Axel shakes his head. “You lost your brother, Dante. I think that’s enough.”
“You know everything Bama said was true,” I say. I turn to Mal and swallow. “What he said about you and Cyndi… He was right.”
A riot of emotions plays across his face. His mouth draws into a thin line.
“I ain’t sayin’ he was wrong,” he finally mutters. “But I don’t blame you for it, Dante.”
“Your loyalty to this club has never been in question,” Rourke cuts in.
“It ain’t my loyalty I’m talking about,” I persist. “It’s my judgment.”
“Come on, Dante. This war with the Caballeros was gonna find us either way,” Rourke shrugs. “Did you fuck up? Yeah. You did. But you paid the price for it. And you almost lost your old lady, too.”
“She’s not my old lady,” I say automatically.
“Oh yeah?” Rourke smirks. “You coulda fooled me.”
Axel cuts in. “Okay, enough jabber. You two get outta here. I gotta talk to my VP about some shit before church tomorrow.”
Mal and I exit the chapel. I close the door behind us.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I joke.
He laughs. “Sure. I can use it.”
The two of us belly up to the bar and order beers from the prospect.
“I wish to hell I’d been there today.” Mal mutters. He lifts his cast. “I’ll be glad as hell to get this thing off.”
I nod. In his place, I’d feel the same way.
“I’m real glad about Tori,” he continues. Our beers arrive, and he grabs his and takes a gulp. “I’d sure as hell have hated to see anything happen to her.”
“Yeah,” I say gloomily. “She literally dodged a bullet, probably. That’s why I gotta stay away from her, going forward.”
“What?” Mal laughs incredulously. “Those statements do not follow, brother.”
“How the fuck can you say that?” I exclaim. “You, of all people? I know you’ve felt like hell about Cyndi’s death. And there’s no way you were responsible for that. If anyone was, it was Dom. Like I said.”
“Look. This ain’t about blame,” Mal says. “I feel bad about Cyndi because we were just fuckin’ around. She was fun as hell, yeah, and we had a good time. But she was just an easy lay for me. And to be honest, that’s what I was for her, too. Either one of us could have got our rocks off with anyone else.” He lifts his non-injured shoulder. “I shoulda stuck with the club girls, instead of bringing her around this shit.”
I snort. “If you are tryin’ to make the argument that I should hook back up with Tori, you’re doin’ a piss poor job.”
“Hear me out.” Mal shifts on his stool to look at me. “I’m pissed off at myself about Cyndi because that relationship didn’t matter. We were friends. Fuck buddies. And because of that, I took it for granted. I didn’t do a good enough job of watching out for her, and protecting her from the club’s shit.
“But you and Tori... I mean, Christ, look at you!” Mal laughs. “You’re both dyin’ for each other. And you’re stayin’ away from her because you want so bad to keep her safe. Don’t you get it?” He raps his knuckles against the side of his head. “You want to keep her away from the club because you love her! That’s why you should be with her!”
In spite of this whole shitty day, Mal’s words make me burst out laughing.
“That is some fucked-up logic, brother,” I say, shaking my head. “Even from you.”
“Yeah, you think so now.” He gives me a knowing grin. “But give it some thought. I’d lay odds that inside of a month, you’re back together with her. Matter of fact, I just might do that.”
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” I joke. But as the words leave my mouth, I wonder in spite of myself whether I’d take that bet.
“Look, Mal.” I take a swig of my beer. “I ain’t gonna lie to you. Yeah, I have feelings for Tori. But your bullshit logic is just that. Bullshit. I can’t be with her. I can’t risk her being in danger.”
“Are you kidding?” he scoffs. “That chick has bigger balls than most of our prospects. She can handle herself.”
Mal stands and stretches, then tells me he’s gonna make an early night of it and go grab some Z’s in his apartment. I watch him stride off, my mind spinning with all the shit that’s happened today.
I saw my brother die. I almost lost the woman I love. I watched my enemy get stripped of the thing that meant more than anything else to him in his life.
And yet, here I am. Still sitting here, in the same place. Even though my world looks nothing like it did even twenty-four hours ago.
Soon, I’ll go back to my house. And in my guest room, I’ll pack up Dom’s belongings. I’ll make some calls to my brothers. Tell them what happened, as well as I know how.
Most people would probably conclude that Dom wasted his life. He’s been selfish. Irresponsible. A taker, not a giver. He’s done a lot of wrong. Caused a lot of grief.
But in the end, he saved Tori. For me.
I know that’s why. I don’t know how. I just do.
After a lifetime of selfish acts, his last act was a selfless one. He gave the woman I love back to me.
I can almost hear him telling me I’d be a fool to let her slip away.
Dom was always the type to jump in without thinking. To follow his emotions first and foremost. It’s why he was always getting into trouble. He let his heart rule his head, every time.
Just this once, though… just this once…
Maybe he’s right.
I sit in silence at the bar, drinking my beer, looking around at the clubhouse as my brothers start to go through the motions of getting back to normal. The new normal, that is. Gage and Rourke take off, probably to go home to their wives. Yoda challenges Rogue to a game of pool. Somehow, everybody knows to give me my space.
When I’ve finished my beer, I stand up from the bar and walk outside to where my bike is parked. It’s a cloudy, moonless night. The sky looks like a heavy, black curtain.
Exhausted, I rub my eyes and pull out my phone, to place the first of three calls I hoped I’d never have to make.
“Antony,” I begin when he answers. “I’m calling with some bad news.”
32
Tori
“I think it’s up there on the right,” I say, pointing. “The yellow one with the red shutters.”
The house is an unassuming ranch style. One of thousands like it that cropped up in the post-World War II boom years. This one is neat and well kept, though the front hedges could use some trimming. A wooden wheelchair ramp has been built on the front of the house, extending from the front stoop to the driveway. The door to the two-car attached garage is open, revealing an interior stacked high with boxes and furniture. Preparations for the estate sale, I’m guessing.
Jake pulls up at the curb and shuts off the engine. Technically, I can drive, since it’s my left ankle that’s broken. But it’s cumbersome getting in and out of the car with my crutches, so for the time being Jake has taken over driving us around when we’re out on assignment together.
I begin the process of extricating myself from the passenger side while Jake goes to get his camera equipment out of the trunk. I sling the long strap of my messenger bag over my head and hoist myself out, then balance on one leg as I reach into the backseat to grab my crutches. I’m just placing them under my armpits when a middle-aged man with sparse gray hair emerges from the depths of the garage.
“Hello there,” he calls, waving. “You must be from the paper.”
“We sure are,” I call back. “I’m Tori. This is my photographer, Jake.”
The man approaches. “I’m Don. Mavis’s son.” He shakes Jake’s hand, then nods toward my crutches and furrows his brow. “What happened there?”
I shrug. “Fell off my porch and broke my ankle.” The lie comes easily now, as many times as I’ve told it. “The cast comes off in two weeks, hopefully.” I cross my fingers and hold them up.
“
Well, that’s too bad.” Don raises his forearm and wipes it across his brow. “Why don’t we go inside and get out of this heat. You gonna have any trouble getting up the stairs?”
I give him a grin. “Not since you were kind enough to build me that ramp.”
That gets a laugh. “I did build it, actually. Mom was mostly in a wheelchair the last two years of her life. She still managed to get around just fine inside with her walker, though.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “She was a force to be reckoned with.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. She sounds like she was a great lady.”
He sighs out a breath. “She really was. But you doing this story on her is a comfort. It’s nice to know people will remember her, beyond her death. Get to read about her life.”
Don shows Jake and me inside, where it’s mercifully air-conditioned against the late summer heat. He has us sit down in the living room, which still has most of its furniture, and brings us glasses of iced tea. In the meantime, I’ve pulled out my notebook, ready to take notes. Jake has done some checks with his light meter and is starting to take some experimental shots.
“So. Tell me about your mom,” I begin when Don is seated comfortably in an easy chair across from me. “Her name was Mavis Arnold, correct?”
“Yes. Her maiden name was Plummer. You probably have the basic details from the obituary?”
I hold up my phone. “I have the link right here. You’re the youngest of three?”
“Yes. My brother and sister both live on the west coast. They were here for the funeral, of course. But since I live in the area, my wife and I are taking care of the other details: the estate sale, listing the house, stuff like that.”
“That must be hard.” I murmur. “Did you grow up in this house?”
He smiles. “We did. This was Mom and Dad’s first and only house. They bought it right when they got married, nineteen forty-seven. Mom lived here for seventy-two years, if you can believe that. Dad died five years ago. Mom refused to move to an apartment, even then. She said all her memories would never fit into a smaller place.”
I laugh. “I like that. So, let’s start at the beginning of your mother’s story.”
Don nods and leans back in his chair. “Well, Mom was apparently always the adventurous type, by her own admission. Even when she was a little kid, she was a tomboy. Always climbing trees, always wanting to do the boys one better. Stuff like that. From what she used to tell us kids, she always dreamt of doing something big with her life.
“So, as luck would have it, Mom graduated high school in the spring of 1943. The United States had entered the war the year before, and there was a severe shortage of pilots. So leaders came up with an experimental program, to train women to fly military aircraft so male pilots could be released for duty overseas.”
“The WASPs,” I murmur. “Women Airforce Service Pilots.”
“That’s right,” he smiles. “My mom heard about the program when she saw a Life magazine cover story about it. Right then and there, she decided she was going to do it, come hell or high water. She managed to beg, borrow and steal — well, not steal,” he chuckles, “but she scraped up all her savings and begged the rest from her parents, until she had the five-hundred dollars she needed for a pilot’s license.”
“Wow,” I marvel. “She was determined.”
“She sure was. Mom never let anything stop her once she made up her mind to do something.” Don speaks with obvious pride. “She ferried aircraft cross-country for almost two years, full-time, until the war was over. She was considered the best pilot in her cohort, too. Not only that, but she was a pretty fair mechanic, to boot.”
I listen, rapt, as Don tells us tales of his mother’s exploits: how she almost had to bail out of a plane one time when it was smoking, until she figured out the problem was a burned-out instrument. How when one of the other female pilots died in a crash, that woman didn’t get an American flag draped over her coffin because she wasn’t military. On the coffee table in front of us are a stack of photo albums, and a worn-looking scrapbook. Don takes them out and shows me pictures of his mom in her uniform. The whole time, Jake is snapping photos.
“What happened at the end of the war?” I ask eventually. “Did she keep flying?”
But Don shakes his head. “When the war ended, she was dismissed from her base in California. Just like that. The men were coming back, and it was out of the question to have women taking men’s jobs. So, that was that. Mom came back home she went on with her life. She met my dad a couple years later.” He gestures around the room. “The rest is history. Marriage, kids, family.”
“Wow,” I say again. “That’s quite a story.” Pausing, I hesitate to ask the question that’s on my mind. “Do you think she was happy? I mean, after such an exciting time, to come back to a traditional life… do you think it ever bothered her?”
Don nods. “I’ve wondered that, too, sometimes. But honestly? I think she was happy. Dad and Mom… I never saw two people as happily married as them.” He pulls out another photo album, and flips to a page. “That’s them on their fiftieth wedding anniversary.”
I slide over to take a look. The couple in the photo is beaming, holding hands. They look to be in their mid-seventies. Mavis, Don’s mother, radiates a kind of beauty and contentment that’s ageless.
My eyes glisten. “I see what you mean,” I say, my voice a little wobbly. “They look amazingly happy. We should all be so lucky.”
“We should,” he agrees. “Love conquers all, as they say. My parents had a lot of ups and downs in their lives, but the one thing they always had was each other. All three of us kids were lucky to have that marriage as a model to strive for.”
I think of my own mom and dad. How when I was growing up, I saw them more as two separate entities than as a couple. How my mom always seemed to be slightly fed up with my dad, even when they weren’t fighting.
“Yes, you were,” I smile. “Very lucky.”
We stay at the little house for longer than planned. By the time Jake has finished up with some more photos of Don holding up a framed picture of his mom in her pilot’s uniform next to her plane, it’s late afternoon. I decide to call it a day, and ask Jake to drop me off back home instead of at the office.
“This is going to be a good story,” Jake remarks as we pull away.
I give Don a final wave out the window.
“Yes, it is,” I say with pride. And I mean it. This piece is going to be as good as I can make it. Don’s mother deserves it. And everyone in Ironwood deserves to know about her amazing life. Suddenly, this story feels like the most important one I could possibly write.
I’m smiling to myself, looking out the window and daydreaming about what the story will look like in print, when Jake pulls into my street.
“Looks like you’ve got company,” he murmurs.
“Huh?” I jolt out of my thoughts and follow his gaze.
There’s a motorcycle parked in the street in front of my house.
On the front porch, a familiar figure rocks slowly back and forth on the swing.
“That guy looks familiar,” Jake says. “Have I met him?”
“Yeah. Remember the people who had the picture of Jesus in their lawn? He’s the guy who lives next door.”
“Oh, yeah.” Jake looks at me quizzically. “Why’s he on your front porch?”
I reach for the door handle, my legs suddenly feeling like water.
“I don’t know,” I breathe. “But I guess I’m about to find out.”
33
Tori
It seems like it takes forever to crutch from Jake’s car, up my sidewalk, and to the front steps.
I’ve only seen Dante twice since the day of the shootout. Once, the day after, when he came to check on me and make sure the guards he posted at my house were doing their job. The second time was at Dominic’s funeral. Both times he was polite, solicitous, but distant. Both times, I still carried the hope that the kiss he gave me tha
t day after the Lords rescued me meant the promise of something more. The hope that Dante’s and my story wasn’t over.
Now, almost a month later, I don’t have that hope anymore.
I do my best to look impassive as I limp up the steps toward my front door. “Hey,” I nod at Dante, before looking down to fish for my keys in my purse. “Not sure why you’re here. I don’t need an electrician.”
I mean the words to wound him. I want to hurt him. As much as his absence has hurt me.
But Dante doesn’t take the bait. “I suppose I deserve that,” he murmurs. He nods toward my ankle. “How’s that doing? Healing up?”
I shrug. “It’s fine.”
“You’re getting good with the crutches.”
“Dante.” I roll my eyes. “Can we not do this? This… bullshit? Whatever it is you’re here for, I’m guessing it’s not to make small talk about my ankle.”
“Okay. I guess I deserve that, too.” He stops rocking, and puts his hands on his knees. “Look, can you sit down, or can we go inside, or something? I want to talk to you about some things.”
“What things?” I challenge him.
Dante lets out a rueful chuckle. “You ain’t gonna make this easy for me, are you, Lois Lane?”
He stands up from the swing, and takes two steps forward, until he’s less than a foot away from me.
“Okay. Enough bullshit. I wanna talk to you about us,” he rumbles. His eyes lock onto mine. “About you and me. And why I’ve been such an asshole.” He reaches up, softly caresses my cheek with his rough, callused thumb. “And why I think we should be together and stop all this fucking around.”
For the first time in memory since I met Dante D’Agostino, I’m speechless.
“So. Can I come inside?” he repeats, with just the hint of a grin.
I blink, still unable to think of a single thing to say.
I reach into my bag for my keys.
Iron Heart (Lords of Carnage Ironwood MC) Page 22