her crystal blue eyes three days later.
That was nearly six years ago and in all that time, I never actually thanked Wolf for being there for me. I always wanted to but for some reason, I could never bring myself to actually say the words. I think mainly because if I did thank him, I would be admitting I needed him at that time in my life. A hard feat for a woman who has gotten herself out of every jam she’s ever been in and has prevailed each time her back was against a wall. Still, I’m not sure I know how to lean on someone or how to accept help. What I do know is that I appreciated him then and in those few days the man gained my respect. Which is why I can’t bring myself to leave his side now. Everything he is feeling, I have felt and while I don’t have half a pork store to offer him, I can still give my time.
Which is a lot more than any of those hooligans seem to be giving him. Odd, considering one of the first things I noticed about this gang of misfits is that they travel in packs. If one of them sneezes, there is always someone with a leather vest holding out a tissue. I often wondered if they doubled up like a bunch of school girls when one of them had to use the bathroom.
“So, you become a candy striper or something?” Wolf asks, pulling my attention away from the empty waiting room. Turning my head, I meet his gaze.
“Do I look like a candy striper?”
His eyes do a quick scan over me before meeting mine again.
“I’m not really sure what a candy striper looks like,” he admits.
“Well, I can assure you it doesn’t look like this,” I say waving a finger around my face.
“Then what are you doing in the hospital?” he questions, pushing his elbows off his knees and straightening in his seat.
“I had an appointment for a mammogram,” I tell him, watching his gaze lower to my chest. Clearing my throat, I cock my head to the side and snap my fingers. “Eyes up here, buddy.”
Lifting his head, he narrows his eyes and studies my face almost as intently as he did my breasts.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything is fine,” I scoff. “Just a routine exam and another one of the perks of being over forty,” I add, watching as he continues to stare at me. “Anyway, I took a wrong turn and ended up here.”
“Lucky for me,” he says.
“Apparently,” I reply, glancing around the room. “You going to tell me why you’re sitting here by yourself while your son is in surgery with a gunshot wound?”
“Ain’t sitting here by myself, am I? Got you at my side and my boys are probably raiding the cafeteria as we sp
eak. Patty’s here too.”
Oh, yes, that was fun.
Nothing quite says consoling like two feuding exes.
“You know what I mean,” I say instead. Thankfully, I’m learning to put a filter on my otherwise big mouth. “Where is the club and why the hell do you smell like gasoline?”
“I had an accident while pumping gas,” he replies, diverting his eyes.
“Yeah, right. I’m getting a contact high sitting next to you.”
He turns back to me.
“Now, that I’d pay good money to see, lady.”
“How many times do I gotta tell you to stop calling me that?” I ask rolling my eyes.
“You know me how long now?” he counters.
“Six long years” I mutter, crossing my arms under my chest. “What’s your point?”
“In all those years have I called you anything other than Lady?”
“No,” I reply. I’m starting to wonder if he even knows my real name.
“There’s your answer,” he says.
As I start to object, he silences me by placing his wandering hand back on my knee and leans closer.
“Besides, never met a woman better suited for the title.”
Like crying, there aren’t too many times in my life I can say I’ve been rendered speechless and certainly never at the hand of a man.
Yet here I am, completely at a loss for words and all because a man in leather decided to call me Lady.
Chapter Three
It’s been six hours since Nico was rushed into surgery and three since they came out and asked us to donate blood. Patty’s run out of prayers and I’ve run out of patience. Enzo and Frankie look ready to drop like a sack of potatoes and Maria dozed off about an hour ago. Somewhere, between then and now, her head managed to fall onto my shoulder and I haven’t moved or woken her yet.
“You would think someone would at least come out and give us an update,” my ex-wife mutters from across the room.
Peeling my eyes away from the top of Maria’s head, I meet Patty’s gaze.
Riding The Edge Page 3