Interrupting Ravage right now would be a bad idea. He's not in business mode anymore. Shannon is snuggled in his arms, so they're not far from going upstairs. If I cock block him, he'll cold cock me.
Or Shannon might.
Hesitating by the bar, I signal for Trish.
"The usual?" She bats her eyes at me.
"Thank you, darlin'." I smile back at her, the crooked one that my mom always said was going to kill the ladies. An unexpected twinge ripples through my chest. It shouldn't be possible to miss someone this much after so long, but I do. Especially because she'd be able to give me some advice about Olivia.
But she's not here. Apart from Lucy, I have no family left. Only my brothers.
Trish shovels ice into a glass and pours the whiskey over it. With a wink, she adds a cherry with a stem, then she sets the glass down in front of me. Stretching out, she leans on the counter, her chest framed by the stained and worn wood. But all I can see is Olivia.
I take a sip, the whiskey cold and refreshing. It's liquid courage, bolstering me enough to interrupt my President. I take my drink over to their table, smiling at Shannon.
Leaning in close, I speak so that only he can hear me. "Can I borrow you for a minute, Pres?"
He turns toward me, surprised. "Yeah, son. Everything okay?"
"Just need to run something past you."
"Sure." Ravage kisses Shannon deeply, then they part. He waves me over to an empty table in the corner of the club. Sitting, he folds his hands on the polished wood. "What's on your mind?"
Even though I want a cigarette, I fold my hands in front of me, too. "The club needs Olivia in the DCF office," I say, looking him in the eyes. It's fire meeting ice.
"Why's that?" His face gives me nothing. I can't tell if he's pissed at me for challenging his decision or if he's bored now that there isn't a warm body in his lap.
"Esther has a family problem that the club needs to handle."
"Donny's ol' lady?" Ravage's eyebrows lower.
"They're pretty cozy," I say. "I think Donny's serious about her."
"If he's so serious, why isn't he sitting there instead of you?"
I lift my eyes toward the ceiling, smirking. "He's a little occupied. Olivia can dig into the state, find out what's going on with Esther's siblings. She's our Prospect, so that makes this official club business."
Even though my tone is even, my heart is racing. I have to step carefully here, pick my words so I don't come off as challenging my President.
"Olivia's heading to Pennsylvania." Ravage spreads his hands. "Mercy's getting out."
"If she loses this job, we have no one in DCF's offices." I pin him with a pointed look. "You and I both know how they like to sniff around, see if they can break up our families. We need her to keep this job."
"Are you asking me, son," he says, the force in his voice reverberating in my chest, "or are you telling me?"
"I'm saying I think it'd benefit the club to have someone on our side. It'd also make Donny happy. You know, happy wife, happy life, and all that shit."
Ravage's head bobs as he thinks it over. He points a thick finger at me. "You'll make a good President someday."
I hold up my hands, palms out. "That's not what I'm after, here." Not yet, anyway. Someday, I'm reclaiming that seat. I'm not ready for that responsibility just now, though.
"Olivia can stay," Ravage says. "You'll pick up Mercy."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I pluck my pack of cigarettes from the pocket inside my cut and light one.
My President laughs. He throws his head back and slaps his thigh. "I only wish I could be a fly on the walls of that road trip." He stands and walks away, still laughing.
I suck in a deep drag and grimace.
I'm going to meet Olivia's father.
When we were inside, he had no reason to hate me. Besides, the MC needed him to keep me alive. Now, he has every reason to choke the life out of me.
After all, I'm the guy he went in for—the guy he gave up raising his daughter for. The daughter that I happen to be sleeping with.
I'm in deep shit.
14
Olivia
Courtesy of Google, I find a wedding registry for Greg and Mrs. Byrne—Cami. Turns out they just got married this Valentine's Day—the day I met Cliff. Her registry is full of household appliances, big things like a dishwasher, a stackable washer and dryer. It confirms at least one thing: they live in a house. I'm just not sure whether it's his mother's or a new place.
My guess is, unless his mom died, they got their own mortgage. I tap my lips with a finger, thinking. My stomach rocks, the nausea never ebbing, only building. Secrets will only burn you from the inside out. I thought I could just move on with my life.
I don't know what to do with this.
If this was an inspirational Oprah segment, I'd let go, transforming into a life-loving warrior queen. I'd start a non-profit, help other women like Shannon, Ravage's wife. They say forgiveness isn't absolving the other person from what they did—it's letting go. I've never been the letting go type, though. All I feel is a violent need to make him suffer for what he did to me.
He broke me. Rendered me unable to trust anyone. Gave me such a heaping dose of paranoia, I killed a man. A man who was probably going to hurt me, anyway, but still.
How do I get revenge for that kind of damage? Putting a quick, quiet bullet in his forehead just doesn't equate the weight I carry.
I click back to Greg's Facebook page, knowing my time is almost up. Instead of looking at his feed, I go straight to his photos. I don't have the luxury of reading statuses.
I scroll through, most of them boring family photos of him, his parents, his siblings. There are selfies—rockstar sex god pics cross-posted from his Snapchat or Instagram. Then there's a single wedding photo, of him and Cami posed together. He presses her against a wall, her eyes closed, her lips curled into a laugh. Her strawberry hair falls in waves around the white lace of her dress. He looks down at her like she's his whole world. They look happy.
She looks happy.
There's no fear in her eyes or body language. A rush of conflicting emotions thuds into me, through me. Guilt, because I never told anyone what happened. I left him free to do it again, to someone else. Anger, because apparently he's capable of loving someone enough not to hurt them. She married him, so things must be perfect between them.
Of course, that's a hell of an assumption. I just don't know what else to think.
The door opens and I close the page in one quick swipe. Cliff ducks underneath the frame, a sloppy grin on his face.
He's drunk.
"How did it go?" I ask tentatively. At least he's still in one piece.
With a grunt, he throws himself onto the bed facedown, nearly squishing me in the process. I scooch out of the way just in time.
"Just remember me when I'm gone," he slurs.
I lift an eyebrow at him. "When you're gone? Did Ravage take your patch?" I didn't think it was that serious, but I've never seen Cliff like, well, this. I glance at his cut. Everything is intact. He's still a member.
He buries his face in the sheets. "You're good for Monday," he mumbles into them.
"I still have a job?" He nods. I breathe a sigh of relief. I can still help Esther. I can still afford my apartment. "Why the dramatics, then?"
He lifts his head. The ball of his septum ring is off center. A thick strand of hair falls over his face. "Guess who's picking up your dad?"
I blink. Then I burst into laughter. "You're afraid of my dad?" I squeeze out each word between giggles. This man—who towers over almost everyone, who went to prison for offing his own father, who has scars on his knuckles from doling out so many beatdowns—is scared to meet my father.
There's a strange floaty feeling in my chest, the nausea gone.
"It's not funny," he roars, but there's a grin on his face as he reaches for me, pulling me down to lie next to him. His fingers wriggle into my ribs and I
go limp, every nerve lighting up as I laugh so hard, I nearly pee myself.
"You're," I squeak, trying to crawl away. "Scared." I gasp between laughs, his fingers dancing across my belly. "Of." Grabbing a pillow, I chuck it at his head. "My dad!" I suck in a deep breath, rolling onto my back. "Have I found your Achilles?"
Cliff turns onto his side, facing me, his face suddenly serious. "You are my weakness," he says, and it's not the booze talking.
I swallow. "You barely know me."
"I know enough." He draws me into him, cradling me against his body. "I know you don't let many people in, but you're fiercely loyal to and protective of those you do let in." His warm lips press against my temple, and I melt into him.
No matter how afraid I am to let Cliff in, I'll always feel safe with him.
"I know you're independent and stubborn," he continues, "and handle a bike like it's your bitch. It's almost a little scary, watching you ride." He kisses me again. "And I know you have a big heart. You want to save all the kids in the system, find them good homes. I do know you, Olivia."
I bury my face in his shirt so he doesn't see the tears.
15
Cliff
I wake with one arm stretched across the bed, reaching for Olivia even in my sleep. She's gone, the bed as cold and lonely as if she'd never been there at all. What I do have is a raging headache.
I blame Trish, who made me some kind of monster drink after I finished up with Ravage. She might've been trying to get in my drunk pants. At least I had the sense to go upstairs.
I couldn't have been that trashed, because I remember everything, including the things I said to Olivia. They were all true, but even drunk my judgment sucks. At least this time she didn't freeze me out.
Maybe I'm making progress.
This thought boosts me while I shower. I even whistle a few bars of Queen. I throw on a Clutch tee, my cut, and the same jeans from the night before. I'm running out of clothing. Normally I'd take a load of laundry with me to Lucy's, but instead of hanging out at her place like we usually do every Sunday, she wanted to grab lunch.
Of course, her idea of lunch is around eleven, which is breakfast time for me. Bouncing for the strip club these past few months has undone twenty years of waking at the ass crack of dawn for prison work duty. I hope Cara's is still serving breakfast. Or at the least, coffee.
I run down the stairs, booted feet drumming a rhythm on the steps. When I reach the landing and round the corner, I slow.
Trish and one of the dancers sit at the bar. Her name is Pru. She's a cool chick—one of the few not trying to get into my pants.
"Do you think they call him Red Dog because of his cock?" she asks.
Or so I thought.
Trish giggles. "I don't know."
I walk by, smirking, their eyes following me as I pass. By the time I reach the front door, they burst into giggles.
"I'd ride that Red Dog no matter what color it is," Trish says, flicking a glance my way. She bites down on the straw of her iced coffee.
I pull open the door. As I duck outside, I hear Pru say "Oh my god, Trish."
Shaking my head, I amble over to the Screamin' Eagle, lighting a cigarette. I've seen some guys smoke and ride, but I'm not that coordinated. Maybe it'll come with experience, like eating a Big Mac while driving. Or it'll just be one more thing I never quite master.
I suck the cigarette down, then drop the butt, dragging the heel of my boot over it to extinguish it. Straddling the Screamin' Eagle, I put both feet flat on the ground, then use my left toes to nudge the kickstand out. I turn the key in the ignition and kick the shifter into neutral. Then, holding the bars of the bike, I pull in the clutch with my left hand and flip the switch on with my right. The motorcycle hums beneath me, idling.
Back when I first started riding, all of these steps were so overwhelming. Now, it's second nature. This bike has become as much a part of me as any of my limbs.
It's my wings.
I kick the shifter into first gear, give it a little throttle with my right hand, and then I'm off to meet Lucy.
Since moving out this past winter, I've made it a point to keep our Sunday dates. I missed twenty years of her life. I don't intend on missing any more. Sometimes Olivia joins us, but not always. Especially during the last weeks of her last semester. Between studying for her finals and finishing up her internship, I was lucky I saw her at all. She never said why, but I got the feeling she fell behind for a little while.
Before me. Before Eli. I'm not sure why.
I wish I hadn't passed out on her. I don't know if she had her usual nightmares or if her sleep was as black and peaceful as mine. Guess that makes me a bad boyfriend—or "ol' man"—if that's even what I am to her.
I pull into the parking lot of Cara's, the diner Lucy wanted to meet at. I take the Screamin' Eagle past a couple cars, then back it into a spot almost right in front of the restaurant.
"Mommy," a little boy calls, his tiny finger pointed at me. "Vroom!"
"It's cool, huh?" she coos to him, but she's looking at me, too.
I give her a wink and wave at her son, then head inside.
The diner is pretty standard: natural lighting from the huge front windows; lamps hanging over every table; a yellow, orange, and blue color scheme. When I was inside, I read somewhere that the color orange makes people hungry. Apparently it's the best color for a kitchen or restaurant.
I spot Lucy sitting in a booth in the back. Striding down the aisle, I try to decide what to tell her. I should probably let Olivia fill her in on Mercy, but I don't want to say nothing, either. Besides, if she's going to give me the right advice, she needs to know the gist of things. I need to figure out how to survive Mercy and, if I can manage that, how to win the heartbreaker's heart. I don't want there to be any secrets between Lucy and me.
Well, with a few exceptions.
She doesn't know about Eli, and Olivia and I agreed that neither of us are ever going to tell her. That's a complication—and a lecture—neither of us need. How my little cousin became both of our big sister, I'll never know.
Giving me a tiny wave, Lucy frowns down at the glass of ginger ale and plate of toast in front of her.
"Hangover?" I ask, sliding in across from her. I should probably have the same.
She shakes her head, her red hair falling into her pale face. Dark circles bring out her green eyes. "No," she sort of whispers and moans.
"Dude, no offense, but you look pretty rough for someone who isn't hungover." I grab a menu and flip through. They serve breakfast 'til noon. Good.
"Gee, thanks." She takes a sip of her ginger ale and grimaces.
"Still hate the stuff, huh?" Some things never change.
Her lip curls. "More than anything, but it's all I can keep down at this point."
Both of my eyebrows lift. "At this point?"
She sighs, a drawn out, forlorn sound. "Twenty-one weeks." Those green eyes pin me.
"You've been sick for twenty-one weeks? Jesus Christ, Luce. You seen a doctor yet?"
Rolling her eyes, she shoves the plate of toast away. "I'm not sick, Cliff. I'm . . ." She shakes her head, eyes dropping to the table. Taking a deep breath, she stares at the stained formica. "I'm pregnant," she whispers.
I sit back, resting my hands on the table. My mind spins. I can't believe neither Olivia or I picked up on this. Our heads must be really far up our asses. "Twenty-one weeks," I repeat. "So you were already pregnant when you came to get me."
She nods.
My eyebrows knit together. "But you drank with us."
Lucy scoffs. "I had one glass of wine with Olivia. And the only other time, I made you think I drank with you. You two dogged those freakin' shots. You barely even noticed." She holds up a finger. "And I really don't need to know why."
"No," I agree. "You don't." Reaching across the table, I take her hand, wrapping her smaller fingers inside my big fingers. "Is this the guy who you didn't marry?"
She nods, o
ver and over, her shoulders rising and falling as she takes a deep breath.
"Is this why you didn't marry him?"
"I don't believe in marriage," she says. "I mean, look at my parents. Look at yours." She laughs ruefully.
"Say no more." I squeeze her hand. Mine never married, but that's beside the point right now. "What are you gonna do?"
Running her free hand through her hair, she blinks back tears. "I don't know, Cliff. I'm past the pill. I'd have to have a surgical abortion," she says, lowering her voice. "I'm almost to the point where no one will do it. But I can't have a baby."
"You're twenty-one weeks," I remind her, cutting past the small talk I could drag out. I don't have it in me. Besides, Lucy and I never dance around anything. "That's five months. Set me straight if I'm wrong, but I know you. You would've already done it, if you really thought you don't want a baby," I say gently.
She glares at me but her lips curl upward into a half smile. "You got me. I love kids. I really do. But have you seen how fucked up my family is?"
I slide her a wry look. "That'd be my family, too, kid."
"So you know exactly what I mean." She pulls her hand away and rubs her temples. "I really don't know what to do, here. I need to make a decision soon, though."
"Well," I say, nodding to the waitress walking toward our booth, "I'm glad you told me. Whatever you wanna do, I've got your back, Luce."
"I know," she says on a sigh. "I still haven't told Livvie. Please don't say anything."
The waitress, a woman in her late forties or early fifties, stops at our table, notepad in hand. "Would you like some coffee to get started?" she asks me.
"Sure." I glance at Lucy. "Wanna try to eat something?"
She pushes her toast farther away. "I'll live vicariously through you."
"Let me know if you change your mind," the waitress says. "I'll get your coffee, hon." With a pat of my shoulder, she leaves us alone in the booth.
"I told her I was gonna drop a bomb on my cousin," Lucy says, a little smile poking through her misery.
A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2) Page 6
