I needed to get a hold of myself and I needed to do it quickly.
As I strip down and turn the water on, I tell myself the only reason I’m acting like this is because I don’t know all the details surrounding Junior’s death and our current situation. Once Bas makes everything clear, sex will be the last thing on my mind. I’ll be too worried about making a life for my son and I in a foreign place to pay any attention to the gorgeous man who is likely shirtless again, laying in the bed next to mine.
On the plus side, at least I know my vagina isn’t broken.
I was starting to worry I’d never want to have sex again but hallelujah, she has a pulse.
She also has horrible timing.
Chapter Twelve
If I didn’t get off soon, my dick was going to explode or shrivel up and die. Being in such close quarters with Mac was driving me nuts and playing nice with her wasn’t helping matters either. I can’t even blame it on the shorts or her fucking legs anymore. It’s everything. It’s that back and forth banter that always got me riled up. It’s that twang in her voice that makes the blood rush to my dick and the subtle way she chews on her lip. It’s her scent and her fucking eyes that are so crazy beautiful you want to keep staring into them until you die. It’s talking to her calmly and not feeling any pressure. It’s the silence between us that feels natural. It's feeling like I’m exactly where I need to be. Like I’m fucking whole for the first time in six years.
Aside from making me painfully hard, she makes me think crazy fucking thoughts. Thoughts a man who has been fucked as hard as me, has absolutely no business thinking. Like if there is still a place for us in this world. Somewhere between what we used to be and what we are now.
Crazy.
Fucking certifiable.
Terrifying.
I’d rather be locked up with nothing but a photograph and my memories to keep me company than share a room with the living, breathing version of everything I ever wanted. At least in the confines of my cell, I was blissfully unaware of the world crumbling around me.
I was also able to wrap my fist around my dick and relieve myself. I didn’t give a fuck if my cellmate heard me groaning Mac’s name or if he caught a glimpse of me shooting my load on top of my stomach. As much of an oxymoron as it may be, I felt like more of a free man being a prisoner than I do being a civilian.
The phone vibrating across the top of the nightstand between the two beds startles me and drags me away from the grim realization. Sighing, I reach for the phone and glance at Ryder who remains sound asleep before studying the name displayed on the screen.
Dori.
Her name is like an omen, reminding me this shit with Mac ain’t real. My reality waits for me in a shitty apartment with a bare mattress and an empty fridge. It’s the delusional junkie that lives down the hall and spreads her legs on command. It’s knowing you live to serve your club and your brothers. My reality is riding hard and waking up alone.
There is no balance between man and patch.
No woman to ride side by side with.
No boy to look up to me.
Reality is emptiness.
It’s loneliness.
It’s everything I never wanted.
Swiping my thumb across the screen, I bring the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” she calls into the phone.
“I told you not to call,” I say, recalling how vicious I was the night Mooney called. Another woman wouldn’t call no matter how good I give it to her or how many times I make her come, she would be done with me and tell me to fuck off. But Dori was different, she was like me. Broken, empty and lost. Just another body to add to the human population.
“You answered,” she replies, sounding surprised.
“What do you want Dori?”
As I ask the question the bathroom door opens, and Mac emerges wearing a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Seeing her like that, with her hair wrapped in a towel on top of her head, brings me back to the days we were saving for our own apartment and stayed together in my room at the clubhouse. Then, she omitted the shirts, and it was my t-shirts she wore to bed.
“When are you coming back?” Dori asks as Mac stares at me curiously.
“I’ll be home tomorrow. Not sure the time,” I reply, keeping my eyes on Mac. Sauntering to the table, she grabs one of the plastic bags from the dollar store and surprises me by taking a seat on the foot of my bed.
“Can I see you?” Dori continues.
“I’ll call you,” I say.
My body goes on high alert as Mac sits Indian style on the bed and pulls out a package of my favorite cookies. Sitting up, I lean my back against the headboard and decide it’s time to say goodbye to Dori.
“I’ve got to go,” I mutter, disconnecting the call without waiting to hear her response. Tossing the phone beside me, I glance at the cookies in her lap. “Whatcha got there?”
“Ammunition,” she replies, tearing open the package. Without looking at me she pulls a frosted oatmeal cookie from the pack and studies it like it’s a foreign object. “Someone waiting for you back home?”
The question comes nonchalantly but once she lifts her head and pops the cookie into her mouth, I can spot the jealously.
“Told you, you only get five questions. You sure you want to waste one on asking about who I fuck?”
“I’m just making conversation.”
“It’s none of your business,” I retort, leaning forward to snatch the cookies from her lap. Her eyes darken as she chews. She waits to swallow before she fires back.
“Well, technically it is. I mean if the plan is for me and Ryder to live with you, don’t you think I should know if there is a woman of the house? I mean, I wouldn’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”
It’s a valid point.
It’s also a crock of shit and her way of beating around the bush.
“I haven’t figured out where you’ll be staying yet,” I tell her as I chomp down on a cookie. It’s heaven at first bite and I moan in appreciation. “I forgot how fucking good these are.”
“If you don’t know where we’re going to stay, what happens then when we get to Brooklyn?”
Licking the icing off my thumb, I shrug.
“I have to meet up with my club and make them aware of the situation.”
“So first stop is your clubhouse.”
“Not exactly,” I say, taking another cookie.
If I tell her our first stop is Jack’s house for Sunday dinner, she might get the wrong idea. Where Mac and I come from, there are no family dinners unless it’s a holiday. In Brooklyn, the guys and their woman will find any excuse to get together and most of the time they fucking go all out. There’s no throwing some hot dogs on the grill and calling it a day. For example, when Linc got released from the hospital, Wolf not only threw him a welcome home party, but the crazy bastard hired a clown to entertain the kids.
“The Brooklyn charter is nothing like La Grange,” I continue, leaving out the fact it’s not like any other charter. Not La Grange and sure as fuck nothing like Albany. “There is no clubhouse.”
This causes Mac’s eyebrows to knit together in confusion.
“If there is no clubhouse then where do you hold church?” she questions, holding up her hand. “And, that doesn’t count as one of the five questions either.”
“Then I don’t have to answer that,” I answer, taking another cookie.
“Don’t be a dick, Bas.”
“Most of the time we congregate at Pipe’s garage. When we get to Brooklyn, we’ll be heading to Jack’s—the president’s house,” I say through a mouthful of cookies.
“Are you going to tell him about me?”
“Can’t hide you in my pocket, babe.”
“I mean about us,” she clarifies.
“Dropped everything to come get you, Mac. Even if he didn’t show up at my place before I left, he’s a smart man. He knows a man don’t drop everything for nothing.”
&nbs
p; At that last part, her face softens, making it clear I said too much. Backpedaling, I shrug my shoulders and pierce her with a glare, one I’m sure she can see right through.
“Told him my brother died and his woman might be in danger.”
That causes her to cringe and I decide it’s time for me to be the one doing the asking.
“Can you not say that?” she whispers, diverting her eyes to her lap.
“Say what? That Junior’s dead?”
I’ve been wondering when she would react to his death when the tears would start to fall, and the praise of an unworthy man would come.
“Spare me the grieving widow routine,” I warn.
“The grieving widow?” she asks incredulously as her eyes snap back to mine. “Junior and I were never married, and you won’t catch me shedding a single tear over his death,” she seethes.
“You’re bitter,” I accuse.
“If that’s what you want to call it,” she mutters. “I guess it’s safer for us both to pretend that’s true.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that shit—”
“Tell me something, Bas,” she interjects. “Would you still have run to my rescue if you knew it meant being stuck with me and Ryder?”
My temper starts to rise, and I shove the package of cookies to the floor as I sit up and lean into her.
“What’re you getting at Mac?”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Would you rather I didn’t?”
She doesn’t answer me, so I continue.
“When Mooney called, I had no idea what Junior had done. I didn’t know he had gotten in deep with a drug cartel or that he murdered the head honcho’s daughter. I didn’t expect to be hit with the news that the fucking cartel wanted you and your boy dead as retribution either. I thought I could go back to La Grange and make whatever trouble you were in, disappear and go on with my life. I didn’t plan on coming back to Brooklyn with a prayer card from Junior’s funeral much less his woman and his son.”
“Stop saying that!”
“Saying what?”
“Stop calling me his woman.”
“Well, if you’re not his woman than what the fuck are you?” I shout, causing Ryder to stir. “Shit,” I growl. The room falls completely silent as he rolls over. He doesn’t wake up though and once he’s comfortable, I turn back to Mac.
“I think we’re done here,” I say keeping my voice to a whisper.
“We’re done talking about Junior,” she argues. “We’re not done talking about us.”
“There is no us,” I remind her.
“There’s you, me and Ryder,” she grinds out. “The three of us are in this together and that makes us an us. What I need to know is if this is temporary or not. It’s summer now but if this lasts into September, I’m going to have to get Ryder into school. We’re going to need a place to live, I’m going to have to get
a job—”
“Jesus Christ, Mac,” I hiss. “We’re not even in New York yet and you’re already fucking enrolling the kid in school. I don’t got a crystal fucking ball. I can’t predict what’s going to happen five minutes from now and here you are worrying about what happens in September when it’s the end of June.”
She was making dizzy.
I didn’t need a cigarette, I needed a fifth of vodka.
“I have to think about these things,” she insists.
“Not now you don’t,” I growl. However, I know she won’t quit at that. “Look, we’ll take it one day at a time and figure it out. Once I get with my club, I’ll get a better handle on everything but for now can we just drop it? I got a fucking long ass drive ahead of me and I’ve slept a total of six hours in two days.”
One look into her blue eyes and I can tell she ain’t ready to let this die that she thinks I’m full of shit. But by some miracle of God, she unfolds her legs and climbs off the bed. Breathing a sigh of relief, I watch her cross the room and silently unravel the towel from her head. She runs a brush through her hair and I decide it’s safe to turn in. Folding my hands behind my head, I stretch my body along the mattress and stare at the ceiling. A moment later darkness engulfs the room and I hear the distinct sound of sheets rustling.
“Just Mac,” she whispers.
“What?” I rasp, my voice full of sleep.
“You asked who I was if I wasn’t Junior’s woman,” she explains softly. “People change. We fall apart but it’s when we finally find a way to stand back up that we remember who we are. I’m older, jaded and have a lot more scars but, I’m still her. I’m still just Mac.”
If only that was true.
If only she was still my Mac.
Chapter Thirteen
I’ve seen the New York skyline a million times in a bunch of blockbuster movies and I never understood what the hype of it was. To a country girl like me, they were just oversized buildings and city life was never appealing. I liked back roads and rolling hills. It wasn’t until we were on the highway and I looked across the Hudson River at those tall buildings that I understood why people were fascinated with New York. It was magnificent in an over the top kind of way. A city I was sure became more beautiful at night when it was lit up in all its glory. A small piece of a great big world that represented freedom and opportunity in so many ways.
A glimpse wasn’t enough.
I wanted to see it all.
I wanted to wander those concrete streets, cross every bridge and stand on the observatory deck of the Empire State Building. I wanted to eat street cart food until my stomach hurt and hail a cab. I wanted to visit Times Square, and I really wanted to see a Broadway show. Maybe even take a horse and carriage ride around Central Park.
Until then, photographs would have to do. Hanging out the passenger window of Bas’ truck, I gave my Nikon quite the workout, taking pictures of everything from the skyline to the traffic lights. Even Ryder was in awe of everything and kept pointing out things for me to photograph. One of my favorites was the sign we spotted that read ‘Welcome to Brooklyn…how sweet it is.’
It wasn’t long after we passed the sign that Bas exited the highway. The streets were congested with pedestrians and I noticed they liked to walk between moving cars. The houses were so close together it was hard to decipher where one began and the other ended. The train ran noisily overhead and around every corner, there was a pizzeria. At a stop sign, a man sold bottles of water out of a cooler and a couple of avenues later there was a man standing on top of a trash can singing. It was as much bizarre as it was amazing and made me forget I was about to meet the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn.
When we got on the road this morning, both of us were still reeling from our conversation the night before and barely spoke to one another. It wasn’t until we were out of Pennsylvania, which by the way is one big ass state, that Bas decided to speak to me. I swear the man is more temperamental than a woman. Anyway, he began to fill me in on the club members. He went down the line in order of ranking, starting with Jack Parrish, the president. A diagnosed manic-depressive who lost his son many years ago and still struggles with the death. He is married to a woman named Reina and they have another boy that’s a toddler. He also has a grown daughter from his first marriage who is married to the vice president. Blackie a recovering addict and according to Bas, in need of a haircut.
Then he talked about a guy named Riggs, a self-proclaimed genius, and ballbuster who wears sunglasses morning, noon and night. He also goes by the title of Tiger. Bas said I wouldn’t meet Riggs or his fiancée Lauren today because she gave birth to their third son two days ago and they were taking the baby home from the hospital.
Next were Pipe and Wolf, the originals who have been serving Brooklyn since they were freed from juvie. Pipe owned the garage they sometimes operated out of and Wolf was the glue that held the club together in times of despair.
There was also Stryker, Cobra, Deuce and Linc, all who
were relatively new members and former nomads. Lastly, he told me about Needles. Bas was closest to him seeing as they were both from the Albany charter. Needles was a single father who had sole custody of his daughter and was a tattoo artist.
By the time he was finished, I was thankful all these guys wore patches. At least when I forgot their names, I could look at their leathers and be reminded. Aside from that, I was surprised by how anxious I was to meet everyone. Well, until we pulled in front of the semi-detached brick house and I spotted a dozen Harley’s on the front lawn and half that many cars crowding the driveway.
“Jesus,” Bas mutters beside me.
“What?” I ask, keeping my eyes pinned to the house.
“Nothing,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “You ready Ryder?”
“Ready!” he exclaims, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“Look, Mac, they—”
“They what?”
“Never mind,” he says with a shake of his head. “Let’s get this over with,” he adds before climbing out of the driver’s seat. At the volatile way, he slammed the door, it’s no wonder the rusty thing didn’t fall off the hinges. Following his lead, I make my way out of the truck and help Ryder. Hand in hand, we walk behind Bas and climb the concrete steps leading to the front door. The boisterous sound of laughter and people talking over one another trails out of the open windows and anxiety claws at me.
I like to consider myself a people person, someone who gets along with everyone and isn’t afraid to make new friends, but it’s been so long since I’ve been in that element. It also hasn’t escaped me that we’re here to ask these people for help and not the kind of help that requires borrowing a tool or a cup of sugar. We’re asking them to protect me and Ryder from a bunch of drug dealing bastards.
The Devil Don't Sleep Page 9
