“Yeah well, I’m not use to having to do this all the hard way. This fucking sucks.”
She scoffed, and just as he was about to tell her off she got to her feet and shot back, “Buck up, buttercup. Try losing a leg.”
-oOo-
“So this is just something I found online,” Fritter said, thrown out like a segue, as he set a box down on the picnic table in the clubhouse lot. “I ordered it. You can get pissed at me if you want, but hear me out.”
Knuckles looked up, squinting in the sunlight. Another day starting out with a shitty mood, a meeting where they talked about another run that he’d be unable to help with.
In truth, he was waiting for Jayce to ask for his kutte. He was useless to the club. He couldn’t ride, which made putting that bike together with Curly a fucking futile task, but it was more of a promise to her that they’d finish it that kept him going. But if he couldn’t ride, he couldn’t serve the club. They’d have to cut him loose.
The thought gave him a sudden chill. He’d actually be sick if he thought about it too hard.
He hadn’t spoken, so Fritter pulled his knife and cut the box open. “It’s a quickshifter,” he explained as he worked. “You may not have all the juice to work a regular clutch, but with this, you can.”
“Those are for old people,” he muttered.
“Old people and you. Your hands aren’t the same. But this can be.” Fritter pulled out some contraption wrapped in heavy plastic. He could only really make out wires. “You can ride, Knuck. So let’s get this thing mounted on your bike, and you can cheer the fuck up.”
He meant right now. So he got back behind the wheel of Tiny’s van—returned after some fancy diplomacy talks between Sachetti and the city impound lot that had snagged it from Guidinger’s house—and followed Fritter to the Prince’s.
He parked in his own driveway, Fritter parked on the street. Before opening the truck door, he grabbed the box from the passenger seat and flipped it open. He could have gone looking for this solution himself, but he hadn’t. Admitting to himself that he was now an amputee wasn’t something that came easily. It took more than looking at his hands and seeing his missing digits. The only reason his hand was keeping the width of the palm is because his knuckles were intact. He wondered if his left would start curling in over time. He didn’t know how these things worked. But half his hand didn’t have a finger to accommodate. Would it keep the shape?
This is the shit he got hung up on when he was trying to avoid the possibility of losing his club.
The bike stood in the middle of the garage, just a naked frame with the motor mounted in place. He hadn’t done much work on it lately, it took more energy than he had to be enthused. But Fritter took the box from him and approached the bike, whistling to himself like he did this kind of thing every other day. He started giving Knuckles instructions, and he found himself following along without argument.
Danielle came home from work, having picked up Annie from Sharon and Fritter’s place afterwards, and as two of his girls descended on the garage he found he was smiling and laughing easily.
“What is this?” Annie asked, grabbing the handle where they’d installed the quickshifter. “It looks different.”
“That’s for me, Curly,” he said, crouching down next to her. “So I can still shift and ride like before.”
“Because of your accident.”
The accident. What a nice way to put it. “That’s right.”
“If you can still ride, that’d be good.”
“I agree. So Fritter picked up this for me. It’s called a quickshifter.”
“Cool.”
He straightened, and then he caught Danielle smiling at him. He had to smile back—admittedly, it was one of the few smiles he had since coming out of his fever—and put his arm out. She immediately stepped under it and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re happy right now,” she pointed out quietly.
“I am,” he agreed. “If I can still ride—”
“I know.”
They watched Fritter explain the sensors and electronics he’d just hooked up, with Curly listening intently like there was a quiz afterwards.
“How do your hands feel today?”
“They ached a bit before, but once I got distracted it was fine.”
“That’s good.” Her hand on his back squeezed a bit tighter. “I miss you, Knuckles.”
He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and holding her tighter. They hadn’t made love since the night he left her alone and went outside and killed four people right next door to their house. He still wanted her, God knows he did, but the thought of touching her with these hands—
“I can wait,” she whispered, like she always did when he couldn’t find a way to answer.
Shit. She shouldn’t have to wait. Lately when he’d been avoiding the subject he noticed how she would leave the bed and come back with full pajamas on, instead of the cute panties and T-shirts he was used to. Her belly was beginning to grow; not size so much as the hardness. It was a round globe with no give. He loved putting his hand on it, imagining Uncle Jellybean in there, curled up and growing more bits every day.
Of course, eventually she’d take it to mean he didn’t find her attractive, especially being pregnant. The opposite was true; her skin was even brighter, her eyes radiant. She had an honest to God glow, which he didn’t think really happened until he saw it happen to her.
It was him, it was all him. And she shouldn’t have to wait for him to get his shit straight. But she would, because she was lightyears better than what he deserved.
-oOo-
“G’night, Curly,” he called out, pulling her door shut.
“Goodnight Knuckles!” It was said with such energy he knew she wouldn’t sleep for at least two more hours. But she was a quiet kid and those two hours would be spent reading books.
As he passed Grace’s room, he heard the unmistakable sound of sobbing. Everything in him connected to his balls told him to move on and pretend that he hadn’t heard a thing, but another part of him was becoming aware of what pregnant women go through. Danielle had him, but Grace, at sixteen, was on her own.
“Shit,” he muttered, then turned for her door and knocked lightly on the partially open door. “Hey, Grace? Everything okay?”
A sniffle in response.
“Can I come in?”
“No. Go away. It’s stupid.”
He sighed, then pushed the door open slowly. “I’m coming in.”
“I said go away.” But it was said weakly, not a lot of venom.
Grace was sitting on the floor, back against the side of her bed, a little red bottle in her hand, something else in the other hand. Tears were streaking her face, her legs were bent in front of her, as much as they could be with her stomach in the way. Her prosthetic still freaked him out a little, but not as much as the stump did.
“What’s wrong? Why are you on the floor?”
“I was painting my stupid toenails. I got red paint on the prosthetic, but I can’t do my own fucking foot because I can’t reach them.”
That’s what she was holding; the lid for the nail polish with that little brush built in. “I…I’m sorry.”
“It’s this big stomach and my body is all fucked up now and nothing feels normal anymore.” She sniffed pitifully again. “All I want is red fucking toe nails.”
This was a mom thing. This was a concern for Danielle. Most definitely. And yet, she was out at the scene of a sudden death and she’d come home exhausted, with sore feet he’d have to give his best attempt at a foot rub.
With a heavy sigh, he hung his head. He couldn’t believe what was about to come out of his mouth.
“Sit on the edge of the bed,” he muttered, pushing the door all the way open and taking the bottle from her carefully between this thumb and forefinger.
“Why?”
“Just sit. Don’t argue with me.”
She did, wiping at her eyes and sti
ll sniffing.
He pulled the stool away from the cheap little desk stuffed along the wall next to the bed, turning it sideways. “Put your foot here,” he instructed, parking his ass on the floor.
“What?”
He patted the seat of the stool. “Put your foot here.”
“Why?”
He held out his hand, ignoring what it looked like. “Give me that brush.”
Her eyes got wide. “You have got to be kidding.”
“What? I think I can handle five toe nails.”
Mute now, she handed the brush to him and set her foot on the stool, leaning back along the side of her daybed. That’s what it was called, and he only knew that because Danielle called it that.
“I just cover your toe nail with this shit? That’s all you need?”
“That, and my phone so I can get a photo of this.”
“Ain’t fucking happening.”
-oOo-
His nightmares were black. There was nothing to see, just hot, scorching agony over his entire body. His hands were screaming in pain, his body licked with sharp lashes.
Pain was one thing. The fear was its own hell; fear of dying. Fear of living.
He woke with Danielle holding him. her hands were cool on his forehead, and her body so indulgent along his, a contrast to the sharp edges of the world he’d been dreaming of. He held her too, arms so tight he thought he might be squeezing too hard but he couldn’t stop.
“You’re here, baby,” she was saying softly, nails scratching along his scalp where his hair was getting longer. God, that felt fantastic.
And just like that, he got hard.
It was surprising. He hadn’t expected that to happen for a long time. But there it was, rock hard and painful, pressed between his stomach and hers.
She stilled, and when he tried to pull away her arms strengthened their hold. “Wait,” she whispered.
“Momma—”
“Shh,” she interrupted, moving in his arms to press her lips to his.
He moaned, burying a hand in her hair. Jesus, that kiss. Her mouth hot on his, her tongue so sweet against his own.
Yes, this was normal. He felt familiar here.
Not comfortable now, never something that basic. But definitely a feeling that he loved.
He rolled her to her back, and immediately her knees pressed to his hips.
Any clothing in his way he impatiently pushed to the side, eager to get to the silk of her skin, and all the while her mouth worked that powerful magic on him.
His palms skimmed over her sides, her ribs, to the curve of her stomach. Their baby. His kid, in there. Her taking care of it for them, all while he tried to pull it together for him.
He had to take care of them, all four of them, like he’d wanted to before. And he had to let her take care of him. Because God knew she could do it. Her patience with him was limitless. Her concern overwhelming, her strength enough to bring him to his knees.
And yet here, she wanted him to take her, she trusted him.
He could be both frantic and gentle at the same time. As he eased into her, bare, his groan rumbled through his chest and into her mouth. Her own response was to clench her nails into his bare back.
Then his senses came to him. He stilled, rested his forehead on hers and separated their lips. “Shit,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. “Condom.”
“Don’t worry,” she replied.
“Momma,” he groaned back, then rolled his hips from her and drove home again.
Home. All of it was home, and he’d actually considered leaving it all behind.
What a moron. That was never a mistake he’d make again.
-oOo-
“But what colour should I paint this thing?” he asked, sinking onto his rolling stool while Annie busied herself putting away their tools. It was done, it ran. He’d taken it for a shaky and emotional roll around the block while Curly waited in the driveway, which was good. No one needed to see the way he was basically weeping like a bitch just from the relief of being able to ride.
“Do you need to paint it?”
He squinted at her. “What do you mean? I wanted it black and you came up with thirty other much better options, remember?”
She shrugged, running her hand over the gas tank. “Are these the old colors?” she asked, meaning the full grey and brown that was still stuck to metal here and there.
“No, Curly. That’s all the different primer colors that wouldn’t be blasted off.”
“It’s tough paint.”
“That’s right.”
She stepped back, tilting her head. “You know what I think?”
He crossed his arms, immensely amused. “What’s that?”
“I think you should leave it like this.”
“Might rust like this.”
“Then clear-coat it. Is that right term?”
“It is.” He frowned. “You like it like this?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “It looks cool. A bit rough but…definitely different.”
“You think so?”
“It’d be like…a Frankenstein’s monster kind of bike.”
He regarded his hulk of metal again. There was nothing fancy about the thing at all. As much as he’d loved Tiny’s bike, he never believed his would be in the same class. But he’d done the work on it himself these past few months. And to him, there had never been a more gorgeous feeling of accomplishment than when he’d been able to ride the thing.
Did it need a slick paint job, really?
“I think you’re right,” he said, standing up again.
“Really?”
He nodded, circling to the opposite side, looking down at her. “It’s the way it’s meant to be, right?”
“Right.”
“It doesn’t have to be pretty. It runs. It works. We made this thing, Curly.”
She looked so pleased he had to chuckle.
“It needs the Red Rebel crest, though.”
“On the gas tank?”
“Exactly. I think one on each side, then clear coat it all.”
“Perfect!” she cried, holding up her fist.
Without thinking about it, he bumped knuckles with her.
Then the window of the Prince’s kitchen was pushed open, and with a desperate wail Grace declared, “You guys! It’s time!”
-oOo-
They waited twelve hours before Jellybean was born; a little boy. Grace held him for fifteen minutes after, then he was handed over to his adoptive family, wearing a soft green cap that Annie had made him out of some kind of baby-blanket felt.
“Just so he knows that he came from people who cared about him,” she said when she handed it to Danielle to put on the brand-new, squawking little person. Not that Knuckles was in the room; he was waiting outside, pacing and hoping Grace was okay. Dani told him all this after, sobbing in his arms in a heartbroken way. And a proud way; she was so impressed by her daughter.
Grace had also signed up to donate her breast milk for a while. The idea totally freaked him out, but he kept his lip buttoned. What with only Uncle Jellybean on the male side of the family, he was outnumbered in most things. He learned when to shut up.
While Danielle took care of her daughter as she went through all the emotional turmoil of having a baby and then giving him away, he busied himself with the one task he’d fought for; buying them a new home. Danielle had wanted to front the money for it, but he’d put his foot down on and hadn’t let up. She had student loans and all these kids to put through school—which he would help with, of course. But he’d also give them a home. He put Sharon’s place up for sale, moved into the Prince’s rental for the time being and put his shit in storage. An offer was pending on a place that came on the market three doors down from Jayce’s place.
He couldn’t say devils didn’t still haunt him at night. But as long as Danielle was there when he woke, circling him with her arms and speaking in her soft tones, he was never afraid.
His home was his peace. His girls were his heartbeat and his center.
-oOo-
Knuckles had pressing business following his first run to San Francisco after convalescing in Markham for a few months. Fritter came with him to Mendocino County; specifically, Clearlake. That was the last known address for Morgan Prince, Danielle’s ex-husband.
They found him working in a resort kitchen as a dishwasher. It was easy to follow him after work to his watering hole, then to his apartment.
Knuckles didn’t say a word, didn’t explain why he was there. No need. Fritter kept watch outside while he plugged Prince in the back of the head with a silenced Smith and Wesson M&P. Then they walked out, hit the road, and he was sliding into bed next to Danielle just before dawn.
She’d asked him not to do this thing, but he’d had to. That fucker could give a shit that he had two incredible daughters, and he could give a shit what he’d left his wife with. And he’d hurt Danielle.
Knuckles couldn’t let that lie.
She was up before him that morning, disappearing to take a shower. He joined her when he woke, slipping through the shower curtain, and running his hands up over her stomach. The fact a person was chilling, waiting for the right moment to make his appearance, was astounding to him. He knew how it worked but it was so bizarre that his child was cooking in there.
With some playful fooling around they got each other soaped up and squeaky clean, then as he was towelling her off she cried out, hands on her stomach, and doubled over.
“Shit, what’s up, Momma?”
“I think it’s time.”
“Time?”
“Yeah.” She breathed in a few times, pulling her cheeks in. “Yeah, this feels familiar.”
“Fuck. I mean, shit. Dammit. What do we do?”
“Get the bag from the closet. I’ll get dressed.”
“Okay.”
He tripped yanking his jeans on, nearly smacking his head on the nightstand, but he got himself dressed and the Go Bag was by the front door by the time Danielle was. He had Annie and Grace up, too. They both threw on clothes and as a foursome they made for the Ford Escape. That thing really was a piece of shit, he had to get her a new vehicle.
Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5) Page 40