I’m not sure what I should be more offended by: him talking to me like he did or him running off like his shirt was on fire after he saw I had a kid.
But honestly, I’m not really offended. And I sure don’t have time to be wistful about men.
I’ve got to unpack, scrub the bathtub so it’s clean enough to give Jimmy a bath, go down to the Rutter’s to pick up some beef jerky and snacks for his packed lunch tomorrow, and call Victoria so she doesn’t get hysterical because she hasn’t heard from me in a few days.
Oh, and find out why the fridge smells.
I’m a busy woman. With apparently one peach of an ass.
CHAPTER 2
CHARGE
“You strike out with the babysitter?” Pops is sitting at his table by the bay window, making lures and laughing his ass off at me.
“She ain’t the babysitter.”
“No? Strike out with Teen Mom, then?”
I don’t dignify that with a response. I just snag up Pops’ half full beer bottle and take it into the kitchen.
“Wasn’t done with that!”
“Oh, my bad,” I say, makin’ sure he can hear me drop it in the recycling.
He cackles. The burnt idiot. My mom must’ve been smart. I sure as shit didn’t get my brains, such as they are, from the old man.
Of course, after that fucking fiasco just now, I can’t claim much in the way of brains. Maybe Harper took my common sense along with my house and my dignity and my fucking dog.
Yeah, I’m blaming my ex for my problems. Time-honored male tradition. I didn’t make an ass out of myself on my own accord. Being with Harper has made me a moron.
Why else would I think it’s a good idea to dog on some barely legal chick, stone cold sober and right in front of my pops? And using my best lines, too. Double the cheese.
Did I ever have game? Or was it always my face, my bike, and the fact I run with Steel Bones? I ain’t gonna lie. I’m pretty as shit.
Anyway, I shoulda noticed the car seat in the back of the beater, but I only had eyes for that ripe, juicy ass. I gotta adjust my dick, remembering her bounce up those stairs, that ass so tight it only jiggled the littlest bit. Two perfect globes, more than a handful, the kind of ass you want to slap to watch it bob while she’s bent over on all fours in front of you, staring at you over her shoulder—
Shit.
I’m not an ass man or anything; I’m more into the total package, but you’d have to be dead or blind not to want to take a bite.
Tragic really, about the kid. I don’t do kids. I like ’em and all. If they ain’t brats. But a female with a kid ain’t lookin’ to get plowed and get gone. And I ain’t interested in playin’ daddy until it’s time to bail. I’m an asshole, but not that kind of asshole.
Harper and I agreed on that from the start. No kids. Kids weren’t on my radar, and she wasn’t looking to set aside her career for nothin’ or nobody.
I wonder if she still thinks that way. Now that she’s fuckin’ a civilian shot caller.
Is a dude a civilian if he’s neck deep in shit but keeps his hands clean? If he runs game from a downtown office with a view?
That’s a philosophical fuckin’ question, and one I don’t need to be ponderin’. Harper made her choice. Flushed seven years down the shitter. I don’t get a choice. I get to get over it. Or leave town and lose my club.
In retrospect, it was a dumbass move to make the prez’s sister my old lady. Shittin’ where you eat and all.
Maybe I take after Pops more than I like to admit.
Speakin’ of…I take down the bin with his meds from the top of the fridge.
“Where’s the weekly pill thingy?” I holler into the living room.
“Up my ass!” He turns up the game so he can pretend he can’t hear me.
It’s missing in action. Again. Which means he probably hasn’t been taking his pills since he lost it. I was last here two days ago, so maybe he missed one dose, maybe he’s missed six.
Maybe Shirlene moved ‘em. She comes around a lot since her old man passed. I don’t think she’s got a thing for Pops; she’s just the kind of old lady who needs shit to do.
“Shirlene been here?”
“I got beers, don’t I?”
Guess she has since she’s the one keeps him stocked. I’ll ask her about the pills next time I see her. In the meantime, I ain’t gonna worry about his old stoner ass. I got enough on my plate.
The Rebel Raiders have been sniffing around the Patonquin site for one. Can’t figure out why. They got a plan or they just kickin’ up dirt, trying to see what crawls out? Could always be fuckin’ with us on principle. We got old, ugly beef with the Raiders. Fact is that the men who founded the Raiders were Steel Bones once upon a time. Like a fuckin’ rebellious kid, they don’t need no real reason to start shit with us.
Since I’m on project management, I gotta worry about that and still make time for the prick who’s fucking my ex-fiancé when he drops by to supervise. Then, instead of going home to my La-Z-Boy and my big screen, I’m stuck crashin’ at Pops’ or the bunk room at the clubhouse like some prospect. And I need to get my dog back.
If Pops wants to keel over from a case of the dumb fucks, I can’t tear myself up over it.
I check the crack between the fridge and the counter, and then I check the catch-all basket on the kitchen table.
I ain’t going to buy his ass another one of those weekly pill organizers. This is like the fifth one he’s lost. I swear he throws ‘em in the trash. Or he—
Oh, I know where that little fucker is. I lope back into the living room to his workbench. He makes lures, mostly spinner baits and flies. He gets Shirlene to help him sell some online, but mostly he trades ‘em with brothers for weed.
I rummage around on his bench while he bitches, and then—there it is. He’s got his metal bobbers stored in it.
“Where are the meds?” I wheel him away from the bench, check the floor underneath.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, five-oh.”
“Pops, that shit is expensive, man.” I sift through his tins of feathers and safety-pin spinners.
“Ain’t in there, officer.”
He grins at me with his messed-up jack-o-lantern face, and all I can think of is how much I love the dumb fucker. I ain’t sayin’ he was father of the year. He wasn’t so good about rememberin’ to feed me and never made me take a bath or go to school. But not many kids get to have all their growin’ up memories be laughing their asses off, watching Looney Tunes with their old man and ridin’ bitch up to the mountains to score kush.
And then it occurs to me. “You sellin’ ‘em, Boots? You sellin’ your pills?”
“I plead the second.”
“You plead the right to bear arms?”
“Hell yeah. I’m an American, ain’t I?”
Fu—u-u-u-u-ck.
Pops cackles. “Chill out, ossifer. I dropped ‘em in the sink by accident. Almost out anyway.”
God, this was all so much easier with Harper. She helped look out for Pops, handled the money. And she worked, too. A gorgeous, smart, classy lawyer who got the MC lifestyle and loved to fuck dirty.
And when we were together, I had it together. I wasn’t some white trash ex-con with no diploma. I was the guy with the four-bedroom house in Gracy’s Corner. The guy fucking the hot-as-shit lawyer.
Now I’m the guy hittin’ on teen moms. The guy about to wash his pops’ dirty chonies. The guy who’s seriously thinking about breaking into a gated community to steal a Corgie.
I gotta get down to the clubhouse, throw some back, throw some punches, get the taste of loser out of my mouth. Maybe fuck some strange until I don’t feel like such a fuckin’ pussy.
I don’t though. I call in a refill at the pharmacy, and I put in a load of laundry before I ride into town to pick it up. On my way out, I see the kid—Jimmy—squatting beneath the willow tree I used to climb when I was a scrub. He’s scowling as he digs in the m
ud with a stick.
He’s one bitter kid. Reminds me of Nickel. When we was kids, Nickel got us into a crap ton of fights with his hostile mug and his dumb mouth. His face got my nose broke for the first time, and his mouth played a key role in my first incarceration.
God, I love that guy.
Too bad this kid doesn’t have a crew like we did back in the day. When you’re that mad at the world, you need brothers at your back to help cash the checks your mouth writes.
As I roll the throttle to give the kid a cheap thrill, I think maybe I’m not so unlucky. I got my wheels; I got a way out. And I’ll always have brothers at my back.
Ain’t so bad, even if I did never get anywhere further than the right side of the tracks in pissant ol’ Petty’s Mill.
CHAPTER 3
KAYLA
I figured out what the smell was: a carton of rancid milk. I also figured out why it smelled so bad. The fridge is busted.
And I’m figuring out something else. The rent is so cheap because there’s not exactly a landlord.
There’s a number you can call. It’s on the lease, and it’s on a sign above the laundry machine in the basement. But no one answers. Not in the morning, not at night. And after I left two voicemails, I get a message now that the box is full.
It’s not like I can go to the offices of South River Property Management, Inc. A man met me at the apartment with the keys and the lease after I set everything up by phone. I mail my check to a post office box, and even though the internet is supposed to know everything, it thinks SRPM is located at the post office. Where the post office box is located.
When no one picks up or calls me back after three days, I only panic for a little while. This is a vast improvement from when I first got Jimmy back and moved out on my own. Something would go wrong, and my first instinct would be to call my dad, but I had to remind myself that that’s what got me into trouble in the first place.
So I’d call Sue instead. She didn’t know any more about hand-foot-mouth disease or failing an emissions test than I did, but she’s smart and bossy and cool-headed. We’d talk through it. She’d make me lay out all the information, and then she’d ask me to tell her the possible solutions, and we’d make a plan.
A lot of times, the plan was life sucks, if the kid’s fed and safe, live with it.
It’s not like I don’t need my best friend. I can’t imagine life without her—but now I can do it all on my own. More or less.
So I think it out, make a plan. I drive down to Rutter’s—again—and buy a bag of ice for my cooler. At least Jimmy’ll have cold milk. Then I see if the downstairs neighbors have a different phone number for the landlord. They don’t. What they do have is a hoarding problem and a severe mistrust of strangers. Which is cool. I don’t much like strangers either.
Especially ones who’ve ogled my ass. And indecently propositioned me. And then decided they were too good for me because I’ve got a kid.
I’m getting desperate, though. I can’t afford a fridge. And maybe Charge’s dad knows the landlord. Based on the rusting car hull in his side lawn and the various other pieces of what could either be tractor parts or lawn art, Charge’s dad has lived here awhile.
I hope against hope that Charge isn’t there. I don’t see his bike. It’s drizzling though. I don’t know if bikers ride in the rain. Maybe if they’re real badasses?
Before I go over, I face the single mom’s conundrum. Take the kid into a possibly sketchy situation or leave the kid alone?
In the end, I split the difference. I take Jimmy with me, but I tell him to wait at the bottom of the porch stairs.
I don’t know why my stomach’s so flippy. All I need’s a number. A quick conversation.
I knock, and there’s a lot of banging and clattering, as if my knocking started a chain reaction like that board game Mouse Trap. I can hear whatever’s in the house making its way to the door, so I’m not startled when it’s thrown open by an old guy in a wheelchair with the biggest snaggle-toothed grin I’ve ever seen. His long grey hair is tied in a braid, and so is his long grey beard. His face looks like a friendly pumpkin.
This is the smokin’ hot biker’s dad?
“Hey, girlie! Whatcha doin’ out there in the rain? Where’s that boy of yours”
He’s peering around me, and I can tell when he sees Jimmy because his big grin grows impossibly bigger, like a fat, happy Cheshire cat.
“There he is! Get up here, boy.”
I’m totally taken by surprise when Jimmy dashes up. He is not a friendly, chatty type of kid.
I’m struck even more dumb when he opens his mouth and asks, “Where’re your legs at?”
My face flames as I hush him, but the old man cackles, wheeling backwards, and gesturing us in. “One’s in a place called Vi-et-nam. The other’s mounted on a wall at the Steel Bones clubhouse.”
I wrap an arm around Jimmy’s chest before he can follow this jolly biker into his surprisingly neat house. From what I can see over his shoulder, it’s really cozy. A plaid couch with wooden arms from the seventies, a worn leather recliner with scratches that say a cat used to live here.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
I make note to have a talk with Jimmy about being nosy. He’s usually so reticent, I don’t need to worry about him being rude. I guess he’s growing out of his shyness. Victoria’ll be happy. She’s been talking about him becoming more extroverted since he took his first steps.
“We don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to know if you have a number for the landlord next door.”
“Why’s it hanging on the wall?” Jimmy’s staring at the man’s legs, covered in sweatpants folded and pinned below the knee.
“Conversation piece.” Charge’s dad is wheeling backwards, and Jimmy squirms out of my arms to follow him.
I have no idea what’s gotten into my boy. He won’t even look my dad in the eye, but he runs right up to this grizzled biker.
“What’s a conversation piece?”
“Somethin’ to talk about. When you ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
“Why would you talk if you got nothin’ to say?”
I resist the urge to correct Jimmy’s grammar. He’s never this open with other people.
“Good point. Want to see my lures?”
I try to interrupt, politely decline, but Jimmy’s too quick. “Yeah.”
He follows Charge’s dad to a cluttered work table in front of the bay window. It’s covered in containers of hooks and feathers and spools of line. There’s a magnifying glass and a fancy vise.
Jimmy is entranced. “You fish?”
“Do I breathe, son?” Charge’s dad roots around on his desk until he finds a fluffy bit of fur. “Know what this is?”
Jimmy shakes his head.
“It’s an elk hair caddis. Good for trout and steelhead.”
“What’s a steelhead?”
“Kind of trout.”
“What’s it made of?”
“The elk hair caddis?”
Jimmy nods.
“Elk hair mostly.”
This all should sound like who’s on first, but it doesn’t. Jimmy is as serious as he always is, and Charge’s dad isn’t humoring him like most adults do with kids. He’s not shooting me any winking smiles. These two are having an honest-to-God conversation.
I back off and look around.
Snoop, really.
Everything in the little house is at least thirty years old, but clean. There’s a few fish mounted on the wall, a deer head, and a mirror with a beer logo, but other than that the walls are bare. No family pictures. No books. There are crates of records along one wall, and a wood stove. I can see through to the kitchen, and it’s clean, too.
I have to admit, I’m surprised.
I sit on the sofa, and it’s so worn, my butt sinks a good few inches. It’s comfy. My flip-flops slip loose, and I don’t bother wedging them back on.
The boys are chatting like old friends. Who are both six.
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“What’s your name?”
“Jimmy. My mama is Kayla. You can call her that. What’s your name?”
“Boots.”
“How come you’re called Boots? You don’t have legs.”
“It’s a joke.”
“That’s mean.”
“Nah. It’s funny.”
“Kind of.”
“Yeah.”
Their patter is so natural, so easy, I exhale a bit, relax into the sofa, let it wash over me.
Is this what it’d be like if my dad wasn’t so uptight? If he wasn’t so worried about Jimmy being athletic, and Jimmy being smart, and Jimmy being extroverted because now more than ever, it’s not what you know, but who you know?
As soon as I had Jimmy—hell, even before, when we found out I was pregnant—it was like my dad dusted his hands together and said, “Whelp. Done with that one. Failed.” All his high expectations moved on to Jimmy.
I figured out what sucks more than being a disappointment to your father. It’s your kid being a disappointment to your father.
I wish I could protect Jimmy from it, but I can’t. Because of, you know, math. Jimmy and I are on my dad’s health insurance. Victoria buys Jimmy clothes. She pays for his tee ball and summer camp and field trips. And there have been many times that their money has been the difference between Jimmy getting fresh fruits and vegetables and him getting his vitamins from fortified generic Captain Crunch.
I’m only twenty-one, but one thing I’ve learned: everything’s a tradeoff. Everything’s a catch 22.
I shake myself, tune back in to the conversation. No sense in dwelling on crap I can’t change. It’s all going to be okay because it has to be. That’s my mantra.
Boots is showing Jimmy how to make a lure, answering his hundred questions.
“How many kids do you have?” Jimmy asks.
“Just one. Charge.”
“Where’s his mama?”
“Couldn’t say. Maybe California.”
“I’ve never been to California.”
“Me neither.”
Their conversation loops around and meanders, soothing me again. I suppose I should interrupt, ask about the phone number, get going. There’s always a million things to do. Get more ice from Rutter’s. Do laundry. Find a place for the boxes I can’t unpack because I ran out of space.
Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 2
