And the funny thing is, for guys like me, the only way my pops ever thought I’d have any education was if it was earned from behind bars. Well, that and for the lack of better shit to do. When in reality, it was just the latter.
I buckled my ass down after Ben went from nomad to damn near semi-rogue two years ago when he pulled the shit he pulled in Chicago with Eden. Once I dropped off Ilsa’s youngest kid at her sister’s house, and whatever mess there was after was worked out, (and I still don’t know what all that was about), Eden was put on a plane the next morning and sent back to the safety of her mother’s loving arms. And the last I’ve heard of that girl or her momma was they were living happily ever after in Jersey with Ilsa’s new boyfriend. I’m just glad they’ve stayed the fuck away from SOS and its club members. Hopefully they’ll stay away, too.
Ilsa in particular. I can’t stand that bitch—or what she does to Pops’ head. I’ve never seen anything like it, I swear. Well, besides when he was with Ma. But that was different. Shit’s different now. The entire club is different now.
And with all this shit that’s going on with Unc and Pops these days? Damn.
I thought it’d get better. I thought now with both Ben and Unc gone, things would start to settle a bit. But like all shit, it too must roll downhill. I swear it seems like the rift grows with every damn day that passes. And this cold war that’s currently building between the brothers because of it isn’t helping matters. Not at all.
I’ve been dealing with shit my pops wasn’t dealing with until his thirties. And even then, the club today is a different club than it was when Ben and I were born. It’s nothing like it was then. It’s nothing but fucked up now. Kinda like Puff Daddy says, it’s all fucked up, now. And there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it but soldier on.
If I’m being completely honest, and this shit is to stay between you and me, and I swear to God I’ll deny it ‘til I’m dead and in the grave if you mention it, but I usually don’t mind the stress and the constant feeling of uneasiness that comes with my job. Very rarely do I let it get under my skin, and even when it does, I never allow it to interfere with my mood. But when I tell you that it may be becoming an issue, and that my temper and patience is waning, I’m not putting it fucking lightly. Lately I’ve been on edge so much that the damn guys have been walking on eggshells around me.
I’m not kidding. Ask Ringo; he lost a nut just yesterday. For stuttering, the poor bastard. And it isn’t the stress—I’ve dealt with stress. It’s this new lurking feeling of foreboding doom that’s associated with the stress. That’s what’s got my damn hackles raised lately.
Now, was it hard when I first had to learn the ropes when Pops had the club vote? When the decision was made that it was me who’d be stepping into my Uncle Chase’s footsteps and holding the position he was the last to hold as VP and the club voted? Was it hard for me, especially one month after my twentieth birthday? Hell yeah, it was. It was hard as shit. It sucks when life happens and you’re too busy having fun, jacking off, and being a punk ass teenage boy when it happens. It sucks when Monday your biggest decision is whether or not you want to match your Chucks with your colors that day. And then suddenly on fucking Tuesday, there’re people's lives and salaries at stake that you’re dealing with. Death and life. Who deserves to eat better than the next, who deserves to lie, and who deserves to die—based on the trust, loyalty, and respect paid to the SOS club and its members.
And to top it off, when all that shit was going down, I hadn’t heard a single word from a brother of mine who was so much more than any other brother since I’d been in Chicago. So not only did I start out much younger than Pops, and in much shittier circumstances than he, but I also did it without my best friend there. And sure, it sucked. Sure, I had to adjust and learn how to deal without him here. But it was never like I was alone even then.
Actually, now my nights are kept pretty busy after I’m finished with club biz. I don’t want you having the impression that I’ve got any problems keeping my cock wet or my palate’s thirst quenched by having a cold beer with some friends. Running a full-time MC with as many members as SOS has can get stressful as fuck. But between the brothers who live at the compound and the caliber of women that frequent Sons of Silencers, I do alright enough to not complain, I promise. Plus, being the VP does have its benefits.
I yawn around the groan lodged in my throat then move to sit up in bed, only to be stopped by the mouth currently wetting my cock, and wince when I hear Mandy scoff beneath the sheets covering us.
“Look, there’s no reason to get all pissy, sweetheart. I’m probably saving you an ass whoopin’ in all honesty.” I glance at the clock on the rickety bedside table through the dark room and note the time. "Roxy got off twenty minutes ago, so I’m actually giving you about a ten-minute head start on getting your shit and getting the hell out of here. Actually, you could thank me.” After switching on the light beside the bed, I catch her glaring at me, or more like at my direction, over her shoulder, and smirk at her. Once I’ve shoved myself up the rest of the way in the bed with the heel of my hands and leaned back against the headboard, I chuckle at her stark naked self streaking towards the bathroom when she leaps from the privacy of the bed and the tangled sheets and quilts covering it.
“Or not,” I mutter, before getting out of bed and sauntering in her direction. When I’m at the threshold between the two small rooms, I reach my hands above my head and pull upwards, using the doorframe to stretch out my tired muscles. Once I feel most of the tension sharply ache before pulling tight then releasing its hold around my bones, my hands come back down and I begin scratching my naked chest as I watch last night’s play thing, Mandy, scurry for her clothes. Bitching the entire time, still buck-naked—nope, never mind—she just pulled a cami over her head.
“Jacques, why do you even keep that bulldog around? That’s what I don’t understand! If you’re not gonna make Roxy your old lady, the least you could do is let her know so she’d give the rest of us a chance. She’s relentless! You two haven’t even been a couple for over a year, and she’s not gettin’ the hint, either.”
“I know, I know. I don’t know what to do about that, either.” I swat Mandy’s ass as she hurries from the bathroom and turn the shower on with my other hand, full heat. No fucking cold water for me, thank you. “And I wouldn’t let anyone else hear you calling Rox that. She’s not a bulldog. More like a hot-pink dyed teacup poodle, whose daddy just so happens to be the club's Sgt. At Arms.” I hear her enter the bathroom and huff out an exasperated sigh, then finish trying to explain to this girl it’s best if it’s just left alone. If Roxy is just left alone. “Roxy can’t weigh a buck ten wet and wearing boots, Mandy. Now the Kimber pistols she keeps in said boots, I understand. But whether that earns her the nickname ‘bulldog’, I dunno—that’s your head you need to be worried about getting blown off. I’m just saying, I wouldn’t repeat that shit around anyone but the other girls. That’s all.”
The chuckle that reverberates from my chest as I step under the hot spray of the shower feels almost as good as the much needed scalding water pelting against my skin, but not quite. And it quickly turns to laughter when I hear her squawking on the other side of the plastic shower curtain. “Just get rid of her already, Jacques. Aren’t you ready for something serious? With someone, I dunno, who’s sane?”
It’s the higher her voice is getting that’s really starting to piss me off. I mean, I don’t appreciate her talking badly about Roxy by any means, but it’s not my fight. You know?
My attempt to change the subject but keep Mandy heading for the exit is subpar at best, and it's probably a jackass move, but I got shit to do today. More importantly, I got work in less than an hour.
I poke my head out from around the shower curtain and catch her turning mid-motion, headed for the bathroom’s exit, when I utilize the moment to swat her ass yet again—only this time, wet-handed.
“Right, well, hey—you know what’d be co
ol?”
Question: Why do women always find what men find to be so hilarious absolutely offensive? On some level, you must admit to yourself, ladies, the shit is funny.
“If you’d start me some breakfast. Throw some of those frozen biscuits in the oven, and maybe mix up some eggs. That way, when Roxy gets here, she can just pick up where you left off.” I smile, working the dimples my pops’ genetics blessed me with. “Mandy, you know you’re my favorite, right?”
She responds by rolling her eyes and flipping her hair over her shoulder before storming out. “No, but I will make sure Roxy knows I covered her other shift last night. I’m sure she won’t mind picking up this morning’s, though, and getting you some breakfast started. Bye, Jacques.”
BAM. The door to my room on the upper floor of the SOS’s compound slams before shaking the entire floor.
See—perfect example. That was a fun and witty evoking conversation we were just having, and instead of taking the verbal hits, if you will, she got her panties in a bunch over something she took as offensive and ruined a perfectly good debate.
No fun. No one wants to ever have any fun.
And besides, Roxy isn’t hurting anybody. She’s just… ehh—a bit determined. She’s only a few years older than I am, too, and unfortunately I don’t think that helps the other girl’s contingencies out much, either. It gives her a sort of validation or something in her head, where her babysitting me equates to her having a say on who I see publically, and when I see them. Which, believe it or not, has really worked out for me like a motherfucker.
Roxy’s attitude and the false claim she thinks she holds on me makes her the bad guy, not me. Or so it seems. We did date over a year ago, but it was short lived. Because, well...because the bitch is crazy. Like certifiable, only undiagnosed. So although I do keep her around, I do so knowing full well what she’s capable of, as well as at arm’s length. Well, I keep her at arm's length the best I can. I may have mentioned how...persistent she is.
Believe it or not, a few months back I even went to her old man, Clutch, and asked him what he wanted me to do. I told him that I gave it hell, but it just didn’t work. That we didn’t, and probably never would, work. And of course he understood. He just didn’t know what to tell me to do. Had no tips or helpful suggestions to offer in any way, either. So until I can figure out a solution where Roxy is concerned, I’ll leave her be. She’s not hurting anything, really. Just blindly acting as a sort of security for me. And it works, so I leave it alone.
Once I’ve showered and dressed, I pull my boots up and shove my feet the rest of the way into them before sliding my cut on over my dark gray v-neck t-shirt when a knock sounds at my door.
I’m pulling my hair into a ponytail. “Come in,” I call out over my shoulder while hooking the chain from my wallet to my belt loop when Dreads, one of the newest prospects for SOS, walks in. “Hey, man. S’up?” I strap my knife and knife holder under my cut, along with my nine millimeter.
“Nothing much. Just spoke to your pops. He’s asking to see you downstairs in the steeple.”
“Why?” I ask, but even as the words are finished being spoken, I know the kid won’t know. I pull the blinds to the side and look out over the east side of the club’s grounds to where the steeple is located. When I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, just a few of the brothers standing around outside enjoying a smoke, I shrug and flip the blinds closed before heading towards the door exiting my room. Once I have Dreads ushered out, I lock the door with the only key to my SOS room and tuck my keys back in my pocket then make my way downstairs, following Dreads to the main living area of the compound.
As soon as my feet hit the main floor and Roxy Bell sees me, she comes flying at me from behind the couch situated in front the entryway foyer, eyes bulged out, flustered seven shades of red, and pissed as hell, screaming, “Jacques Archer Bishop, who the hell was that blonde bitch leaving in the little red Jetta, huh? It’d better not have fucking been Mandy Sims or I’ll kill that bitch!” She’s practically in my face by the time her rant comes to a pause and she grabs a breath, but I stop her instead of letting her finish. Tired. And fucking fed up with her shit already. I wave Dreads away from where he stands closely by, just in case he’s needed to step in, by mouthing to him, ‘I got this shit’.
It’s not even eight am, yet, people.
“Rox, don’t. We’re not doing this. It’s too early for this shit and you know it. Plus, I’m just heading out. Duty calls. You know how this club shit works. This job’s never done.”
Once I’ve pacified her with a peck on the cheek, I pat her head before heading through the side door leading outside.
I don’t owe her any answers, and I for damn sure don’t have time for Roxy or any of her shit right now. As much as I’d like to dally in the small squabbles most of these people fret over day in and day out, I have real issues. Serious issues, with even more serious outcomes if they aren’t handled correctly. The struggle is real, I promise, people. You can take it from me.
The knuckles of my tatted-up hand rap against the front door of the steeple, when Clutch, one of my pops’ best brothers in arms, slides open the peephole. “Jackie boy, whatcha no good, huh? Your pops is waitin’ for ya. Head on back.” He opens the door and motions for me to come in.
“Thanks, brother. How’s Ringo’s testie this mornin’? The butcher come by and take a look?”
When he just winces, I nod before chuckling, and head down the dark corridor leading to the basement of the fortress we call the steeple.
While the shit that happened with Ringo yesterday isn’t rare—it also isn’t the usual punishment for such a small crime. But as I’ve mentioned before, times are stressful and tension’s been running high throughout the club. It’s not my fault when I called the newest patch holder out on the spot about the intel he regretted to inform the prez about, that he started stuttering. Pops hates when shit’s kept from him, almost as much as he hates an ignorant sounding motherfucker who stutters.
I grimace, remembering the gory details of it, before knocking on Pops’ solid oak office door.
“Come in, son.”
And as soon as I enter and see the look in my father’s eyes, I know, all the way to the marrow of my bones that I’m not gonna like the shit he’s about to say. “Hey, what’s up? Dreads said you needed to see me.”
Without breaking eye contact, or even changing the expression of slight boredom that marred his face, he spoke in his usual, no-nonsense tone. “You’re gonna wanna sit down for this shit, Jacques.”
Shit. Exactly.
I make myself comfortable after sitting in the seat across from him behind his desk. After resting my left ankle on my right knee, I run my hands down the front of my worn out jeans and then single my attention on my father. “Alright, I’m sitting. Now cut to the chase. What’s going on, Pops?”
And when he finally answers, it also answers another nagging question I’ve been subconsciously asking myself about the impending tragedy or the fate full of doom for the club I’ve been sensing ahead. “It seems your cousin has decided to swing by on his impromptu ride along the east coast with some brothers from a few of the chapters supporting your unc. And their ETA is tomorrow night.”
Like I said, shit. Exactly.
It didn’t take long for life with Grammy to get started, and it took even less time for it to feel familiar. It’s funny how some things like that in life just work out, isn’t it? I wasn’t as far behind in my schooling as I would’ve been either, had I not filled my long days and even longer nights studying while I was in juvy. Constantly.
What? It’s not like I’m going to work out or try to get buff. Juvy freaking sucks, and if you’re in it for the something really big, like, I dunno, stealing two grand? It sucks for what feels like forever!
After I tie my Chucks, I grab my bag and sunglasses before heading out my bedroom door. And before I can even get fully into the living room, which is the room between the rest of
the house and the kitchen, I smell coffee and bacon. A smile slips on my face just before turning the corner and walking into the kitchen to find Grammy mid-flip with her pancake.
“Mornin’, Grams. Whatcha cookin’?” I ask between pecking her on the cheek and swiping a piece of bacon.
Her response is to swat me on the behind with the dish towel she had draped over her left shoulder. “Pancakes, and there’s some orange juice in the fridge, sweetie.” Grammy doesn’t like me drinking coffee.
She actually doesn’t like me doing anything adult-like; and any adult-like behaviors I have are ones I picked up in juvy. It’s funny when everything is stripped away how important the basics become. Basics like coffee, a good cigarette, or a good muttered profanity here and there. And it’s odd, because now thinking back on it, I don’t know exactly when these new habits of mine initially developed, only that it happened when I was under the good care of the State of New York.
“Just some coffee, Grammy. Thanks though.” After pouring straight black coffee up to the rim of my coffee thermos, I screw on the lid, swipe a pancake and wink at her. “Lauryn’ll be here in a minute. I’m running late.” I grab my school bag and toss it over the same shoulder holding my other bag, and wave over my shoulder at her. “Love you, Grammy! See you after work tonight.” Then head on out the front door.
I hold off on lighting my cigarette until I’m around the corner, and once the thick smoke fills my lungs, my nerves ease and I glance back over my shoulder towards the house. I don’t keep it from Grams that I still smoke, but I don’t like doing it in her presence, either. Grammy’s new house isn’t much, by any means. But when she sold hers in Miami, she did so as quickly as she could as soon as she found out where I was. And unfortunately when someone sells a house in that much of a hurry, nine times out of ten, it works out in the buyer’s favor—not the seller’s. So she didn’t get near what she should have for her little bungalow on the beach. And that put us with very little to put down on a house when we started looking.
If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel Page 5