by Cathryn Cade
Cooler sighed heavily, going with the comic element. "Planned to end with that, not lead with it, but yeah... I'm hoping."
T-Bear slapped his hand on the table, making it vibrate.
"Yeah," he boomed. "Now you’re talking. Been hoping you two would get back together. She's a sweetheart—not that you deserve her, but anyways. Good luck to ya, bro."
"Gonna have to make some changes, boy," Rav sang in a falsetto voice, mimicking a popular girl anthem.
"Que?" Toro leaned forward, his square face wreathed in a big grin, teeth flashing between his ebony mustache and goatee. "I thought we was here to plan a war, but this is fun, too. Cooler, hombre, I think you should take her out for a nice dinner. Someplace with good Hispanic food, si? Something spicy. It will inflame the passions, get her hot."
Beside him, Rocker ran a hand over his face.
Stick was watching them all with his usual stoic look, but Cooler could swear his icy blue eyes were twinkling.
Cooler shook his head. "Yeah, thanks guys. You should think about starting up an advice column, maybe get yourself one of them online blogs or something. But for now, can we get back to my other problem?"
Most of the brothers were still grinning, which Cooler got, because he'd dished out his fair share of shit to them when they were stumbling around in the throes of love and lust, trying to get in with their old lady.
And if all of them were out in the main room right now, with drinks before them, he could keep this up all night.
But for now he had a lot more important intel to impart.
"It all started with my boy," he said. He told them about how Connor had changed high schools and started running with a bit different crowd—some kids in his new neighborhood—and learned too late that a couple of them were recruits for the Boyz.
And that they wanted Connor.
"I ain't sure why they want him so bad," he said. “But they do. Thought if they could work on him hard enough without me or his mama cluing in, he'd be in too deep to get out."
"That's how they work,” Rocker said, nodding. “Get the kid to do something that means if he's caught he'll go to juvie, or worse... Then they alternate threatening him with exposure and praising him, trying to show him how good it is to be a member."
Cooler nodded grimly. "Yep, from what Connor tells me, they’re beginning the process. Luckily he's got enough backbone to say no.”
Stick spoke up for the first time since he'd sat down. "Da. That's all good, but we need to decide what to do about the Boyz. They’ve moved against Flyer family for the second time. And I think it’s no coincidence. I think they knew exactly what they're doing going after Connor. One of the former gang is back, or something like that. Anyway, the new boys know we smacked them down back in ‘02, and they want to get back at us.”
“And Con’s the right age to be a target,” Cooler said, nodding grimly. “He’s also now in a North Spokane high school. Prime territory, lots of low income housing.”
“I think Stick’s right,” Rocker said. “I guess that means we didn't send a strong enough message the first time. So we’re gonna have to move on the Boyz again—and make this the last time."
One and all, the brothers nodded. Rocker looked to Streak, one of the younger brothers. “You need to leave the room now, we’ll understand. Don't want you to hear anything you can't deny."
Streak, who had passed the bar earlier that spring and gotten his license as a newly minted attorney, nodded, although he did so with obvious reluctance. "Yeah, that's probably best, although—" he pointed a finger at Cooler and gave him a narrow-eyed look. "I'll want to be apprised of anywhere I can assist. And just so you know, I fucking hate being shut out of all the fun."
A few of the brothers chuckled. Rocker nodded, his eyes dancing. "So noted, counselor. We'll talk later."
With a surly nod, Streak rose and strode from the room, shutting the door behind him with a snap.
Bouncer held up a hand. "I say we hit ‘em hard, and fast." He scowled around at all of them. "Make a statement—one those little cocksuckers can't ignore this time—one they all feel so hard they never get over it."
"Works for me," Cooler said.
"And me," Rocker agreed. "But we all know we gotta be smart. Do this without letting anyone else know it was us. I’m in the business, so I know—surveillance is a fuckuva lot better than it was back in the day. Neighbors got doorbells with cameras, motion sensor lights, security—even in bad neighborhoods. So we can’t move on the Boyz until we know exactly who’s watchin’."
"As long as the Boyz know we’re watching them," Cooler said with a shrug.
"We will think on the situation," Stick said. "Any of you have ideas, bring them to me. Cooler will keep you in the loop." His mouth quirked up at one corner. "For now, I believe you have a Mexican dinner to plan, da?"
Everyone laughed, and Cooler shook his head at them all, but he did it grinning because hell yeah, he had an entire campaign of romancing his woman to plan.
He might start with a big, fuckin’ bouquet of roses. Because once again, he had pissed her off good.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
September 14th
RaeAnn had to force herself to climb out of her queen bed the Monday after her chat with Mac.
She had not slept well for the last two nights, probably because she’d been relying on big glasses of wine to calm down after stewing over Mac’s bizarre conditions for his intervening with Con.
Every time she thought of Mac’s threat—or offer, as he’d called it—she got mad all over again. Thus, she’d had little sleep, which meant she now had a headache and bags under her eyes. And it was all Mac’s fault, which made her even more angry at him.
Despite his faults, he’d always been a good father.
But his private life, that was another matter. Mac was in his prime, he belonged to a club that believed in free and easy sex, and he was single. Half the time, he didn’t even have Con in his house.
These facts, plus the women she’d seen him with over the years, had led RaeAnn to believe that he was very sexually active.
And now he thought she was going to agree to be another on his string? Not a chance in hell.
She scowled her way through her morning routine.
She carefully styled her hair, of course, because her job demanded it. Her clients must see her as on the forward edge of hair fashion, which they could hope to attain only with her guidance and services.
She applied foundation, blush, and eye-makeup with a deft hand, covering up the ravages of her sleepless night as much as possible. Her lipstick could wait until she’d finished her coffee on the way to work.
She dressed in the first clothing that came to hand—a white knit tunic with 3-quarter sleeves, black stretch pants, a long silver chain with faux coins at intervals, silver bangles on her left wrist, and silver hoop earrings. With her comfy black booties on her feet, she was ready.
Walking down the narrow stairs from the second floor of the small house in North Spokane where she and Connor now lived, she massaged her aching temple and watched her footing on the steep stairs.
She had just enough time for one reviving cup of strong coffee before Connor’s alarm went off and he bounded downstairs to shovel cereal and milk in his mouth.
Then would begin her job of chivvying him back upstairs and off his phone long enough to get showered, dressed, and his backpack and soccer bags ready for school.
Meanwhile, she would fix her second cup of coffee in her travel mug, make sure the house was locked up, and all the appliances were off for the day.
This morning, however, she turned the corner at the foot of the stairs and stopped in her tracks. Her son sat at the breakfast bar, already dressed in his usual jeans, sneakers, tee, this one red under a long sleeved, blue-and-white striped shirt.
He’d showered, as evidenced by his damp hair—nearly the same shade as hers. His was cut stylishly short on the sides and back, long on top, and hung
in his eyes more often than not. This morning it was combed neatly back from his handsome face.
His backpack sat ready beside him, and he was grinning at her, that mischievous smile that reminded her of his father’s every damn time, However, Con’s smile lacked the snark of his father’s smile, thank you Jesus.
"Hi, mommo," Connor greeted her. "I poured you a cup of coffee, with that creamer you like."
RaeAnn set her purse and workbag on the kitchen island and stared at him. "Really?" she asked. "Thanks. That's very... unexpected."
Conner wrinkled his nose, the way he had since he was a little boy. "Yeah, Uh... just wanted to show you that, y'know, I'm sorry that I mouthed off yesterday—and used bad language."
A weight fell from her shoulders, and she smiled at him. "Oh, sweetheart. Thank you."
Being cursed at, and told he wanted to join a gang like his father, and that she couldn’t stop him? Yeah, that had been a low point in her life as a parent.
Right down there with the time he’d fallen off the slide at the park right in front of her and needed four stitches in his adorable, round toddler face. He still had a tiny scar on the angle of his cheekbone from that.
Connor slid off the bar stool. "So, you ready to go? Don't want you to be late to work."
She'd been late two mornings this week because he'd been dawdling upstairs, texting his friends on his phone instead of showering.
"Oka-ay," she said slowly. "Also unexpected." She squinted at him. "Who are you, and what have you done with my son?
He rolled his eyes and headed for the front door, backpack over his shoulder. "Let's go, mom. I already locked the back door."
Once he’d gone out the front door, she checked, surreptitiously. He had locked the back door, and he’d remembered the dead bolt.
Smiling, she picked up her bags, her travel mug of coffee, checked to make sure the coffee pot was off, and followed him outside.
This autumn, Rae had finally felt that she was making enough money to level up her transportation. As the dealers began to sell off the old year’s models, she’d scored a great deal on a new Chevy Equinox. The SUV had fawn leather seats, a paint color called Pearl, and it drove like a dream.
Con loved the way it synced to their phones and thus his music. She did enjoy being able to take calls hands-free, and the sound system was very good.
Unfortunately, the SUV had to sit in the narrow driveway in front of the garage, instead of inside it. Their little rental house had zero storage, so the one-car garage was crammed with boxes of their out-of-season clothing, extra sports equipment, and a myriad of other things they’d accumulated over the years.
On their way north through the suburbs, Conner continued to be unusually chatty. "Had a nice talk with dad yesterday," he told her, jigging his knee as they drove.
This was a tell—Con fidgeted when he was bored or nervous.
"Good," she said, warily. "What'd you talk about? Anything special?" She accelerated as the light turned green, and they turned onto the boulevard that would take them past Con's high school.
He jigged his knee faster. "Yeah, matter of fact. He thinks we should spend more time together—the three of us."
"Oh, does he?" Rae asked, pondering whether to tap her horn as the car ahead of her meandered along at a snail's pace. Then she blinked. Wait, what?
"Yeah. So I was thinking, why don't we just all move in together?" Conner asked.
Rae nearly drove off the street.
She righted the steering wheel and turned her head to stare at her son in dismay. "Oh, really? Just move in with your dad, after living separately for sixteen years. Ri-ight—only, no. Not happening, Connor."
And may God strike Mac Carson down with a bolt of lightning for putting this asinine idea in her son’s head. She was so going to get Mac for this… somehow.
Could a civilian buy a taser? The powerful kind the cops carried now. That would sure as heck get Mac’s attention while she told him what she thought of his game-playing.
She did not know what the man was up to—but she knew one thing. Whatever it was, it would benefit him and not her.
None of his smooth talking ever did.
There’d been that Christmas when Con was seven, and Mac had convinced her that his mother’s heart was bad, the family was worried about her, and having Connor up in Wenatchee for Christmas break would do her a world of good. Since Rae actually like Mac’s folks—except for their one fault of raising a no-good biker—she’d felt terrible for the woman, and let Con spend his entire vacation with them.
Only to find out afterward that ‘Grandma Gaye’ was fine and had even gone ice-skating with Con and the other cousins. Meanwhile, Rae had spent her own Christmas with her mom and Aunt Linda, three single women trying to pretend they were feeling festive, with Connor’s stack of gifts waiting unopened under the tree and Ellen’s house too quiet without him.
When she’d phoned Gaye to check in on her, the woman had clearly been surprised that RaeAnn was calling and assured her that she’d only turned out to have a touch of dyspepsia, but was feeling fine.
Rae had nearly bought an airgun and shot out Mac’s tires for that.
Or the time—Con had been eleven—when Mac brought her son home two days late from a fishing trip, both of them sunburned and happy... with a woman in the front seat of Mac’s truck with them. A young, pretty woman who’d given Con a smile and a wink when he descended from the truck.
Since one of the conditions of their custody agreement was no sleepovers with other adults while Con was on the premises, RaeAnn had been so angry she’d wanted to beat Mac over the head with Connor’s new fishing rod.
Mac had assured Rae that she was just the little sister of a friend, and he and Con had given her a ride back from Lake Roosevelt.
Then, over supper that evening, Con had shared artlessly that he’d gotten to sleep in the camper with his cousins. But that his dad hadn’t been lonely, ‘cause Cheri needed somewhere to sleep, so she’d shared dad’s tent.
There were a whole list of other times RaeAnn could name if she chose, in which Mac had pushed her patience to the limit.
Generally, to prevent herself from committing homicide, she tried not to think about them.
Unless she’d been drinking. Dee and Lacey knew all about Mac’s shenanigans over the years.
Two things prevented Rae from following through on her fervent desire to kill the man—she looked terrible in orange, and she knew that under all his bullshit, Mac loved their son. And he was—although it gave her severe heartburn to admit it—a good father.
He was just a really, really crappy co-parent.
"But mo-o-om," whined Connor now, making three syllables out of the word as only teenagers can. "I want to move in with dad and he wants us to. I don't get why you're being such a bitch about it."
Well, his placating mood sure hadn't lasted long.
Rae leveled a glare at him, eyes narrowed. "Here's a tip, child of mine. If you want me to do something, maybe don't call me a bitch while you're asking?"
Her son had the grace to look embarrassed.
But he slumped in his seat, sighing loudly. "I just don't get what the big deal is. We move in with dad, I get to see him whenever I want... And you two can stay out of each other's hair, right?" He slid a glance at her that, even as a loving mother, she could only call sly.
"Well, I can hear that he's been working on you," she said, tightening her grip on the steering wheel again.
Coaching their son in the art of playing games, that’s what Mac had been doing. It wasn't like Connor to plan anything beyond his next soccer practice or session of videogame play with his buddies.
Mac, on the other hand, was always plotting.
Between the two of them, they were up to something, that was for sure.
"I'm not so sure it's a good idea for you to spend any more time around your dad," she muttered. "Not if you're going to team up against me."
Her son grinned,
and for an instant he looked so much like a little kid again that her heart gave a painful squeeze. "Two-to-one is fair when it's something good for all of us," he said virtuously.
RaeAnn shook her head, but she couldn't keep a smile off her own face. Whether he took after his father or not, her kid was a piece of work.
She slowed the SUV as they approached the end of the line of cars stopping to drop students off on the street in front of the high school.
"I'm at an impressionable age," Con went on, in a sing-song voice that said he was repeating what he'd heard or read. "I need a strong father figure around."
"Well, looks like we're out of time to discuss for now," she said as she pulled the Equinox to a stop by the curb. "Make it a good day, Con. And remember, you have that appointment with Mr. Selby, the counselor."
Connor rolled his eyes as he pushed open the car door and unsnapped his seatbelt. "I know, I know," he said. "I'll be a good boy. That is... if you agree to seriously consider moving in with dad."
With a smirk over his shoulder, he was out of the car, the door slamming behind him. Swinging his backpack over his shoulder, he jogged away up the ratty lawn toward the front entrance of the school.
"Little brat," Rae muttered to herself as she checked her mirrors before easing back out to the slow-moving stream of traffic.
The kid was too smart for his own good—and sure as heck for her peace of mind. Teenagers—when he wasn't glowering at her as if she'd been put on Earth especially to ruin his life, he was arguing.
What had happened to that sweet, smiley little tow-head who'd sat on her lap while she read to him, and giggled when she blew raspberries on his tummy? The contrast in these sweet memories with Connor's recent behavior made her heart ache.
She wasn't sure how parents—especially single parents—of more than one child did it. The thought of more than one moody, sarcastic teenager to deal with gave her the heebie-jeebies.
Con was a sophomore, which meant they had two more years of high school to get through. She could survive that... she was fairly certain. She just hoped she could do so with her relationship with her son intact.
