The Boy I Grew Up With

by Tijan

  “Got it, boss.”

  “Where are the rest of the guys?”

  “As soon as you called, I sent them out. They’re all watching Richter’s places.”

  That was good, but there was one person we should’ve heard from before anyone else.

  Where the hell was Traverse?

  34

  Heather

  What the hell am I doing?

  Channing was in real danger, and I was going nuts. I was considering calling the Kades, and for what? For a civilian border between Channing and the Red Demons? As if the MC would even care about that—they probably wouldn’t. And it would put Sam in danger, her baby too. Channing was right. I’d been stupid to consider calling them.

  But I wasn’t leaving either. The crew members who had wives and kids had all been sent away for safety. That wasn’t me. I wanted to tear the bastards apart with my bare hands, but I also wanted to make sure everything, everyone I loved was safe. Manny’s. My brother. My workers. They were all mine.

  My responsibilities. My family.

  As I drove through Roussou and out to Fallen Crest, some rational thinking began to edge in, and I was back to the root of the problems Channing and I had always had.

  Channing’s crew life was dangerous. That extended to me. Which extended to my brother. Because I loved Channing, my brother was at risk, our business was at risk. So what should I do? I couldn’t leave Channing. I’d tried over and over again. Did I leave Manny’s? I had a feeling no matter how much time passed, Channing’s enemies wouldn’t care. They’d know I loved my brother and the bar I’d nursed to life since high school. If they wanted to hurt me, I was an easy target, but my God… If anything happened to that place, to Brandon, I’d be the one in danger of going to prison.

  The lengths I’d go should’ve scared me. They didn’t.

  So maybe, when I looked up and saw a line of motorcycles blocking the road, I didn’t turn around. I should’ve turned Channing’s truck around. I should’ve gunned the engine.

  I didn’t do any of that.

  If I had, what happened next wouldn’t have happened.

  If they wanted someone to hurt, fine. They could try. Maybe they would hurt me, but I was going to take every last motherfucker with me.

  I stopped the truck. Right in the middle of the goddamn road. I knew the stakes. We didn’t live by police. We didn’t expect them to protect us, and we didn’t use them to enact our vengeance.

  So it was me and those Red Demons.

  I had a strong feeling if I gave chase, they’d enjoy the ride.

  As I was thinking that, another line of motorcyclists pulled up behind me. I looked in the rearview mirror.

  They’d been waiting on a side road.

  I was blocked in.

  Fuckers.

  The guy in the lead got off his bike and held his hands out, signifying he had no weapons. That was a lie. We both knew he had one or two guns on him.

  My thoughts raced as he walked toward me.

  A pit of ice sank in my gut, coating my insides.

  Channing kept a gun in here. It was attached under the seat. I could grab it, but then what? They’d find it. I had no doubt. My jeans were skin tight. My shirt too. There was not enough cleavage between my boobs to hide an entire handgun.

  I was going to leave it. I had to. But I did pocket the extra key Channing kept in the console. If they took me, if they brought the truck too, I could maybe get free and sneak back out? That was a lot of ifs and maybes, but I had no other choice.

  I could get the gun then?

  Palming the key, I knew I’d need to get it into my hair so they wouldn’t see. That fucker could hide in my hair. I’d just thrown my hair up in a messy bun when we left the springs. It was a perfect bird’s nest up there.

  The guy was almost to the door when he took his helmet off. It was Richter. He made a rolling motion for me to open the window.

  I did, but kept the door locked. I wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

  “Hey, Heather.” He stepped closer to the door, a red bandana over his forehead. It almost covered his eyes, but I could still see them. He was studying me, cautious.

  I didn’t respond, just extended a middle finger instead.

  He chuckled, ducking his head a little. He leaned against the door. “I can see that fighting spirit. It’s nice to know Channing hasn’t taken that out of you.”

  Why the fuck would he? Asshole.

  I kept my mouth shut, though my throat burned. Rage licked my insides, warming me up.

  “No answer?” He bobbed his head. “Okay. We can do it this way.” He motioned behind me and in front. “You know what’s coming next, right? You’re surrounded, Heather. And we have a job to do. We have to take you. I get it. I do. Your man doesn’t want me in Roussou, but the problem is I need to come into Roussou. I’ve got businessmen who have made it very clear they want to go through that town. Cops don’t patrol there so much, and we have to use that to our advantage. It’s business, Heather. No one has to get hurt.”

  Richter wanted to drive drugs through Roussou.

  Channing wouldn’t let that happen.

  Channing was supposed to work with Traverse to replace Richter as the head.

  Where the fuck was Traverse?

  “And your guy that died? The one that shot himself?” I couldn’t keep the bite out of my voice. “We’re supposed to believe you won’t want payback for that?”

  His eyes flashed. They were hard for a second before he masked them again. The smooth and slimy criminal moved back to the forefront.

  “No, no. Sully shot himself. We saw the video. I won’t hold that against Channing.”

  He smiled, and shivers wracked through my body. Even my toes curled.

  “At least not yet,” he continued. “We’ll see if I hold it against him depending on how amendable he is when he finds out where you really are.”

  Time slowed at that moment.

  I had to decide. Fight or surrender? My choice would change my life forever. There was dread in my gut, a sick feeling that if I went with him, I wouldn’t live. But if I fought, it was the same result.

  This was that last moment where I was still Heather Jax. My life was the way it should be—determined by my decisions, my choices. This, what he was forcing me to do, wasn’t my choice. Fighting and dying or being taken captive was not my choice.

  It’s a weird feeling, realizing an actual fork in my life was occurring in front of me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I knew I would remember everything about this day. It was going to be seared in my memory.

  It was hot. Humid.

  Sweat filled the air, along with dust, smoke, and wild grass. I didn’t know wild grass had a smell until that moment, but it did. It was almost sweet, but pungent too. The heat in the air pushed down on me, making my lungs feel stifled—or maybe that was Richter.

  As I stared at him in that small window of time, I noticed some things he didn’t, and I almost started crying in relief.

  I heard the trucks approaching.

  I heard one of Richter’s men yell at him.

  And I saw what he didn’t.

  The grass on both sides of us was moving—and not just a little. How Richter or his men didn’t notice was beyond me. Maybe they were focused on me, focused on their leader, making sure I didn’t pull a knife on him, or maybe they were distracted by the trucks coming up behind us. They were moving fast too.

  Whatever the reason, everything slammed back into place. The fork disappeared, and I gasped out loud, knowing I could continue my life the way I was supposed to. My choices. My decisions. I wasn’t going to be taken captive or die today.

  Those three trucks were Channing’s guys—one was Moose’s and another Chad’s.

  I didn’t recognize the third.

  A strange calm came over me.

  I knew what I was going to do now.

  I was going to fight. I was going to hurt them. I would not let them
hurt me, hurt us.

  “What the fuck?” Richter was distracted. He was still standing at the door to the truck, his hand now clenched in a fist, and he pounded it against the side. “Goddammit! I thought we had the back covered.”

  A guy came up, winded. “We did. They pulled out from some other way. We don’t know where.”

  Now. Now, Heather!

  I bent slowly. They were both staring at the trucks, trying to figure how many were coming.

  More of his men were approaching. They were between me and whoever was in the ditch. They still hadn’t noticed them. They were all watching the trucks.

  I felt the gun under the seat, and I felt the Velcro strap holding it in place.

  Channing, I hope you keep bullets in this weapon.

  “What’s the plan?” one of Richter’s men asked, waiting on his bike.

  Richter was still staring.

  I had to move. Now. Richter was going to walk ahead, or—no.

  He growled and reached for the door handle.

  I grabbed the gun. My hand came up from under the seat as he reached in to unlock the door.

  He saw what I was doing, and his eyes widened. “Holy shi—”

  He was backing away as I brought it up, and then there were pop, pop, pops everywhere.

  “AGH!” Glass exploded, but instead of Richter running, he lunged for me. He dove right through the window, catching my arm before I had the gun at his face. I couldn’t shoot him, but one of his guys was running back to his bike. I could shoot him—and I did.

  The front window shattered. Some pieces rained on my face, and I closed my eyes, but I opened them in time to see the guy go down.

  Richter was on top of me, clambering for the gun. The steering wheel blocked him so he couldn’t get a firm grip on it.

  “NO!” I screamed, trying to wrestle away from him.

  I have to hold that gun. I have to hold that gun. That was on repeat in my head.

  Richter was too strong. He hadn’t punched me yet, but I was waiting for it. I couldn’t fight him. I couldn’t overpower him, but I could hurt him. I could twist away from him, and raising my leg as he was still trying to paw at the gun in my hand, I brought my foot down as hard on his knee as possible.

  “OOOOOOW!”

  He slammed backward, right into the door.

  The fucking door.

  Shit. I was trapped with him. I wanted him off of me.

  I tried lifting him off of me with my feet, but I felt the gun slipping from my hand.

  I had some space. That wheel kept him just above me so he couldn’t keep me completely paralyzed under him. Using that space, I twisted my hip up, gripped the gun, and yanked it backward with both of my hands.

  “Goddammit!”

  I brought my elbow back into his face and pistol-whipped him.

  Then I scrambled out the passenger side of the truck.

  “No fucking way, you bitch!” he growled, grabbing my ankle to yank me back. One hold on my ankle, one swoop, and I was right back where I started. He tossed my body like I was a sack of nothing.

  His face twisted up in a snarl, and I saw the fist forming.

  The punch was coming. I threw my arms up to block just as I heard: “GET OFF HER!”

  And then he was gone.

  As easily as he’d hauled me back in place, his entire body was pulled from the truck.

  Channing slammed Richter to the ground, and then he was punching him. Blood sprayed everywhere, and my stomach churned.

  Adrenaline buzzed in my ears. But underneath the violence, the blood, the fear for my life, there was a sadness too.

  I sat up in Channing’s truck, his gun still in my hand, and I surveyed everything.

  Some of Richter’s men had stayed to fight, and some hadn’t—they were simply gone. It wasn’t just Channing’s crew that had come. I recognized some of the adults from the Ryerson crew. I saw two of Bren’s crew, and my stomach dropped.

  They were babies. Jordan and Zellman. They weren’t supposed to be a part of this world, even though I knew they were. They had their own fights, but this was ours. My fight. Channing’s fight. Not theirs.

  I wanted to cry. I should’ve cried. I should’ve been scared, furious, whatever was normal in these situations. Maybe I should’ve been in shock, but I was none of that.

  I just was.

  I looked back down at the gun, but it wasn’t the weapon that caught my attention. It was my hand—there was no shake or tremor. I was steady. In fact, I raised the gun and studied my hand.

  I was rock fucking solid.

  And that scared me.

  CHANNING

  Moose hauled me away from trying to kick Richter’s head off of his body, and as he did, I glimpsed Heather.

  The sight stopped me in my tracks. I could smell the blood and dirt and sweat in the air. There was a storm going on around us, but in the middle of it, she sat still.

  There was blood all over her—in her hair, on her face. Her arms were bleeding. Blood gushed from a cut on her chest. But her eyes weren’t wild, though they should’ve been. They were calm. She clutched my gun in one hand and her shirt in the other, and her eyes—I’d never get that image out of my head.

  They were wide and unblinking, but resigned.

  Everything left me. The need to hurt, defend, protect, maim—all of that was gone, and instead, my stomach plummeted to my feet.

  I shivered, but it wasn’t cold. It was a goddamn blistering day. I shook off Moose and went to her. Richter had been pulled away, and I knew his men—the ones still able to move—were taking their injured with them so I could step clear to the opened door.

  “Heather.” My voice cracked. It was shaking. Fuck. My hand too.

  I formed a fist, then smoothed it out. It was still trembling.

  I’d done this to her.

  No matter what anyone would say—I did this to her.

  I’d brought her this violence and darkness. I had put it in her, and I couldn’t take it back. The damage was done.

  I’d damaged her.

  “Heather,” I whispered and held my hand out.

  Reaching for her felt like it signified something more. Forgiveness? No. Not that. I didn’t deserve it, so maybe something else. Acceptance? Fuck. Did I even want that?

  You can walk away. There’s time. You can still save her.

  Shit. I almost pulled my hand away.

  That’s what I’d done so many times; it’s why I kept walking away. It was to save her—from myself.

  We’d won this round of the war, but there’d be another. I was waiting for Richter to win a battle, and when he did, who knew how catastrophic it would be. No matter what, the war would continue, and Heather was smack in the middle—literally, at this moment.

  I couldn’t walk away from her, not yet.

  You will.

  Yes. Whoever that voice was in my head—my conscience?—I knew he was right. Heather kept thinking it was her choice to accept me and be with me, or not. But it wasn’t that simple. We were intertwined. There was no me without her. No her without me, so to do what I needed to do, I was going to rip us both apart.

  So help me.

  “Heather.” I unfolded my palm, stretching my hand toward her, and without a second’s hesitation, she grabbed it. It was a strong hold. Sturdy. It ripped me down the middle, but I pulled, lifting her out of the truck.

  Her legs came around me. My arms enveloped her, and as she nestled up against my chest, I carried her.

  I would’ve carried her the rest of my life.

  35

  Heather

  Freshman year

  Channing was sitting on the top of my truck when I left school, his feet dangling over the front. He might have been lounging there, looking all cool and shit, but I was still pissed. I couldn’t deny how damn good he looked, though, so I schooled myself. I couldn’t let him get away with the crap he’d pulled. No way. Or the way he’d talked to me.

  I had a lecture alre
ady prepped in my head. I’d had the rest of detention to perfect it, but when I got to him, he dropped to his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” he announced.

  Seriously. Those two words.

  I had my hand up, my pointer finger ready to go, but his apology thwarted my plans. I shook a fist at him instead. “Not cool, Chan. Not cool at all.”

  He sighed, hanging his head. “I know. I know.” He slid his hands through his hair, making the ends stick out, and even that looked good on him. He’d changed from the T-shirt he’d had on earlier to a shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Bodybuilders sometimes wore them in the gym, but on Channing’s lean frame, it showed more of his recent tattoos.

  I saw claws wrapping around his torso, disappearing under his shirt. “When’d you get those?”

  “Huh?”

  “Those.” I touched them, moving the shirt over to show the rest of it. Half the claw mark tattoos were on his chest.

  “Oh.” He shifted under my touch—gently, but still moving my hand away from him. “Just a while ago, with Moose.”

  I tried not to feel slapped by that move, but I failed. That hurt.

  Channing didn’t talk about how his mom had died. He’d been quiet for the few months they knew beforehand, and he’d kept quiet for six months after. He’d crawl in my room at night and just lie with me, holding my hand. But not talking.

  I was never sure what to say, if I should press him or not. I was starting to think maybe I should’ve.

  All the fighting lately, it was connected.

  “How’s Bren doing?”

  He never talked about his sister either.

  He shrugged, a stark look in his eyes. “She’s little. She’ll bounce back.”

  I fought against rolling my eyes. Couples were supposed to talk, right? Well, we were failing at that.

  “And your dad? Is he still being an asshole?”

  A grin tugged at his mouth, and he snorted. “Maybe that’s where I get it, right?”

  “So he is? Still being an asshole?”

  “The fucker could die for all I care.”