by Max Henry
Abbey nods and goes back to slotting the invoices away where they belong. I lean to my left and pull my wallet out of my back pocket as Sonya appears at the open door of my office and knocks quietly.
“What’s the matter, love?” I pull out a couple of twenties and wave them at Abbey. She snatches the bills and scoots out of the office.
“I tried to fire up the cooker just now and the gas was out.” Sonya chews on her bottom lip. “When I shot outside to switch the tanks over, ugh, they were all empty.”
Shit. When did we last pay the gas company? I hold a finger up to her and snatch up the manila folder that sits on the left side of my desk. She waits patiently while I file through the enormous list of what still has to be paid and come up with a bill, a reminder notice, and a bright fucking sheet of paper with “stop supply” emblazoned all over it. Damn.
“I’ll sort it out. Can you do anything without gas?”
She nods. “I’ll make subs. Don’t worry about a thing, King.”
“Thanks, precious.” Sonya transferred from our Forth Worth chapter with her man a few years back, and after he was taken too soon in a road accident, she’s been a staple around the club. I couldn’t run the place as efficiently without her.
She leaves with a smile, and I step out from behind the desk to make another run to beg for a loan I know I won’t get. The club digs deeper into the shit every week that goes by, and every option to try and recover, to try and cut costs, is exhausted. I’m out of ideas. Out of faith that I can keep this club on the right side of the law for much longer.
Abbey re-appears at the door, as I stop by the small mirror that hangs on the wall to check my appearance.
“Do you know what he likes?”
I shake my head. I have no idea what Dante’s into. Parenting fail.
“I’ll ask the people at the shop what’s popular.” She slinks away, leaving me staring down the fake in the mirror.
I moved Elena closer to Lincoln nine months ago, and in that time I’ve seen my boy once. The worst part of it? It wasn’t because Elena stopped me from dropping by, like I would have thought, but because I’m exactly the man she said I was—I’ve put the club first over my own kid and missed two scheduled weekends because things here needed to be sorted out.
My gaze falls to the president badge stitched on my cut. I fucking fought it. I argued, I gave reasons why I should be overlooked, but nothing would change their minds. Those men went in to the meeting with a purpose, and no amount of bellyaching from me would change that.
I relented. I agreed to one term. A term lasts four years. I’ve struggled through the last ten months, so Lord knows if I’ll even be alive after a full fucking term. But it is what it is, and the best I can do is make it work . . . somehow.
The garage is empty when I head out, a small reprieve. Fingers would have asked questions, grilled me about the shitty look on my fucking face, and as of this moment I don’t have it in me to answer. I ride through the streets, half paying mind to the fact some cars straddle the side of the road when they see me in their rear view mirror. My image instills fear; it demands respect. Most of the time that’s a good thing, but I often wonder will the real man beneath it all ever be seen? Ever be appreciated? Ask a bunch of strangers on the street what they see when they look at me and none of the accolades would be anything good. I guess they wouldn’t be far off, though. After all, I’m a shitty father to date.
Once upon a time I’d thought I could change. Once upon a time I would have said, “Fuck the past; let’s make the future where it’s at.” But the years tick by. Age wearies my face, and I look at that guy in the mirror now wondering when he decided to give up, to only put in half the effort. When the hell did I think I’d finally get it all figured out? When I’m dead?
My tires whirr on the asphalt as I weave the bike from side-to-side, killing time until the road opens out into a stretch straight enough for me to pass the farm truck in front of me. I lift a hand and wave at a curly-haired girl who stares out the back window. Her lips spread into a wide grin before she twists around, pigtails flying as she does, and faces the front again. Every so often I come across a kid who’s not afraid—who hasn’t been jaded by life—and the acceptance is a welcome reprieve. I give the girl a smile as she looks one last time, the truck turning off to a side road.
My joy is short-lived as I pull up outside the bank and drag in a deep breath. Boots clinking and leather hot and sticky on my back, I head inside and give the young woman on the front desk a smile.
“How may I help you?” Her words are sincere enough, but her eyes dart to the other customers while she waits on my answer.
People stare. People whisper. And they make assumptions.
Let them.
“I’d like to speak to a lendin’ officer, please.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Elena
With my palms braced on the edge of the kitchen counter, I stare at the old digital clock on the cooker as it ticks over another minute. He was supposed to be here more than an hour ago.
Laughter drifts through the house, followed by the shrill sound of kids’ voices battling over one another to be heard. Dante sits amidst the chaos, smiling large and enjoying the attention.
So he should; it’s his birthday.
“Do you need a hand with anything?” One of the mothers—her name escapes me—stands in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand braced on the frame.
“Uh, let me think.” I glance around at the stacks of unopened chips, candy bags, pop, and plastic plates. Yet I take none if it in. I’m still spitting mad at King. “I think I have it under control. We’ll do the cake soon.”
She nods, smiling, and walks away to rejoin the madness. I should be there as the host, making sure everyone’s enjoying themselves, but what good am I when my temper is as brittle as dry kindling? One spilt drink, one dropped plate of crumbs, and I’m likely to lose it.
Damn you, King. This’ll be the third time he hasn’t shown up. What was the point in him forcing us to move here? So he could ignore us at closer proximity? I should have fought back harder, but there was only so much I could do when the controlling bastard paid our deposit on this place and cancelled our term at the last. How he did that, I’m yet to find out, but I’m sure it either involved a friendly fist or a lot of booze and women to convince the landlord he should listen to somebody who wasn’t on the damn lease.
I throw a handful of M&Ms in my mouth and puff my chest out, ready to tackle the rest of the party as though King was never meant to come. It should be easy to pretend he’s not a part of our lives given he seems hell bent of making sure he’s not.
The kids take no time at all to rip through the piñata and collect the candies off the ground. I lose myself in the simple things, laughing along with them as they act the fool, hyped up on sugared sweets. One of the families indicates they’re ready to leave so I duck back inside to take care of the cake before they all miss out. Candles alight, I carry it out and our small gathering sings an out of tune, but perfect rendition of “Happy Birthday” to Dante. The sponge cake is sliced, and I’m handing out the last plate to a cute wee girl with her hair braided to the side when the last damn sound I wanted to hear breaks the otherwise short-lived peace that is children feeding themselves.
My heart sinks when I notice one of the mothers leaning in and whispering to another as the deep rumble cuts out on our driveway.
“Excuse me.”
They all grace me with painted smiles as I shoot out the front to cut King off in his tracks.
“You’re too late,” I snap, drawing King’s attention from the present he has in his hands.
His shoulders drop, and for the merest of moments I wonder if I’m being too harsh on him, but then I remember Dante’s face when I’ve explained in the past that King wouldn’t be showing up, and my resolve is set. Yes, they’re still getting to know each other, but it doesn’t stop our son being disappointed at coming second to a bunch of men o
n bikes.
“Elena . . . not today.”
I laugh bitterly at him, punching my arms across my chest and burying my fists at my sides. “That’s exactly what I said when you failed to turn up an hour ago.”
“I had things to take care of while the place was still open, okay?”
“No, King,” I shake my head, determined to stop this cycle before it even really begins. “It’s not okay. This is exactly what I said I didn’t want when you showed up uninvited in Denver. And then what? You moved us here anyway and nothing’s changed.”
“Let me give him his present at least.” He squares his shoulders, finding some fight in himself, although his eyes show how truly tired and worn out he is.
“What is it?”
He stares down at the blue patterned paper and swallows.
He has to be kidding. “You didn’t even buy it, did you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes it fucking matters.” I huff, throwing my arms down as I turn away, too angry to look at him anymore. “You couldn’t spare even an hour to go out and personally pick out a gift for your child.”
I spin around at the sound of a solid thump and find King sitting on his ass in the middle of the path. He sets the gift down on the grass and tucks his arms around his legs.
“What are you doing?” He can’t stay there. Damn it. He better not be thinking about camping out until I let him see Dante.
“I’m tired, Elena. Physically and mentally. I can’t be fucked fightin’ anymore.” He runs ringed fingers through hair that hangs the longest I’ve ever seen it.
I take a moment to look him over a little closer. His clothes are clean and crisp, but his beard is shaggy, his hair overgrown, and his eyes have dark shadows under them. He’s exhausted.
“Maybe you don’t have time for us anymore,” I whisper. We’re clearly too much for him to try and keep up with. “And if so, that’s okay. Leave us be, watch from a distance if you must, but please,” I beg quietly, “stop confusing Dante about whether you want to be in his life or not.”
King drops his head to his knees, burying his face. I itch to reach out and comfort him, a pang of what I once felt for this conflicted man rising inside of me. His heart’s in the right place, but he can’t see what he’s doing, how much he’s hurting those who should matter most by trying to be everything for everyone.
Minutes pass, the sound of chatter and laughter growing inside once more. I lean a hand on the door handle and sigh. “I better get back to the guests. I can give Dante his present if you like.”
King rises, the gift still lying in the grass. He stares at the concrete beneath his feet for a moment and I wait, unsure if he’s going to speak. His silence is loud enough as he turns and walks away, straddling his bike and firing the beast up with a roar. My hand slips off the door, and I drop to the top step as he rides away without so much as a glance in the side mirror.
After years of back and forth, after my heart being tugged and stretched in every damn direction, it’s finally happened. He’s given up the struggle. He’s left us to live out our lives in peace.
I’ve never felt a pain like it.
If this is what victory feels like, I’d rather have died in battle.
THIRTY-NINE
King
Two months later
Music resonates off every surface around me, vibrating through my tired and weary bones and leaving a dull echo inside my empty heart. My kid’s in trouble. My girl won’t listen. Two issues that have taken precedence over everything else in my life.
I left Elena and Dante behind two months ago. I walked away from my kid on his fucking birthday. Any trace of feeling, of emotion, of anything resembling pride died that day. I’ve fought for years to be the better man, to make life right for everybody in mine, but to what end? Vince’s kid is on Carlos’s hit list for something he didn’t even fucking do, and our club is so far in the fucking red I couldn’t put up for a box of bullets if our lives depended on it.
Our membership dwindled when we stopped making it fun to be a part of the club; I couldn’t afford to throw parties, and organize all-expenses-paid runs anymore. So who have we got now when it matters? When one of our own needs us to step up and help him fight? A bunch of old boys who’ve long since hung up their knuckle dusters, and a side helping of young, inexperienced prospects and hangarounds who wouldn’t know the first thing about taking on a man like Carlos.
The place is in crisis. And the guy who’s supposed to lead the club out of the shit is drowning in his own: me. What a fucking joke. I’ve failed everyone and everything. I’ve tripped over my own feet one too many times, and getting back up with a smile on my face to try again has got harder and harder to the point where I don’t want to rise anymore.
I’d rather lie down and die to save the disappointment of finding myself back here all over again.
My fingers work nimbly to fold one of the paper serviettes Sonya left out for the boys into something resembling the origami swan I was taught to make as a child. It’s been years since I’ve done anything like it, taken the time to sit down and test my memory, crafting something from nothing. But the therapy is warranted.
Abbey placed the first message on my desk with a face as pale as a ghost. The girl at least had enough sense to slide me a stiff drink to chase the bad news with. I opened that envelope and slipped out the photo with my heart in my throat—I don’t think it’s moved since.
He’s onto them. I failed in the biggest fucking way. And what’s worse was the message on the back, in the man’s own handwriting no less.
‘You’re messing in my business – truce is over.’
I sent Callum and Vince out of town a month ago to sort the issue of Vince’s son. Sawyer—the crazy motherfucker—had caught wind of Carlos’s hit list, and being the sociopath he is, thought it would be the ultimate “up you” to take his father’s targets out first and deny Carlos his satisfaction at being the one to deliver the consequences of crossing him.
Little did Sawyer know, one of the men was the kid of his fellow brother. To be honest, his bloodlust was so strong I don’t think he really cared. He’d been stirring up shit for years, getting under everyone’s feet. It was time to send him back to where he came from, and we did.
We gave Sawyer back to Carlos.
I drank myself to oblivion that night, unable to stomach what I’d done. I’d handed a child back to his parent, knowing what kind of a man Carlos is. And why? Because it gave me a way to save the club from bankruptcy. I sold our collective souls to the devil, knowing he still had mine in his fist. The Fallen Aces will work on a one-off project to right the wrongs done by Vince’s son’s friend, and in exchange we’ll get the cash to get this club out of the red.
Doesn’t stop what the asshole’s doing to me though. Doesn’t stop the fact Carlos knows where Elena is and he’s going to make her life and mine a living fucking hell for the plain fun of it.
Our oldest prospect, Dog, watches me over the rim of his beer bottle. He laughs as he engages in conversation with the patched members beside him, but his focus is very obviously on me as I sit alone, doing my best to keep my shit under wraps. The concern in his eyes shines bright, worry clearly distinguishable in the hard lines of his tanned and tired face. He takes a sip as I pick up my two paper creations and turn them to face one another.
“I never needed your help,” I whisper through a scowl, wiggling the swan in my left hand. “Accepting help doesn’t make you weak,” my right-hand swan states. “But it means we owe you,” the left swan says, “and until you started interfering we were doing just fine on our own.” The swan in my right hand sighs and flops down dramatically on the tabletop. The paper effigies parrot the words Elena and I spoke yesterday when I tried yet again to convince her to move out of her house until I can stop Carlos’s threat. She’s in danger, our son is in danger, and yet the woman’s still as stubborn as a mule. My mood grows increasingly angry with the birds clasped in my
grip as though it were them who argued about something as base as a life-and-death situation.
But it wasn’t.
It was the mother of my child who denied my protection, who reasoned that she could keep the big, bad wolf from knocking on her door. Little pig, little pig, let me in. He would burn the house down, too.
The folded napkins un-crumple as I drop them to the tabletop and nudge them so they lie next to one another. The swan from my right hand cuddles up to the back of the swan from my left, reminding the bird that no matter what, it’ll always be there. You’re fuckin’ losin’ it, boy. Paper swans. I’m reduced to acting out the miseries of my life through paper swans. Fuckin’ lost it already. Thrusting my right hand in the air, I stare blankly at the table before me and whip my wrist in a circular motion to signal I’d like another drink. Yet instead of Sonya with an ice-cold brew, I get my VP, Callum.
Fuck it.
“How goes it, boss?” He leans a casual elbow on to the table, narrowly missing my love-struck birds.
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” I snap. “You know as well as I do that things aren’t going so well. So how about you just man up and say what it is that’s on everyone’s mind, huh?” I stare pointedly at Dog while I make my request.
Callum sighs, scrubbing a hand over his stubbly jaw. “Brother, you’ve got us all worried. Somethin’ is clearly eatin’ at you, but you won’t deal.” He picks up one of the birds and stares intently at it before tossing it haphazardly on the table again. “You need to let us know what’s goin’ on so we have a chance at helpin’ out.”
I fix how the discarded swan lies, tucking it in to ‘cuddle’ the one beside it. “Who’s to say you can help?”
“Who’s to say we can’t?”
I reluctantly drag my eyes to his, wincing at the stern reprimand in the brown depths. “Fine. Tomorrow.”
“Now.” He places a boot against one of the legs of my stool and pushes it back from the table. It’s a mean feat given my height and stature; I’m no lightweight. “Office.”
