by Jc Emery
Fuck.
Diesel leads me into what I guess is Wyatt’s room. I’ve never been in here—or more accurately, if I’ve been in here I don’t remember. The last time I was here, Wyatt was just visiting from the Detroit charter and we’d occasionally steal away in a room to make love, but he didn’t have his own room. The space is totally impersonal. The outside wall is made up of exposed brick and the other three are painted a flat gray. There are scratches and a few stains on the paint. The space is pretty empty with an old wooden dresser, a metal folding chair, and a large bed on a black metal frame. I pause in the doorway for a minute while I eye the bed frame only to realize I’ve seen it before.
“He still has it.”
“Has what?” Diesel’s question surprises me. I didn’t realize I’d spoken my thought until now.
“Zander was conceived on this bed frame.” When I notice my hand on my belly, I pull it away. This was our bed at one time. This was the bed we shared in our home. This was the bed we made love in. This was the bed where my old man used to hold me, tell me that I’m his reason for breathing, and promise himself to me. A golf-ball-size lump forms in my throat, and no matter how many times I try to swallow it, I can’t. Diesel uncuffs himself from me and pulls me to the bed where he forces me to sit. He loops the cuffs around a metal bar only to secure my other hand as well so I have no hope of escaping. He leaves me here, on this bed, and shuts the door behind him.
Our old mattress had a pushy spring right in the middle, about two feet from the head in the center. I keep my eyes closed as I search for it. If Wyatt still has the frame, then maybe he has the mattress, too.
My butt wiggles over a spring that uncomfortably stabs the base of my spine. It’s like being taken back to high school, even though by then I’d already dropped out. This is our mattress.
And it’s in his room.
At the clubhouse.
My throat constricts in response, and I have to look away from the bed just to take a much-needed breath. Too much history assaults me all at once. I think I was in denial until now. I thought about this a lot—coming back here—but never really considered how it’d feel. I figured if I showed my face in this clubhouse, we’d fuck and fight and fuck some more, just like we do every time he comes to Detroit. He’d be fucked up on whatever he was dabbling in at the time, and he’d tell me everything I wanted to hear, and then he’d just disappear on me. Like every other fucking time I’ve seen him since we stopped being us. Except this time, I’d tell Jim about Zander and Piper and force their hands at sobering him up long enough to fucking remember he’s a father. And the kids would visit him. And my life would stay the same except I’d get a break every now and then. If I imagined how shitty the reality would feel, I’d never have let myself consider forcing him to have a part in his kids’ lives. Not that I chose this.
My eyes fall on some weird carving pattern on the back of the door. It looks like a tally, and there must be a couple hundred little marks, if not more. Women. I bet he’s tallied the number of women he’s fucked in my goddamn bed. All the sorrow and guilt and frustration hardens into an icy cold rage.
I don’t see anything else anymore.
I don’t feel anything else anymore.
I just hate.
This room is way too dark. Save for the occasional set of headlights that shine into the short overhead window, everything is completely shrouded in darkness. Diesel left the bedside light on for me, but my left foot took that out when I got the bright idea to try a bobby pin on the locked handcuffs around my wrists.
I’m going to fucking kill Diesel when I get out of this mess.
Feeling frustrated and exhausted, I grab hold of the bed frame and pull myself up into a more comfortable sitting position. Not that I can get comfortable with my wrists handcuffed to the top of the metal frame.
I repeat—Darius “Diesel” Mitchell is a fucking dead man.
Okay, maybe I can’t kill him, but I am going to make him suffer. I just want to get out of here so I can love on my babies and never let go. Rig taking Zander shook me up. My boy’s a tough kid, but that’s just it. He’s still just a kid and he got pulled into club shit. On our way out here from Detroit, he was telling me how well he handled himself. I forced myself to smile and tell him how proud I am of him. And I am, but I’m more scared than anything. I don’t even know if that’s the right word. I was born into this life, grew up a club kid with little supervision and even fewer rules, and I’ve seen and done shit that would give grown men nightmares. But my baby being kidnapped was the absolute worst thing I’ve ever experienced. I don’t care that we got him back safely. I don’t care about anything except that fucking asshole thought he could take my boy and live to tell the tale.
Not that he lived.
A loud bang sounds on the other side of the closed door. My heart skips a beat and I jump from my spot at the head of the bed. The darkness makes me jumpy. I don’t know what it is, but the solitude kind of freaks me out.
The hinges on the door creak as it opens. Light filters in, bringing with it a sort of relief. Two figures appear in the doorway—one large and bulking, and one small and slender—casting a shadow over the bed and most of my body and face. Their bodies are pressed together. The larger body sandwiches the smaller one between himself and the door frame. My stomach drops and my mouth goes dry. I have to push back the hurt and remind myself that while I’m technically his, it doesn’t mean he’s even remotely mine.
Because even though it’s been over two years since I’ve seen him, I’d know him anywhere. Not many people get to be Wyatt’s size, and nobody carries themselves the way he does. When he walks, it’s with this humble confidence that just radiates, but he’s totally void of any arrogance. At least that’s who he is when he’s sober.
The woman he’s with giggles. She fucking giggles as his hands trail up and down the sides of her body. Jesus Christ, the sorry fuck is hooking up with girls now. Grown-ass women don’t giggle, and we’re too damn old to be fucking around with coeds. The little bitch—not that I’m pissed about having to watch my old man maul a damn teenybopper or anything—flips the light switch, basking the room in a soft yellow light. I cringe, blinking away the spots in my vision. Once I’m able to see clearly again, I steel myself to face the only man I’ve ever loved.
I clear my throat and snicker when the girl turns to face me. She can’t be more than a year or two out of high school, if even. She’s your basic bottle blonde with too much makeup and not enough pretty to back it up.
“Oh shit,” he whispers.
My eyes travel from the whore to Wyatt. I have to actively work to suck in a breath. His light brown hair hangs down to around his hulking shoulders. He’s still beautiful even if he has totally lost that youthful, boyish beauty he used to have. It’s been seventeen years since I met this man, but his eyes are the same. The narrow shape makes him look like he’s always grouchy even when he’s laughing, but the blue-green color is inviting and makes him seem almost gentle—like an enormous teddy bear—even though he’s definitely not. I get lost in his eyes just like I do every night as I tell our son and baby girl that I love them. Piper’s eyes are rounder, but the color is spot-on, and when she gets mad, there’s no doubting who her daddy is. Zander is another story. As he’s grown and become more of a man, I see less and less of myself in him and more of his father. Sometimes so much so that it’s painful.
Coming back to my senses, I adjust wiggle my wrists to give the pair a little wave. With the brightest, fakest smile I can muster, I say, “Honey, I’m home.”
CHAPTER 2
“Get in the chapel, shitheads,” Grady yells from behind the bar. His deep voice startles me from the half nap I had going on. Fucker. We don’t have Church for another few minutes, but he’s trying to step out early so he can get on the road to go see Miss Priss down in the city. That kid’s his world, so I get it, but for fuck’s sake, let a brother nap.
I pry one eye open just long enoug
h to see that nobody’s really moving yet. They know his game, and they’re not playing it either. With that knowledge, I close my eye and try to regain some fucking peace. Diesel isn’t even back yet from wherever the fuck he went.
It doesn’t take long for people to migrate my direction—one set of heavy boots and another set that clicks. Christ, if a chick is heading this way, they’re probably going to be fucking yapping and talk-blocking my goddamn nap. Not that this is the best place to catch a few z’s, but my place is too dirty to get comfortable in. I need a steady bitch for some regular pussy, a few home-cooked meals, and a little maid service.
“You ready for this?” It’s Ruby. I’d know her voice anywhere. It’s not exactly soft in tone, but it’s gentle while still sounding self-assured in a way that only she can pull off.
The next voice I hear is Pop’s. He grunts before using his words and saying, “Never gonna be ready, but it’s time.”
It’s time.
Those two words make my body lock up, my lungs reject oxygen, and my mind go blank.
It’s time.
I know it’s coming. We talked about it a few months back, but that doesn’t make it any fucking easier.
I’m not ready either, Pop.
“Go,” Ruby says. Jim grunts again and walks off, leaving Ruby behind. I suck in a deep, necessary breath, and try to get back into the napping groove, but it’s no use.
It’s time.
“I know you’re awake.” Her voice is closer now. I give up the sleeping act and open my eyes to find she’s hovering over me with a sympathetic look on her face. “I’m your president’s old lady for about ten more minutes, so just give me this, will ya?”
I give her nothing, which is about the most I’m capable of right now.
“I’m selfish. I want my man at home with me, and in order to get that, he has to give up the gavel. Because with everything going on, even when he’s with me, he’s not with me. I want this as much for the club as I do for myself. I have my kids—all my kids—and my husband for the first time in my entire fucking life. I know you don’t want this, Wyatt, but please, please don’t fight it.”
“You make arguing difficult,” I say. She’s not wrong, so I have no argument. I just wish it wasn’t like this. I wish it wasn’t me.
“That’s because you know this is right.”
She’s tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. We both know what she means, but neither of us are willing to voice it. It’s fucked enough to admit to myself that Jim’s not doing his job. I can’t verbalize it to Ruby or anyone else. In our world, that’s treason.
The chapel is silent—which never happens.
We’ve got seven votes in, and it all comes down to me and Trigger. Torque, who’s only been out of county for a few months now, just voted yea. Asshole even winked at me when he did it.
The vote has to be unanimous for it to pass. The only way for Pop to leave his seat without a unanimous vote is if he inks out or dies. Brothers don’t force a president to stay if he doesn’t want to. It’s fucking disrespectful. But a big part of me is praying—or begging—that Trigger votes nay and this bullshit about handing me the gavel will blow over. It’s not that I don’t want it. It scares me. These men are voting to place their lives in my hands, and fuck if that doesn’t say something.
“This isn’t how presidents go out,” Ryan says. His elbows are planted on the table before us, and he’s snarling at the finished wood. “But if it gets you off my dick, then yea.”
Seven sets of eyes land on mine at once. I try not to fidget or move in my seat. They’ve voted to make me president. All they need is my vote now. What kind of fucking crock is that? I have to vote on my own promotion. Bullshit. If I could, I’d fucking change that. When I throw up my middle finger and growl, “Yea,” at the room, I feel like a fucking tool. I’m not an insecure dude, but fuck if this isn’t making me feel like my asshole is growing a pussy.
The room erupts with cheers and taunting from my brothers—my men—as I take this moment to absorb what’s happening here. I started in this club seventeen years ago as a prospect and worked my way up over those years. I’ve handled runs, paid off cops, bribed politicians, had more money than I knew what to do with, and have killed in the time since I patched in.
The Forsaken Motorcycle Club is my life.
It’s my home.
And now the Fort Bragg charter is mine to protect.
“Pass the kit,” Pop says from beside me. The sewing kit gets passed to the head of the table, and Pop and I remove our president and vice president patches, respectively. With dirty, worn hands, Pop holds his patch in front of him and studies it for a long moment. Then he slides it over to me.
A wave of emotion comes over me as I stare down Pop’s president patch. With a single finger, I touch it, like I’m making sure it’s real. Most brothers keep their patches to remember their time in that position, but some hand them down to the next in line. It’s the greatest honor a retiring president can bestow upon the new president.
Everyone in the room has their eyes on us, waiting for my reaction. The younger guys keep their eyes on Pop. His sons—Ryan and Ian—are slowing nodding their heads. Like, somehow, they know this is right. Grady, Pop’s sergeant at arms, has his eyes on me. The expression on his face remains impassive except for the small lift of the corner of his mouth.
“You fucker,” I grumble, refusing to meet his eyes. My brothers laugh, but it’s not the chaos-driven maniacal laugh I usually hear. It’s deeper, a little sad, and maybe even a little hopeful.
I sew on my new patch slowly, careful to make the stitching look good on my leather cut. And I take a deep breath every now and then to stabilize myself so I don’t fucking lose it. My hands want to shake, but I don’t allow it. The men around me can tell I’m nervous, no doubt, and they don’t judge me for it. My unease shows them that I take this seriously, and that means something to them. I know it does, because back when I was patched in to Detroit, Amber’s dad was president, but then he patched out of Detroit and into the California Nomads, leaving us with his VP, Rig, to take his place.
Amber.
I fucking hate thinking about that woman, so I force myself not to, which is a lot like trying to ignore a third degree burn.
Rig didn’t act nervous. He seemed at ease, like he always expected to take the throne, and it didn’t sit well with his men. I was too young and too stupid to understand the gravity of it back then, but I sure do now. My brothers didn’t just vote to give me a title—they voted to give me power, authority over their lives, and the responsibility of keeping them alive.
Fuck.
I’m not ready for this.
I’ve barely finished sewing my president patch onto my leather before Pop stands from his seat and places his hands on the back of the chair. He takes a deep breath, his eyes scan the room, and he laughs.
“First time I sat in this chair, I was still in diapers.”
I groan and turn my attention to Ryan, who’s grinning from ear to ear.
Three, two, one . . .
“Going out in diapers too, eh, old man?”
For the first time in almost a year, Pop smiles. It’s not a smirk. It’s not forced. He’s just . . . smiling. His brows are relaxed, his cheeks are high and pushing up on his eyes, and his chest shakes with laughter. He shakes his head. Not since Pop came to me before Church and told me he was putting in that marker has he looked this chill. Not only was that conversation close to his heart, but everything that followed it was a goddamn consequence of our choice to head out to New York. I don’t regret it. I can’t regret it. Alex was just some girl who got caught up in shit she couldn’t handle when I promised Pop I had his back regardless of what the club voted. She’s not much older than the kid I almost had, but she’s tough, and she’s growing into one hell of a woman. Chief wouldn’t want us to regret the shit that went down, even though we lost him in the process.
“I’d like to blame your mother for
that mouth of yours, but I’m afraid you’re all me,” Pop says.
“Well, half you and half some hooker you knocked up,” Ryan says dryly. He never talks about his birth mother, so nobody really knows what to say. Pop only ever refers to Ruby as his mother, even if she didn’t give birth to him. Thank fuck, too, because the whole Ryan and Alex thing would be more twisted than it already is.
“He’s your problem now.” Pop’s got his eyes on me. He slaps the back of the chair and walks around the table to Chief’s empty seat at the other end. He stares at it for a long moment before pulling it out and sitting down. We’re silent as he gets comfortable. Nobody’s sat in that chair since Chief.
When the moment passes, everyone’s eyes drift to me. I stare at them for a long time before realizing that they expect me to take the head of the table.
“What? I can’t even get drunk first? You fucking assholes.” Moving from the VP’s chair to the vacant seat to my left takes more effort than I could ever imagine. It’s the second most difficult thing I’ve ever done.
The most difficult thing I ever fucking did was walking away from the only person I was living for.
The rest of Church is terrible. It doesn’t even suck. It’s not like the time Grady and Trigger pulled a piece on each other. It’s not like when Chief died. I have no idea what I’m doing here. I fumble through procedure, trying to lead my brothers—my men—through voting in new officer positions and deciding if Squat is ready to be patched. I’m not a small dude, but I feel like I’m about a foot tall through this fucking meeting. Pop refuses to take any other officer position, saying he just wants to ride until he can’t anymore, and after every single person in the room hassles him, we finally move on. I suggest Grady for VP and nobody objects.