“Because it’s mine, and I’m fine, and I won’t be fine if she knows. It’ll go on forever, and she’ll never let me move on. She’ll make it about her, like she does everything.” Chunk finished his argument with the weed and forgot for a second he was tied to his doom. He trotted over and tried to jump up Cecily’s leg. She used the chance to start his walk up again, and his tortured resistance closed off conversation.
Until there was whirligig plastic flower in a neighbor’s flower bed.
Mo’s hand brushed up and down Cecily’s back. The touch was comforting at first, but then it made her skin crawl, and she struggled not to shudder.
“What happened between you two, Ciss? You were so close.”
That was true. She and her mother had fought a lot during her teen years, because Cecily didn’t fit right anywhere, but they had nonetheless been close. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. Something must have happened.”
Chunk did a pee, and forgot again that he was leashed and angry about it. He ran over, grey tail flying back and forth, and sat pretty for a treat—he’d figured that trick out right away.
Cecily gave him his treat, then crouched beside the pup and picked him up. Holding him close, tucking his sweet, blue-eyed head to her cheek, she said something she’d been holding onto for more than three years. “I saw her with Eight Ball. Dad’s last Christmas.” She turned and buried her head against Chunk’s neck and waited for Mo to respond.
She had to ride out a long, painful lag between her statement, never before given breath, and Mo’s quiet response. “What do you mean ‘with’?”
“You know what I mean.”
She felt Mo’s hand clench around her upper arm, and she was yanked to her feet. “Cecily, I love you like my own child, but you had best be careful to speak in earnest now, lass.” In addition to the whirligigs and other fanciful accessories, this neighbor’s yard had a white wrought-iron bench around the trunk of a large oak. Heedless that they were trespassing, Mo dragged Cecily to that bench and shoved her down on it. “Now that you’ve said that, say the rest. Be clear.”
“It’s not your business.”
If she’d been maybe anybody else in the world, with the exception of Clara, Cecily would have felt the hot sting of Mo’s palm. She saw the desire in the woman’s fearsome glacial eyes. But her voice was calm and chilly when she said, “Cecily. You want me to keep a confidence. Give me a reason to do it. Why don’t you trust your mother?”
Now that she’d opened this door, Cecily knew she’d never push Mo out of its threshold, so there was no choice but to let her in. “At the clubhouse, the last Christmas before Dad was killed. Dad was playing pool with Uncle Brian. I wanted some quiet, so I went down toward his office, to sit in my nook.” There was a nook at the end of that hall, where a door had once been when the building had been apartments. They’d made the weird little space into a kind of sheltered seat, but most people ignored it—who needed a seat in a hallway? While she was still little, Cecily had taken it over as her place, where she’d sit and read or write and be forgotten. “Eight had Mom up against the wall right next to it, his tongue down her throat and his hands up her sweater. I backed up and got out of there before they saw me. But don’t tell me I can trust her, and don’t tell me she thinks of anybody but herself. All her moping around after Dad was killed? That was for show.”
Mo sat at Cecily’s side and stared at her own hands. “You know how drunk people get at those parties. And you know how Eight is. He was probably off his tits and taking liberties.”
“Her arms were around his neck. She was playing with his fucking mullet. They were both taking liberties. With my father.”
“Poppy…”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not five, Mo.”
“Cecily. Your mother loved your father. She loves him still. What she’s gone through without him—I’ve been here for every day of that, and I assure you it’s not been an act. She’s only just now coming back to herself. I know she’s your mum, but she is my oldest and dearest friend, and I was witness as their love grew and their family flowered. I know how deep and true their love was.” She set her hand on Cecily’s knee. “I also know that marriage is a long, hard road, and few can ride it for so many years without falling in some way. That kind of commitment, it shakes sometimes. On both sides.”
“Don’t you fucking dare try to say Dad cheated, too.”
Mo said nothing at all.
“Oh, fuck you, Mo. Fuck you.” She would not entertain that idea, and she would not continue this stupid conversation. Chunk was still in her arms; he was perfectly happy to be there, registering that contentment in high-pitched little snores. Cecily stood and carried him back to the house. She didn’t wait to see if Mo followed.
In the house, she set the pup down, put his leash away, walked around Mo and Jenny, and locked herself in the bathroom.
She had no other place for privacy; she was camping on their sofa.
~oOo~
Maverick pushed the door to Kelsey’s room slowly open and peeked in. “You coming out?” he whispered, “Or d’you plan to try to share that narrow bed all night? I’ve done it—trust me, you won’t sleep.”
Cecily had meant to leave the Helms’ house as soon as Mo was gone and Jenny was back from picking up Kelsey at school, but then Kelsey wanted to play, and then Maverick was home and it was time for dinner, and then the whole day had gone by, with Jenny and Maverick both shooting looks at her every chance they got. When Duncan had pitched a fit because it was Kelsey’s turn to pick the bedtime story, Cecily had volunteered to read with Kelsey while Maverick read to Duncan.
She had, in fact, meant to stay right here, snuggled with Kelsey, until Maverick and Jenny were asleep, and then sneak out and go back to Maddie and Ox’s.
Kelsey fussed in her sleep, and Cecily slid off the bed and tucked the covers up. She followed Maverick out of the room and let him lead her to the living room.
Which was empty. “Is Jenny in bed already?”
“She went to bed early so we could talk.”
“I’m so tired of talking, Mav. I just want to be quiet and alone.”
“I don’t want you alone. If you’re here, you sneak the vodka. I bet that slows you down a lot.”
“F—”
“Yeah, I know. Fuck me. Sit, Ciss.”
“I want to go home.”
“That’s where you are. You need to remember that, and maybe your shit will start to make sense.” He shoved her lightly, and her ass hit the sofa cushion. Then he sat beside her—not right on top of her, he gave her some space, but close enough that she could reach him if she wanted to.
He was like that, Maverick. He knew where to be.
A story was brewing in him, she could tell. Maverick was good at shaping conversations, leading them where he wanted them to go, weaving his will with words. You had to be on your toes to win an argument with him.
He stared at his hands, twisting his wedding ring around his finger. It was the only ring he wore. Her father had worn six—three on each hand, most of them heavy and jagged. She had no idea where those rings were now, she realized. Probably shoved in the back of a drawer in her mother’s bedroom. Or maybe sold and melted down for their value in silver and gold.
Cecily sighed and waited for Maverick to say what he felt was so important to say.
When he spoke, it was quietly, while he stared at his hands. “When I got out, I had a lot of trouble fitting with the club again. It’d changed while I was inside, and it didn’t feel like home to me. Nothing felt like home. Me and Jenny, we weren’t right, and somebody else had my seat at the table, and even the party room looked different. I had nothing the way I needed it. The life I had before was gone. The kutte itself was the only thing that was right, and even that didn’t fit like it had before. But the Bulls were the ones waiting for me. They were all I had, even if it all was wrong. So I stuck it out until I figured out where my place was again. There’s be
en shit that’s gone down in the club since I got out that I fucking hate. There’ve been times when I’ve thought about leaving. A lot of times when I worried if the club would get my wife and kids hurt. And I’ll tell you now, if Jenny said she needed out, I’d drop that kutte off my back and leave it where it fell. But the thing that stops me, and her, is this: these people, they are our family. Like any family, there are people in it I love with my whole heart, people I like well enough, and people I want to kill more than not. There are times I can barely stand to be around them, but if they need me, I don’t think twice, and I know that when I need them, they’ll be there. Even the ones I want to kill more than not. When the shit hits, the people who are still at your side—that’s your kin. Even if they’re assholes.”
Cecily got his point, but she didn’t want it. So she crossed her arms and sagged against the back of the sofa. “Good for you. Congratulations on your happy family. What’s that got to do with me?”
Chuckling, Maverick shook his head and sagged back beside her. “Honey, pull in your claws. Being a bitch is fine sometimes in a fight, but it loses its pop if it’s the only punch you use.” He turned his head to hers, but she looked straight ahead and pretended she didn’t notice. “The Bulls are your family, too. More even than mine. Dane founded it with D. He was a Bull from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair. You grew up in that clubhouse, and your sister did, too. You’ve known every single man who’s ever worn the Bull. You blame us for Dane’s death, and you say you hate us, but we are still your family, and we are still here when your shit hits. Maybe you’ll straighten out a little bit when you stop fighting it so hard.”
“You killed my father.”
“The club is not one man, Ciss. A Bull killed your father. And another one settled that score. What you say Eight did—”
Obviously, Mo had blabbed to Jenny, who’d blabbed to Maverick. Typical. She flung her head around to face him. “Not what I say he did. What he did. And what she did.”
“Okay. What Eight did, that’s fucked up, and if Dane had known, the club would have let him settle up. You want to hate Eight Ball, hon, you go right ahead. There’s a long line of women winding around Tulsa who do. But Eight is not the club. You ask me, he’s the least of us.”
“Is he who you mean about wanting to kill more than not?”
Maverick answered that with some expressive body language—a one-sided shrug with a twist and a cock of his head. It made her feel a little better to know that Maverick hated the same Bull she did. Or at least didn’t like him.
“Are you going to do anything about Eight now?”
She wasn’t surprised when Maverick shook his head, but she was definitely disappointed.
“I’m not going to say anything to anybody about it.” When she scoffed, he grabbed her hand. “Cissy, that was Dane’s fight. The debt died with him, and it does no good to drag your mom’s name through the clubhouse now. Not after all she’s been through already.” He shifted so that his body faced hers, and he tugged gently on her hand. “And hon, I won’t talk about your dad, but I will say it wouldn’t be a bad thing to give your mom some room here.”
Now Maverick, too, was intimating that her father had cheated, and if he said it was true, she had no choice but to believe it. “Jesus Christ, Mav. I don’t want to know this!”
“Then don’t know it. I won’t say more. But if you can find it somewhere under all that barbed wire you’ve stuffed yourself full of, maybe dig up some forgiveness for your mom.”
She couldn’t just decide not to know something real; she wasn’t Clara. That point had been amply proved recently. No, she had to face reality, and now she had to contend with the truth that her father, her wonderful, perfect, beloved father, hadn’t been so perfect after all. That the family she thought she’d grown up in, all those happy memories, had been nothing more than a manufactured image, like the photo from a magazine decoupaged over a cracked vase, hiding its flaws but not sealing them.
Her heart deflated, and all the air ran out of her in a sigh. When Maverick scooted close and slid his arm behind her shoulders, she let him pull her to his chest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The guy called ‘Cole’ turned out to be not so easy to find, but Apollo quickly found the Hound he and Caleb had come face to face with in the crack house that night. His name was Tom Brace, a low-level street dealer who’d been there to deliver product and partake of some of the party favors. Delaney and Becker had met with Gary Samms, head of the Hounds in Tulsa, and come away with an invitation to question Brace, in Samms’ presence.
Brace had given up the names of the guys who ran the squat—and confirmation that, yes, they were pimping girls out from there. Assholes were working off their drug debts and keeping their secrets quiet by bringing in fresh meat—dosing girls at clubs and dropping them off to get shot up with horse and offered up for fifty bucks a pop. Once they were hooked, the girls got turned out for real.
Last fall, Jacinda and Maddie, Apollo’s old lady and Ox’s, had taken down a bastard who’d been running whores in the same way—whores and little kids, too. It sure hadn’t taken long for somebody to step in and fill Wendell Hayes’s void.
The meeting where Delaney had laid all that on the table had been the quietest and most angry Caleb had ever been part of. The idea that Dane’s oldest girl had gotten caught up in this kind of shit, that the club had failed Dane and his family yet again, had every Bull clenched and shaking.
What they wanted to do to these sons of bitches—two of them, named Icky Martin and Kurt Griesedieck—they couldn’t do in the middle of Tulsa. Becker offered up his family’s place about an hour west of town, where the remnants of his folks’ house still stood. It was almost a hundred acres, half of those a small forest that ran right up on the homestead. The barn was weathered but still intact, though the house had been caved in the year before, when the edge of a tornado had brushed by and dropped a huge oak on the roof. The place had been empty for a year or so before that, since Becker’s mother’s death.
Three days after the Bulls had sat in their chapel and discussed what had happened to Cecily, a week after it had happened, the club was on Becker’s land, most of them standing in the dusty, nearly empty barn. Wally and Slick were on watch detail—the place was secluded, but the club was always cautious.
Becker, Apollo, and Gunner had just left the barn to meet with Kendra, a club sweetbutt who ran Signet Models, and get her help to gather up the girls Martin and Griesedieck had already turned out.
The remaining Bulls stood in a ring around those bastards, who’d been stripped naked and straddled over sawhorses. Their ankles were bound underneath. Their arms were bound at the wrist and tied over their heads, on rope strung over the barn rafters, the rope taut enough to keep them from falling but not to take their weight. They rested on their balls, struggling to balance on the narrow edge of the horses. They weren’t gagged. Rad had wanted them to talk; now he wanted to hear them scream.
Thick rivulets of sweat ran from their every pore. They’d taken heavy beatings already. Martin wept like a baby, great howling sobs. Griesedieck glared angrily, his jaw clenched, but he shook so hard the sawhorse stuttered on the dirt floor.
Rad had directed the particular nature of their restraint, and Caleb was fascinated and sickened. He couldn’t quite visualize what Rad intended to do, but clearly, it was going to be awful.
Rad was sweating, too, as was Gargoyle, who’d been his assistant in this barn. The rest of the club served as witness.
“Do we have all we need from this scum?” Rad growled at Delaney.
The president stared long at the men before him. “I’d say yeah.”
“How d’you want me to do ‘em?”
“You got their stash?”
Because he was the one holding the backpack in question, Caleb said, “Yeah. But we’re giving it back to Samms, right?”
“We are. But we’ll take a cut to finish this right. I want a message
sent that pulling this bullshit again is a straight chute to pain and destruction.” Delaney turned to Mav. “You got anything you want to do here?”
“I’m saving my revenge for the bastard who brought her to them,” Mav said with eerie calm. Griesedieck and Martin had given up a name and workplace for that. Cole Holloway. He worked at a car stereo shop in West Tulsa.
Just then, Martin lost his battle for balance, and slid sideways on the sawhorse, hanging with his arms stretched awkwardly. Rad shoved him back to center.
“Looks like you need some help keepin’ your seat.” He drove his knife down into the sawhorse. Right through Martin’s dick.
The sound Martin made clawed through Caleb’s brain and down into his gut. He didn’t feel sorry for the shithead at all, but he could feel that knife nonetheless, and he thought he might pass out. His brothers seemed equally green and shaken. But not Rad. He stood there with his hand still on the grip of his knife while Martin shrieked and blood oozed in a slow, thick stream down the sawhorse beam and plopped into the dirt.
Stand (The Brazen Bulls MC Book 7) Page 9
