“Brantley got a call when I was there, before Jones brought me down to the holding cell and he walked outside. Ten minutes later he comes downstairs and releases everyone, we go outside and find you talking to Charlie,” Blackie says, lifting his eyes to mine as he works out the scenario.
“What you getting at Black?”
“Brantley was stalling until Charlie showed up so we would see him and know he was the fuck behind this whole thing,” Blackie explains.
“He was waiting at the station when I pulled up,” I comment, scratching at the scruff lining my jaw.
“It’s bigger than Brantley, maybe he’s got Officer Dickhead in his pocket but he’s got someone giving him cash to rebuild and it ain’t no cop,” Pipe adds.
“Um, guys…” Ronan starts.
“I’m getting too old for this shit and I think we all agree this club has seen enough surprises to last a lifetime. We need to find out who the fuck he’s working with and we need to find out quick,” I order, reaching into my pocket to grab the pack of gum—fucking gum.
I let out a growl, shaking my head as I pop six Chiclets into my mouth.
“Fucking hell,” I sneer. “Riggs get a tap on Charlie’s lines. Pipe, you look into his books and one of you start tailing Brantley,” I boom, pointing between Linc and Deuce, deciding which one I was going to pick. I focus my eyes in on Linc. “You. You stick to the cocksucker like a fly to shit,” I order. “He so much as blows a light I want to know.”
“What if he takes a shit?”
“You tell Blackie,” I reply.
“Hello?” Ronan whines, raising a hand.
“Did anyone tell you to fucking talk?” Riggs barks back at Ronan.
“That motherfucker is too cocky. Whoever he’s working with is a big fucking name,” Blackie says, still mulling it over.
“We’re going to need someone on the inside,” Wolf adds. “Gotta put life inside that clubhouse.”
“Hello! Guys! You’re forgetting something.” Ronan exclaims.
“What’s that?” I huff as I pin him with a glare.
“I need protection from your club,” he demands.
“Now why the fuck would we do that?” Blackie asks, finally leaving his thoughts on the table and joining the land of the living.
“Charlie saw me with you guys which makes me dead meat. I owe him money and he’s going to think I went to you looking to settle my debt,” he rambles.
“Isn’t that what you did?” Blackie asks.
“You’re missing the point! Did you hear me at all? He will kill me!”
“Thank fucking Christ someone will end your miserable existence,” Riggs says, glancing around the table. “Is it wrong to wish I was a Bastard?”
I lean back in my chair, chewing my gum as I size up Ronan. He wants protection, protection he shall get. But, I’m not a generous motherfucker and that shit comes with a price.
“Come here, Ronan,” I coax, crooking my finger as I eye the watch on his wrist. He pushes back his chair and stumbles to his feet, shuffling toward me. “Take off your watch,” I instruct, feeling the eyes of all my men.
He fumbles with the clasp, removing the cheap stainless steel watch from his wrist before he hands it to me. I lift the watch, turn it over and examine it thoroughly before turning my eyes back to Riggs.
“Heads up,” I warn, tossing the watch across the table into his waiting hand. One glance into my fucking eyes and Riggs sees deep into my twisted mind. Knowingly, he turns the watch every which way before shoving it into his pocket.
“I’m on it,” Riggs assures.
“Hey!” Ronan starts.
“You’ll get it back, Riggs is just going to polish it up for you,” I lie. “You want protection from my club, I’ll give that to you but there’s a price.”
“I don’t have any money,” he cries.
“I don’t want your money,” I say calmly as I lean forward and grab a hold of his shirt, dragging his body down so we are at eye level. “You’re going to be my eyes inside the Corrupt Bastards' clubhouse. You’re going to go back and tell them we beat the fuck out of you, turn this shit around so Charlie doesn’t suspect your lips were loose. You’ll hang around and beg him to give you more time to pay your debt, even offer to get in with us. You’re going to show up bloody and you’re going to tell that motherfucker you want revenge on the Satan’s Knights.”
“But none of that happened. You didn’t beat me up,” he argues as I released my hold on him and smile.
Riggs walks up beside me and rears his fist back.
“Yes we did,” he says as his fist collides with Ronan’s jaw.
“Pack it up boys,” I adjourn, slamming the gavel down as everyone rises from their seats and Ronan drops to his knees as Riggs pounds his face. “Riggs has a job to do,” I chuckle, striding toward the door.
“He’s going to fucking kill him,” Linc states.
Glancing over my shoulder, I can’t contain my grin as I watch Riggs throw Ronan a beating.
“Break it up after twenty minutes,” I tell Linc before walking out the door.
I stop in my tracks when I spot Reina sweeping up the glass in the common room. She lifts her head when she hears us barrel through the door and locks eyes with me.
“Sunshine,” I greet.
“You boys were busy I see,” she says sarcastically, lifting the dustpan full of glass. She was wearing a Harley Davidson tank top that fit snugly across her breasts and her belly. The evidence of my baby growing in her belly was staring me in my face. I fucking loved it. I thought Reina was fucking beautiful the moment I first laid eyes on her but seeing her pregnant with my kid, beautiful didn’t do her justice. She was happy. Fuck that was gorgeous.
It’s fucking true what they say—a happy wife, a happy life.
“Jack,” Blackie starts, placing one hand on my shoulder.
“Later,” I grunt, walking away from him and straight for my woman.
She winks at me, continuing the task of dragging the broom across the floor, taking care of my clubhouse just as she would my home, knowing they were one. I grab the broom from her hand and toss it across the room before wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her against me.
“What do I owe the pleasure?” I murmur as I run my mouth along her jaw.
“I thought you were visiting Vic,” she whispers, her fingers toying with the ends of my hair. “I picked up my dress and didn’t want you to see it in the house so I thought I’d leave it in your room upstairs.”
I brush my lips across hers.
“Hmm,” I hum, taking her bottom lip between my teeth.
“Jack,” she breathes.
“Yes, Sunshine?”
“We have an audience,” she whispers.
“I don’t give a damn,” I hiss, sliding my hands down to cup her ass.
She cups my face with her hands and pulls back an inch to study me.
“I love you, Parrish, and I like lovin’ on you in private,” she scolds, a smirk playing along her full mouth.
A groan escapes my lips as I think of all the ways I love on her—starting with that mouth. Yeah, I was going to fuck her mouth first then I’d spread her out and feed off her pussy before I slam my cock home deep inside her. I’d give her lovin’, all the lovin’ she needed.
“Upstairs. Now,” I order, smacking her ass.
She laughs as she unravels her arms from my neck and turns to the room full of watchful eyes.
“Oh! I came here for another reason,” she announces.
“Sunshine…” I groan. She swings around to pinch my forearm before turning back to my brothers.
“I left everyone’s wedding invitation on the bar,” she says. “They’re all addressed, so just find which is yours.”
She pauses, scrunching up her face as she glances from face to face.
“Where’s Riggs?”
“Busy,” I mutter.
; “Help!” Ronan cries.
“Ain’t no one gonna help you,” Riggs shouts from the chapel.
I roll my eyes and take her hand, leading her away from the chaos and toward the stairs.
“I wanted to make sure he got his invitation,” Reina says, looking over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Reina, we’ll make sure we give it to him,” Blackie says, closing the door to the chapel.
“Don’t get any blood on the floor,” she calls as I lift her into my arms. “I’m done cleaning up after you guys.”
Reina got my blood flowing on a regular day but seeing her step up, owning the role as my ol’ lady, well, that undid me. It made me feral, turned me into a fucking savage. Poor Sunshine, she was going to get a dose of Parrish like never before.
Chapter Twenty
I open my eyes. God has granted me another day. It didn’t matter that when I woke I felt as though a cinder block was resting heavily on my chest. My lungs working overtime for each breath they push out. I was still alive.
Every night, before I lay my head on my cot, I count down the days until my transfer and before I close my eyes, I pray to my Heavenly Father to keep me alive until then. Last night it was thirteen days, today it will be twelve. Almost there.
It’s not about the last hit and that’s probably the only reason he’s keeping me alive. Every day I wake is another day I get to reminisce about my family. I’ve got three visits left and today my phone privileges are reinstated. I’m entitled to one phone call per month, and it turns out that since it’s the end of the month, I’ll get this month’s and one more before the transfer.
Today I don’t have to stare at a picture and relive the last thirty years of memories. Today I get to hear my bride’s voice. Grace used to speak with a tenderness to her tone, she used to look at me like I was her everything, her whole damn world. Now the tenderness is gone from her voice and when she looks at me she tries to hide the anger boiling inside of her. My sweet Gracie is full of resentment and the beautiful love we created is dying right along with me.
This isn’t how we’re supposed to end—a love like ours isn’t supposed to turn ugly. I remember in the beginning I felt like I was on top of the world and it wasn’t the rush of the mob or the greed of power, it was Grace’s love that made me soar to the top. She made me feel invincible every time I looked into her eyes and knew I had the love of a good woman. We had old school love, the type that makes a man wonder how he ever got so lucky in his life. We had the type of love people write songs about, and I’m not talking about that crap you hear on the radio these days, I’m talking Frankie Valli, ‘My Eyes Adored You’ or Elvis’ ‘The Wonder of You’.
I’ve got twelve days left.
Twelve days to get my Gracie to fall back in love with me.
Twelve days to restore that lovin’ feeling in her eyes and remind her why she fell in love with me in the first place.
Twelve days to give us the ending we deserve and if I get it right, maybe one day someone will write a love song about the beautiful love we lost and found one more time.
I close my hand over my mouth and cough, my throat raw from the endless coughing fits and my chest heavy from the attack on my lungs. Hunched over the sink, I turn the faucet on and dip my mouth under the stream of water, hoping to relieve the ache. I’m deteriorating much quicker than I expected. I guess I got cocky after surviving way passed the time the doctors initially gave me. After I refused treatment, they warned me it would happen just as it is. A snap of my fingers and everything would just go downhill, my body would shut down from the strain I was putting on it. Cancer was like a collision you knew was coming but couldn’t slam on the breaks quick enough.
After five minutes of coughing and gasping for air, I try to straighten my shoulders and tap on the bars for the guard.
My voice is barely recognizable, considerably hoarse as I speak.
“I want my phone call,” I struggle, gripping the bars to steady me. My gray hair falls over my eye and for the first time I don’t bother to fix it. I peer at the correction officer and watch him shake his head.
“Come on, Vic,” he mutters, fitting the key into my cell door and opening it. He offers me his hand but I brushed it away, squaring back my shoulders and hanging onto what is left of my pride as I stride down the cell block.
When I first arrived here, the inmates used to stand behind the bars and cheer me—I was a fucking legend in here. Now, they look at me with remorse, even they don’t want the legend to die. It used to make me feel good, it used to be the thing that got me by, and then I realized it all means nothing. They’re hanging on to the Vic they know from the headlines, the man who beat case after case. They don’t want that man to die. They don’t give a fuck that leaving my family behind is killing me more than the fucking cancer is.
They think I’m the man.
I’m no man without my woman.
The guard escorts me to the phones and I grab the first receiver I see, not bothering to stand in the line with the other inmates. Leaning against the wall, I dial our house number first. I wait for her to answer, sending up a silent prayer that she’s home.
Please answer, Gracie.
“Hello?”
A faint smile appears at the sound of her voice but quickly disappears when I hear her sniffle.
“Gracie, love, it’s me,” I rasp.
“Oh, Victor,” she whispers, clearing her throat before she speaks again. “Wait a minute I thought you couldn’t call.”
“They reinstated my phone privileges,” I explain, pausing for a moment. “It’s so good to hear your voice. How’s my beautiful girl?”
She laughs through her tears. It’s a laugh full of sarcasm rather than one of joy but still manages to warm me deep down, all the way to my bones.
“You wouldn’t be calling me beautiful if you could see what I look like right now,” she accuses.
“Nonsense,” I admonish. “You’ve always been beautiful in my eyes.” I swallow the lump in my throat and smile. “Always will be too,” I whisper.
“Always the sweet talker,” she says sadly.
True.
In the beginning I dazzled Grace with my fancy words and grand gestures until I learned she didn’t need all that—having me was all she needed. Even after realizing that I still sweet-talked her and surprised her any chance I could get.
“What’re you wearing?”
“Victor!”
Trying not to succumb to another coughing fit and ruin one of our final moments I try to keep my laugh at bay.
“Paint me a picture, Gracie,” I plead. “Please?”
The sound of her soft breath sings against my ear as she remains silent.
“Where are you?” I coax.
“In our bedroom,” she responds hesitantly.
Closing my eyes, I picture her sitting on the foot of our bed with the phone to her ear.
Go stand in front of the mirror, Grace,” I instruct, keeping my eyes closed as I envision her slowly rise from the bed and pad across the worn carpet of our bedroom to the floor to ceiling mirror we keep perched against the wall in the corner.
“Are you looking at yourself?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Tell me what you see. Start from your head and work your way down to your toes.”
“My hair is up in a bun…”
“Let it down, Grace. Please.”
“Okay,” she murmurs, the phone shuffling around before her sweet voice fills my ears again. “It’s down.”
“Good girl,” I whisper. “Do you have your glasses on?”
“No, today isn’t the day for this, I’m not wearing any make-up and the dark circles beneath my eyes are on display. I’ve got more wrinkles than I care to admit and the lines that pinch the corners of my eyes seem to have doubled overnight.”
Her hair was dark brown when I first met her but after she turned forty, she started dyin
g it hoping to restore her youth, and now my Grace had blonde highlights. I picture her blondish hair flowing around her face, a perfect contrast to her olive skin freckled from the sun. Her brown eyes are no doubt tired and dull from the stress she’s been under but I try my hardest to see the eyes of the young girl I fell in love with and not the woman I broke. The lines she describes match the ones I have on my face, they are the lines that tell the story of our life together. For all the thousands of smiles there are faint lines on each of our faces. For every hundred tears is another bunch and the rest are made up from the ups and downs of life, the seasons of change and the lessons we learn, both beautiful and trying at times.
“My lips are pale pink and there is a beauty mark on my lower lip that just won’t go away,” she continues.
I smile as I think of all the times I kissed that beauty mark and all the others she keeps hidden beneath her clothes. Like the one on the back of her upper thigh or the several that pepper the swell of her breasts.
“I’m wearing my favorite nightgown, the blue silk one you bought me three Christmases ago. Do you remember it?”
“How could I forget it?” It was October when I bought the silk nightgown and matching robe and for two months I pictured her wearing it. When I finally gave it to her on Christmas morning, I made her run upstairs and put it on. It wound up on the floor twenty minutes later.
“I’ve lost weight, so it’s gotten big on me but I can’t part with it,” she admits, growing silent for a moment. “When I’m lonely or missing you I put it on and I feel close to you.”
I lift my hand to my face and brush away the tear that betrays me and slides down my cheek.
“I miss you too, Grace,” I whisper before clearing my throat. “Keep looking at yourself in the mirror and let me tell you what I see, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I see my bride, my wife, the mother of my children and the woman I share grandchildren with all wrapped up in the beauty staring back at you. I remember when I first met you, I thought there wasn’t a more beautiful woman in the whole world but you proved me wrong with every passing year becoming even more exquisite. When you look in the mirror, I want you to remember this conversation, remember my voice telling you how beautiful you are, and with every passing year remember you only become more beautiful. When you stare at the lines upon your face, embrace them, for they are the story of us etched into your skin.”
Eternal Temptations (The Tempted Series Book 6) Page 16
