by Paula Cox
This startled Desiree, it was basically the last thing she was expecting him to say for some reason, and she could feel redness flush to her cheeks in spite of the fact that she usually considered herself to be a little hard. She laughed and tucked a piece of her dark hair behind her ear.
“Of course, I’d like that.”
Kristi’s eyes almost popped out of her head in surprise at how quickly Desiree had moved on from her heartbreak over Griffin. Desiree didn’t care, this was just how things worked outside of Kristi’s world, and if she wanted to hang with Desiree, she was going to have to learn to go with the flow.
The man ordered two whiskeys and they toasted each other, knocking both back in a shot. Desiree liked a man who drank, and more importantly, she liked a man who liked a woman who drank, and this strange man seemed to appreciate it pretty well.
As the night went on, Desiree forgot about Griffin and the mystery woman. Instead, she threw herself into the fun with this strange man. They watched Kristi ride the mechanical bull for a shocking four seconds, earning them a round of free drinks. He pulled her onto the dance floor while some old country song played, holding her close until her head tilted up and they kissed.
It was electric, and Desiree’s head swam once they broke it.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
“Julian,” he replied. The name sounded familiar, she thought about all the Disciples that she knew and suddenly it clicked with her.
“Oh my God,” she whispered in slow growing shock.
“What?” Julian asked, he clearly was wondering if he had done something wrong. Out of all the bars she had decided to escape to, she chose the one that has not one, but two Disciples inside.
“Let me explain,” Desiree said.
Hopefully one day this would be a story they laughed about, she thought.
Chapter 17
Griffin did not like Damon’ kitchen, but that was mostly because the last time he had been there it was to plan Emanuel’s funeral. It was still bright, cheery, and neglected, with that damned checkered tablecloth that Griffin could not stand to look at anymore. Every time he did, he could not help but taste the funeral potatoes that had been served at the wake the day before the funeral.
It was lucky, Griffin guessed, because the memorial after-party at the Bootheel had never ended up happening thanks to an attack by the Los Diablos. It was a sober, formal affair, but incredibly lonely. Griffin remembered wondering whether or not he should have worn a suit or not. However, no one else had, opting instead for the usual biker clothing, mostly in black. Griffin basically wore black anyway, so he had just come in his regular clothing.
It had been the only time he had seen Emanuel dead.
It was not as though Griffin had not seen a dead body before, it was not even as though he had not seen a dead body that belonged to someone whom he knew. It was different with Emanuel though. He had buried friends, of course, but he had never really buried a father figure, and Emanuel was as close to a father as it got.
Whenever anyone viewed a body, they always remarked about the peacefulness of the corpse, of how he looked like he was sleeping, and how nice it would be that he could finally rest. No one did that for Emanuel, mostly because everyone was so damn pissed off that he had died. Emanuel could not have been more than fifty-five when he was gunned down outside of his own home the week before. It was lucky—if one could even really think of that way—that most of the wounds had been in Emanuel’s chest. The undertaker had not had to do much to make him presentable, and yet there he was.
He had been buried in the leather sleeveless vest that proudly proclaimed his allegiance to the Disciples, something that was at odds with the fact that he was given a Christian burial. The Disciples weren’t like that though; it had nothing to do with God or Satan and everything to do with power. They had been the most powerful club this side of West Texas, and now what were they?
Griffin thought this over as he stood over Emanuel’s coffin at the wake, his heart pounding in his chest and his newfound vice presidency making him feel incredibly self-conscious about everything. Were eyes on him? Was he next?
At that moment, Damon had walked over, dressed in a formal dark suit in spite of the clearly lax dress code. He had clapped Griffin on the shoulder and gave him his best “I understand how you feel” face.
“How are you holding up?” Damon asked.
Griffin opened his mouth to reply, but it was at that moment that the daughter of one of the older members of the MC had stepped up to sing a hymn for Emanuel.
She had to be about nine, with cute little pig tails. She had flashed her father a nervous look, and he had given her a thumbs up, and it was at that moment that Griffin had wondered if any of Emanuel’s family were in attendance.
The girl sang:
“You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord
Who abide in His shadow for life
Say to the Lord
My refuge, my rock in whom I trust!
And He will raise you up on eagles’ wings
Bear you on the breath of dawn
Make you to shine like the sun
And hold you in the palm of His hand.”
Griffin was not religious, but he could feel the tears gather in the back of his eyes anyway, that choking feeling when someone tries not to cry. The little girl looked back to her father and he smiled, nodding at her to continue, so she did:
“The snare of the fowler will never capture you
And famine will bring you no fear
Under His wings your refuge
His faithfulness your shield.
And He will raise you up on eagles’ wings
Bear you on the breath of dawn
Make you to shine like the sun
And hold you in the palm of His hand.”
Blushing furiously, she ran off of the podium and back into the arms of her father. Damon watched Griffin’s reaction with an expression that betrayed nothing.
“It is rough,” he said. “But I think we’ll get through this.”
“We will,” Griffin replied. “Emanuel won’t.”
Damon had not replied to that.
Natasha had not attended the wake, or any of the memorials for that matter, and once again Griffin felt that bolt of surprise when he realized that she was Emanuel’s daughter. Part of him wanted to ask her why she had not attended, but maybe the reason was not for him to know. He knew she went to college, maybe she could not get out of any classes. She had attended the funeral at least; she had known to say good-bye; and her relationship with her father had nothing to do with Griffin. He knew better than to think that it did.
However, the sheer fact that smoking hot girl was the daughter of Emanuel Morrison still shocked him. Usually, the children of the bigger guys in the MC were relatively familiar; most of them joined the club properly from day one. Natasha had not, which was understandable, but it was still mind-blowing. How did no one know who she was? How could she have slipped through the fingers of the Disciples for as long as she had?
Damon slid a bottle of dark beer over to Griffin, who took it but did not drink. It was the day before the big attack on the Los Diablos, and he knew that most of his men were probably out on the town getting their final nerves out before the big event. Griffin knew that Natasha was waiting for him back in her crappy motel, and he liked the idea of it. It made him feel like a conquering hero.
“So I want you to lead the first group,” Damon said. “The ones who are going to draw out the attack.”
Griffin gave a sharp intake of breath. The first group was clearly the more dangerous group, taking the full force of the Los Diablos’ retaliation until the second group could come and get them from behind. It was not a terrible job, but it was not the safest. Luckily, Griffin had never been one to back down from danger. This was not his first time running a group such as this.
“Right,” he said. “I figured as much.”
“I want my best men
on the front lines is all,” Damon explained, turning on his car salesman voice in order to placate Griffin. It was not necessary, but Griffin let him do it anyway.
“Yeah, that’s why I am there,” Griffin said, all business. “I am not going to back down if that’s what you are worried about.”
“Of course not,” Damon said, his eyes wide with fake surprise that he would even be accused of such a thing, “you are always fearless.”
Griffin shrugged and took a sip of the beer. It was a little too bitter for his taste, but it went down okay. “I never saw the point of being scared,” Griffin said.
Damon smiled, but there was not anything to the smile. It seemed very strange, like he was putting on a face because he thought he had to. Griffin never really had been a fan of Damon; he did not understand what Damon was doing there. The man did not bleed the Disciples like other people did, and maybe that detached sort of nonsense worked when he was making his way up the ranks, but how could he be the heart of the Disciples if he did not have one of his own?
There was something annoyingly patriarchal about Damon. It was as though he was like the principal of a school. Every interaction he had with others seemed to be dripping with condescension, but Griffin did not have to like him personally to follow him as a leader. He just had to prove what kind of leader he was before Griffin could truly trust him.
Damon leaned back in his chair, as though getting ready to grace Griffin with a particularly engrossing speech. Griffin felt bored already, and he fought the temptation to check his watch to see if he could go yet.
“Griffin, you’ve been riding with the Disciples for a couple of years now, haven’t you?”
“Ever since I was old enough to sit on a bike,” Griffin replied. Damon nodded in respect at this.
“Impressive, but don’t you ever get scared?”
“Of what?”
Damon let out a little laugh. “You know, of anything. We’re not exactly in the safest of hobbies. You saw what happened to Emanuel.”
Griffin’s hackles rose at the mention of Emanuel in this way. He was not the biggest fan of using his former mentor as an example of why riding with the Disciples was a bad idea, especially this soon after his death. As the new president, it was not a good look. Griffin toyed with the idea of telling him that.
“I don’t think you should be using the memory of Emanuel Morrison as a cautionary tale just yet,” he said slowly. “It has the potential to look like you are dancing on his grave.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Damon shot back. “I mean, that seems disrespectful.”
“Seems? It damn well is.”
“Right. Almost as disrespectful as fucking poor old Emanuel’s daughter.”
Icy panic shot through Griffin’s heart as the truth hit home. Of course Damon had known who Natasha was, why else would he insist upon Griffin protecting her? If it was just some random chick, she could have been shipped out by now. It seemed more and more likely that Griffin had been willfully ignorant to the whole mess. Maybe he just did not want to see he truth when it was staring him right in the face. Either way, Damon smiled with a smarmy sort of pride at the fact that he had Griffin right where he wanted him. If this was how Damon did business, Griffin was hoping that the Los Diablos had a couple of bullets for Damon, too—although he knew better than to admit to that up front.
“I am going to have to disagree with you there,” Griffin replied. “At least on the level of disrespect.”
Malicious intent lit Damon’ face as he leaned over to talk to Griffin closely. “Really? You don’t think it looks disrespectful? Manny’s in the ground five minutes and already you are sticking it to his daughter. You don’t think we see that? It is written all over your face.”
“I did not know that she was Emanuel’s daughter at first,” Griffin said quietly.
“You did not know? That’s a likely story. Of course you knew, how couldn’t you? Who did you think she was, just some bystander?”
She still is, Griffin thought bitterly. She doesn’t want anything to do with the Disciples. That sort of thing did not really seem worth saying, so he sat and took it.
“Not many of the other guys know about this, but you really need to think about how it looks to the others guys, spending time with the old president’s daughter like that.”
“Like what?” Griffin asked, finally breaking down and giving into the conversation. “Since when is sleeping with someone a crime? If it was, I would have been put in jail a really long time ago, and so would most of us.”
“Look at how it looks, Griffin, use your goddamn head for once!” Damon’ voice grew choppier in his anger. “Emanuel dies and all of a sudden you take up with the little biker princess. You don’t think things are going to look a little off to other people?”
“What the fuck do I care about other people?” Griffin snapped. “You think I give even half of a shit about what anyone else thinks?”
“All I am saying is that maybe you better take a step back from what you are doing.”
Griffin snorted. “You have to be kidding me.”
“I am not,” Damon replied, his voice harder than diamond. “And I think you need to learn to stay away from Miss Natasha Morrison if you know what’s good for you.”
“Which is it, Damon? Am I setting the wrong example for the club, or am I just encroaching on your territory?”
“What are you trying to say?” Damon asked.
At this point the two of them were standing, and Griffin couldn’t help but move closer to Damon in an attempt to intimidate the older man into backing down. To his credit, Damon had no intention of doing so, and the two of them stood head to head, staring each other down.
“Probably just that you are mad that I got to it first.”
It was not the most respectful thing to say about Natasha, but Griffin knew that it would never get back to her, and also he would say damn near anything to get a rise out of Damon at that moment. Red rage began to flood Damon’ cheeks and all it did was make Griffin smile.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Damon replied.
Griffin knew enough, and he decided a long time ago that what he knew was pretty much all he was interested in when it came to Damon. However, he could also tell that Damon’ desperate desire to have Griffin back off of Natasha had nothing to do with wanting to claim her for himself. He had a pretty good sense for that sort of thing—although it had been a hell of a lot of fun to piss Damon off by accusing him of it. There was something strange in Damon’ eyes, something not quite like fear but close enough that it made Griffin question Damon a little bit.
“I know enough about you to know that I don’t give a damn about what you have to say personally, Damon. I’ll ride with you. I’ll fight with you. I’ll even try not to get killed for you, but I’ll be damned if I let you dictate what I can and can’t do with my personal life. Is that clear?”
The corners of Damon’ mouth turned up in a sneer, and for a whirlwind of a minute, Griffin was convinced that Damon was going to try to attack him in some way. Griffin hoped that it was physical, mostly because he knew that he would be able to take the older gentleman with no problem—regardless of whether or not Damon was the leader.
***
He still remembered the first fight he had ever gotten into with Emanuel. Griffin was sixteen, just really starting to get noticed, but that ended up making him a lot cockier than he would have been otherwise. That much power shouldn’t have belonged to a teenage boy, especially one with as rough an upbringing as Griffin had. It was as clear as though it had happened yesterday. Griffin had been assigned to stand guard during a particularly dangerous narcotics shipment, and although things had been tense at first, it had gone off without a hitch. To celebrate, some of the older members of the club took him out for drinks.
For the first time in his entire life, he felt as though he belonged somewhere. The guys were more than just nice to him, they treated him as though he was an equa
l. Pretty soon the booze had stopped flowing and the harder drugs had come out instead. Up until that point, Griffin had only really gotten into the normal beer and pot that most teenagers did, but as they laid out the lines of cocaine, Griffin knew that he would have to do it in order to be seen as a man in the eyes of the others.
This had gone on for a couple of weeks before Emanuel found out. He had called Griffin into the clubhouse for a chat. At that time, Griffin did not really know much about the president of the Disciples. He had just been some shadowy figure that had looked upon him a couple of years previously and decided that he would make a decent addition to the group. Now, he stood there, his hair long and tied back into a ponytail at the base of his neck, his beard long and grizzled. Griffin remembered imagining that he would look like that one day, too. In the office of the Disciples’ clubhouse, he felt a bit of a chill as Emanuel looked down at him.
