“Si, Papi,” her pet name for him slipped out, and the single word gave him hope. He held his breath, but she didn’t say anything further, her simple yes still enough to nearly unhinge his knees.
With shaking hands, he tossed the towel in his hands towards the basket, not paying attention to the fact it fell half to the ground. Staring at the basket, he asked quietly, “You sure?”
“Papi,” her voice faltered, and stopped.
“Juanita, are you pregnant or not?” Now his words sounded stern, not something he wanted, so he intentionally tried to moderate his tone. “Honey, do you know for sure?”
From the corner of his eye, he watched as her shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. “I think, but not for certain, no.” She paused, then continued, her voice so soft he nearly lost it in the sound of the wind moving the fabric around them. “I didn’t want…I don’t know.”
“You don’t want it?” Sickness rolled through his belly as he snapped the words, voice back to stern, and Watcher turned his head to the side so she didn’t have to look at the pain he knew was stamped on his features. “Don’t want my kid?” God, what if it isn’t mine? Maybe that’s what’s got her spooked. “Is it mine?”
“If I am, then yes, it is…yours.” She hesitated before finishing her sentence, and he wasn’t sure why until she corrected herself. “Ours.” She wouldn’t be claiming it if she didn’t want it, he thought with a thrill of excitement. “And…” She paused again, and he waited, giving her time to find the words she needed to say. “I do. I would want…yes.” Her voice was soft again, hesitant when she asked, “Would you?”
“Fuck yeah, honey.” Voice firm, there’d be no mistaking his pleasure now, and he turned to see tears standing in her eyes. “You havin’ my kid?” He nodded, planting his feet because it had to be her to come to him this time. “Fuck yeah, I want all of that.”
With a quiet sob, she turned her head away and down. “Juanita, honey. Come here.” At his soft encouragement, she took one step, then another, and then she was pressed to him, arms around his waist. Lips to the top of her head, he took her weight as she sagged, sobbing in clear relief.
***
Watcher lay in bed next to Juanita, propped on one elbow, using the end of her braid to tickle her nose, grinning to see the faces she made in her sleep. He’d wake her properly in a minute, kiss her up from sleep and then listen to her cute grumbling. That shit would stop as soon as he got his mouth on her, but he knew from experience she’d put up a good front for a bit.
They’d bedded down last night before he’d got a chance to go to town and hit the pharmacy, and Watcher made a mental note to do that errand first thing this morning. Palm to her breast, he grazed his thumb across her nipple, watching through the fabric of the tee she wore to bed as it firmed, bunching up and poking a tiny tent in her shirt. He’d made a good start last night, exploring the myriad of ways she was more sensitive and responsive, and from his very thorough investigations, at this point in his thought process, he started smiling, confident of the result from the pee stick she’d be using today.
Leaning in, he brushed her jaw with his lips, dusting soft kisses up the apple of her cheek to her temple, nuzzling into her hair just so he could smell her. God, he thought, I love her. A buzzing startled him, and he twisted his torso so he could reach his phone where it lay on the nightstand. One eye to the display and he saw it was barely coming on six in the morning, way out of character for Pops to be making a call. Thinking he was prepared for anything, he put the phone to his ear and grunted a brusque, “Yeah?”
“Prez, man, need you.” Chaos in the background. There were snapping crack and crash noises of something wooden being destroyed, the slamming of what sounded like a sledgehammer against a wall. “Gotta lock Spider down, man. Need you. LCPD, brother.”
Mixed with the rhythmic pounding, an anguished howl rose and rose, drilling into his head with torturous precision. After a moment, he could make out the single word repeated again and again in a continuous denial. “No.”
“The fuck is goin’ on?” He clipped this question while on the move, swinging out of bed and striding to where his jeans lay on the floor. If they were at the police station and Spider was this out of control, Watcher needed to already be there. No time to waste. Pulling up his jeans, one hand to tuck things in comfortably, one to hold the phone to his ear.
“Daena.” Pops’ voice broke on the name, and he froze, waiting. “Single car accident, she didn’t make it.”
“Papi?” That was Juanita, reacting to his mood and his physical actions as Watcher tipped his head up, remembering words much like those which had ripped his world apart. Through the phone, came the sound of another crash, another shrill and wavering, “No!” He now realized the noise was Spider, losing his shit because his old lady was gone.
Watcher headed straight back to the bed, lips to Juanita’s for a hard, quick kiss, eyes open and on her face, seeing anxiety and fear circling each other there. “I gotta go, honey. Club.” He stole a second kiss, softer, then heard another ringing “No!” from the phone, the pain in Spider’s voice clamping his throat around his words. Juanita held up a hand, and he clasped at it, fingers wrapping around tightly. She did the same, giving him silent reassurance she would be here, be thinking of him…be waiting for him. Single car accident.
He heard Preacher’s voice in his head for the first time in a long while as the words slithered through his mind, sand gritting underneath his boots as he stalked to his bike. “Watch, they said it might not be an accident.” The whole way to the station those words circled the others, and he futilely tried to push them away. If it was a genuine accident, then it was bad, but the brothers would circle the wagons, try to support Spider in the best ways they knew. He couldn’t get away from the memory of other words, They said it might not be an accident. Not that he thought Daena would be down to take her own life, knowing how she loved Spider and their three kids, but if it weren’t an accident, then this could mean war.
By the time he got to the station, the cops had called medics in, and Spider had been sedated for his own safety. The accident report passed to Watcher in the hallway said she’d driven straight into an electric pole, the long wooden spear breaking in half and crashing down on top of her car. The wreck shouldn’t have killed her, the car’s airbag had deployed and she’d been saved from eating the steering wheel, but the heavy length hadn’t wavered as it fell, crushing her as it crumpled the roof. It had been hours before the firefighters were able to extract her body, no need to rush. By then they all knew it was a recovery, not a rescue.
Three days later, a black ribbon pinned to his breast, standing straight, Watcher lifted in unison with five other men, taking Daena’s body on her last trip. One ending in a dark, sharp-edged hole. Standing to one side of the casket, from behind his shades he stared at Spider who cradled his youngest in his lap. A beauty, she looked very much like Daena. The two boys who made up the remainder of Spider’s blood family stood close, pressed to either side of their father. The oldest, four-year-old Dean, stared at Watcher, his gaze never wavering, not even when Spider’s arm curved around him. Fear took hold of Watcher in those moments, because he knew nothing Spider could do would make it better for the boy, and with a child of his own coming, the terror of losing Juanita sank deep inside him.
Taking a shuddering breath in, he turned away from the boy’s gaze and faced Preacher, standing at the head of the void carved from the earth, shadowy depths waiting for its burden.
***
“Dad, wanna come down here with me a minute?” Watcher turned his head to look at the doc, hoping his disbelief was plain on his face because he found himself voiceless. “Hold out your hands, Dad.” Juanita’s fingers squeezed his and released, her features at peace for the first time in hours. A nurse draped a cloth over his outstretched arms and then the doc was putting their baby into his arms. “It’s a girl.” Cradling the small body, he focused on her face with its littl
e features, mouth working soundlessly. My daughter, he thought and turned so Juanita would be able to see her, but couldn’t take his gaze off the tiny, perfect, beautiful baby girl he was holding. My miracle.
Hands entered his field of vision, wiping and swiping at the baby’s face, at her arms, pulling the covering back for reasons he ignored. My daughter. A voice nearby urged him to the bed, and he took the three steps to Juanita’s side, watching as her trembling fingers shakily peeled back a corner of the blanket. “Hermosa, ella es mi corazón.” Lifting her exhausted eyes to meet his gaze, Juanita smiled radiantly. “Thank you, my love.”
Gently he placed their daughter in Juanita’s arms and together they discovered the perfection hidden by the warming blanket. Ten fingers, ten toes, lips curving in a bow as she suckled her mother’s little finger. Fussy rooting led to being offered a true nipple, and he loved seeing the joy on Juanita’s face as she mastered that mother’s skill, feeling their daughter latch on for the first time.
“What’s her name?” After laughing softly when Watcher refused to cut the cord, the doc had settled back into his role and was currently—“knitting things back together from what our sweet girl did in her rush into the world”—his words as he worked with forceps and needle.
Watcher smiled at Juanita, this was something which had taken weeks to settle. They had two names picked out, one for a boy, Darren Gael, honoring his brother and her father. For a girl, it was more complicated, as Juanita described the traits of saints and relatives, but they had finally come to an agreement. “Isabella, but we’re gonna call her Bella.” Juanita’s name was now Juanita Teresa Consuela los Carmen del Otey, she had dropped her mother’s name of Estavez when they’d married. But, it meant the name became part of his baby girl’s name, “Isabella Delfina Christina del Estavez los Otey.”
***
Head back and resting on the wooden panel behind him, heel angled firmly against the floor, he pushed and flexed the muscles in his leg, gently gliding the rocker in a back and forth arc. Watcher sat with a swaddled Bella curved into his shoulder, face nestled in his neck. Sweet baby mine, he thought, listening to the soft noises from the house. Just him and his two girls, finally.
Not saying he hadn’t been glad for the company over the past couple of weeks, but it was good to have things settling back to their new normal. Bethany had come out to stay and help with Bella, instinctively knowing Juanita would need emotional support. Juanita’s mother would normally have been the one to descend on their household, reorganizing and directing how things would go with her granddaughter. Not with what had happened, though. Watcher wasn’t certain Juanita had even contacted her parents after her rescue and knew from gently questioning her that she held tight to a deep fear of their rejection of her. The family’s disgrace from having a daughter used as she had been was an insurmountable barrier in her mind. In her head it was better to not know than be confronted by what could be a painful rebuff. As long as she didn’t contact them, they couldn’t turn her away. Bethany’s presence helped distract Juanita from all of that, keeping her focused on the beauty in their lives now.
With Bethany came Mason, his stay much briefer, but no less sweet. It was never bad to see a man he considered a true brother, always a good time to get a chance to visit with someone who mattered. Their clubs were bonded as close as the two men could make it, and it comforted Watcher to know he had at least one strong and loyal ally in his war with the Machos.
Turning things over in his head, he picked at the edges of the most recent problem, the flood of drugs crossing the bridge in El Paso. Machos had help and backing from Central America, and paired with Estavez’ corruption of the authorities on the Mexican side of the border, meant he was nearly unstoppable. Nearly, Watcher thought with satisfaction. Soldiers had found and torched a warehouse and tunnel complex last week, and it had been good for Mason to see how well the club worked together, no man standing down until the last body fell. No one backing off the bloody work needed to take back and protect their territory.
Mason’s only comment had been an observation of how the actual leadership of the club had gotten tied up tightly in only two men, him and Pops. Once Watcher got past thinking it was a criticism, they’d laughed together, because it was true. Not something he wanted, creating what amounted to a single point of failure, but finding soldiers was the easy part, digging to find out who could be leaders took time. Mentoring and building their brotherhood, making sure there were ample opportunities to foster the fellowship and trust needed, took even more time. Worth it, he thought. Bella squirmed and cooed, her movements slow and sleepy; he glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly feeding time, which would mean he could curl in bed beside his Juanita as she nursed their daughter. Important things in life, he thought, worth any work it takes to get there.
Give me what I need
Six years later
Watcher stared at the red and white Indian motorcycle parked behind the bar he and his brothers were in the process of purchasing. With an overhead gesture, he kept them moving up the alley and out into the front lot, backing his pipes to the building. Scarcely a second after he’d killed his engine, Spider was standing close, his mouth running. “Did you see that Indian? Who the fuck is in our town? In our fuckin’ bar? Man’s gotta have balls, rolling into Soldiers’ territory and not declaring himself. Doesn’t matter who it is, shoulda held enough respect to fuckin’ front his visit.”
“Easy, brother,” Opie cautioned, and Watcher caught the weighty glance passing between Opie and Devil. All of them well aware Spider had not dealt with the death of his old lady well, spiraling nearly out of control over the first year. He’d come back, some, but wasn’t stable, not by a long shot. Daena’s death had been ruled an accident by the cops, but Spider had a conspiracy theory and suspicions about who he felt was behind it. He’d talked it up again and again, but there wasn’t any evidence. Without that proof, Watcher couldn’t authorize any action because it would have opened the door on a war which might have no end. As it was, the skirmishes the two clubs engaged in still left dead behind. Too many, Watcher thought, standing up off the bike.
The Soldiers hadn’t grown much since Darrie’s death, something Watcher had consciously done at first, keeping a lid on their membership numbers. He tried to keep his core focused on cycling between buildups of their businesses for financial support, and training the members they had. Mentoring them, teaching as he had been taught about protocol and what the brotherhood was supposed to mean. Not what the jumped-up clubs thought it was about, that being bitches and booze, blow and weed, parties and rolling a cage if you didn’t have a bike. No, he wanted them to understand what had gone before, so they’d cherish what they had. Respect the patch and look up to the old guys, no matter from what era they hailed.
“Hold, brothers,” Watcher called as Pops neared the door. Pulling his phone from the pocket of his vest, Watcher dialed and waited. “Be home late, baby.” He spoke softly, as if his voice through the phone would disturb the sleep of his daughter, safely in her bed miles away. Juanita laughed, the music pouring through the call and into him, filling Watcher up with love. The beauty his life had become amazed him every day.
“Okay, Papi,” she told him. “Be safe, bring yourself home to me soon. Our Bella loves her papa.”
He smiled as he disconnected the call, turning to see a grin on every face, including Spider. Cutting off any razzing, he uttered a preemptive, “Fuck you,” pushing through the door past them and into the bar. Once inside, he paused, taking in how few tables seated customers, none of which looked to be the owner of the motorcycle they’d seen. The bartender, now, he looked the part. Dark hair, wiry build, confident movements, and it seemed even the entrance of half a dozen badasses didn’t make him nervous. With a casual motion, Watcher indicated the bar, and seated himself, watching in the mirror as his men took stations on either side of him. Watcher was their president, and they would protect him with their lives. The knowledge
swelled in his chest, giving him a fierce, puffed-up pride to know the brotherhood they’d built was unbreakable.
Some brief banter with the bartender and a definite declaration of ownership of the bike out back finally brought them to a lull in the conversation. Asking for permission to be in their territory in a way-the-fuck roundabout way, the guy seemed laidback and without divulging they would soon be his boss, Watcher assured him the Soldiers wouldn’t have a problem with him working and riding in their town.
Then, the moment the man’s back was turned Watcher heard Spider mutter, “Fuck this shit. Ain’t right.” At those words, Watcher tensed, knowing they were about to have trouble. A minute later, he was proven right, Spider launching himself at the bartender. Between Watcher and Opie, with Devil’s assistance, they disarmed Spider—at least of his drawn piece, the man was known to carry more than one. Watcher casually tucked the gun into the small of his back. Fingers wound tightly in Spider’s shirt underneath his vest, he stared at the man behind the bar and grinned, feeling a trickle of anticipation curl through his gut when the guy didn’t look tweaked.
“Looks like Spider thought he had a problem with that, but he was wrong,” Watcher said, sitting back, dragging Spider away from the bar and seating the man’s ass firmly on his own stool.
Spider snarled, “Ain’t right and you know it, Watcher. We don’t need a nomad gettin’ in our business.”
Watcher Page 16
