by Max Henry
“And what about you?” I ask through a thick throat.
She laughs through her nose. “Jury’s still out.”
I place my lips against her head and close my eyes. Maybe with time she’ll get there, and she’ll realize how she feels. I sound exactly like I have for the past eight years.
“What changed?” I ask. “What happened to make you question something we never used to doubt?”
“Same thing I’ve said a thousand times over,” she says. “You let me down when I needed you most . . . more than once.”
“I won’t do it again.”
She shakes her head, pulling free to sit up straight. “And you’ve said that a thousand times over, too.”
What will I have to do to prove to her that this time I truly mean it? “However you feel,” I murmur, “I never stopped loving you. Not one single day. Not even for an hour. You were it for me. You still are.”
I catch the jagged shudder of her breath before she slips out of the covers and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her and sending me back into the black in far more ways than one.
FORTY-FOUR
Elena
If all it took was me giving my right arm to make him better, I'd brandish the damn saw myself. I've never seen him this low, and I guess it's to be expected. I, of all people, know that's it's impossible to stay strong forever. The man carries a hell of a burden on his back. He's where the buck stops; he's who they all turn to for advice, for the final word, for the solution.
I know I couldn't shoulder that responsibility.
The days King has been holed up upstairs have given me a brash insight into the club. His VP, Callum, stepped in and took on the essential day-to-day duties, but even he openly admitted to another member that he doesn't know how King does it, considering he struggled to get his head around half the tasks.
Dante, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. He's thriving in this environment. The kid's made three new friends, children of members, and he's loving the added attention being around such a diverse group of people gives him. The mechanic took him out to the garage the day before last, and when I went out to check up on them two hours later, I found Dante helping a dark-headed girl clean a bike down.
He was happy. He's found purpose to being here.
Me? I still don't feel as though I fit.
There was truth in what I said to King; I was too quick to judge. The women especially have been welcoming and there to offer me help at every step of the way. Sonya, who is the woman from the bookstore, has even given me clothes to wear until I manage to either recover or replace my own. I haven't asked King which it'll be—he's got far more important things to worry about than my possessions. Sure, it’s hard with no purse, no phone, and no access to my bank accounts until I get my ID replaced, but I’m alive. I’m healthy. I’ve got so much more to be grateful for than worrying over items that can be renewed.
The sun sets on another mild spring day as I stare out over the backyard at two birds that hop over the grass in search of worms. People come and go around me, paying me no mind. I guess as much as I feel an outcast, I still appreciate the fact that they leave me be. Everybody here has a purpose, a reason to be at the clubhouse. I don't.
Ramona emerges through the laundry door, an empty basket in hand, and hesitates when she spots me on the deck. She tips her head to the side and smiles. I don't know a lot about her other than that she was with Carlos's son, Sawyer, for a while, and that they have a son together—Mack. Dante's been playing with him most days, and I was hesitant at first, but soon let it go when I saw how much the kids have in common.
"You want to give me a hand?" she calls out.
I nod and cross over to where she is. We walk in silence together to the washing line, where Ramona drops the basket and begins unpegging the clean laundry.
"How's the injury?" I ask quietly, guilt still ripe at what she suffered because of me.
"Oh, it's not too bad." She extends her leg and swivels it left to right. "A little stiff at times, but nothing a good stretch won't sort out."
I take a sheet down and shake it out before matching the corners. "I'm sorry it happened."
She stops with a towel in her hands and stares curiously. "Why? Did you pull the trigger?"
I get her point, but still, if it wasn't for my stubbornness they wouldn't have been there to begin with. "It's still my fault you were there that day."
"I was asked, Elena, and I offered to help. So don't you go wearing any of this on your shoulders, okay?"
I nod and fold the sheet into a neat square. "Callum told me that Sawyer has returned home with Carlos."
She stills and stares down at the ground. "Yes."
"Are you worried about him?" I don't know anything about their relationship, but I presume there have to be some feelings there if they had a child together.
"We weren't a conventional couple," she admits, "so yes, I'm worried, but mostly just saddened it got to be this way." Her face lifts and clear eyes pin me in their gaze. "What was he like with you? Carlos? Is he as bad as everybody says, or is it just rumors to make him seem more of a threat, you know?"
I sigh and snatch up a pillow case. "I don't know what you heard, but I can assure you it's just as bad, if not worse."
She drops her folded towel into the basket and walks closer. "King's real worried about you."
"I know." I hastily fold the sheet into a much less tidy square than the last. "I am about him, too."
"He hasn't told us how you two met, but I gather it was a long time ago."
"Yes."
"Tell me if I'm asking too much." She steps away and folds another two towels before asking the next question. "Do you love him?"
"What business of yours is that?"
"I’m simply looking out for a friend." She shakes out a towel with a snap of the fabric. "He invests a lot in you, and so far all I see is a complete lack of gratitude on your behalf." This tiny woman has one incredibly sharp tongue when unleashed.
"If you knew our history—as you say you don't—then maybe you'd understand."
"He doesn't do anything to spite people, King. He does everything out of the good of his heart."
"Don’t you think I know that?" I throw the next sheet in the basket half-folded. "What is it you really want to say?"
She lances me with a heated stare. "Don't take advantage of him. If you want his help, take it, but don't pick and choose what he does for you out of convenience. Stop messing him around—he doesn’t deserve it."
The anger inside of me rages so thick it needs an outlet. I lash out and kick the washing basket over, spilling clean laundry on the concrete path and grass. "You don’t know a damn thing about me. I've been through fucking hell and back to be with that man, and after all that, he left me to come back to this fucking shithole. I'm done with you people judging me. I thought you were nice, but now I see the truth."
"And what would that be?" she snaps.
"That you all stick up for each other and outsiders aren't welcome here." I spin and storm toward the damn clubhouse, pissed off that I have to walk back into the one place that's the source of all my anger. Ramona looks surprised when I whirl around to serve her one final line. "And don’t worry, if I had a fucking house to go to, I'd be out of here and out of sight in no time."
But I don’t. Because like everything else, King has that under his control. I'm barred from going home, stuck here to suffer through the judgments of these people who only know King as he is now, who don’t know what we went through all those years ago.
Fuck them.
As soon as I have an opening, I'll be out of here. And this time? I won’t look back.
I’m not making that mistake twice.
FORTY-FIVE
King
Three weeks later
"Can't say I expected to see you back here so soon." Mom stands from where she'd knelt in front of her flowers, weeding.
"It's been weeks, Mom."
<
br /> "Yes, it has. And last time you stormed out it was almost a year." She sighs. "How are things with Elena and your boy?"
I shrug. Ever since she showed me that glimmer of hope while I had my bender, she's been hot and cold with her emotions. One day she'll be laughing at a joke, the next she's shooting foul looks my way as she does her best to avoid me. A mean feat given she's still stuck at the clubhouse until I can organize a new house for her.
"And you? You look a little more relaxed than Dad said you were last time you came."
"I'm good." I pick up her bucket of weeds as she dusts off and collects her tools.
"Well, your father will be in soon, so let’s go get some lunch ready, huh?"
I follow Mom around and help her out in the kitchen. Preparing food is a basic task that clears my head, takes me away from the shit going down at the club—exactly why I came.
Vince's kid and his friends are working on the sly for us to try and lift a distribution arm out of the hands their buddy dropped it in and return it to Carlos. They fix this wrong—I fix our club's finances. It all sounds so simple in premise, but when it involves one of their own going undercover to pose as a dealer and get information for us, there's risk involved.
Yet again, lives are being gambled with, and Carlos is at the center of the whole problem.
What eats at me the most is I know I should tell Elena that our club is involved with Carlos, running drugs for him. Maybe she’d understand why we’re doing it—to save ourselves from bankruptcy—but the woman would be justified in feeling betrayed that I’ve gone into business with the man who almost destroyed us. No telling what she’d do when she finds out all his threats are nothing more than emotional blackmail to keep me in line and remind me who’s in charge. Keeping our business agreement a secret from Elena has the potential to ruin any hope of her sticking around, although with the way she's been behaving, I kind of have to wonder if she's already lost to me.
"Sit down. I'll bring some iced tea over." Mom sets the plate of sandwiches in the center of the table and ushers me to a chair.
I do as I'm told and drop my head to the table between my arms.
"Tell me why you came, Lloyd." The vibration of the pitcher as she sets it on the table tickles my forehead.
"I don’t know."
"You must." The chair beside me scrapes as she sits. "What did you hope to get out of visiting us?"
"Can't I just come see my parents for a bit?"
"You never 'just come see' us anymore."
I sigh and roll my head to the side, moving my left arm so I can see her. "Tell me I'm not doing the wrong thing."
"With what?"
"All of it."
She sighs and reaches out to rest her hand on mine. "I don't know what you're doing to tell you if it's wrong or right." A soft smile graces her lips. "What I can tell you, though, is that I've never doubted your ability to do right by people before."
"Even with Elena?" I ask with a callous laugh.
"Even with her."
"You know she cut me off, right?"
"You alluded to it on one of your visits."
"She said I let her down when she needed me most."
Mom simply shrugs one shoulder. "You did, Son."
"I didn't see it for ages," I say, lifting my head off the table. "But I do now. I want to make it right, but I don’t know how to when she keeps pushing me away."
"She's only doing it because she's hurt. You wounded her; she's bound to be touchy."
"If you were her," I ask, "what would you want me to do?"
Mom leans back, her arms over her chest. "Make up for it, I guess."
"By spending time with her?"
She shakes her head. "Not just with her, but on her. Don't simply be there in body—give her all of you, no distractions, no phone, nothing. Cut off from the club and give her one-on-one."
Could I do it? Cut ties completely and not know at a single touch what was going on within our walls? "It'll be hard."
"It's not the hardest thing you've done, though, is it?" She offers me a weak smile.
The back door rattles as Dad opens it and kicks his boots off. "Long time no see."
"Hey, Dad."
"To what do we owe this pleasure?" He crosses through the kitchen and takes a seat at the table.
"I lost touch with what's important in my life," I admit. "Thought I better go about rectifying that."
He grunts his acceptance.
"He's making a start with us," Mom says, "and then setting things right between him and Elena."
Dad stills with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. "You sure you want to be involved with the likes of her?"
"Pardon?" I frown at him.
"She ran off when things got too hard and took your kid from you, Lloyd. I can’t say I exactly think of her in a glowing light."
Fair enough. "She had her reasons."
"I'm sure she did." He scoffs back a fast bite. "But do you think she'd do it again?"
"I don't know." Would she run and repeat history? Take Dante with her? "I'm taking precautions to know she can't."
"That so?"
"Yeah." First thing’s first—if she's not in control of her lease, I'm going to know if she breaks it or abandons the place. "I'm keeping a close watch on her from here on out."
"You do what you will," he grumbles. "But I have one request."
I lean back and watch him carefully. "Fire away."
"If she does go again, you don’t bloody chase her. You let her go and dig her own grave."
Like I could ever promise that.
FORTY-SIX
Elena
“You wanted to see me?” I step into King’s office and look around at the pictures on the wall, the tidy folders all lined up on a shelf, and the way the things on his desk are arranged by size.
“Yeah, I do.” He drops what he’s doing and stands, rounding the desk to stop before me with his arms crossed. “First, though, why is it I need to get one of the boys to round you up like a damn employee?”
“You tell me,” I snap impatiently. My temper’s already thin after yet another run-in with a do-gooder who had more opinions than I could shake a stick at. “Half the time I wonder if you’re even here, so I find it easier to just wait until you decide you want to see me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, King, that here we are again, except this time we’re under the same roof and yet again I barely see more than an hour of you a day.”
“I was at my parents’ place this morning.” He drops his face to toy with his beard.
“Oh. How are they?” I haven’t heard a thing about them since I walked out on less-than-stellar terms, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered how they were.
“They still don’t like you.”
My shoulders curl with the impact of his words. “Ouch, King.”
“It’s warranted.”
“I know.” I slump down into the seat beside me. “That’s what hurts the most.”
He eyes me curiously for a moment before speaking. “How are you, anyway?”
“Alive.” I shrug.
“Dante was happy enough when we hung out yesterday afternoon, but you don’t let me talk with you to know how you are. Why?”
I laugh bitterly at the thought. “Probably because I couldn’t give you an honest answer if I tried.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I drop my chin, fidgeting with my hands in my lap. “Somewhere in the months after I left your parents, it all hit,” I admit. “Everything. The weight of what I’d been through in the escape from Carlos, and dealing with my pregnancy mostly alone . . . everything.”
King shifts to squat beside the seat—as if he’d do anything else. Every time we do this, every time he gets me to open up, this is how we are.
“I wish you’d talk to me about this stuff, baby.”
“Why?” I laugh. “What good does rehashing the most painful part of
my life do?”
“Shares the burden.”
I look his way and smile. “You have to admit you haven’t been in the best shape yourself to share any more bad news.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, those deliciously rounded shoulders tugging at his T-shirt. “But you know I’d rather let it break me than have you suffer another day with it.”
“Even after how I’ve been of late? After how cold I’ve behaved toward you?”
“You could set me in ice, babe, and I’d still thaw that shit out with the warmth I have for you.”
“Why?” I whisper. “Why persist when I keep telling you there’s too much damage?”
He frowns, his lips pursed as he swallows. “When a vehicle gets damaged beyond repair, you know what they do with it?”
“Wreck it?”
“Recycle it. It gets crushed, has massive weight born down on it until it can’t handle any more, and then they take that thing it was and turn it into something else.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Stop beating yourself up because you aren’t who you were anymore. Accept who you are now.”
I swallow hard, pushing the tears away. I don’t have time for remorse or regret—they don’t get me anywhere.
King shifts to his knees and shuffles around the seat to face me front-on. “Tell me honestly: Do you think I’m the same person I was ten years ago?”
“I’ve only known you eight,” I sass. Couldn’t help myself.
He chuckles. “You get what I’m sayin’ though.”
“I do, and no, I think you’ve matured. You’re a bit more worn down by the world, less hopeful and optimistic.”
He frowns and nods. I’ve struck a chord, it seems. “Exactly.” A heavy second hangs between us. “Do you still love me the same as you did, though?”
