He’s unlikely to. Why would he want me? Not when he’s got a perfect and far younger Bella to entertain him.
The sound of a Harley’s roar getting louder, then stopping makes me wonder if Hell’s returned. Analysing the sound I realise it’s not his bike, it’s our son’s. Demon.
I shake myself, paste on a smile, and go to see what my eldest wants. It’s unusual for him to visit this time of day.
“Demon.” I enter the kitchen where he’s helping himself to milk from the fridge, drinking straight from the carton. I bite back the admonishment. You can’t tell a thirty-five-year-old off in quite the same way as I’d have done twenty years ago.
“Mom.” He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, comes over and hugs me, placing a kiss to my forehead.
“What are you doing here? You want something to eat?”
“Nah. Just needed to check something. Hell keeps the old record books here, doesn’t he?”
I nod. “In his safe. You know the code?”
He rolls his eyes. Of course he does.
“I won’t be long.”
“Help yourself.”
Hell was right. As Demon goes off to the study, I look around seeing the stove is covered with grease, the sink with the breakfast dishes in it. I shouldn’t live like this. With new resolve I rinse the plates, stack the dishwasher, then, gritting my teeth, fill the sink with hot water and start tackling the burned on stains. Once started, I’ve a new determination I’m going to beat this shit. I’m hard at work scrubbing, feeling I’m making progress, when I hear footsteps behind me.
Knowing it’s Demon, I don’t immediately turn, but as he waits without speaking, curiosity makes me swing around.
His face is white. His hands clenched around one of the old record books from the club. His eyes, unfocused, stare in my direction.
“Demon. Dave,” I try again with his legal name when I get no response. “Son, what’s up?”
His mouth works, no words come out. He swallows, and tries again, coughing to clear his throat. Suddenly in an agonised cry he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t I know?” His tone goes from high to low, then back up again.
An icy hand grips my heart. What has he found?
“Demon?” I ask again, my gut telling me this is the moment I hoped would never come.
Suddenly he’s moving. He shoves the book under my nose. “Why didn’t you tell me? You always told me Grandpa died in an accident. You never told me it was at the hands of his son.”
That’s all he knows? Okay, I can deal. Pretend ignorance. Tell him it’s club business. Send him to have it out with Hell. Is that fair? But what the heck do I say?
“It’s all here. Recorded in the minutes of the meeting. Blackie raped someone, Mom.”
I try to take the book away from him before he starts reading between the lines. But it’s too late. I hadn’t raised a stupid son.
“He raped Hellfire’s woman. Though he wasn’t a patched-member then. He was a prospect. Voted in only minutes before the vote to dispatch Black Plate, Blackie, was taken.” I move in fast, trying once more to pull the notebook away from him, but he’s quicker, and too tall, holding it over my head. “My grandfather was a fuckin’ rapist,” he snarls. “And my own father killed him. Why didn’t I know this?”
“It’s not the kind of thing you boast about or discuss over a family dinner,” I yell at him, still jumping up, trying to catch hold of his arm.
He stills. “You knew.” His eyes go wide. “You fuckin’ knew. You knew Hellfire killed him. And what he’d done.”
“You just told me.” I think fast trying to backtrack. Oh, we’ve both made mistakes here today. Club business. He shouldn’t have spouted everything he’d just read, but I can excuse him. What man can keep quiet once he’d discovered such secrets in the family tree? But me? I should have played dumb. Innocent. Blackie had disappeared. That was all I should have been told. Might have questioned my man, but never should have given away that I knew what crime had been done, nor from my easy acceptance, admitted that not only did I know, I had no concern about my husband committing patricide.
He’s shaking his head. His eyes flaring as brightly as the demon for which he was named. He stalks me. I retreat, all thoughts of grabbing hold of that notebook gone.
“What would I find, Mother? If I keep reading? What other fuckin’ secrets am I going to find out? Do you want to tell me yourself?”
What do I do? Tell him half the truth. Maybe that will satisfy him.
“It was me. Blackie raped me.” My hands cover my mouth as the words I never thought I’d ever admit to my son come out. “He raped me. That’s why Hellfire was voted in, that’s why he was the one who killed him.”
Various expressions cross my son’s face. Sadness, pain. Sympathy. As tears start to flow from my eyes, his hand begins to reach out to touch me, then his brow creases, and he pulls it back. “How much did I weigh when I was born, Mom?”
My voice, my whole body is shaking. “Eight pounds.” I can’t tell him a lie or contradict what I previously told him.
“Bit big for a premature baby.”
My head moves side to side, my eyes open in horror.
“You were seventeen.” He already knows that. It’s family history. I’d used it to stop my kids from making the same mistake.
“Got pregnant almost to the day you got married, I came along eight months later. That’s the story, isn’t it? But Blackie was killed a month before you got married.” His voice increases in volume. “I’m not stupid. Look at the fuckin’ dates, Mom! I’m not Hellfire’s son, am I? Fuck!” As a wail comes out of his mouth, I step forward to comfort him, he moves out of my reach.
His own head is shaking now as though with that action he can dismiss the implications. But it’s impossible, the thought has taken root. “I’m yours, but not his. He’s not my father. He’s my fucking brother.” The book drops out of his hands onto the floor as he leans over the counter, his head cradled in his arms.
I want to go over and say something, anything, to ease him, to take this new burden from him, but I can’t find the right words to use. Tentatively I move closer, putting my hand on his back, he shrugs it off.
“Why did nobody tell me?” he cries. Then, more sharply, “Who else knows? Who else is in on the joke?”
“No one knows,” I quickly correct him, “and no one treats it as a joke. Maybe they suspected, the old-timers in the club. It’s possible Bomber and Rusty put two and two together. But they can’t know. They’ve never said anything, never hinted.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks again. “I knew Blackie was bad. Just didn’t know I was the result of a rape.”
“Dave, Demon…”
“Not now, not now Mom. I’ve got to have time to process this. Tell Hell I’ll be gone for a few days.”
I open my mouth to tell him Hell’s his father in all the ways that matter, but before I can get out another word, he’s already turned his back on me and is striding out of the room. Within seconds I hear his bike fire up, then the sound rapidly fading into the distance.
I sink to the floor, my head in my hands. The day I never expected, would have wished never to arrive, had come. Demon might be a full-grown man, thirty-five years of age, but he’ll never stop being my little boy. If I could have saved him this pain, I would have.
My tears falling freely, I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, saying only when it’s answered, “Hell, come home.”
He might have taken minutes; it might have been hours. I’m in the same position when Hell comes running through the door and finds me sitting on the floor, a hundred used tissues beside me, my eyes red and swollen.
“Darlin’,” he yells when he sees me. Throwing his bike key on the counter, he hunches down beside me. “What’s wrong?” he demands. “Are you hurt? What the fuck happened? Talk to me, woman! Moira, talk to me!”
He’s beside himself. There’s only been one time when he’s seen me a
nything close to this distraught before. Ironically that was the day he came up with a solution to my problems, the day he asked me to marry him.
“Demon.” I manage to stammer out. “It’s Demon.”
Hell’s face grows dark. “What the fuck has he done?” He swipes his grey hair back, then his hand reaches out and hesitantly touches my face. “Did he hurt you?” He sounds incredulous, and so he should be. Demon’s never raised a hand to me, or any woman.
“No.” My voice is stronger as I deny it adamantly.
“Fuckin’ tell me, Mo. Never seen you like this. You’re scarin’ me, woman.”
I swallow, wipe the tears, which I can’t seem to stop, away from my eyes, then try to get out the words which are going to destroy him. “Hell, he knows. He knows.”
Hellfire goes completely still. The blood drains from his face. His eyes, wide and wild, burn into me. “He knows… what?” He speaks slowly and carefully, enunciating each word precisely as though speaking to a child. But he already understands what I’m alluding to. Just needs me to confirm it.
I point to the discarded club record book, lying, spine broken, on the floor. “He knows, everything. He knows he’s Blackie’s son.”
Hell throws his head back and roars, both hands tearing at his hair. “No, Mo. No.” Rocking on his heels, he tries to gather himself together. After a few minutes when the implications set in, he asks the next question. “How?” But when he picks up the record book, he immediately understands.
“I didn’t know,” I start in a whisper. “He wanted to check some old records. I didn’t know, Hell. Didn’t realise how far back he was looking. Didn’t see anything wrong. How could I have told him he couldn’t search through old club business? He’s done it before. He’s the VP, how could I challenge him?”
Suddenly Hell’s arms are around me, pulling me to him. “You couldn’t have known, darlin’.” His hands start stroking my hair, and now we’re both swaying back and forth. “I brought the books home so he wouldn’t stumble across them. Said we needed space at the club, no one saw anything wrong in that. We keep the last ten years’ records at the clubhouse, anything older than that, I keep in the safe.” He pauses, and his arms hold me tighter. “You’re right, as VP, he can’t be prevented access to any of the paperwork. Just never expected he’d need to search things that happened thirty-six years ago.”
“He hadn’t a clue, Hell. I know he hadn’t gone looking for what he found. I don’t know what led him to those records. He was so shocked.”
“I should have destroyed them.” Hell looks distraught and annoyed with himself.
“You couldn’t, Hell. They’re the official records.”
He takes a deep breath, trying to get himself under control. It’s only then I notice tears are leaking from his eyes, leaving a trail down his cheeks. “How did he react?” His voice now quiet, full of emotion. “How the fuck did my son react to finding out his real father was a rapist?”
“He was upset.” My words are an obvious understatement. “He took off, Hell. Told me he needed to get his head around it. Said to tell you he’d be gone for a while.”
“Any idea where?” he asks in clipped tones.
“No.” I think for a moment. “Have you?” I can feel him shaking, this is one situation he can’t control.
“No. Demon has problems; he’d normally come to me. But this? I’m the last person he’d want to talk to. Huh, I’m the man who lied to him all his fuckin’ life.”
And I’m the woman who lived the lie.
We sit, on the floor, huddled together as the world we’d so carefully built comes crashing down around us. Demon, our son for all intents and purposes, is out there alone, hurting. There’s nothing either of us can do about it. How he’ll cope, how he’ll want to proceed from now on, a mystery neither of us can solve. Until Demon reappears. If he ever does.
Chapter Eleven
Hellfire
I need to get back to the clubhouse. Once he’s digested the news he should never have stumbled across, Demon will want to speak to me. Go head to head with me. I know my son. He won’t take it out on his mother—she did nothing wrong. She was the victim as much as he was. No, it will be me he challenges, me he comes for. And the place for the confrontation will be the scene of the crime.
Moira’s tears are slowing, but I don’t take it to mean she’s feeling easier in her mind, she’s all cried out and exhausted. Gently pulling her to her feet, I lead her into the lounge, encouraging her onto the couch. I pour a vodka, and leave it beside her.
Going into my study, I take out my phone.
“Bomber? Need your help, Brother.” I pick up the glass I’d filled with whisky for myself, while knowing a stiff drink won’t make this any easier.
“You got it, Prez. Anything you need.” Bomber’s deep voice vibrates through the earpiece as he doesn’t hesitate to give me assistance without asking for details.
I pause, struggling to get the words out. “Demon, is he at the club?” I doubt it, but thought it worth a shot.
“Haven’t seen him. Last I knew he was going to your place. He wanted to check something or other.”
I swallow a sip of whisky, resisting the urge to throw it back in one, then take another and drink myself into oblivion. But I didn’t gain my rank, and have held it for so long, by escaping into a bottle. “He was delving deep into the old club records, Bomber. Too fucking deep. Thirty-six years to be precise.” I pause, then dive in, “He knows, Bomb. He fuckin’ knows. About Blackie, and Moira.”
There’s a sharp inhaled breath. “Prez…”
“Moira’s in pieces, Demon took off. Fuck knows where or for how long. He’ll be coming for me, Bomb. He’ll want to confront me, want to know why I hid the truth all these years.”
“What can I do, Prez?”
“I need to be at the club. That’s where he’ll be comin’. Can Jeannie come here? I don’t want Mo to be on her own.” I know Jeannie and Mo have been distant lately, but she’s the only person who my old lady can talk to about this. No one else knows, and she wouldn’t want them to.
“Of fuckin’ course. No question about it. Where do you want me, Prez?”
Bomber and Rusty are the only two members who were in the club at the time Blackie pulled his last stunt, no one else knows the dirty secret or even suspects. Blackie’s death, a stain on the club, isn’t discussed. Today’s the first time I’ve let down my guard and all but confirmed Demon’s heritage to Bomber, from his reaction, however, offering no questions, he’s known all along. Was it that obvious? Or had Jeannie told him?
“At the club, Brother. Demon might want answers from you.”
“I’ll fuckin’ give them to him. Still remember that fuckin’ night, Prez. You had no choice but to kill him.”
Yeah. Not only had I lied to Demon about our true relationship, I’d killed his real father too, taking away the chance for him to know him. Heck of a lot to lay on the boy—right now, I can’t even think of him as a fully grown man. He’s my little kid, and he’s hurting. Too fucking much. Quickly I wonder if it would have been better to have told him while he was growing up, but dismiss it. There would never have been a good time to explain about the man who’d provided the sperm that made him. I only wish it was a secret that could have been buried along with me.
“I did what I had to, Brother. No choice about it. No heavy conscience and no regrets.”
“But Demon might see it differently.”
He might. Fuck knows what he’s thinking right now, or whether he’s even capable of rational thought.
“I’ll explain to Jeannie, bring her over. You were right to call me, Prez. Jeannie was there, she knows everything about Mo. Might not know why or how Blackie disappeared, but she’ll settle Mo. Mo did right, you stepped up. Made a fuckin’ good go of it too. You and the club’s first lady? Set a fuckin’ good example for everyone else these three-and-a-half decades.”
“You too, Bomb. You and Jeannie.”
He huffs a quick laugh. “Not that we haven’t had our ups and downs, but we’re good, Prez. We’re good.”
Can I say the same thing about me and Moira? Not sure what we are at the present, but need to put our problems aside until Demon resurfaces, and we know where his head’s at. Our eldest child takes priority right now.
Bomber’s quick to arrive, Jeannie riding bitch behind him. Her face is taut as she enters, that he’s already explained the situation is clear. She nods at me tersely, then rushes over to Moira. Seeing her friend, Mo starts crying all over again, and the way she reaches for her shows me I was right to call Jeannie in. All differences between them swept away, at least for the moment.
I grab my keys, then side by side with one of my oldest friends, ride to the clubhouse.
Entering, I stand at the door, my hand holding onto the frame as I peruse the assembled brothers, hoping, but not seeing, the man I wanted to most. I hadn’t expected it to be that easy, but in my mind had summoned up my son, my brother, as usual, holding court around the bar, a beer in his hand acting like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Wishful thinking.
Man’s just heard probably the most devastating news anyone could have the bad luck to absorb through their ears.
“Prez?” Cad’s waving his hand toward the bar.
Not being in the mood for conversation, I indicate my office, and walk across the room, unwilling to be dragged into anybody else’s problems, mine would trump any of theirs. Once in my sanctuary, I pull out my not-so-secret stash of whisky, and pour a glass of pure malt. Then sink into my chair, resting my head back.
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