But just as the body in his arms began to soften, Maverick was pulled off of him, and Groddo’s voice was in his ear. “Don’t kill him.”
Maverick fought off the hold. “What? Fuck off!” He didn’t care what the consequences would be; he was intent on killing Clement Carver.
“There’s a plan here, Helm. See the guards still standing down? We paid a fare for that. We got our beef with Black, too.”
“This is not a fucking race thing, asshole!”
Groddo’s eyes darkened under a dangerous brow. “It’s always a race thing, brother. You want payback. We want a message. We got you your fight. Now you work our plan.” He nodded, and the two skinheads who’d kept Carver down now grabbed him by the arms—this time, Carver did yell out hoarsely as his broken arm was manhandled—and dragged him toward the workout equipment.
Still holding him by the arm, Groddo pulled Maverick in the same direction.
Carver was maneuvered until he faced the back of the bench press machine—the yard had no free weights, which were too easily made into weapons, but instead a few weight machines and a pull-up bar.
Maverick watched as the two skinheads held Carver in a kneeling position, directly against the machine. Another skinhead pulled his pants and underwear down to the ground. Carver fought hard, and one of the skinheads slammed his head into the machine until he went limp.
It made no sense.
“You’re the strongman,” Groddo said to Maverick. “Why don’t you do a rep?”
Just like that, he understood. “Jesus.”
Groddo’s face twisted into a demonic grin. “You think he don’t deserve it?”
Oh, he absolutely deserved it. With a quick scan of the yard—everyone watched in inert silence, including the guards—Maverick went to the bench press.
Rather than lie on the bench—he’d never again be in a lower position than Clement Carver—he straddled it, facing the weight stack and, behind it, Carver, who was just conscious enough for fear to have widened his eyes into caricature.
He moved the pin to 220—the weight that was just about hip-level with Carver’s body. Then he bent his knees, gripped the handles, and curled the weight. His biceps bulged, and blood gushed down his arm.
Harry, one of Groddo’s minions holding Carver, grabbed the bastard’s flaccid dick and loose balls, and set the whole package on the stack of weights Maverick wasn’t lifting. Carver fought like a dazed madman, but two other skinheads came up and added their strength to hold the man in place.
His junk sat there, on top of the weight marked 230. Above it hovered two hundred and twenty pounds of iron.
Maverick kept his arms curled, ignoring the shaking of his injured one, until Carver’s eyes met his. Maverick sent him all the hatred he could, and he let go of the stack. The sudden release of tension nearly dislocated his elbows, but he barely noticed. The weights slammed down, a fat, wet noise mingled with the crash of iron, and Maverick took a burst of hot blood in the face and chest.
Carver screamed a scream so piercing and loud it was almost beyond human hearing.
And then the guards leapt to action.
~oOo~
Two nights later, Maverick lay again in his own bunk. They’d thrown him into the hole again immediately after the melee in the yard, and Maverick had spent those forty-some hours sitting on the metal bunk and waiting for trouble.
But no trouble had come. He’d gotten sewn up, and they’d left him alone until they’d brought him back here. Everybody was giving him space. Even the guards were keeping a respectful distance.
It hadn’t been his idea, what he’d done to Carver, but he was getting the credit. All he’d wanted was to kill the fucker.
He hadn’t done that. Carver still breathed, as far as he knew. But he was going to piss sitting down for the rest of his life. Never again would he use a dick like a weapon. Not his own, at any rate.
Maverick was afraid to consider the chance that he might get away with it. At a minimum, he expected Dyson to come for him again. But maybe the guards wouldn’t let it happen this time. Maybe something somewhere had turned. He was due for release in August. Seven weeks. Fifty-one days. Was it possible that he might actually get on the other side of the fence?
Jesus. Was it possible?
As the warning sounded to announce five minutes until last count, Maverick turned to the wall beside his bunk. Two small photos were taped there. Only two; he had no other photos and few mementos of any kind. The oldest, bent and fading, was a Polaroid, taken almost four years ago. Inside a clear plastic bassinet was a tiny baby, wrapped like a burrito in a striped blanket and with a pink knit cap on her head. Only a hint of fair skin and chubby cheeks was visible between the blanket and the hat. On the wall of the bassinet, a pink card named her as Kelsey Marie Wagner and her mother as Jennifer Wagner.
The line for father was blank.
In blue ink, across the white space of the Polaroid frame, was written, Kelsey, 8/21/93. That date was three weeks after he’d gone inside. Maverick drew his fingertip over the handwriting he’d once known so well.
Taped beside that photo was a newer one, from a year ago. Gunner had brought it to him: a wallet-size school photo of a pretty little girl with hair the color of butterscotch, twisted into two pigtails, and wide blue eyes, sparkling with clever mischief.
His eyes. His daughter. He belonged in the blank space on that pink card. And in her life.
He’d never met her. He hadn’t spoken to her mother since before he’d gone inside, and he hadn’t heard from her in any way except for that one Polaroid, sent without a letter, in December 1993, four months after Kelsey’s birth.
He was set for release nine days before her fourth birthday.
But hope was for pussies and fools.
December 1992
“It’s okay, babe.” Maverick pulled the stick from Jenny’s clenched fist. Studying the blue cross that indicated “pregnant,” he repeated the reassurance for them both. “It’s okay. We’ll make it work.”
He reached deep and tried to figure out how he felt about this unplanned and unexpected development. Ten minutes ago, he’d been sitting on the sofa, watching Seinfeld with his girl, playing lightly with her tits and thinking about tying her to the bed and eating her out.
Then Jenny had muted the set during a commercial break and announced, “I’m a week late.”
While he’d still been in brain freeze, she’d gotten up and picked up her purse from the floor. Rooting through it, she’d pulled out a purple box—a test kit.
Now they were sitting together on the side of the bathtub. He was staring at the test result, Jenny was crying, and the world was different. He was going to be a father.
She wiped her cheeks and snatched the test stick back. Tossing it into the wastebasket, she got up from the side of the tub. She ripped a few squares of toilet paper off the roll and blew her nose, then tossed the soggy wad into the trash.
“No. There’s nothing to work out. I’ll handle it.”
Still sitting on the tub, he caught her hand before she could turn away. “What d’you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
He did, but there was no way that was the end of the conversation. “No, Jen.”
“I’m not ready to be a mom—I can barely take care of myself. And we’ve never even talked about kids. This is not your call, Mav.”
She tried to free her hand, but Maverick held tight and pulled her close, bringing her between his legs. “Fuck that. You’re right—we’ve never talked about it. But we made a kid anyway. Together. So let’s talk this out together.”
With a sigh, she relented, her body visibly relaxing, and he smiled up at her.
“So, do you want to be a family with me, Jenny?”
He’d caught her off guard, and she laughed. The lingering film of tears dampened its tone. “That’s where you want to start?”
“How about here: I want to be a family with you.”
“Why
?”
“Why? I love you, babe. You know that.”
“Do I? You never say it.”
“I do say it. I just said it.”
“Counting now, any idea how many times you’ve ever said those words to me?”
He heard the click of the landmine he’d just stepped on, and he didn’t answer.
“Four. Four times. The other three times, you were inside me when you said them—once, you were actually coming when you said them. We’ve been together thirteen months. That means we had an anniversary last month. Did you realize that?”
No, he hadn’t. “Never said I was romantic, Jen.”
Another laugh, this one sharp with cynicism. “No, you didn’t. But I’m just supposed to believe that you love me.”
He did love her. He loved her completely. Not a minute of any day passed that she wasn’t in his thoughts in some way. He was happiest in her company, and he missed her when he wasn’t. He wanted to share his life with her—he was sharing his life with her. He didn’t think about anniversaries or flowers or candy or throwing out random phrases because he...just didn’t think about that shit.
He wasn’t romantic, but he was in love.
“It’s not my style, babe. But I know you know how I feel. I know I show you.”
He did show her. He had her back, always. He helped her deal with her bastard of a father. He got in that man’s way every way he could—and he’d happily do more than that if Jenny would just fucking let him. He took care of her when her migraines laid her out. He’d moved her into his place, away from her old man. He kept her safe, and they were making a life. A good life. A happy one. She was his family, and he’d never wanted anything more in his life than he wanted a family of his own.
He showed her. Every day.
“You do,” she agreed and put her hand on his head, stroking through his hair. “I know you love me. And I love you. But you can’t expect a little kid to just know. You have to say the words, too. All the time. You have to remember their birthdays. Every one. You have to tell them every day how important they are to you. You can’t ever let them forget. Not ever.”
Her voice had taken on a tremor as she’d spoken, and her hand had clenched in his hair. Maverick understood everything all at once, and he pulled her down to sit on his lap.
“Babe. I love you—there, that’s five.” Her laugh was full of tears again. “You’re the most important thing in my life. I’ll say it more. I’ll tell you every day, if you want. I’ll tell our kid every fucking night when I tuck her in. I’m not your dad, and neither are you. Our kid will have a good family. I promise you—our kid will have a great life. And so will we.”
Jenny studied him for a long time, the focus of her eyes—her fantastic eyes, pale green rimmed with deep blue—moving from left to right, back and forth, like his thoughts could be read.
“You want this? For your whole life, you want this?”
Maverick thought about that. Jenny was waitressing and taking classes to be a legal assistant. He did body work at Delaney’s Sinclair. And he had the Bulls. They had the beginnings of a modest but good life. A happy life. Just the two of them. When they were together, they laughed, they played, they relaxed, and they fucked like animals. They almost never fought, or even bickered. They had a good thing going.
A kid changed it all. Forever. Did he want that? God yes, he wanted that. A family of his own? Fuck yes.
He gazed into those lively, remarkable eyes. She was beautiful. Their kid would be beautiful. And she, or he, would be loved. Everything would change, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be for the better.
He glanced down into the wastebasket. He’d taken the trash out after dinner, so it was empty except for the stick Jenny had just tossed away and the tissue she’d lobbed in after it. The stick had landed with the window up. He reached in and reclaimed it.
That blue cross, changing everything. Forever.
“Yeah, babe. I want it.”
CHAPTER TWO
“I want Cocoa Puffs.” Kelsey scowled into her cereal bowl.
Jenny poured milk over the Cheerios. “Sorry, pixie. We’re out of Cocoa Puffs. I’ll sprinkle some sugar over these, and they’ll be good.”
“I don’t like Cheerios!” Kelsey pushed the bowl away, and milk sloshed over the table. A lock of her hair was curled on the placemat, and milk washed over it.
“Dammit, Kelsey!” Jenny shoved the chair she’d about to sit on back under the table. “We don’t have time for this!”
Kelsey flinched and whined, and Jenny felt guilty. She’d hit her daughter exactly three times in the almost-four years of her life, and all three had been swats on the hand, getting between her and danger—touching a pot of the stove, reaching for the iron on the ironing board, and trying to stick a key into an electrical outlet. She’d never struck her in the guise of discipline or punishment, and she never would. Long before she’d ever been a mother, she’d made herself a promise that she’d never lay a violent hand on her child.
She didn’t hit, but, sadly, she did yell. Being a single mother was hard, every day. Some days, those days when she felt at the limit of her tether, she seemed to do little but yell. Kelsey was a good girl, a sweet girl, but she was smart and curious, and she always wanted to know why and how. She got into mischief, and she already had a sassy tongue.
Jenny loved her curiosity and her sass, but sometimes it would be nice to have a child who just did what she was told because she was told to do it.
On this day, when she’d been up most of the night with a migraine and was still feeling the bruised-brain aftereffects of it, life in general seemed too enormous an opponent to contend with.
With a deep, slow breath, Jenny crouched at the side of her daughter’s chair. Sitting in her green plastic booster, Kelsey looked down on her mother, her bright blue eyes wide and judgmental. “You said mean talk.”
“Sorry, pixie. Mommy’s head is hurting today. I didn’t mean to yell. If you’ll eat Cheerios now, I’ll go to the store for Cocoa Puffs this afternoon. If we work hard and aren’t late for school this morning, I’ll get some ice cream for bedtime, too.”
“Mint chocolate chip?”
“Absolutely. Okay?” Jenny knew she should be more careful about the foods Kelsey ate, but her little girl was a crazily picky eater, and she took her wins where she could find them. At least cereal and ice cream had dairy going for them.
Kelsey nodded and pulled her bowl close again. She sloshed more milk when she did so, and her hair was going to be a sticky mess, but Jenny closed her eyes and ignored that.
“Thank you, sweetie.” She stood and kissed her little girl’s head. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mommy. That’s one.”
They counted how many times they said ‘I love you’ each day and never let a day go by without saying the words to each other at least once.
“One,” she agreed and pulled the sugar bowl over to add some sweet to her little girl’s cereal.
The back door opened, and Carlena, her father’s day nurse, came in. “Hey girls! How are we on this fine day?”
Jenny glanced out the window at the grey gloom. The sky was pregnant with rain, and the forecast called for thunderstorms all afternoon. She cocked an eyebrow at the always-sunny nurse.
Carlena grinned and opened the fridge to put her lunch away. “Big storm means this heat’ll break, honey. That’s a fine day, you ask me. Besides, what’s a better way to spend a day than sittin’ on a screen porch while it rains?”
That sounded like a lovely way to spend the day. It wasn’t how Jenny and Kelsey were going to spend it, however. Jenny was almost jealous. If not for the company Carlena would be keeping, she’d be completely jealous.
“How was his night?” Carlena asked.
Jenny’s father had two shifts of nursing care five days a week, but from one to nine a.m. on those days, Jenny was in charge. It wasn’t usually difficult duty—he was in bed by then and hooked up to his br
eathing machine, so all she had to do was listen for alerts and deal with it if there was trouble—but she resented it anyway.
On Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday, she was in charge. She hated weekends.
“He was quiet. He’s been awake about half an hour, I think.” She hadn’t gone in to check on him, but she knew the sounds of his machines and had heard that his heart rate was wakeful.
“Good. Best get him movin’ then. Usual day for you girls?”
“Yep. School for Kelse and work for me.” It was July, but Kelsey was in a pre-school/daycare program that ran year-round.
Being a single mom meant giving up half the raising of her kid to other people.
Kelsey had eaten all the Cheerios she was going to and was chasing floating ‘Os’ around with her spoon. Jenny took hold of her hand. “C’mon, pixie. Let’s clean up your mess and get ready for school.”
~oOo~
“Ready for another, Russ?”
Russ, sitting in his usual seat at the head of the bar, nodded. “Sure am.” Jenny pulled the tap and refilled his beer. As she pushed it across the bar, he put his hand around hers on the glass. “Someday, you’re gonna say yes.”
Jenny laughed and gently but firmly freed her hand. Russ was well into his sixties, a sweet old retired guy who spent his weekday afternoons sitting right where he was, on the first stool at the bar in The Wayside Inn. He flirted with her every day. While the come-ons were gentle, and she was slightly more than half sure they weren’t intended seriously, she worked to maintain a balance between being playfully friendly with him and leading him on.
“I guess we’ll have to see if you live long enough to see that day,” she retorted now.
He flattened his hand against his chest as if she’d wounded him there. “We used to call beauties like you femme fatales. You know that?”
Before she could counter that remark, the door opened and let in a blast of sultry air and dusty white light. The storms of the day before hadn’t broken the heat at all, and, once the clouds had cleared, the humidity had been even worse. The Wayside’s loud, rickety air conditioning unit was working as well as it could, but it wasn’t up to the challenge of this summer.
Slam (The Brazen Bulls MC #3) Page 2
