by Kati Wilde
He thinks this rage is because he left? Oh, hell no. This rage isn’t thirty years old. It’s twenty-eight years old, stoked while watching my mom weep in despair over a foreclosure notice. It’s twenty-five years old, seeing her blistered arm, because she was so damn tired from working three jobs that she slipped and burned herself on a fryer. It’s twenty years old, trying to help her out of bed because her back is hurting so bad after a decade of cleaning hotel toilets, she can’t even get to the bathroom without me holding her up. It’s fifteen years old, seeing her stricken expression as I’m found guilty for manslaughter and knowing she’s blaming herself because she couldn’t afford a better lawyer. It’s seven years old, with the doctors telling her she’s going to die, and making it a comfortable death is all the state insurance will cover, and the first thing she does is look to me and make me promise I won’t take out loans or do any stupid illegal shit, trying to get enough money or meds to save her.
This rage isn’t because my father left. It’s because he took everything she had when he went, and threw her into a hole so deep, she never managed to crawl out of it. And this rage will never go, because I ran out of time. If she’d only lived another year or two, I could have helped lift her out of that hole. But I never got that chance, so every single fucking day is another day I can’t help her.
So my generosity? It’s this. Instead of killing him, I’m walking the fuck away.
I drop his feet back to the ground and leave him there, coughing and stumbling, trying to get his balance. To Bull I say, “Take him for a ride until I’ve left for town. And make sure I don’t lay eyes on him again.”
Because seeing that bastard just isn’t as entertaining anymore.
Chapter Five
Jenny
Just before noon, Hashtag and I start wrapping up the last twenty buckets. We’ve still got all the individual orders to get through, but we’re far ahead of where I thought we’d be. We’ll still be working late tonight, but knowing the buckets will all be out early feels so damn good, and I can’t stop smiling every time Hashtag breaks the silence by singing along with the Christmas music playing in his earphones. A few minutes ago his attempt to hit the high notes in “O Holy Night” doubled me over with laughter—but he didn’t even blush. He just grinned and sang harder.
I’m humming along with his off-key “Here Comes Santa Claus” when the jingle of the storefront bell makes my heart skip. It might be Saxon. I didn’t expect him to stop by today, because he knows I’ve been slammed with orders and he’s so careful about not pulling me away from work. But this is about the time he usually heads out to the Wolf Den, and sometimes he swings by the brewery on his way to town.
So, maybe.
It’s not. But it’s hard to be disappointed when I see Bull. Of all the men who were Titans before joining the Hellfire Riders, he’s one of my favorites. He’s big and gruff, and I’ve heard his fists are like hammers—but he’s also like a big old teddy bear. A big teddy bear with a wicked sense of humor.
But he doesn’t look as if he’s about to crack any jokes now. I glance at the older man wearing a knee brace who came in with him, and who is still standing by the door—as if either waiting to leave or waiting for permission to come all the way in.
I know Bull’s father and that’s not him. Yet there’s something familiar about this man’s appearance, and I can’t quite place it.
Then Bull’s right in front of me, and I can’t see anything beyond his giant shoulders.
“Jenny.” His deep voice is quiet, his expression hesitant. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Instantly my pulse starts racing. It’s never a good thing when a biker comes to me, worried about what he’s about to tell me. “What is it? Is Saxon okay?”
“The prez is fine,” he says quickly, but I barely have a second to take that in before he adds, “It’s just that I’m babysitting his dad and—”
“What?”
I step to the side and my gaze flies to the other man. Oh my god. Frank Carlisle. That’s the resemblance. Saxon’s dad is thinner than he is, and not as tall. But the face, the eyes.
Those blue eyes are sizing me up in return. Noting my shock, probably, and I scoot back in front of Bull, blocking Frank Carlisle’s view of me until I have a second to think this through.
Saxon’s dad. Holy shit. Saxon never really mentions his father—the only thing I really know about him is that he ditched his family when Saxon was just a little kid, and that Saxon’s mom struggled afterward.
Why didn’t he say anything to me about his dad being here? I don’t know.
But remembering the darkness on Saxon’s face when he came in yesterday, remembering how something was bothering him, suddenly I have a good idea what that ‘club business’ he mentioned might have been.
“Carlisle wanted to meet you.” Bull sounds apologetic for telling me this. “And we were driving around, doing nothing. Then he asked to stop somewhere and grab a beer, but I can’t take him into town.”
He gestures to the bar at the side of my store, where I usually serve samples, but it’s not unusual for someone to buy a pint and sit for a while. Bull himself does it now and again.
But why can’t they go into town? “Why are you babysitting?”
A flush stains his neck. “I can’t say.”
“Club business?” I ask dryly, and when he nods, I add, “Club business usually means there’s a threat to me.”
His flush deepens. “I wouldn’t bring him here if there was.”
I know. And I know what babysitting means—that the Hellfire Riders are just keeping an eye on someone. Maybe hiding him away. But since it’s Saxon’s dad, I’m not sure what to think.
But I can’t deny that I’m curious. “Why don’t you go back and say hi to Hashtag, then, and I’ll get Carlisle a drink.”
It’s practically a demand for Bull to leave me alone with Saxon’s dad, but he hesitates again. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Give me a couple of minutes.”
“All right.” He turns to Carlisle, tilts his head toward the bar. “The lady says to have a seat.”
Carlisle smiles, and it’s so strange to see. Despite the resemblance, it’s nothing like Saxon’s smile, which is more like a wolf baring his teeth. Carlisle’s is warm and friendly and so smooth.
I prefer Saxon’s rough edges.
Quiet falls over the storefront as I make my way behind the bar. There’s just the tread of my boots and the tap of Carlisle’s crutch, the humming of the coolers.
His eyes on me, he leans the crutch up against the edge of the bar and levers himself up onto a stool. “So you’re Red’s girl?”
Hearing my dad’s name strikes a soft pang over my heart. “Did you know him?”
“Only by name and appearance.” He studies mine. “You must take after your mother.”
“I do.”
“She must have been a beautiful woman.”
That pulls a little smile from me. “She was. So are you an IPA man this early in the day or do you prefer something heftier?”
“I’m a stout.”
“Then I’m your girl.” I move behind the taps and start pulling a pint of Lionheart, but can’t stop myself from glancing at him over and over. Searching out all of the differences in those features. Being struck by the similarities.
A soft chuckle rolls from him. “I see you looking at me. I suppose he told you what I worthless father I was?”
“He didn’t say worthless,” I reassure him. Saxon said something more like piece of shit bastard.
“I can guess what he said.” But whatever he’s imagining Saxon told me, it doesn’t seem to dim his mood. “I’ll tell you, though, seeing him makes me real proud. I know I’ve got no right to be. But he’s done well.”
“He has.” And worked his ass off to get it all, turning the Wolf Den into a thriving business, leading the Riders, investing in a new gym downtown.
Carlisle nods. “A man always wants his son to
do better than himself. And me, I did real well in school. Everyone said I was going to be something. And I suppose I could have been, but instead I kept letting go of what was important. And as smart as I supposedly was, it took me too long to figure that out.”
I wonder if he has figured it out. Because he says letting go, yet from what little Saxon has said, his father wasn’t letting go. He just kept reaching for something else. There’s a difference.
But I don’t say anything and Carlisle takes my silence as a cue to continue.
“It damn near broke my heart when I heard he was locked up. I thought it meant he wasn’t on that path to being better than me. But then I heard it was because of what he did to the skinhead who grabbed you. That he basically got put away for being a hero.”
Something inside me stills and settles heavy in my chest. My arms feel weighed down by more than a pint as I set his glass aside to let the foam rest.
Carlisle’s watching me expectantly. Waiting for an answer, I realize. Or confirmation.
Despite the ache inside me, I keep my voice even. “That’s right.”
“You were real lucky he was there.”
“I was.”
“It must be rough. Knowing he spent five years locked away for that.”
“It is.”
Carlisle nods and lets out a deep sigh. “Knowing all he did since he got out, knowing what he made of himself, imagine what he could have done with five more years?” Quickly he shakes his head, looks at me pointedly. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just thinking.”
“Sure,” I say quietly. And I hadn’t been thinking of blame at all until he mentioned it.
Which makes me wonder if that’s why he mentioned it. Some people are like that. They just poke and prod, but claim they don’t mean anything to hurt, so they can keep thinking of themselves as the good guy.
And if it does hurt…well, it must have touched something sore, right? But that’s not their fault.
“I just mean, I know it’s a hell of a burden, wondering what could have been. I think it myself sometimes—wondering how much more my son could have made of himself if I’d stuck around. If he’d had more opportunity. It’s the kind of thing you wish you could make up for somehow. Make reparations for the hurt you did. But someone like me, what do I have to give now? My trailer?” He scoffs. “I’ve got nothing worth giving.”
“Saxon wouldn’t take it from you, anyway,” I tell Carlisle and when his eyebrows shoot up, as if he’s surprised by how blunt that was, I shake my head. “Regardless of your history or however you think he feels about you. Saxon feels a man is only worth what he earns, not what he’s given.”
“That’s a fine code to live by.” Carlisle nods his approval, eyes narrowing as he scans the shop, then turning back as I slide the pint across the bar. He blows back the head before taking a sip, then gives a low, appreciative whistle. “Shit. Now that’s a hell of a stout. You must have a magic touch.”
More like a degree in organic chemistry and three years spent perfecting the brew. “Thank you.”
He takes another drink and nods though the swallow. “That’s damn good. And thinking about only being worth what you earn—is that why you haven’t given him any of this? Because he wouldn’t take it?”
“Take what?”
“Well, all this property is yours, isn’t it? Even the clubhouse. But you haven’t given it to him—even though it wouldn’t really be giving, would it? Because he earned it when he helped you out.”
I’d give Saxon anything he wanted. But that’s the thing. “He wouldn’t want it.”
“It’s not always about what someone else wants. It’s about what you owe. Trust me, I know about debt. I also know that when you don’t pay up, it always comes back on you. So it’s best to pay.” Though his eyes have been locked on mine, now Carlisle shrugs as if what he’s saying is nothing, as if it’s just all casual conversation. “And if he’s too stubborn to take what he’s earned, well…that would be one hell of a Christmas present.”
Yes, it would. But I’m not sure how to respond, or even if I want to respond, because it feels as if I’m in the middle of a hard sell by a used car salesman. Except this salesman loads up all your baggage in the front seat, so you’ve already got your emotions invested in buying what he’s selling, because if you don’t, you might lose something important.
So I think it’s time for this conversation to end. I stick my hand across the bar for him to shake. “It was good meeting you, Frank. But I’m afraid I have a ton of shipments waiting for me, so I have to head out back again. Do you need anything before I send Bull your way?”
“There is something.” His brow furrows. “Bull tells me he doesn’t have any connection on his phone. I need to make a call but there’s no service out here, is that right?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Then do you mind if I use that landline?” He gestures to the phone behind the bar. “Just a quick call to my prez, to see how things are going.”
I reach for the wireless handset. “Of course.”
“It’ll be long distance, but I’ll leave a couple of bucks—”
“Don’t worry about it. Or about this pint. It’s on me. And feel free to pop on back to say good-bye before you leave. I’ll give you a case of that stout to take with you.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know about that. I haven’t earned it.”
“It’s Christmas.” And if he has a case of beer with him, he won’t need to come back. “So it’ll be my pleasure.”
“Well, then,” he says and raises his glass to me. “Thank you. For the phone, too.”
I smile and nod, then head through the door leading to the back of the brewery. I make my way through the stainless steel brewhouses and find Bull packing buckets into shipping cartons.
“Oh, Bull. You don’t have to do that.”
“I recruited him,” Hashtag says.
Bull eyes me, then looks toward the front of the brewery, as if he can see into the shop. “Everything all right?”
“Yes. But as you can see, we’ve got a lot more orders to go. Hang out in the shop as long as you like, though. Grab yourself a beer.”
He nods before pulling out his phone and checking the face. Out here, it’s worthless for calls and texts, but it’s a great clock. “We’ll be heading out pretty soon, anyway, because I’m getting hungry. The prez just wanted Carlisle gone until he left for town.”
Somehow, I’m not surprised. “What do you think of him?”
Bull snorts. “He’s a slick motherfucker, yeah?”
“Yeah.” So it’s not just me. “Oh, and hey—if you’re hungry, there’s lasagna in the office fridge. It’s homemade. Helena brought it by, but I don’t think Hashtag and I will get a chance to eat it. So there’s more than enough for you and Carlisle if you want to heat it up in the microwave.”
“Helena’s lasagna?” His eyes light up with interest and he rubs his big hands together. “That does sound like it’ll hit the spot.”
“Take some home, too, if you want.”
“Maybe I will. Thanks, Jenny.”
Hashtag’s got his head down, hiding his face as the other man walks away, and his entire body is shaking. “Someone around here is slick,” he says on a laugh. “But it’s not just Carlisle. Bull’s probably going to eat that whole damn thing.”
Grinning, I flick the white Santa ball dangling in front of his nose. “God, I hope so.”
Chapter Six
Saxon
I’m in the weight room, in the middle of a series of bench presses when I hear Jenny come home. Earlier than I expected, but I’m sure as hell not complaining.
My cock’s not complaining, either. Just knowing she’s home gets the blood spooling south.
Then she pokes her head through the weight room door and the blood stops spooling and starts rushing. Her light green eyes sparkle when she sees me laid out on the bench in my sweats and my sleeveless T-shirt. While she takes a long l
ook, I set the bar in the cradle and tug the headphones out of my ears.
“Thanks for sending dinner out to the barn,” she says.
“It’s nothing.” The ranch is far out of any restaurant’s delivery range, so I had a prospect run takeout from the Thai place to the brewery. “You finish up early?”
“Yeah. We’ve got a few more orders to finish up tomorrow but we’re set.” Her gaze slips over me again, lingering on the erection tenting my sweatpants. “You almost finished? You look so…sweaty. I was thinking about taking a shower, but maybe I’ll wait for you. It’d be bad to waste all that water on separate showers.”
“It’ll be more of a shame to shower twice when we just get sweaty again.”
“True.” Heaving a sigh, she bites her bottom lip in the way she has when she’s trying not to grin—and she has no idea how fucking sexy that is. “So we’ll either be naughty and waste water, or I’ll just wait for you naked upstairs and we’ll shower after.”
“Both options sound naughty to me, princess.”
“You should spank me, then.”
“Jesus.” Those words are like an electric jolt through my cock. I pause at the bottom of a lift, with the bar a few inches above my chest, praying I can find the strength to raise it again now that she’s killed me by mentioning a spanking. Christ, as hard as her being here has made it, my dick could probably lift the bar. “Just give me one minute.”
Her grin finally breaks through, and she steps farther into the room. The black skirt she wears to the brewery gives me a good look at her legs and I see the way she’s clenching her thighs together. Beneath that skirt, I know she’s already wet. “One minute,” she warns. “Or I’m starting without you.”
“If that means I’ll walk in on you fingering your pussy, that’s not a threat, princess.”
Not a threat at all. More like the sweetest dream.
With a grunt, I push the bar up.
“We’ll see.” She turns away from the door, as if to run off upstairs, then swings back again, curiosity tilting her head. “Why didn’t you mention your dad was around?”