Maureen Delaney. The former queen of the Bulls clubhouse. The only one, really.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Sage replied without much conviction.
“How would you feel about helping me with the candied yams?”
The kitchen was in a brief lull, while the ovens worked and most of the food was prepped for its turn. Though she was a decent cook, the Bulls’ women had established a system she wasn’t part of. All day, she’d felt more in the way than helpful, so she accepted the chance to find her way in. “Sure.”
Maureen hooked her arm through Sage’s and led her into the kitchen. The impression that she was horning in on someone else’s turf was strong, and she didn’t know how to start a conversation with this woman, so Sage followed Maureen’s lead, and they worked in quiet for a while.
There was no reason for her to feel intimidated; this was hardly the first time she’d been crushed in the middle of this chaotic family for a celebration. In fact, her first Bulls family celebration had been right here, in Deb’s kitchen at Simon and Gunner’s big shared farm, for Sammy’s first birthday party during the summer.
But this was Thanksgiving, and she was experiencing some cognitive dissonance.
Holidays with her mom had generally been okay, she’d thought. Some extra drunkenness or other brands of fucked-up-ness, maybe a bigger fight at the end of the night, but a decent meal, at least, and an attempt to make a nice table. There had been a few presents at Christmas and on birthdays, too. Without knowing anything different, Sage had liked the holidays well enough.
Now she knew something different. This was like a riot. She’d tried to count the people here and had come up with thirty, but that was only a guess. People kept moving around and making her lose count, and there were faces she’d never seen before. Fitz had brought his mom and mother-in-law, and Apollo had brought his parents as well.
People had even brought their dogs, and Lemmy was in puppy paradise, bounding around outside with a couple of pit bulls and a funky little white furball that looked like the head of a mop.
It was great; Sage was growing to love the Bulls family, and the pull of these traditions drew her in. But it was also a whole lot to deal with.
And, for the first time since the initial crush of loss had eased, she missed her mom. Not missed, exactly—she didn’t really want her here, or want to be with her anywhere—but she was sad for her. Sad that her mother had been so sad. Sad that she’d never known anything like this.
Candied yams was a dish her mother had made at Thanksgiving and Christmas, with canned yams and a couple bags of mini-marshmallows. It was a favorite dish. Today, they were slicing fresh yams into discs.
“You said candied,” Sage said to Maureen. “Are there marshmallows?”
“Not marshmallows. Brown sugar. We’ll do a glaze.”
“Oh. Okay.” Sage sighed. She liked the marshmallows.
Maureen set her knife on the cutting board and squinted. “You look a bit dazed.”
“No. Just taking it all in.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. And dazed wasn’t the right word, anyway. Her life was still rocking from the tempest of changes it had gone through in the past six months, and she was just trying to get her feet steady.
Now Becker wanted to get married, too. He had a long list of reasons it made good financial sense. With twins on the way, good financial sense was a compelling argument. So they were getting married. Add another massive life change to her list.
“You know, this is the first time Thanksgiving hasn’t been at my house. I’m a little dazed myself.”
“Oh. Because your husband left the club?”
Though Sage had only asked a simple question, spoken a simple truth, Maureen frowned, and the temperature seemed to dip a degree or two. “He retired, yes. And Becker took his place. Do you know what that means, Sage?”
Deciding that the better course was to wait for Maureen to get to her point, Sage waited.
“I always thought the woman who took my place would be someone I loved like a daughter. But you and I, we’re strangers.”
Oh. This was why she felt like she was horning in on somebody’s turf. Maureen was giving off that exact vibe. Well, it was good to know she wasn’t paranoid. “I don’t want to take your place, Maureen. I don’t even know what that means.”
“You must take my place, little lass. And I will tell you what it means. But it won’t be easy. You’re younger than anyone else in this family but the children, and these women have strong personalities, every one of them. They’ll give you the respect due the president’s old lady, and they’ll be patient while you find your way, but you’ll have to be worthy of the love and trust.”
“I don’t want to be in charge of anybody but me. And my kids.”
“It’s not about being in charge of people. Well, the club girls, but you can delegate that. It’s about being the center of the family. You’re Becker’s old lady. He’s the center of the club, and you stand at his side. No one else can take that role. If you won’t do it, the club family will fragment.” She rearranged the slices of yam Sage had just laid in the glass dish. “The men think they run the show, but it’s us women who keep things going. We make it so they have a life to live when they get off their bikes. We give them a reason to live that life right and take care. We hold things together when it all looks like it’s spinning apart. And the president’s old lady is the ... what’s the word ...” She thought for a second and then shook her head. “The center, that’s plain enough. They’ll all turn to you. But young as you are, you need to show them you can take that weight.”
Feeling dizzy, Sage shook her head. “I ... can’t. I can’t do that.”
Maureen grabbed her hands and made her turn face to face. “I am telling you, love, you don’t have a choice. You’re Becker’s old lady. The job is yours. That flame on your neck makes you queen. Lord, he even put a crown around the heart, so he knows. You must find it in yourself to be who the club needs you to be. No more hovering on the edges. You need to be in the center. Your strength is their strength.”
Holy shit, that was way too much responsibility. “Can’t you keep doing it?” Maureen had been queen since the Seventies or something; Sage would happily abdicate the throne or whatever to her.
But she shook her head. “No. Brian retired. We didn’t lose our family, but we gave up our place in it. I can give you advice, but I can’t take that place back.”
“Shit, Maureen. I’m still just getting used to the idea of this family. I’ve only ever taken care of myself before.”
The woman laughed and gave Sage a one-armed squeeze. “Oh, lass. From what I hear, you’ve done far more than that. You’re a fighter. You’ll do fine. And I think you’d better call me Mo.”
Just then, Cecily waddled into the kitchen from the back yard. She was a couple weeks past her due date, big as a house, and bitchy as hell. Caleb had made himself scarce after she’d torn into him for his hovering. Everybody had been giving her plenty of space.
The look on her face now, though, wasn’t bitchy at all. She was wide-eyed and pale. “Um, Aunt Mo?”
“Yeah, love?” Maureen—Mo—put the dishes of yams in the oven.
Cecily turned around and showed the back of her skirt. “My water just broke.”
“Holy shit,” Sage said.
“Well, yes it did,” Mo said with perfect calm. “Okay.” She squeezed Sage’s arm. “I’ll help you get things in motion.”
“Me?”
“You, lass. This is your family. Ciss, sit down. We’ll find Caleb and your mother”—she gave Sage a pointed look—“and we’ll get everything in motion. All’s well, love. All’s well.” She turned and took the yams back out of the oven.
~oOo~
‘Getting things in motion’ meant getting all those people to the hospital and setting up Thanksgiving dinner in the middle of the Labor & Delivery waiting room. Sage felt like a marionette, following Mo’s instructions, but after a while, she started to get w
ith the beat and figure out what needed to happen to make sure everyone got where they needed to be.
Apollo’s parents volunteered to camp out at Apollo and Jacinda’s place and watch over all the little ones. Fitz and Kari took their moms home and showed up at the hospital from there. Maverick called Caleb’s grandfather and brother, and they came in from the Osage and ended up joining the dinner.
At first, there weren’t any other families in the waiting room, and the Bulls took it over, moved furniture around, and set up makeshift tables without putting anyone out. Sage had learned during the summer that it was very useful to have a nurse in the family. Everybody in this hospital knew the Bulls and treated them like they belonged.
Then another family—obviously two sets of about-to-be grandparents—showed up and sort of cowered away from the commotion in the waiting room.
Sage saw them and felt bad. This wasn’t Simon and Deb’s house, and it wasn’t the clubhouse. It was a public hospital, and other people were having babies, too. Looking around and not seeing Mo, Sage went to the strangers without asking if it was a good idea.
“Hey. I guess you’re waiting for a baby, too.”
One of the grandpas nodded. “We are. But we don’t want trouble.”
“No trouble. This is a happy day, right? But I guess your Thanksgiving dinner got sidetracked, too? Would you like to join ours? We didn’t get everything cooked, but there’s about fifty side dishes, and cake and pie, and a fried turkey.”
“We don’t want trouble,” he repeated.
“No trouble. Just ... I don’t know. It can be like the first Thanksgiving or whatever. We don’t bite, I promise.”
The grandparents conferred quietly among themselves, mostly with their eyebrows.
“Okay,” said a grandma-to-be. “Thank you.” She held out her hand. “I’m Agnes.”
“Hi Agnes, I’m Sage. C’mon, I’ll introduce you around.”
~oOo~
Late in the night, long past dinner and cleanup, long past when the Marx and Winegartner families got to meet their new grandson and go home, while most of the club family was crashed out on the floor or across the uncomfortable chairs, Sage unwound herself from Becker’s sleepy embrace and worked her way up to her feet. She had to pee like three times a night, even when she was spending that night on the floor.
She stumbled drowsily to the restroom. When she made her way back, Caleb was coming down the hall with a little bundle. She stopped and waited for him to reach her.
“Hey, who’s that?” She peeked down at a sleeping baby in a blue beanie. A little bit of black hair poked out around the edges of his hat. Something went through her at the sight of that tiny, beautiful, brand-new boy, a spasm or a cramp that started in her heart and surged through her soul, and she clutched her belly. Her love for these babies inside her was deeper than she’d known she ran.
He grinned. “This is James. Is my grandpa still here?”
“I don’t think anybody went anywhere. But they’re mostly asleep.”
They walked together to the waiting room. Becker was awake, leaning back against the legs of a chair. He rolled to his feet—annoyingly gracefully—and approached them with a grin. “You got your boy, I see.”
“Yeah. That was pretty fucking amazing to see. Women are warriors, Prez. Holy shit.”
Sage put her fingers over the baby’s ears. “Potty mouth.”
Caleb laughed the laugh of a man who’d forgotten all the worries of his life. “Where’s my grandpa?”
“Right here,” the man in question said and stood up from a chair in the corner. Caleb’s brother stood as well.
Caleb went to them. “Grandpa, I want you to meet my son. His name is James, for the strongest man I’ve ever known.”
His grandfather’s eyes shone and he patted his chest. He held out his hands, and Caleb handed over his newborn son. The elder James held the boy up, just a foot or so, and all three men bowed their heads.
That spasm of unfathomable love struck her again, and she hugged her belly.
The rest of the family was stirring to life, realizing that a new member had made his way home.
Becker’s arm slid across her back and he drew her against him, setting his hand on hers. “You see, shortcake? Our kids will grow up in this. It’s chaos and mess, and sometimes it’s ugly, but it’s always beautiful. Whatever else goes on in their lives, they’ll always have this. That’s why I know they’ll be good. We’ll do it right.”
She tucked her face into his kutte and held on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Becker stood in the expanded sales room of the station and looked through the square hole where the window to the bays would go. The place almost looked like a working business again. It needed finish, and it needed stock, but the exterior was finished and ready for the pumps.
Good thing, because they were into December now. Eight months since Mrs. Greeley had crashed that baby-blue Continental, ending her life and upending the fuck out of the club’s.
With Delaney’s agreement, Becker had floated at the table the idea of expanding the business a little bit and adding a small convenience store. It meant losing part of their rear lot, but the neighborhood had lost its corner market several years back, and the nearest supermarket was two miles away. A lot of their neighbors were elderly, or just too broke to own a car. The old farts who camped out in front of the station and yakked all day bitched often about how hard it was to lug groceries home on the bus.
It wasn’t much—none of the Bulls were enthusiastic about being shopkeepers—and it wasn’t going to be a money-maker, but they meant to stock staples and snacks, and a few other last-minute needs. Something to help out their little neighborhood. Knowing that they sometimes brought trouble down in the middle of their home, the Bulls brought help wherever they could.
Since they’d had to build up all the way from the foundation—hell, from the tanks—they’d modernized everything, short of adding self-serve pumps. The club decided that they didn’t want civilians turned loose with the fuel, and they liked being one of the last full-service stations in town. But the place gleamed with newness. Becker watched now as workmen installed shiny shelving and storage on the back wall of the bays. He’d been a Bull so long, and worked the station so long, that he felt like he’d grown up in those old walls. The smell of the place had been more familiar to him than his own home. Standing here now, on the same ground, inside unfamiliar walls, his nose packed with the smells of paint and sawdust, the solid new floor seemed to shift under his feet.
2002 had brought more changes to his life than he could sort.
But this was still Brian Delaney Auto Service, still a Sinclair station, and still home.
~oOo~
When he’d gotten what he needed from the contractor, Becker walked to the clubhouse and went in through the back door. It wasn’t yet nine in the morning, and the club had been off the road for awhile, with no Russian runs or smaller work scheduled during the week after Thanksgiving. When he’d put his Softail in the lot earlier, the only other vehicle had been the club van.
So he was surprised to see Kendra in the kitchen, and a full pot of coffee in the maker, still dripping. In a sleek black skirt, black stockings, high-heeled black shoes, and a deep blue silk blouse, she was dressed like the businesswoman she was—since Ox had retired a couple years ago and Maddie had taken him down to Mexico to die on a beach, Kendra had owned the company Maddie had built: Signet Models.
What she didn’t look like was a sweetbutt, but nobody had been on the Bulls’ roster of girls longer than Kendra Marbury.
“I made a pot before I went next door,” he said now, leaning against the doorjamb. “You drank the whole thing already?”
She smiled over her shoulder. “What you make is not coffee, Beck. I dumped it and started over.”
“I like it strong.”
“You could refinish furniture with it. I think I lost three layers of skin off my tongue.”
&
nbsp; There was a time, not all that long ago, when Becker would have taken her remark and used it to turn their banter into sex. He’d favored Kendra above all the club girls. She was smart and driven; she didn’t suffer fools or cultivate drama. She wasn’t a sweetbutt because she was a biker groupie, or because she was hiding from some abusive piece of shit. She was a sweetbutt because she liked wild sex with strong men.
If it hadn’t been so off-putting to know that almost every single one of his brothers had known her carnally, and that half the rich men in Tulsa probably had as well, there had been a time when he might have considered seeing if she wanted to come off the roster and be his.
He thought he wasn’t alone in considering that; all the Bulls liked Kendra. And she liked that. She’d been here long enough that she was the one who got to do the picking, too, not the other way around.
“Just tell me you didn’t put vanilla or caramel or some other pussy flavor in there.”
“You don’t put the flavors in the pot, Beck. So no, this is just coffee. The drinkable kind. You want a cup?”
“Please.” As she took a mug down for him, he asked, “What’s got you here so early? There something goin’ on I need to know about?”
After Delaney stepped down, and with all the OG old ladies—Mo, Joanna, Maddie—gone, there hadn’t been anyone to manage the sweetbutts or run the clubhouse. None of the current old ladies would, or had time to, do it, and it wasn’t their place, anyway. It was a minor issue on the family side of things; the old ladies managed to plan family functions just fine without a Mo in charge. But on the club side, they’d needed somebody to keep track of the girls—some of them had real needs they leaned on the club for, and the unattached Bulls needed girls to keep their own needs managed. Kendra, busy as she was, had stepped in for that.
“Not club stuff, but I am here to talk to you, if you’ve got time.” She handed him a cup, made just as he liked it, though not as strong.
Lead (The Brazen Bulls MC, #8) Page 32
