From the Ruins

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Since I owned my house and that fucking rental was nothing but a trap full of repairs, Layla broke her lease and on the first of the new month she and the kids moved in with me. It was chaos at first. If you ever think for one second a woman has a lot of shit, open a teenager’s closet. Between Jenna and Tommy, I had to build an extra closet in the basement—the first of many projects.

  Having them all under one roof made me want to turn my place around.

  Make it better.

  Perfect for them.

  I wanted them to have everything they needed and everything they missed having from their old house in the city. I worked from oldest to youngest, finishing the basement and making it into a bedroom for Tommy. We tossed the twin bed he barely fit into and got him a full size bed and a flat screen television so he could play that fucking video game whenever he wanted. Next was Jenna. Too shy to tell me what she wanted, I made Lexi take a picture of her bedroom at her father’s house. There was pink shit everywhere and posters of Justin Bieber on every wall. Now my third bedroom looks like a bottle of Pepto exploded on the walls and we all have Bieber fever. I’ll never admit it but the kid’s got talent and that song Despacito even gets my hips moving.

  Last was half-pint’s room—we believe in unicorns in this house. Those mythical creatures are on her walls, the bed, hell, Layla found some sticker thing that glows in the dark and had me put it on the ceiling. The kid counts unicorns in her sleep.

  Whatever.

  It puts a smile on her face and that’s all I care about.

  The rest of the house is a work in progress. Every Sunday Layla takes a ride to HomeGoods and always returns with another thing. Last week it was a lazy Susan, which in my opinion is the most ridiculous invention and must have been created by one lazy fuck. Is it so hard to get up and grab the ketchup or ask someone to pass it? The thing has a big cock on it to boot.

  Again, she loves the fucking thing and I’m good with that.

  I’m also good with all the fancy pillows we take off the couch and place in a basket before we watch a movie. I’ve even adapted to the scented candles that are everywhere. I mean we got pumpkin spice in the bathroom and apple cobbler in the bedroom, but whatever.

  Layla loves it.

  I met her ex-husband too. That was fun. The motherfucker is a real idiot but I don’t have to like him to respect him. In fact, I’m grateful for the son of a bitch. He helped produce three great kids who allow me to be part of their lives.

  Three kids who make me wonder if we got room for one more.

  I haven’t brought it up with Layla yet and I’m not sure if I will. I’m content with the life we’re building, but sometimes I wonder about the things I missed out on. I think about what it would be like to hold a baby in my arms knowing Layla and I created it. It’s crazy talk.

  Absolutely crazy.

  But you never know.

  I’m a lot better than I used to be.

  In my time with Layla, I’ve crushed some of my demons to the ground. I’m cleaning up my act little by little, learning who I’ve been isn’t who I have to continue to be. I can finally stand the man in the mirror but there is always room to be better.

  Always better.

  I’ve also got a few more dances with the devil left and it’s time I merge that part of my life with the life I’m making with Layla. It’s the last test of truth, to see if the two parts of me can become one.

  Shrugging my leather vest on, I fit the old silver rings onto my fingers as Layla stands behind me, smoothing down the back of my cut, tracing the reaper with her finger.

  “So, when you come home where will the patch be?” she asks as I spin around to face her. Taking her hands, I lace our fingers together and place them beneath the patch that reads one percent.

  “Right here will read Pipe,” I tell her, guiding her hands across to the right side of my chest. “And here will read sergeant at arms.”

  “The back stays the same?”

  “Top and bottom rocker in place,” I say with a nod, bringing her hands to my lips. “You ready to be an old lady?”

  “Only one way to find out, right?” she says with a smile. It’s not her fake one, not quite her genuine one either, but definitely the one she wears when she’s nervous.

  “We’re going to make it work,” I tell her with conviction heavy in my voice.

  “You bet your ass we will,” she replies, rising on her tiptoes to give me her mouth. We go soft and slow for a moment before we’re pulling each other closer, fucking with our tongues, teasing with our teeth. As much as my Layla gives, it’s never enough. That fucking mouth is a blessing and a curse, one I know I’ll be thinking about the entire time I’m away.

  “Don’t forget to turn out the candles,” I say, giving her lips one more kiss.

  “Yes, sir,” she mocks, saluting me for extra emphasis.

  “Smart-ass,” I say as I give her ass a squeeze and start for the door.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she exclaims. “They’re delivering the washing machine today,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

  Finding humor in the underlining meaning in her words, I laugh out loud. Like truth is our thing so is christening every new addition to the house. Bob’s Discount Furniture delivered the couch, the very next day we put a claim in with the protection plan. Apparently, Bob didn’t have us in mind when he built the sofa. It barely survived a single round and by the second round the legs were off the fucking thing.

  Let’s hope the washer holds.

  “Looking to take a ride on the spin cycle, are you?”

  “Fuck yes,” she grins.

  “That mouth,” I growl, shaking a finger as I grin. “You and me in the laundry room when I get home?”

  “It’s a date,” she agrees. I stand there for a second taking her in before I throw her a wink and start for the door again.

  “Lee,” she calls over my shoulder, causing me to turn.

  “Yeah, killer?”

  “Be safe,” she whispers. The playfulness of before fades and her eyes plead with mine.

  “Never have to worry about me coming back to you,” I assure her. “Not even Satan can keep me from you.”

  Closing the distance between us, she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and pulls a lacy pair of panties out. I watch her eyes dance with mischief as she rolls them into a ball and spreads my cut wide, tucking them into the inside pocket of my vest.

  “Now you can go,” she says, patting my chest playfully. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I drag her back to my body and take that mouth one more time. I kiss her long and hard, making every second count, knowing I’ll be thinking of those lips the whole ride back to the city.

  When we finally part, she walks me to the garage and watches me straddle my chopper. Peeling out of the driveway, I keep my eyes trained on the side-view mirror until Layla fades from my sight.

  Then it happens.

  I say goodbye to Lee Jameson and the badass known as Pipe awakens from his long slumber. Defying the speed limit, I cruise the New York Thruway reciting the rules of brotherhood, reliving the memories—the good, the bad and all the times we busted through doors and ran through hell. I think about the men who left us too soon and the original four who didn’t forget me, who reached out in my time of need.

  Making my way into the city, I decide to stop off at Green-Wood Cemetery. I grab a fresh bouquet from the florist across the street and make my way to the family tomb, pausing when I reach the door. Forgetting the flowers in my hand, I stare at the ones already placed in front of the steps of the mausoleum and I immediately know who brought them.

  Blackie.

  Silently, I pay my respects to the dearly departed and ask them to guide me. Figuring it’s long overdue, I share my life with my mother and finally give her something to be proud of. Then I tell Oksana I love her and ask for her forgiveness once more. I leave Blackie’s flowers on the steps and trek through the cemetery to Jack Jr.’s grave. The Yankee hat on to
p of the tombstone makes it easy to spot so does the blue teddy bear and the picture of the baby brother he never got to meet. I kneel before the grave and place the bouquet next to the stuffed animal as I lay my hand on top of the stone. Reciting the same words I spoke the day he was lowered into the earth, I promise to look after his old man.

  “Uncle Pipe’s got you, kid,” I murmur before I make my way back down the hill toward my bike. Revving the engine, I ride it like I stole it and head for the garage.

  Where the devil awaits and the sanction of brotherhood pulses with life.

  Let’s ride, motherfuckers.

  I’m back.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Finding the garage empty, I make myself comfortable and take my seat at the left side of the table. Kicking up my feet, I cross my boots on top of the distressed wood and lean back. I grab my smokes from my cut and glance around as I light a cigarette. The surveillance camera catches my eye and I grin devilishly at Riggs’ handy work before I blow a stream of smoke out and flip the camera my middle finger.

  There is nothing wrong with baiting the Tiger.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Turning my head, I stare at the six-foot-three beast and I take in the patches on his vest that declares him a prospect and informing me of his road name, Butcher.

  “I’m the guy who owns this joint. Who the fuck are you?”

  “You’re Pipe?” he counters.

  “The one and only,” I mutter, taking another drag of my cigarette. He reaches into his vest and pulls out his cell phone. Laughing, I shake my head. “Who you calling, kid?”

  “Riggs,” he mutters.

  “Don’t bother,” I tell him, flicking my cigarette across the garage.

  “No, I got strict orders to call him if you showed your face.”

  “Don’t worry your pretty little beard. Riggs will be here any minute,” I say, pointing to the surveillance camera. “That a new addition?”

  “A couple of months,” he says, pocketing his phone. A grin works my lips as I fold my arms behind my head and listen to the pipes blaring in the distance.

  Good ol’Riggs.

  “How’d you know he’d come?” Butcher asks.

  “Call it a hunch,” I reply.

  The noise of the bikes grows louder and a moment later Riggs isn’t the only one turning into the lot. The whole fucking club shows up and parks in front of the garage. I don’t move a muscle as Butcher steps outside to greet them.

  Riggs charges through first, pulling his sunglasses off his face as he points a finger at me.

  “You son of a bitch,” he growls.

  “How’s it hanging, Riggsy?”

  The anger flees from his face as he glances down at his crotch.

  “Not bad,” he answers thoughtfully as Wolf steps up behind him and slaps him upside the head. My eyes widen as I take him in and I uncross my ankles. Dropping my boots to the ground, I stand and drink him in. The old fuck dropped more than a pant size or two. He must have really laid off the salt.

  “Where the fuck is the rest of you?” I ask in shock.

  “Bend over and I’ll show you,” he grunts.

  “How much weight did you lose?”

  “You getting a chubby looking at me, Pipe?” Wolf asks raising an eyebrow.

  “He looks good, right?” Jack chimes in, throwing an arm around Wolf’s shoulders. “Did you check out the lot? Thanks to Richard Simmons here, we now grow zucchini and tomatoes.”

  “Come in for a lube job and go home with a vegetable platter,” Riggs mutters. “It’s our newest promotion. Vegans everywhere will be bringing their electric cars here in no time.”

  “Keep poking fun, you little shit, and I won’t send you home with basil. I hear it’s a real hit with your mother-in-law.”

  Feeling as though I’ve entered a Martha Stewart cooking show, I lift my hands and rub my temples. In the few months I’ve been gone, they’ve all lost their fucking minds. Behind them I spot Cobra, Stryker and two men I’ve never seen before.

  “Pipe,” Cobra greets, giving me a tip of the chin. “Good to see you, brother.”

  “Yeah, man. It’s been rough around these parts without you,” Stryker adds, pointing a finger at Wolf. “The old brute missed you terribly.”

  “He drove us fucking crazy is what Stryker means,” Cobra amends.

  “Fuck you,” Wolf hisses. “You son of a bitches would be lost without me. Roamed the streets like a bunch of lost puppies until I scooped you up.”

  “You’re right,” Cobra agrees. “We’d be about as lost as you were without this guy,” he continues, jutting his thumb toward me.

  “Who has the hard on now, motherfucker,” I tease as I grab Wolf out of Jack’s arms and pull him into an embrace. “I missed you too, you piece of shit.”

  “Dude, I’m not even going to lie, I’m slightly uncomfortable watching this,” Riggs mutters.

  Pulling away from Wolf, I ignore Riggs and meet Jack’s dark eyes.

  “You’re wearing your cut,” he points out.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “That mean what I think it does?”

  “It means you better have your sewing kit handy, Parrish, I’m here to collect what’s mine.”

  “Not happening,” Riggs says defiantly. “You’re not getting the garage back. I’ve got mouths to feed, cars to fix and crops to tend to. I’m dead fucking serious about the vegan shit. I invested my own money into those tomato plants and I’ve been running Facebook ads left and right. My fucking paid reach is through the roof.”

  Ignoring Riggs’ tirade, Jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out my worn patches.

  “Take your cut off,” he orders. Doing as I’m told, I shrug the leather from my shoulders and hand it to him. “Butcher,” he says, crooking a finger. “Get your fucking sewing box and put these patches back where they belong,” he instructs, handing my vest and the patches to the prospect.

  “I don’t have a sewing box,” Butcher replies.

  “Well then you better go get one,” Jack tells him before turning back to me. “Welcome home, brother.”

  Hoarsely, I nod in appreciation. I missed this. The comradery of my club, the way we all fit together. We all come from different backgrounds, some of us from different states, but these men, they all bring something to the table. Together, we are the Satan’s Knights and when one of us is missing, we’re not whole, myself included.

  “I hate to break up the happy reunion and all, but we’ve got shit to discuss,” Riggs points out. Agreeing with him, Jack takes his place at the head of the table. Everyone else follows suit and that’s when I realize Deuce and Blackie are missing from the table. Before I can acknowledge that, Jack slams the meat cleaver against the table.

  “Pipe, this is Bas and Needles. We voted them in a couple of weeks ago. They were with Rush back in Albany,” he explains as the two men extend their hands across the table for me to shake. They give me the brief lowdown on how they came to Brooklyn, revealing how Rush was the one who was holding Cobra’s sister and daughter. That’s when I learn the reason for Deuce’s absence. Apparently, everyone’s favorite cowboy forgot to mention he was on the run from his old club. They smoked him out of the hotel he and Cobra’s sister were staying at and shot him. Now the poor bastard is recovering on Cobra’s couch.

  “And him?” I point across the table to Blackie’s empty chair.

  “We don’t know where he is,” Riggs supplies, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s a fucking mess, man.”

  Turning to Jack, I wait for him to elaborate.

  “When I came to visit you, I told you Brantley’s partner got picked up for stealing police evidence.”

  “Yeah, that was six weeks ago,” I tell him.

  “Well, in that time Brantley’s partner decided to turn on him. He cut a deal with the district attorney to bring down Brantley from what Jones tells us.”

  “If the district attorney is cutting a deal with him that mea
ns they’ve got something bigger on Brantley.”

  “Murder,” he replies.

  This shocks me. I always knew Brantley was an asshole but I never pegged him as a killer. He’s a pussy not a murderer.

  “Who did he kill?”

  “The partner gave a name but there is no proof,” Wolf interjects, pulling out a Ziploc bag of carrot sticks.

  “They need to exhume the body to prove that the drugs that were ingested were the same logged into the evidence room,” Bas supplies, lighting a cigarette.

  “What does this have to do with Blackie?” I ask, turning to Jack.

  “It’s Christine.”

  Sure I heard him wrong, my eyes sweep around the table. Taking in all the grim expressions, the nightmare is confirmed and I swipe a hand over my face at a loss for words.

  “Jones gave him a heads up, but if he doesn’t consent they’ll get a court order to dig her up,” Needles adds.

  Bas and Needles don’t know the severity of the situation. They don’t know what it was like when Christine died. Not even Riggs can truly understand. Blackie was a mess. He blamed himself and he looked for every way to punish himself. Unlike me, Blackie didn’t fuck and drink to forget, he shot himself up with drugs and prayed it was enough to overdose just like his wife did. It took him a long fucking time to get clean. It took years of struggling and self-loathing before he started to live again.

  He later found his heart in Lacey and the man finally started to heal.

  He can’t relive that nightmare.

  None of us can.

  Stuck on the repercussions, I barely give myself a chance to wrap my head around how Brantley could be responsible.

  “So, let me get this straight. This guy claims Brantley stole drugs from evidence and shot Christine up? She didn’t overdose on her own?” I ask the room.

  “He swears that if they exhume her body they’ll be able to prove it wasn’t the drugs Blackie was selling at the time,” Jack mutters.

  “Well why the fuck are we all sitting around the table when he’s MIA?”