by Jc Emery
My legs give out on me, and just as I think I’m going to sink to the floor, Jim wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me into his chest. I’m no longer angry with Ruby, but now with my father, with Gloria—with all of them. Every ounce of misery makes me kick at Jim and try to push him off of me. But he holds tight, hugging me, propping me up. Screaming into his chest, my lungs fight to keep up, my voice cracks, and my eyes feel swollen from the dramatics of it all. The combination of the sorrow, betrayal, and even the guilt at the relief of having a mother, when I’ve been without one for so long, boils over. Jim lets me cry into his chest as the panic suffocates me and every emotion I’ve tried to keep in check over the last two months escapes. All of the fear, outrage, confusion, and anguish over feeling lied to and protected, used and loved and so very out of place leaves my body and, in its wake, all I’m left with is this all-consuming feeling of being numb that I can’t shake.
Chapter 21
How often it is that the angry man rages denial of what his inner self is telling him.
- Frank Herbert
I’VE BEEN WATCHING her for days. When she speaks, it’s barely above a whisper. It’s been days that she’s walked around like a zombie. Days that I’ve watched her like some sick fuck who’s been recently paroled.
Rolling my shoulders, I grunt at the discomfort. I’ve been standing in the same fucking spot for the last five hours. I could move around—it’s not like I can’t sit or something. I just don’t want to. Twisting a little to the left, I have a perfect view of Alex through her open glass door. I don’t think she even realizes we’re out here, and we’ve been out here since Ma’s call with Gloria.
Pop ain’t fucking around with security. We didn’t have much time to prep before leaving for New York. Gloria’s call shook us all up. Fucking imagining you’d never see your kids, then finding out you gotta head out and save one of them? That shit will knock anyone on their ass—even Ma—and she’s tough as nails. Turning back to the right, I see Ma in the kitchen, making a sandwich, with Pop hovering over her. She hasn’t been the same since Alex got here. She’s been more guarded, gentle, and even forgiving.
Looking back to Alex, I see her sitting in the middle of her bed, surrounded by every photo album Ma has. Alex pours through captured memories of a life she missed out on. Her legs are folded and crossed in front of her. With an album open on her lap, she drags her index finger slowly down the center of the page. Her hair is up today, so I can actually see her face. Yesterday she had it down, which was good, because she cried almost the entire day. I had to do a line just to deal with that shit. Fucking tears. Give me some bitch screaming and freaking out, but tears? Screw that. Even Pop can’t handle that shit. Thankfully, there have been no tears today.
Her bedroom door opens, and Pop walks in, carrying a tray with a 7-Up and a sandwich on it. From my vantage point on the front deck, I can easily see both Ma and Alex. Ma is in the kitchen, chewing on her bottom lip. She’s prepared every one of Alex’s meals the last few days so Alex wouldn’t have to leave her room. She never brings the food in, though—she makes Pop do that. I wish she’d just suck it the fuck up already and talk to her. This avoidance shit is driving me nuts.
“Thanks,” Alex whispers, lifting her head and clearing her throat. She forces a small smile, which Pop returns. He hasn’t seen me yet, but he will soon.
“This, uh, standoff you two got going is turning me into a waiter. I’m not a waiter,” Pop says. His eyes travel over Alex and meet mine, making me uncomfortable. He told us to keep watch. I don’t think this is what he had in mind. Feeling the lingering effects of the coke, I flash him a smile and raise my eyebrows. His face doesn’t register the taunt.
“It’s not a standoff. It’s just a… I don’t know what it is,” she says. Back when this was my room, I used to hate how thin the walls were. There was absolutely no privacy. Now, I’m grateful for it. I’m not very skilled at reading lips.
“Well, work it out. Just hug her or something. I don’t know. All this crying crap is turning my balls into a pair of fucking ovaries.” For the first time in a while, Alex bursts out laughing. She covers her mouth with her hand and smiles up at Pop. These two are forming an unexpected bond. I only wish Ma would get her ass in there to see it.
Pop cracks a smile and clarifies that his comment wasn’t a request, but a demand, to which she nods. Just as he leaves the room, PJ rushes in. She circles the perimeter of the bed—twice—jumps on top of a few of the albums, and then jumps down again. Smiling at her, Alex shoves the albums aside and pats the bed. With a wagging tail, PJ jumps up and plops herself down, rolls over, and sticks her legs in the air, whimpering. Damn dog. Ma ruined her. She was supposed to be a scary beast. Alex spends a few minutes rubbing PJ’s belly before the dog has had enough and jumps back up and looks around the room.
Catching sight of me in the doorway, her wispy tail maniacally swings from side to side, and she barks, runs at me, circles my feet, and then runs back to the bed and jumps back on, repeating the process two more times. Alex’s smile falls when she sees me. We haven’t spoken since that night. And I’m sick of it. Even when shit’s fucked up, I’d rather talk to her than not.
“If you’re going to stand there watching me, you might as well come in,” she says. Her voice has an edge to it when she talks to me. With Pop she’s much softer; with Ma she’s less mature. With Ian she’s something else. With me, she always seems pissed off or nervous. But right now, I don’t give a fuck. She’s talking to me.
Abandoning my post, I step inside the room. Her fallen smile morphs into something a little angrier. Her eyes narrow, brows pull together, and her jaw ticks.
“How long have you been out there?”
“Awhile. Somebody’s got to be on guard since you’ve turned into a zombie.”
“How dare you,” she snaps. Her eyes are focused on PJ as the dog rushes over and whimpers at my feet. I crouch down and rub her behind her ears. “What do you want anyway?”
“Stop acting like a baby. Talk to her,” I say. It’s not what I want to say, but it doesn’t fucking matter. She glares, turning to face me.
“Who are you, my fucking therapist?”
Her attitude takes me by surprise, setting off my temper. I came in here to be nice, at least I think I did. I don’t need this shit. “Well, you fucking need one.”
Clearing a space on the bed, I plop down with my right leg bent out in front of me. PJ follows and jumps up between us, her sharp little claws digging into our flesh. I grit my teeth, trying not to show that it hurts. Alex looks down at her lap as PJ settles in on her side.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I don’t need—another brother. I have a brother back in Brooklyn, and apparently I have Ian, too. I don’t need you taking on the role as well.”
The last thing I want her to see me as is her fucking brother. Christ, I’ve been in her pussy. The idea that she thinks of me as her brother is more troubling to me than I’d like to admit. I just shake my head and look down at her fidgeting hands. “I don’t think of you as a sister.”
“No, I guess I’m just a Lost Girl then, huh?” I try to fight the way that comment makes me feel—like a real bastard. I hate feeling shit, and it seems like that’s all I’ve been doing lately. I was not prepared for this shit with Alex. She’s pretty much everywhere, and the places she’s not, people are fucking talking about her. The last thing Alex is, is a Lost Girl. She’s not a club whore.
“You’re not a Lost Girl,” I say. Why she gets me talking, I don’t fucking know. I just need her to know that she’s nobody’s whore, not even mine.
“Then why did you treat me like I am?” Her shoulders are slumped and her brows are tight. This is the last thing she needs right now. She’s still struggling with the Ma thing.
“You want to do this now?” I ask, hanging on the hope that the harsh tone I use is enough to deter this conversation. I know why I did it, I’m just not ready to face it. Pop was right. All the fucking
tears going on in this house are going to make my balls sprout eggs.
“Might as well get all the ugly out of the way,” she says, jutting her chin out. I’ve seen this before, her trying to be brave. She’s so naïve. She doesn’t have a fucking clue how ugly shit can get. This isn’t the ugly, even though she thinks it is. This is just an aftershock of the ugly, if even that.
“We fucked. It was fun.” I shrug it off like it’s nothing, like it’s the truth. “What, you want a diamond ‘cause I got in your pussy?”
The comment makes her flinch and look away. I lock my jaw in place to keep from apologizing. Isn’t that what the other night was about—hurting her? I’m supposed to be pushing her away, not pulling her closer. Letting her know that I feel sorry for treating her like a whore isn’t an option.
Just when I think the tears are going to come, her face hardens and she faces me once more. “You’re a bastard.”
“I know,” I say, my eyes trained on hers. She’s finally getting it.
“Are you even going to try to change?”
“No.”
“Fine,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Don’t change, that’s fine. But we’re in each other’s worlds. We have to find a way to be civil around each other.” She pushes her hands into the bed beside her, pulling herself up straighter.
“I don’t want to be civil around you,” I say, forcing myself to shut my mouth before everything else spills out. I don’t want to be civil around her because civility requires an emotional distance. I don’t feel distant when I’m with her. I don’t feel civil or nice. I feel on edge, needy, manic. I’m way too deep into this chick to feel fucking civil. Maybe I could have been civil before I fucked her, but not now. Being in her pussy was good and all, but that’s not what’s fucking me up. I know she didn’t enjoy it. It hurt her, and I didn’t want her to enjoy it. And what kind of fucked up bastard does that shit? Not anybody she should let fuck her, that’s for sure.
“You’re an impossible asshole!” she screams.
“Don’t you think I know that? Maybe you didn’t hear me the first fucking time—it’s you or my patch. What is it going to take to get you to hate me?” I reach up, hanging onto the back of my neck with my hands, and blow out a breath. I shake off bitches on the regular—why this is so hard, I don’t know. Every time I try to push her away, she fights me on it.
“You say you don’t want me, you act like you hate me, but you keep coming around.” She shakes her head in disdain and wrings her hands together in her lap.
“I never said I didn’t want you,” I say and turn away from her, leaving the room the way I came in. I don’t know when I turned into Mr. Fucking Chatty, but this shit has got to stop.
I have to get the hell out of here. This chick is fucking with my head again, and it’s making it impossible for me to do my job. I just need some distance.
Giving Squat, whose real name is Rob, a nod, I cross the deck and take the stairs into the grass two at a time. I take a quick look back to see he’s taken my position at the sliding glass door and has his piece in hand. I trust him well enough—for a prospect—but just in case, I decide to give him a reminder.
“Hey, Squat,” I shout. His grip on the rifle tightens as he turns to face me. “What happens if you fuck this up?” Nervously, he straightens his shoulders and gulps. He and I barely talk, and that’s how it’ll be until he’s patched—if he’s patched. I can only train him to properly do his job if he fears me. His face distorts uncomfortably, likely remembering the conversation we had the first night we stood watch.
“You think you can handle this?” I ask. The sun has long since set, and the notorious cold Mendocino nights are in full effect. We’ve been out here for nearly five hours now, just feet from Alex, who’s holed up in her room. If I strain to listen, I can hear her exhausted whimpers and cries as she processes what it means being Ruby’s kid. Part of me wants to hold her, the other part of me wants to use my .38 on myself and just put an end to the misery.
“I got it,” he says, confidently. His chest is puffed out on his short frame, and his chin juts out. He’s verging on cocky, and arrogance leads to mistakes. This is one job he doesn’t have the luxury of messing up.
“Okay then, get this. There are severe consequences if you fuck this up. I’m not going to kill you. I’ll make you suffer instead.” Closing the distance between us, I peer down, crowding him. His eyes are wide, but he doesn’t move. “Your mom that you love so much? I’ll fuck her until she begs me to stop, until she cries. And then I’ll fuck her harder. And I’ll do it while you watch.”
Rage fills his eyes, but wisely, he doesn’t respond. I’ve never taken a woman by force before, and if he fucks this up, I’ll just kill him instead. But the threat to his mother is just the thing to make sure he’s on his A-game.
Shouting over the chirping of the crickets, he says, “There will be serious consequences if she gets hurt, Sir.”
“Who?” I shout right back.
“Cub,” he says, using the nickname I gave Alex months ago, before Duke started calling her Princess—that stupid fuck.
I round the back of the garage and come up to the front of the house where I parked my bike. The afternoon sun is hidden by a wall of clouds, and the temperature has dropped dramatically. Despite it being the middle of July, the cool air is not abnormal. Mendocino County doesn’t experience summer the way everything south of us does; our climate more akin to the Pacific Northwest than California.
I swing my leg over my bike—a beautiful custom Harley—and affix the helmet to my head. Popping up the kickstand and starting her up, I peel out of the driveway, creating as much physical distance as I can. Pop has four guys—five if you include me—on the house, not including prospects. Tonight, we’ll be down to three prospects on the house because the rest of us have Church. But he’s also got local law enforcement to keep an eye out for any out-of-town visitors who might be heading our way. Alex is safe, that’s what’s important. Because as much as I want to ignore that shit, her safety matters to me. She matters to me.
The cool night air hits my knuckles as I coast through town. There’s a speed trap between Pop’s house and the club house, but the cops in this town wouldn’t dare pull over a Forsaken. Passing by the partially hidden squad car, I give it a nod. I may not be able to see who’s inside, but I know they can see me. My bike is hard to miss. Not only is she loud, but the glossy lettering of FORSAKEN gleams against the matte black finish in the fading sun.
Chapter 22
I am not ashamed to say that no man I ever met was my father's equal,
and I never loved any other man as much.
- Hedy Lamarr
FORSAKEN CUSTOM CYCLE is dead, as usual. Pulling into the parking lot, I let my baby growl as she crawls across the pavement. The shop is closed up for the night, not that we’re turning customers away. In a small town like Fort Bragg, so far away from any major cities, there’s not many people who can afford a custom order that starts at an easy twenty-five grand. Most people around here are lucky if they don’t have to choose which bills get paid each month.
The fourteen-foot high chain-link gate with black vinyl privacy slats swings open, providing me entrance. I lift my chin at the prospect, Tall, who’s on the other side. His real name is Aaron, but I’m half to forgetting that since we only ever call the prospects their nicknames in front of Cub. It drives her nuts that every time she asks them what their names are, they’ve been ordered not to tell her. The guy looks thin and much too gangly to handle his shit, but he’s a mean motherfucker. I roll in, to find that Tall and I are not alone.
Grady, our Sergeant at Arms, fought Pop on leaving the clubhouse unprotected. He eventually proved his point, and we’ve had at least one prospect here at all times since. At least now I don’t have to open the gate my own fucking self. Pulling up between Tall’s brand new Sportster and Duke’s Softail Convertible, I cut the engine and give the kickstand a nudge, then swing off my girl. She�
�s the longest relationship I’ve ever had because she’s never bitched I’ve been riding her too long. I take off my helmet and set it on her handlebars, then follow Tall into the clubhouse.
The short amount of time I was able to relax from the house to here does nothing for how fucked I feel about Alex. Every time she asks me questions I can’t answer, it just pisses me off. Every time she asks me to explain or apologize for something I’ve done, or haven’t done, there’s this pit in my stomach that I think might eat away at my soul. It’s so fucking lame to think about it, but that’s all I’ve been doing. This stupid chick who Ma’s been crying over ever since I met her turns out to be Alex, who isn’t the sweet, kind, little girl Ma’s been passing her off to be.
Thoroughly pissed off, my shoulders tense, and my fists ache to hit something—anything. Inside the clubhouse, the walls are a mixture of exposed brick, wood paneling, and painted gray sheetrock. Industrial-sized fluorescent lights hang in long rows overhead, half the bulbs cracked or burnt out. The main room of the clubhouse is dimly lit with old, tattered furniture scattered around the space. Straight ahead is the bar, a two hundred-square-foot space that’s sectioned off by a change in flooring from the basic concrete slab of the rest of the space to a faux-wood finish.
I grit my teeth at the sight before me—Duke, his left elbow resting on the bar with a beer in hand. One of the Lost Girls, one I think I’ve fucked, stands between his legs, her hands rubbing his jean-clad thighs. Her trashy bleached-blonde hair hangs over her shoulders, spilling down her bare back to her absentee bra line. One look at her bare tits, rounder than normal and defying gravity, and I remember that we had a go a month or so back. I never forget a decent pair of tits.
