by Max Henry
“There’s nothing to ‘make up,’” I snap, dropping my hand to my lap. “We’re not living with you; we’re not hanging around your club. We’re staying put, living our own life. That’s what I mean by confusing things. Why ask you to stay if I have no intention of taking this anywhere?”
“Fuck tomorrow,” he says with a frown. “Live tonight.”
“And exist in an eternal nightmare trapped between love and hate, right and wrong?” I shake my head, my chest aching already. “It kills me, King. I can’t let you in.”
“Don’t shut me out.”
“It’s nothing personal. It’s survival.”
“Bullshit it is.” He wraps his huge hands either side of my face. “Do you know why we were created to be monogamous animals?”
I shake my head in his hold.
“Because love is the greatest healer. No matter what comes your way, no matter how bad, what’s the one thing that can wash all the pain away? Can make life full of light if even for a second?”
I lean in to his hold, touching our foreheads. “Love.”
“Exactly.” His thumbs stroke back and forth over my cheeks. “Tell me honestly, are you happy?”
“Dante’s—”
“Not Dante,” he grumbles. “You. Are you happy, baby?”
Years of suppressed feelings wash in as an unstoppable wave of pain, regret, and frustration. I try to pull away, try to get space to clear my head and shove all my regrets away in the dark corner I’ve kept them in for so long, but he holds firm.
“Tell me.”
“No.” My lungs seize, the pain too severe. I’m fucking miserable, but I’m also convinced that the alternative is no better.
“Come home with me.”
“I can’t.”
King lets go and stands, walking away. I long for his return, for the closeness, the comfort of having him beside me. But I don’t deserve it—ever.
“Why?” he growls. “Why do you have to be so fuckin’ stubborn?”
“Maybe you should go,” I say quietly. Dante hasn’t returned, but he doesn’t need to hear this.
The heat in King’s stare as he takes me in, hands fisted at his sides, is so severe I look to the right and stare at the wall. His approach is given away only by the clinking of his buckles as he strides toward me. I close my eyes, convinced I’ve pushed too far, that this is it, he’s going to act out of rage.
His rough palms slip around my jaw, and I scrunch my face up, waiting for the pain, be it verbal or physical.
Yet he takes me utterly by surprise, pulling my face around and laying his warm lips over mine. I suck in air, his air, and he freezes, our lips still connected. Tentatively, I open my eyes to his, and the pain, the desperation . . . it tears a new hole in my soul. He’s asking me for permission to continue, to give me what he holds at bay so fragilely, and I don’t know if I can. Yet I know if I refuse him, I’ll do nothing but transfer this pain, this hurt, this burden to a man who deserves none of it.
Ending us was our decision—I should wear the cost of that.
“Elena?” he murmurs against my mouth.
The movement, the feel of his lips tickling against mine . . . I’ve missed it. It awakens a need in me I’d denied for so long I honestly thought it had gone. But it didn’t. I need King as badly today as I did the day I left him. The hurt hasn’t lessened, but the desire has grown.
I pull his bottom lip between mine gently, releasing it to sweep my mouth over his once more. He groans and responds with the same careful movements. No good can come of this, but we’re each as weak as the other. Resistance is futile.
“Not here,” I whisper as his mouth skims a hot trail over my jaw and neck. “Not right now.”
His chest rises and falls rapidly as he pulls back, hands in my hair, on my face, as though tracing his memories in the flesh. “When?”
“Let me go talk with Dante.” And have a moment to think if this is the right thing to do with some clarity.
He nods and backs away, letting me stand to go and talk with our son. “You’re right. He comes first.”
The way he says it, the reverence in his words . . . what does he really mean? Does he finally agree with what I did for the sake of our child? I walk toward Dante’s room while King waits at the dining table. Surely after all this time he wouldn’t do a one-eighty and give up the fight that easy? I’m thinking too much on it. As I lift my hand to knock, I push my doubts to the back of my mind. I rap my knuckles against Dante’s door and get no answer. Pushing it ajar, I find him lying on his bed, clutching a teddy that’s been his go-to since I bought it for him as a toddler. My heart sings, the reminder of why King and I can’t act too rashly laid out as perfectly as an angel. I lean back to usher King up the hallway, to show him our child at peace and unfazed, but the clunk of the front door closing chases any frail dreams I had away.
He finally understands. He gets why we can’t mess a round with this when there’s somebody else’s life to be influenced by the decisions of our hearts.
We have a son to think about before ourselves.
We have a future to think of—it just doesn’t involve us.
THIRTY-FIVE
King
“What gives, grumpy?” Fingers frowns at the harsh way I’ve backed my bike into the park beside Apex’s vacant one.
“Fuckin’ life, old boy. Just fuckin’ life.” What the fuck was I thinking, going there? What the hell was I tripping on?
“Boys have been lookin’ for ya.” He heaves two new bottles of oil onto the workbench. “Got themselves in a flap over somethin’.” He walks a little closer and squints at me. “You look like shit, son.”
“Gee, thanks.” Riding fourteen hours with barely an hour to break it up will do that to a man. “Guess I better go see what these idiots want before I turn in, huh?”
Fingers nods, returning to setting himself up for the day’s work. The brothers keep him busy; there’s always a bike in need of repair or service. Honestly don’t know what the guy would do with himself on a day off anyway. Nobody’s seen him show any sign of a life outside our walls.
The common room is relatively quiet when I enter, only a couple of the younger guys around the pool table. I make my way across the floor, hoping like hell I can slip inside the safety of my office without being noticed.
Seems not to be so. “King. ’Bout time, man.” Callum.
“Hey,” I drag out. “What’s the rush?”
“Let me round up the guys and we’ll talk it through.”
“What?” Fuck. All I want is a liter of Jack and a quiet place to pass out.
“They want to call church early.” He whips his phone out, thumbing through to a number. “Hold on. I’ll ring them up.”
“Callum, man, I really need to—”
He lifts a hand to stop me and turns away as the call connects. I don’t stick around to find out who he’s talking to; it can only be any one of the officers. Apex is gone and they need a solid replacement. I still need a valid way to take myself out of the running without losing my patch. I never mentioned a thing to Elena in case it got her hopes up. Yes, I’m doing this for a better life with her, but I’m also doing it on my own terms; I don’t need her constant questions adding to the pressure I’ll be under to accept the position.
“Where the hell have you been?” Fuck, no more.
I stiffen and turn to face Beefy. “What gives?”
He eyes me cautiously as I drag a hand over my face and beard. “You look like hell.”
“So I’ve been told.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. “You still lookin’ for her?”
“How the fuck do you know?” I whisper-yell.
The asshole taps the side of his nose. “I have my ways.” Fucking Hooch.
I sigh and jerk my head toward the office. He follows me in, closing the door as I take a seat in the worn leather office chair.
“Found her a while ago. Been keepin’ tabs.”
He jer
ks his chin, pulling his bottom lip in. “How is she then?”
“As fuckin’ indecisive as ever.”
He chuckles and moves to the seat opposite. “That where you went tonight?”
“How’d you pick that?” I ask dryly.
“Man, you ain’t ever been this angry about a thing. Could only be a woman.”
“Truth, right there,” I say, toasting him with a bottle of Jameson that was tucked on a shelf beside me. “Want one?”
“Guess.”
“So . . .” I search the drawers for glasses and settle for a couple of centenary coffee cups our Harley dealer gave the club, “what’s the deal with everyone wantin’ a pres instated quick smart?”
“They’re itchy without a direction.”
“They’ve got direction.” I pass him his mug.
“Maybe.” He takes the drink and raises it in thanks. “But what’s a flock without a shepherd?”
“Lost,” I murmur into the edge of my cup.
“Dead right. They want the familiarity of somebody to make the hard decisions for them.”
“They don’t have any hard decisions.” I take a swig of the real hard stuff and grimace through the initial burn. “This club hasn’t done a single thing out of line since we got Carlos off our backs.”
“Is he though?”
“Fucked if I’d know. Haven’t exactly called him up for a Sunday chat.” Rather not talk about him either if it can be helped.
“He’s there, King, and you know it. Just lurkin’, waiting for a time when it suits.”
“As are the Blood Eagles,” I remind him, “and nobody’s worried about them.”
He shrugs one shoulder, agreeing, but not siding with me on the fact of the matter. Why is it that a mentally unstable asshole, with a fucking stash of coke on hand the size of the average house, instills more fear in our people than a fully-fledged crew of death-seeking wrecking balls on bikes?
“I don’t get everyone’s fascination with the asshole,” I state. “What has he got that they fear more than the Eagles?”
“It’s what he doesn’t have.”
I lift my eyebrows and shake my head at him.
“A conscience, morals, or any sense of guilt or compassion. The Blood Eagles will only turn up guns a-blazin’ if we give them reason to. Carlos will fuckin’ well roll on over when he gets bored and needs the entertainment.”
“He’s left us alone for six years.”
“And in that time what has he done?”
Developed his cartel, grown his reach, and taken half the smaller gangs and clubs under his wing with the promise of cheap drugs and large payouts for doing the kind of work that would make the devil wince. He’s right: we’ve been sitting idle while Carlos has been hustling. Fuck it. “Gotten stronger.”
“They need to know that when the shit hits the fan, when Carlos comes knockin’, wanting what we have, that they can trust the judgment of who’s in charge.”
I scrub my hands over my face and then down the last of my drink before pouring another. “Why me, though? Surely they trust you?”
He glances to the floor and flexes his left hand.
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to keep it until after this shit was sorted out.”
What the fuck has he done? “Spill.”
Beefy takes a sip of his drink and wets his lips. “You know that things have been tough at home, right?”
Sure. But damn, every man has his troubles from time to time. That’s the point of these kinds of brotherhoods; there’s always somebody there to pick you up when you don’t have the strength yourself. “I thought you’d got that sorted out when you started on this whole lifestyle change?” I indicate to his remarkably smaller body size.
“Margot wants more. She said our girl’s been runnin’ with the wrong crowd, and without me around she struggles to keep her in line.” He sighs, looking everywhere around the room but at me. “She wants me to take a year off, spend more time with the family.”
“We’re all your family, Beef.”
“That’s the problem. I’m spread too thin.” He chuckles. “In all seriousness, I need this. I haven’t been as well since that stint in the hospital. Every little bug takes it outta me, man. I need time out.”
“This isn’t your local football club, Beefy.” I can’t believe the double standards of the asshole. On one hand he’s damn near breaking my arm he’s twisting it so hard toward me taking the presidency, and on the other he’s giving me a fucking sob story about his God damn snotty nose.
“Jesus, King. I thought you’d understand.”
“Yeah, well you thought wrong.” I swivel my seat side-on so I don’t have to face him. He’s broken the news on the wrong day. After that mess with Elena, I couldn’t give a flying fuck what’s gong on in anyone else’s life that has them thinking they need to bail on the club. If I can give up the one thing I want the most in order to keep proving my loyalty to this pack of fools, then so can he.
“Sorry I even asked,” he snaps, slamming the mug down on the desk. “I’ll send somebody in to get you when church is assembled.”
I don’t answer. He walks out, the sound of the door slamming closed behind him resonating in my ears as I wonder what the fuck I’m becoming.
This isn’t me. I’m not grumpy and jaded. I’m not Apex. My ass flies out of the chair as though it’s the very reason why I’m becoming like the man who I would butt heads with over issues just like this. I stare at the leather, scowling at the inanimate object like a lunatic. Fucking chair.
Fucking life. I won’t do it; I won’t back down and admit that I can’t have it all. Fuck the world. I can do it all. If I want Elena in my life and a club under my feet, then I’ll damn well make it happen.
Just fucking watch.
THIRTY-SIX
Elena
No sun breaks the dawn, hidden away behind a cluster of storm clouds. The weather mirrors my mood as I stare at the scribbled note King left before he walked out last night.
I won’t quit. Maybe I’ll wait most of my life, but there’ll come a day when you say yes.
I turn the fuel docket over in my hands, reading the time and place on it again. Why? Because somehow knowing that little detail of his journey, knowing where he stopped on his way to see me last night, connects me to him.
Dante slips in beside me, and I shove the note under my pillow before he sees it and asks what it says.
“Morning, Momma.” He nuzzles in behind me, cuddling up to my warmth the same as he has since he was big enough to climb onto my mattress himself. I rue these mornings, knowing they won’t last forever. One day he’ll stop coming in, and then before I know it, I’ll be phoning him up and trying to bribe him to come over on the weekend with his favorite meal.
“How’d you sleep?” I ask, same as I always do.
“Had a real strange dream,” he says. “Does my daddy have a motorbike?”
I’m going to hell for this. “Wow, yeah, he does.”
“And I dreamed it?” he asks, surprised.
“That’s so strange,” I lie. “What else do you remember?”
“He made you cry.”
“Really?” I roll over and stroke the hair from his face. “Why?”
He shrugs. “I think you missed him, Mom.”
No crying. No more tears. “Crazy.” Time to change the subject. “What are we going to do today?”
He sucks his lips together while he thinks it over. “Make a cake, and then we can take it to the park and eat it there. You can walk while I ride my bike.”
How can I say no to such enthusiasm? “Sounds perfect.”
***
By the time the cake’s made, cooled, and iced, we’re setting off for a late lunch at the local parkland. I fill a backpack with everything we’ll need and open the trunk of the car to place Dante’s bike inside. Wrestling with the handlebars, I curse as an urgent courier van turns up behind me. The driver hops out, envelope i
n hand, and jogs across to me.
“Elena Burgadas?”
“What do you want?” I sigh, realizing I’ve just chewed a stranger’s ear off because of my frustrations with Dante’s bike. “I’m sorry.”
The man looks at me, surprised, as I straighten up and run a hand over my hair. “Could you please sign?”
My stomach turns; the last time I signed for a delivery it ruined my chance of sleeping soundly for a solid month afterward.
I take the envelope from him and sign the handheld device. He nods and jogs back to his van, speeding off into the warming day.
I flip the envelope over and frown at the lack of sender’s details. Figuring I have nothing to lose, I grab hold of the tear-strip and rip it open. A single sheet of notepaper is inside, containing a printed message.
From King. Damn it. Dante shuts the front door behind him and gets buckled into the car while I read the simple message:
Don’t have your phone number—you keep that hidden well, so here’s a message the only way I can get it to you . . .
You’re moving.
Closer to me.
Stop arguing.
I said stop.
You’re moving; it’s final.
You’ve got a week to pack.
That motherfucking—
“Mom. You coming?”
Ugh. Five hundred miles between us and he still manages to piss me off.
Still, I smile.
The man’s going to be the death of me, but what a sweet death it’ll be.
THIRTY-SEVEN
King
Ten months later
“Abbey, I need you to do me a favor, gorgeous.”
She looks up from her filing and frowns a little. A few weeks back, one of the newer club girls took her out to get her hair done and she came back with it cut to her shoulders. I still can’t get past how much more mature she looks.
“Can you pick up a birthday present for a seven-year-old boy?”
She cocks her head to the side—her way of saying she wants more explanation.
“Nephew,” I lie. Nobody around here knows a thing about my family to be able to call bullshit. The only person who knows is Hooch, and he’s miles away in the Fort Worth chapter.