by Jc Emery
“I miss you. I miss you a lot.” So much for easing him into this conversation. But that’s kind of the Forsaken way—bulls in a china shop.
“Fuck, I miss you, too,” he says. We just saw each other a few weeks ago, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. And just like that, the imaginary dam we built to keep ourselves safe and the scary emotions at bay during this time apart freaking bursts, and everything comes flowing out. “I was starting to think you were moving on.”
“Never. I’m just scared,” I admit. He sucks in a deep breath but doesn’t say anything. “I’m scared we’re going to drift apart, and every time I start thinking about what you’re doing while I’m down here, I have the urge to flambé somebody’s face.”
“What the fuck is a flambé?” he asks, a light laugh echoing on the other end of the line, followed by static and what I think might be the whistling of the wind.
I settle in on my bed, not even trying to ignore the fluttery feeling in my stomach. “You know those kitchen blowtorches? The ones that make crème brûlée?” I ask. I almost tell him it’s the thing that Dad forces me to carry with me in my purse. He says it makes an excellent weapon, and I have an excuse for having it. Got a problem? Light ’em on fire. That’s his motto. Since my school doesn’t allow firearms on campus, I can’t bring my handgun with me. We don’t have metal detectors or anything that could bust me for bringing it, but I’d feel like a prisoner if I had to carry it with me everywhere.
“Is that some kind of cake?” He has to repeat himself because I didn’t hear him the first time. “Sorry the connection sucks. I’m outside waiting on someone.”
“Someone special?” I ask, almost teasing but not really. I would hate to have to cut a bitch.
“Just my favorite girl is all,” he says, and I swear I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Give Robin a hug from her auntie for me, will ya?” He must be on babysitting duty for my little buddy.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, brushing off my comment. “So anyway, the cake?”
“No.” I try to think of how to describe flambé to him. When nothing comes to me, I say, “Alcohol makes fire in a hot pan. It’s lighting food on fire.”
“Babe, you get my dick hard when you talk about fire and food in the same sentence.” He clears his throat and blows out a shuddered breath. I eye my closed bedroom door and scrunch my face up at what I’m about to do.
“Is your dick hard now?” I ask, stuttering through the entire sentence. God, I sound like a freaking moron.
I’m not the only one who wasn’t expecting me to be this forward. “It is now,” he says. “Good thing I got a few minutes.”
“Aren’t you outside?” I ask. He can’t possibly be… considering… that… outdoors.
There’s rustling on the other end, and a doorbell chimes in the background. His stomping echoes in the phone, and then a door creaks open and shuts closed. When I hear the lock slide into place, I almost giggle.
“Can you touch yourself for me?” I ask. Yeah, it’s official. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, but I’m not hearing any complaints so I go with it. I think he might be at the new coffee shop in town… in the bathroom… about to touch himself. I shouldn’t encourage this kind of behavior, but he’s going to do it anyway. Dad did say to make my boy happy.
His breathing escalates as he slides his zipper down and frees himself. At least, that’s what he tells me he’s doing. He tells me he’s stroking himself,
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I confess.
“Just talk,” he says. “I want to hear your voice. Tell me how you make a flambé or whatever it is.” I giggle happily at his difficulty at understanding the meaning of flambé. “I fucking love that sound. Do it again.”
So I tell him, through giggles, how to flambé a dish. Trying to sound sexy, I note the heat of the fire and the wetness of the alcohol before it burns. I search for any aspect of the process that could help him along, but I’m pretty miserable at it, to be honest.
Finally, I give up trying to be sexy when I’m not. “I love you, baby, and I wish I were there with you right now.”
He grunts on the other end of the phone, then gasps and sucks in a frantic breath. I wait until he’s back with me, sounding breathless and pleased and obviously worn out judging from the series of yawns that escape him. Being able to give him this and to hear him pleasure himself is enticing. But I can’t do anything with my dad in this house—it’s bad enough what we just did—so I try to block out the telltale throbbing at the apex of my thighs and my heated skin. Jeremy and I have only been together a few times, and in a lot of ways, it feels like our relationship can’t stay on course like normal adult relationships do.
“I love you,” he says. He yawns again despite the early hour. “Sorry.”
“Long day?”
“Long year,” he says, I think referencing my absence in combination with all the club’s shit.
And here it is, the topic he never wants to talk about. The toll the club takes on him with the Mancuso situation, and the devastation that’s followed is painful. It hurts me to even think about what we’ve lost, but Jeremy actually lives through it every day. He’s been there through almost all of it, and I know it must weigh on his heart that things are going this direction. It’s just getting more violent and scarier every time he gives me an update. I worry for him so much sometimes that I curl into a ball on the floor and sob for fear that the next call I’ll get will be my dad telling me he’s gone.
“I’m sorry, baby. I wish I could make it all less painful,” I say in absence of anything more helpful. “I know you don’t want me to have to deal with all that shit, but I want you to talk to me about it. You need to talk about it so you can move forward and get the shit done you need to so we can have our always.”
And he does.
I listen while he talks and tells me things I didn’t know, and this time when he asks if I’m still his girl, I say, “Always,” and I know it’s the truth.
Just as I hang up the phone, Dad knocks and, as always, walks in without notice. He notices my fallen shoulders and sorrowful eyes. He blows out a breath and says, “You talk to him?”
“Yeah.” I give him a small smile. “I just miss him. I still feel that crushing thing when I think about how long it’s going to be until I’m going to see him again.”
“Christ, you’re fucking dramatic.” With a huff, I eye the black throw pillow beside me and chuck it at his head. He doesn’t bother with batting it away and lets it bounce off his head. With a raised eyebrow, he says, “If you’re done throwing shit, I want to show you something I brought for you.”
“If you’re done being insensitive, I’d like to see it,” I say and stand from my bed.
“Left it outside.” He hitches his thumb in the direction of the front door. I nod my head and follow behind. “Just hope it hasn’t gotten itself lost or run over by now, because I ain’t finding you another one.”
“Did you get me a puppy?” I ask, way too hopeful. I’ve been asking for a puppy for years, and he has always said no. The day I can afford a puppy on my own, I can have one. But with the dangers the club is facing, maybe he’s changed his mind and gone to that breeder where they got PJ. I could totally dig having my very own PJ.
“I should have gotten you a dog years ago to avoid this, but no.” He opens the front door halfway, blocking my view outside. I bounce on the balls of my feet and try to peek, but he flicks me in the forehead and shakes his head. “Don’t think I’m happy about this or anything, but here’s your early birthday present.”
I shove past him, careful to jab my elbow into his side extra hard, and stumble onto the front porch. Looking around, I can’t find anything that might belong to me. Movement down below on the street catches my attention. Sitting on top of my dad’s old bike—the very first bike I ever sat on—is Jeremy. Dad walks out of the house after me and closes the door. I make a move to head down the stairs when Da
d places his gorilla-like hand on my shoulder and says, “Wait for it.”
Jeremy stands from the bike and step away from it. He gives Dad a lift of his chin, which I catch Dad returning. The more time they spend together, the more similar their mannerisms become, which, frankly, freaks me the ever-loving fuck out. Jeremy lifts his arms perpendicular to his body and slowly turns around. His back comes into view, and the weight of this moment hits me like a sledgehammer to my gut. Dad removes his hand from my shoulder and lets out a small chuckle.
I place my hand over my mouth to cover the gasp as tears explode in my eyes. A wretched sob overtakes me as I find myself taking a single step forward. He’s fully turned around now and a brand new FORSAKEN patch shines from the top of his vest. I got used to seeing his prospect cut with so few patches on it, that this new addition is startling. He finishes his circle and is facing me once again. He drops his arms at his sides and then crooks a finger, calling me over.
My feet have taken off, and I’m halfway down the stairs when I realize I’m in motion. Once I hit the concrete, I’m grateful that even on autopilot I can at least navigate a flat surface. I don’t slow down when I reach him. Instead, I fling myself into his arms. He hauls me up and swings me around in a circle before placing me on the pavement again.
“Holy fucking shit,” I say. I’m almost speechless but not quite. I gape at him for a moment before he places one hand behind my head and pulls me to him, crashing his lips against mine. I’m wrapped up in him, sucked into all that he is and what he’s accomplished. I fell in love with a smart-mouthed boy in a prospect cut, and I continue to sink even deeper in love with this man. There’s so little of the boy left in him now, but what’s replaced the immature antics is a man whose word is his law, and his heart is as beautiful as anything I’ve ever known. But I won’t tell him that. He doesn’t like it when I get sappy and shit.
“When did this happen?”
“Few days after you left town.” The grin on his face is almost unbelievable. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him look so happy before.
“That was almost a month ago!” I scream, a rabid, angry-woman scream that I didn’t know I was capable of until we got together.
“Had to take care of some shit first,” he says with an attitude that makes me want to beat him with his cut. I was home for almost a month over Christmas break and that asshole didn’t call me, come see me, or nothing. Fucking dick.
“That’s your response? That’s all you got to fucking say for yourself? Really, Jeremy Whelan? Really?”
“Would you shut the fuck up?” he shouts in my face so loudly that I’m startled into silence. Has he forgotten my dad is on the porch and can rip his goddamn head off for that shit? I slide my eyes to Dad, whose arms are folded over his chest that’s heaving in laughter. No, really? The asshole gets a new patch on his back and suddenly I’m fucking chopped liver?
“You did not just scream in my face,” I say quietly, readying myself for battle. Where’s that damn blowtorch when I need it?
“Are you going to shut your trap so I can talk to you, or are you going to keep bitching at me?”
“Which do you suggest?” I say with more sarcasm than should be legal.
“Shutting your fucking mouth. Wanted to get the club’s opinion on something before coming down here,” he says. That cocky grin is back now. “And you’re going to feel like a Grade-A bitch when I tell you why.”
“Well, you picked me,” I mutter and pout like an insolent child. Calming myself down, I place my hand over the new patches on the front of his cut that have replaced the PROSPECT patch. He’s a full member of the club now and is entitled to everything that comes with that. I wanted this for him, even tried to pray for it once, and now that it’s happened, I barely know what to do with myself.
“You deserve this,” I say with a definitive nod.
“So do you,” he says quietly. “That’s why the night I was patched in, I asked your dad for permission to make you my old lady. So don’t you dare fuck this up for us, because you’ve been on the clock since yesterday.”
“You—” I stop. Now I really am speechless. I can’t be angry with him for that. My head spins around to my dad, who smiles down at me. “You did that? They voted on me?”
“Please,” he says with an air of confidence that’s almost suffocating. “Leo told us how you handled him in the woods. You think any of my brothers were going to say no to you?”
“But Dad?” I say in a half question, half statement. But my dad voted yes?
“Well, yeah. You’re a handful, and he’s got another one on the way. Had to unload you somewhere.”
“Fucking asshole,” I say and grab the sides of his neck and bring his lips to mine.
He’s a fucking asshole, all right. But he’s my Forsaken asshole.
EPILOGUE
June
2 months after Mancuso’s downfall
The farther we get from the city, the hotter the sun beats on my skin. I suck in a deep, greedy breath and revel in the feel of my girl’s arms wrapped tight around my waist. Chey’s been riding her whole life, even in Layla’s stomach before she was born, but her grip is murderous right now. Her tits are pushed into my cut, and her face rests between my shoulder blades. Her body is so relaxed, but she’s squeezing the fucking life out of me. Still, I can’t bring myself to tell her to lighten up. If she needs to hang on to me like this to know I’m here and I’m real, then she can break a fucking rib for all I care.
Because as much as she needs to know I’m real, I need to know she’s real possibly even more.
The last two years have been rough. It seemed like we’d made the decision that she would go to school on the spur of the moment, in the shadows of chaos and trauma, and that after the dust settled, one of us would tell the other it was a mistake. That she shouldn’t go.
“My little girl ran into a war zone today,” Grady said once we’d gotten back to his house that night. “Do the right thing and let her go.”
I looked him in the eye and tried to be as strong as he was when I said, “I can’t let her get hurt because of me. She has to go.”
We’re nearing town, having just left Willits, and the road is winding down through Jackson State Forest. The sun is blocked by the hills and trees above us. The memories of how we got here flood my mind. Grady’s given me a wider berth since that day, treating me more like an equal than some punk kid he’s forced to tolerate.
The day the club patched me in, over a year ago now, he said, “Don’t undervalue the gift I’m giving you, son. It’s the greatest thing you’ll ever get.” I remember shaking my head and asking to speak with him privately. When we were alone, I went right for it.
“Proud to have my patch, but I can think of a gift more valuable than your brotherhood.”
He looked away and was silent for at least a solid minute. “You’re doing this now?”
I nodded my head. “I’m not whole without her,” I said. It was the truth then as much as it is the truth now. “I’d like your permission to ask the club to consider voting her in.”
“I fucking hate you,” he said. He didn’t mean it, because he gave me his permission and then called the guys back into the chapel for the vote. It’ll be another year yet before she can be voted in, but she’s earning her place at my side. Hopefully soon she’ll share my name.
“One day, Grady, I’m going to ask her to marry me again,” I told him to prepare him for it. I’ve found that the more prepared he is for something, the less angry he gets when it happens, even if he disapproves. That was about three months ago. He shrugged it off but pulled out his gun and took off the safety.
“One day, Jeremy, you’re going to say the wrong fucking thing and I’m going to lose it,” he had said. But that was it. We didn’t talk about it again until I pulled him aside at the graduation ceremony two days ago.
Preparing Grady for Chey’s return to Fort Bragg hasn’t been easy. First I had to get the whole proposal th
ing out there for him. Then I mentioned bringing her stuff to my place. That one almost got me decapitated, but eventually he mumbled something about a pool table and moving the kids’ rooms around. I didn’t really follow it, but the following week, her bedroom was cleared out of anything Holly and Elle thought she might want to have around her new home. I drew the line at the shitty girly posters of half-naked actors she professes to like “because of their talent and not their appearance.” Either way, those fucking assholes don’t get to come to the house with us.
As we descend upon Fort Bragg, her grip relaxes some. My stomach muscles have gotten a serious workout this ride—and it was a long fucking ride—but the strain feels good. I haven’t worked out the way Duke and I used to lately. Been too busy getting shit fixed up for my girl to come home. Haven’t shaved properly in a while, but she’s expressed interest in my budding goatee.
I veer off Main Street and head down Sherwood Road in the wrong direction of her dad’s house. She notices immediately and pipes up, but I ignore her. Before we get to Ruby’s long-ass driveway, I slow the bike and cut down a small service road that separates her from her neighbors and turn toward the family cabin. Ian lived here for several years before moving out for a bigger place and offering it up to me and Chey. He’d reasoned that we’d be better company for his mother than he ever was. The only other people to live in the cabin besides Ian and Mindy were Rage and Sylvia before she passed and he retired to Nevada.
“What are we doing out here?” she asks as I bring the bike to a stop in front of the small cabin. This place hasn’t always held happy memories for her, but I’m determined to turn that around. Cutting off the bike and pushing down her kickstand, I pat her thigh for her to get up. She responds and climbs off, then steps back to give me room to swing my leg over. Once I’m on the dirt, I take her hand and lead her to the front steps. She’s acting funny, just like she’s been for months now. It’s my own fault, really. But I want her to have this, so I’ll deal with it for now.
