by Harley Stone
“No,” I said, settling in my seat. “Laura has reluctantly agreed to go slumming with me at the spa on the corner of Pine and Fourth.”
He grinned. “How very kind of her.”
Laura climbed in, scowling at us both. “Indeed. I should probably get nominated for sainthood for this.”
“Noted. Immediately following your wedding, I will send a request to the Pope.”
Franck chuckled and returned to his seat.
Twisting in my seat to face my sister, I asked, “Speaking of the wedding, how’s the seating chart coming?”
“Good. Mom finished it off last night. Since Mayor Kinlan’s family won’t be able to attend, she invited the Cowleys.”
“I can’t believe the drama going down with the Kinlans. I’m too busy to follow the gossip, but I’ve seen the headlines. Everyone must feel so scandalized.” I rolled my eyes to show her exactly how I felt about Seattle’s ex-Mayor Kinlan and his son, Noah, who had recently been convicted of all sorts of crimes ranging from tax evasion to sex trafficking. Everyone knew the top one-percent skirted the law, but the sex trafficking had been a surprise. That was taking influence and privilege a bit too far. Still, it would be strange not seeing them at the wedding. There were two things you could count on during any high society social event. My great aunt, Martha, would get plastered and flirt with the young, attractive male servers, and Mayor Kinlan would be schmoozing his loyal followers and fishing for campaign contributions.
“Scandalized,” she asked, eyeing me like I had said something wrong. “Don’t you think you’re being a little heartless?”
I blinked. “No?”
“The Kinlans are dead, Julia.”
Certain I must have misheard her, I asked, “What?”
“You haven’t heard?” she asked.
“No. Last I’d heard they were on trial and the evidence was mounting against them. I haven’t picked up a paper in a few days.”
“Yesterday morning they were found hanging in their jail cells.”
“Like some sort of double suicide? They don’t seem like the type.” I’d already tugged my phone from my purse and was thumbing it on to see what I could find.
A picture of Emily Stafford popped up. She was the attorney who’d taken the case defending the biker accused of beating the shit out of Noah. I’d met Emily Stafford at charity dinners, and she tried to speak to me once while we were waiting for our coats. I was a card-carrying entitled bitch at the time, and she wasn’t the type of person I wanted to be seen with, so I ignored her and walked off while she was mid-sentence. Not my best moment. Not my worst, either.
I kept scanning articles until I found information on the hangings. “Says here they used their pants to create the ropes to hang themselves.”
“To hang themselves?” Laura’s eyes widened as she glanced toward the front of the car and leaned toward me, lowering her voice. “I’m not supposed to talk about it, but everyone is saying they were murdered.”
Murdered sounded a lot more realistic than some sort of father-son suicide pact, but… “In jail?” I asked, still skeptical.
She nodded.
Our parents rarely encouraged Laura to discuss anything related to the community’s power plays. My sister wasn’t stupid, but she was innocent and naïve, and sometimes she stumbled across truths she couldn’t handle. Truths that could get her in trouble if she voiced them in front of the wrong person. Thankfully, she usually came to me with her ideas, and I’d gotten great at derailing them before she sped into dangerous territory. Laura was the kind of person to be protected, shielded, not involved. I held up a hand, preparing to once again lead her to a safer path. “This sounds like another one of your crazy conspiracy theories.”
Hurt flashed across her eyes, making me feel like a total bitch. “There are rumors that they were talking about a deal. About rolling over on someone to get their sentences reduced.”
“That usually happens before the trial,” I pointed out.
She sighed, frowning. “I know you don’t care about the gossip anymore, but you should keep reading.” She gestured at the phone in my lap. “There’s a lot of shady stuff going on.”
I couldn’t care less about the lives of my old peers, but their deaths… and Laura’s insistence that foul play was involved… that interested me. Besides, the side-eye look she was giving me promised she wouldn’t let up until I complied. Rolling my eyes like it was a bother, I continued to scan the articles. My gaze stopped when it landed on a head shot of the biker who’d attacked Noah. Dark skin, short dark hair, dark intelligent eyes, slight smirk gracing his plump lips, thick neck promising a muscular build. He was the exact opposite of my pale-skinned, blond-haired, blue-eyed, slender ex-husband, and maybe that’s why I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
Hello, handsome.
“Hottie, isn’t he?” Laura asked, leaning over my shoulder to see what had caught my attention.
I nodded, although ‘hottie’ didn’t do him justice. More like sexy-as-hell. That slight smirk of his made the kind of promises that heated my blood and made my stomach flutter. My gaze dropped down to his name. Marcus “Havoc” Wilson.
“Think I just found a date for your wedding,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “A biker? One of the bikers who helped with the Kinlan conviction? I bet Mom would just love that.”
“You’re only making him look more appealing.”
She grabbed my phone and studied the photo, pulling out her own phone. “He’s part of the Dead Presidents Motorcycle Club. This says they do a lot for the community, so I bet the number is listed.” She punched in the information on her own phone. “Yep. Here it is. I’ll send it to you.”
My phone dinged with the incoming text and I rolled my eyes again.
“What?” she asked, smiling sweetly. “I’m trying to get my big sister a date for my wedding.”
“I’m not calling a complete stranger and asking him out.”
“Fine. Back to the seating chart,” Laura said, growing suddenly somber. “You’re at the family table. Across from Mom and Dad.”
I threw back my head, bouncing it off the back of the seat. “Kill me now.”
“It’s the family table and you’re family.”
“Family would have told me about Wesley. They knew, and they kept it from me. Family doesn’t do that. You’re my only family.”
“I know. They know. They’re super sorry and it’s been almost a year and they’re hoping you’ll forgive them.”
Her claim held a major flaw. My parents never apologized for anything. “They’re sorry, huh?”
“I’m sure they are. They miss you.”
“And they said all of this?”
Her gaze drifted around the Town Car’s interior, looking anywhere but at me. Such a horrible liar. “You know how they are. They don’t say things like that.”
“God forbid someone think they’re less than perfect.”
“I know you’re still angry, Julia, but this is my wedding. How would it look if my sister was sitting at the wrong table?”
The Edwards family appearances… that’s what everything came down to. It might not matter to me anymore, but the family image was still important to Laura. I couldn’t fault her for sipping the Kool-Aid when I’d gulped it down for years.
“Please do this for me,” she begged.
“Fine.”
She grinned, once again showing off her dimples. “You’re the best sister ever.”
There it was again, that heart-felt compliment that made me feel like shit. “Yeah, yeah.”
She wiggled in her seat, letting out a little squeal. “I’m so excited! Can you believe my bachelorette party is tomorrow? I saw the RSVP list you sent. I know this isn’t easy on you, and I appreciate all you’ve done.”
My baby sister’s special day was approaching, and I was her maid of honor. Thank god she had an amazing wedding coordinator, or nothing would have gotten done. All I’d done was show up for m
y dress fitting and put together her party RSVP list while dreading her big event. Best sister ever, indeed.
“I still can’t believe I’m getting married!” she squealed again.
Despite my lack of faith in the sanctity of marriage, her enthusiasm was contagious. By the time Franck dropped us off, I was dreading her big day marginally less. Determined to put on my big girl panties and make it through the upcoming parties and ceremony with a smile, I hooked my arm in hers and we marched right into the spa to get pampered.
Havoc
‘TRY GARDENING,’ SHE said. ‘It’ll relax you,’ she promised.
Emily Stafford, the old lady and soon-to-be wife of my club president, Link, was a badass attorney and I owed her my freedom, but she didn’t know shit about relaxation. As I stood on my front porch staring at a bed full of flowers in varying stages of death, I felt keyed-up and ready to kick the box to pieces.
I felt like a goddamn failure.
Here I was, ex-Army Special Forces Weapons Specialist, Sergeant at Arms for the Dead President’s Motorcycle Club, I’d survived insane conditions and deadly terrain while dodging bullets, could keep an entire club of military veterans from killing each other, but couldn’t keep a single flower alive. You’d think the amount of time and money I’d blown on this so-called hobby would guarantee some measure of success, but no. The damn things were all determined to become compost.
Why the fuck?
Without a care for the nosy old couple across the street, I went to kick the box but pulled back at the last second, knowing if I started I wouldn’t stop until nothing remained. And I wasn’t about to lose my shit over goddamn flowers.
Yeah, gardening is fucking relaxing, Emily.
I should throw in the spade and give up, but it was about the principle now. I refused to be bested by vegetation. I had a fucking reputation to uphold, and if I couldn’t find a way to make these damn flowers survive, I’d buy new ones every time Link and Emily came over.
And if that idea didn’t make me sound batshit crazy…
While I sat there wondering how I could calm the fuck down from my “relaxing” hobby, Stocks pulled up on a custom orange and black Roadster. Born as Gage Sinclaire, I’d given Stocks his road name three months ago, when we’d met during my latest stint in the slammer. He was twenty-nine, and had spent nine years as a Marine Infantryman. Hell, from his clean buzz cut to his ‘yes sir’ attitude, he still looked and sounded like a soldier. He would have been a lifer in the service, but during a training exercise he’d lost one of his legs from the knee down, forcing him into retirement from his military career. With no idea what to do next, he took a friend’s advice and became a certified financial advisor.
Which Stocks says is almost as stressful as gardening.
Stocks has a good head on his shoulders, but the action he’s seen has given him a case of PTSD significant enough that he had no business in a high-stress desk job handling the money of ungrateful, rich assholes. Like most veterans, he nutted up and hid his condition like a champ. That is, until the market had a few too many low days and bitching clients wouldn’t stop blowing up his phone and demanding that he move their money into safer investments. Stocks lost it and took his chair to the phone, computer, and security guys who’d tried to physically remove his out-of-control ass from the premises.
The minute I heard his story, I knew the Dead Presidents could help him escape society’s expectations and become a man who could look himself in the mirror again. Just like the club had helped me. I signed up to sponsor him, and Link made him a prospect. Since Gage had lost his shit over stocks, landing him in the civilian version of the stockade, his road name was a given.
“Hey Brother,” I said when Stocks pulled off his helmet. “How’s the bike workin’ out for you?”
“Great.” He grinned. “Feel like I’m really getting the hang of this shit.”
Stocks had never ridden a sled before, so Wasp, the club’s vice president, helped him find a used one and replaced parts until it was roadworthy. Then I’d taken Stocks and our bikes outside of Renton to teach him how to ride. The prosthetic leg had been tricky, but Stocks managed. Now he had a motorcycle endorsement on his license, and judging by the grin currently stretched across his face, he’d discovered why the rest of us preferred sleds to cages. There was nothing in the world like the freedom of your bike on an open road. Especially for those of us who fully understood the price of freedom.
His gaze drifted to the dead flowers in the box beside me and his smile fell. “Weren’t those alive last night? What the hell happened?”
“Shit if I know.” And I didn’t want to discuss it. I threw one more disgusted look at my failure before standing. “You ready to head to the station?”
His grin returned, and he put his helmet back on.
***
Friday nights always begin with church, but tonight’s weekly meeting felt different than normal. An air of excitement and anticipation floated above the pews in the old converted fire station now serving as club headquarters. Eagle, the club secretary, rattled off the minutes from our last meeting. Everyone voted to approve them, then Specks, our treasurer, gave a run-down of the financials.
“Any old business?” Link asked, opening up the floor.
He waited a few beats, and when nobody spoke up he stood and started pacing. “Now for new business. We have the homeless outreach coming up in two weeks, so we need to finalize some shit. Spade, have you talked to your Uncle about donations?”
Spade, whose uncle owned one of the local restaurants, nodded. “Yessir. He said he’ll donate hamburgers and hot dogs again.”
“Please give him our thanks. He’s a good man.”
Spade nodded again.
“Anyone else able to secure a donation?” Link asked.
Stocks raised his hand. “The firm I used to work for said they’ll pitch in bottled waters.”
Link smiled. “Thanks, brother.”
Sage stood. “My office will get the buns.”
“Great,” Link said, turning to Flint, the manager of the Copper Penny which was the bar and grill run by the Dead Presidents. “The restaurant will provide the sides.”
Flint nodded. “I’ll get them ordered, Prez.”
“All right.” Link clapped his hands together. “Last time we did this, we fed about two hundred homeless, so we’re gonna need some bodies. Girlfriends, parents, kids, whoever wants to show up and help us serve, is welcome. I’ll need you all here to mingle and find out who was in the service and who wasn’t.”
“Is this really necessary, Prez?” a brother named Zombie asked. “I mean, it’s good that we help the community, but last time we did one of these, we had homeless people coming around for days, looking for another handout.”
Link dropped his head and paced the front of the room. Those who didn’t know him would assume he was considering the question, but I knew Link better than that. Our president was preparing an argument. He was a wise man who liked to get the details worked out before he opened his mouth.
“A lot of the vets on the streets are there because they choose to be,” Zombie continued. “Strung out on drugs or crazy as fuck… we can’t do anything about that shit. Sometimes it seems like we’re wasting our time and resources… spinin’ our wheels when we could be doing something more worthwhile.”
“That’s a valid concern,” Link admitted. “Thanks for voicing it. Thing is… that, right there is exactly why we have to continue.”
Zombie’s brow furrowed.
“What you said just now. I’ve heard it a thousand times. Who else in this room has heard those same arguments? ‘Vets get more help than anyone.’ ‘Most homeless vets are on the streets because they’re addicted to drugs or crazy as shit?’ We’ve heard it all, haven’t we?”
The room was full of nods of agreement and mutters of affirmation.
“And how many of us—how many of the brothers in this room—would be on the street in the same situat
ion without this club? I can name seven of you who have abused morphine for pain management. Who here hasn’t had a discussion with a doctor about triggers and been given a prescription for fuckin’ antidepressants, pain blockers, or antipsychotics? Shit, most of us could have easily ended up on the streets. But we didn’t. Why? What’s the one thing that separates us from them?”
“Each other,” Wasp answered.
“Exactly,” Link agreed. “I know if I fuck up, I have a club full of brothers who are going to call me to the carpet. These men on the street, they don’t have that. They don’t have Havoc to kick their asses and set them straight. They don’t have Pops to nag their ear off and make them get back into line just to shut him up. They don’t have Sage to listen as they talk through the memories and nightmares fuckin’ with their heads. The whole world looks at them and sees nothing but goddamn junkies and loonies, but we know better. We know what they’ve been through… what they’ve seen… and it’s our duty to offer them a way out of the hell they continue to live in. That’s why the Dead Presidents was founded, and it’s why we continue to stay the fuckin’ course. You feel me, Zombie?”
Zombie nodded.
“Anyone else have any questions or concerns they’d like to bring to the table for discussion?” Link asked.
Nobody said shit.
“Any other new business?”
He had new business. Our president was close to bursting at the seams to share his news. Hell, he’d already told me privately because he kept secrets like a goddamn school girl with her first crush. I couldn’t fault him, though. Link was happier than I’d ever seen him, and it served as a testament to his leadership skills and patience that he hadn’t blurted out the news the second we all arrived. Staying the course, following meeting protocol, he practiced what he preached.
Wasp, our vice president chuckled, hitting the table. “Shit, I’m just here for the party, Prez. Heard you might have a reason to celebrate you wanted to share with us.”
As his name suggested, Wasp was a white, Anglo-Saxon Protestant, spawned from old money and raised in privilege. Despite his family’s connections and wealth, he was a good-natured, level-headed, humble man. His time in the Navy had been served as a boat mechanic, and as he put it, the only real danger he saw came from the slop the cooks served. He had no deep-seated issues nor PTSD flare ups, which meant that unlike most of us, he’d joined the Dead Presidents out of a want to help others, rather than a need to help himself.
