Benito felt that different kind of chill pervade. The one he hated. The one he felt when that woman came to visit him with her two toys.
He’d used most of his money to make a risky investment, that risk necessary as, if it panned out, the dividends would be astronomical.
But he’d been playing it smart. He’d kept some back just in case.
And that some was in his safe.
“Take us a while to crack that motherfucker, but I reckon what’s in it, as well as dumping all your shit, will at least buy us a new table,” the man went on.
It took a good deal for Benito not to shiver at the words “dumping all your shit” considering it was all nearly brand new and top of the line.
He hadn’t moved his things from Denver.
He’d sold them, and attempting to get into the spirit of things, had embraced a new southwestern design scheme.
“Who are you?” Benito demanded.
“Now that,” the man growled, taking his leg off the arm of the chair, putting his boot to the floor, and standing to a rather impressive height, “is your problem. You don’t know who I am. You got me and my brothers all jacked up, and you don’t even know who the fuck I am.”
“I know you’re Bounty,” Benito fired back.
“And there you’d be wrong,” the man murmured.
He then moved.
Right to Benito.
He was not only tall, he was broad, and Benito was not fooled.
The space felt empty, but this man would not be there alone.
So Benito got out of his way.
Benito shifted around to watch the man stop, hand on the knob to the door of an apartment that, until his investment came through, he could no longer afford to lease.
“It was us who fucked up by listenin’ to some shit-for-brains puppet who was being controlled by a shit-for-brains asshole. But it was you who fucked up, thinkin’ you could lay us out like that and then walk away,” he said. “Figure you’re learning a lot of lessons about loyalty these days. Just glad we got our shot to let that shit sink home.”
With that, he closed the door.
And Benito stared at it, adding Bounty to his list.
Right at the top.
Beck
Two months after that . . .
The floor had been covered in carpet. Not industrial. A nice plush in a color called buckskin.
The cinderblock walls had been built out and lined in a nice wood paneling, the stain called moleskin.
Spartan’s old lady got the large shadowbox done with the torn off edge of their old table with the Chaos scores in it. Griller’s cut folded just right. The memorial patch Chaos had made.
It was on the wall next to their flag.
On the other side was a picture of them all together before Griller bit it. A selfie. Around those old, pushed-together tables, their new patches scattered on the top, Beck’s face beat to shit, all the men lifting beers, expressions ranging from determined scowls (Beck, Web, Spartan, Core, Rainman) to shit-eating grins (Muzzle, Eight and Griller).
That was all that was on their walls.
For now.
They’d build on that.
“There,” Beck ordered.
“Thank fuck,” he heard muttered.
The six men holding it put the table down centered in the room.
Mahogany.
Christ, the veins in that, the edges inlaid with two different grains, it was spectacular.
And the middle was etched with a biker wearing a maniacal grin riding from a wall of flame, a rocker at the top spelling Resurrection.
Totally the shit.
That was more like it.
“We done here?”
Beck looked to the mover who he figured was the foreman.
“Yeah,” he said, going to him, yanking the wad of cash out of his pocket.
He handed the tip to the man.
The man nodded, “Thanks, bud.” Then they took off.
It was Beck himself that moved to the executive swivel chairs, tall-backed, and done in a dark chestnut leather, with special casters that moved on carpet that were pushed up against the walls.
He rolled the seven chairs around the table.
Only then did he grab the cut off the back of the chair he’d wheeled to the head of the table.
It now had patches stitched on the back.
He swung it on and walked out into the common room that was no longer a bunch of shitty couches and card tables with folding chairs.
It was gutted.
The carpenter would be putting in the bar first, work starting next week, the rest would come later.
He went out, got on his bike, and rode home.
He parked, got off, let himself in and as he took off his cut, he walked to the plastic covered velvet couch to sling it down, surveying what got done that day.
The wall between the kitchen and living room had been torn down, making a great room that was gonna rock. The finishes had been done on the demolished wall days ago.
Now the island and cabinets had been put in, as had the backsplash tile. Warm wood. Chocolate subway tile. The low-backed, bucket-seat stools in coffee leather with chrome legs were under plastic in the living room, ready to go around that island when it was done.
They had the black granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances to put in, also the handles on the cabinets.
Then Janna’s kitchen would be done.
It didn’t match her gray velvet beachy living room. But she’d wanted her kitchen warm and the two spaces to be unique.
So that was what she got.
“Hey, honey.”
He turned at her call to see her bouncing down the hall toward him.
His gaze fell to her left hand where there was a rock that he could see, since that fucker could be seen from outer space.
“They got the tile done today!” she cried excitedly about two seconds before she threw herself at him.
Beck caught her.
“Yeah,” he muttered and kept doing it when he demanded, “Kiss.”
She got up on her toes and he felt her hair brushing his hands at her waist when she gave it all up for him.
After he got done plundering her mouth, he lifted his head.
“Where you wanna go for dinner?” he asked.
She scrunched her face. “It’ll be good when this is done so I can cook. Feels like I haven’t made you crinkle cuts in a year.”
He grinned at her.
Then repeated. “Where you wanna go for dinner?”
“Monsoon?”
He wasn’t a big fan, though the samosas and rice and kebabs didn’t suck.
But his woman loved Indian. That was her favorite restaurant.
“You got it,” he replied.
She beamed at him.
“Get your coat, baby. Weather’s good, we’re on my bike,” he told her.
Another beam then she pulled out of his arms to bounce away.
Ten minutes later, Gerard Beck was on his bike, his woman pressed to his patch at his back, and he was taking her to get her some food.
He could not say he didn’t have a care in the world.
He’d murdered two men.
He’d beat down a good woman.
He’d also aimed his club to an honorable path as well as righted three wrongs, and even if one of those wrongs was not erasing the fact he’d beaten down a good woman, he’d earned the love of another.
So he suspected he was doing all right.
And his brother might be proud.
But he knew his woman was.
So that worked for him.
Rebel
Six weeks later . . .
The cheer could probably be heard in China.
I was right there with them.
Tack was best man.
Rosalie gave the bride away and stood as maid of honor.
It was done outside Tack and Tyra’s place, up in the foothills.
In the end, it
was Big Petey who looked like he was glowing the whole day.
But I couldn’t say his new wife Renae didn’t look all kinds of happy.
Rush
Two weeks later . . .
You really couldn’t give Hop shit that a vine of jasmine was brushing his hair as he sat on the edge of a bench stuffed with bright cushions, with his guitar on his knee.
Rush, with his father standing next to him, wouldn’t have thought to give shit anyway when she rounded the path and moved toward him with Diesel on one arm, Maddox on the other, while Hop sang that song.
It’d be a lot later when he’d notice the dress, which was a pale shade of pink Elvira would tell him was blush, with pretty lace at the top that dripped down into the filmy, wide skirt. He didn’t even notice the cleavage from the deep V or that she had her hair all bunched up in braids at her nape with a fat one framing her face.
All he could see was that face.
His girl’s beautiful face.
And the love for him that shone there.
Also, she was smiling like a huge fucking goof.
It was Molly, standing opposite him, that let out the first sob.
Essence kicked in with the next.
Amy’s came after that.
He couldn’t tell after that because Rebel had kissed Maddox’s cheek, then D’s, and D was putting her hand in his.
And that was when Rebel became his.
He didn’t have to say the vows.
But he said them.
He didn’t have to listen to her saying them.
But he listened to every word that came from her glossy lips.
That gloss got all over his mouth when he kissed his bride.
And it was crazy fucking surreal, bending with his girl and laughing in each other’s faces as they walked through a magical wonderland in north Denver, surrounded on both sides with really good people who loved them as pink flower petals rained down so thick they could barely see five inches in front of them.
But Cole “Rush” Allen knew, that surreal moment, with her hand tucked tight to his chest, her beautiful face laughing in his as they walked through petals was the best goddamned moment of his life.
And he knew it would be until the day he died.
It’d take a really long time.
They’d have way more than forty years.
But his last thought on earth was that in that moment . . .
He’d been right.
Two weeks later . . .
“That, boy, that. See it?” Essence whispered in his ear, where they lounged close to where he and Rebel had been married two weeks earlier in an alcove in Essence’s garden, which he hadn’t noticed on the day but noticed now, was lush with green and bright with black-eyed Susans and crawling with deep-hued lobelia and smelling of jasmine.
Rebel had been right.
Essence’s garden was magical in the summer.
But he’d helped her string her yule lights through it last winter (along with Roscoe, Speck, Dutch, Jag, and Chill, the last three now patched in, so Jag bitched at length about the whole process and the fact he no longer had to do this “lame-ass shit”). So that place could be magical in the winter too.
Rush had no clue, but it had to be two thousand strings of those bastards they’d wound around branches and trunks.
Apparently, Essence’s hippie environmentalism that meant she’d lost her mind when he’d pulled out a Ziploc in her presence, didn’t extend to Yule.
Then again, she’d made a shit ton of mead, virgin mead (whatever the hell that was, he’d taken a sip of the non-virgin shit and then switched right to beer) and she’d had her three men, her son and his family, all of Chaos, and everyone in a three-block radius over to wander her wonderland, eat homemade cookies and drink mead (and beer). So he reckoned with that kind of fellowship, she could get away with burning her part of the hole in the ozone layer.
It was no hog roast.
But it pretty much rocked.
Right then, Rebel had her ass on a poof, her back to some bark, and Tab and Shy’s brand-new, sleeping daughter in her arms.
Playboy was out on a blanket next to her, taking his afternoon nap.
Tab and Shy were passed out in Rebel’s cottage, getting a breather.
Rush and Rebel had just gotten back from their honeymoon the day before.
A honeymoon that had been on a beach.
“She’s all pink and green. All pink and green and white,” Essence shared.
Rush lazed back on the bench with all its colorful cushions, his ankles crossed on an ottoman in front of him, Essence against his side, her legs curled up behind her, resting in the curve of his arm.
And he looked.
But he didn’t see dick.
Little Tyra Wren’s eyes fluttered and Rebel cooed to her, “Auntie Essence has a loud whisper, doesn’t she?”
Wren pursed her lips and Rebel’s entire face shared how cute she thought that was.
Fuck, he was knocking up his wife as soon as he could.
“Now she’s all pink,” Essence declared happily.
He had no fucking clue what that meant.
But he didn’t care.
He had nothing to do but sit with the woman he loved, the niece and nephew he adored, and a crazy old lady who had a piece of his heart . . . and chill.
So life was good.
That night . . .
Rush was bent toward his laptop, looking at mountain home listings close to his dad and Tyra’s pad, when Rebel wandered in.
He didn’t like the look on her face or the way she plopped onto the kidney couch next to him.
“So?” he asked.
“It didn’t take.”
Fuck.
“Tyra’s with her. So is Lanie. Keeley’s headed over. I think I should go,” she continued.
Of course she did.
“Want me to take you?” he offered.
She shook her head, leaned in, put her hand to his chest and touched her lips to his. “I got it.”
“Millie should go. She gets this,” Rush advised.
“Yeah, that’s what Tyra said. She’s giving her a call.”
“Talk to her about adopting,” he murmured.
She nodded. “Maybe not tonight. But I’ll broach it when this latest loss isn’t as fresh.”
He nodded back. “Give Sheila my love.”
“I will, honey,” she whispered, touched her lips to his again, started to pull away, but stopped when she saw what was on his laptop.
“I thought we weren’t moving up until next year,” she noted.
His wife didn’t want to leave Essence.
Speck was renting his pad, a home Rush owned, and they were paying rent to Essence.
It was stupid.
And he didn’t care.
She wanted to be there, and he’d grown immune to her kitchen, so they were there.
Anyway, she was cute as fuck when she was meditating out front next to the meditating garden gnome, and banging his wife in that cave she called a bed was awesome.
“Doesn’t hurt looking,” he said.
She grinned at him. “Don’t wanna miss the perfect place, not keeping on top of that.”
He grinned back.
He wanted a place in the mountains, so if he found it, they’d be there.
“Go so you can come back,” he prompted.
“Right,” she muttered, another lip touch then, “Love you, Cole.”
“Love you too, baby.”
He watched her walk away.
He gave it fifteen minutes, clicking through listings.
Then he called Dog.
Five minutes after that, he’d texted his wife and he was on his bike to go throw some back with his brother whose woman had just lost the last shot they were going to take at making a baby.
In the end, Dog and Sheila didn’t adopt.
They became foster carers.
But the first baby they got who didn’t get returned home . .
.
They made her their own.
Rebel
Two months later . . .
The credits rolled on the 70-inch TV they’d brought in, and after the memorial dedication to Graham Black and then the brothers’ names slid by overlaid on a Chaos insignia, I lifted my hand with the remote to switch off the TV.
I’d been standing at the back, ignoring Rush’s eyes sliding to me frequently (mostly because he wanted me to take a seat, but I was way too nervous to sit down), throughout the whole ninety-seven minutes.
It was just the brothers in their meeting room, no old ladies. If the guys okayed it, the women would see it next.
That said, Tyra and Tabby had already seen it. And loved it.
They’d also given their go ahead that I could show it to the men.
So now I was there, watching a movie I’d watched approximately five thousand times while editing it.
A movie I called Blood, Guts and Brotherhood: The Story of the Chaos MC.
The title was long.
I should shorten it.
And a colon in a documentary?
Wasn’t that cliché?
And the montage on Black. Maybe it went on too long.
I mean, the man was photogenic and any picture he was in alone or with his brothers—hot, but the ones with Keely and his sons—total melt. Those pictures told a thousand words of the man called Black.
But using “Spirit in the Sky” to lay over that was totally cliché.
I should have used “Wish You Were Here.”
But it’d probably take a fortune to get the rights to “Wish You Were Here,” and even though Chaos had made it so that me and my cast and crew got all the monies earned from the films we’d made at Luxe, so I had some cake, that would for sure be shooting a huge wad of it.
And I had more films to make.
Not to mention that song was about Sid Barrett, and it wasn’t about him dying. It was sadder, and the words didn’t put him in a good place because, well, the rumors were, it was about him being mentally ill.
“Spirit in the Sky” had a much better vibe.
And Keely would see that (and Dutch and Jag just had).
Keely had given me all the pictures, with Dutch, Jag and Hound going through them with her, and I’d filmed them doing it. Her sons’ eyes gentle and alert on her, Hound close.
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