A Ride or Die Kind of Love

by Chelsea Camaron

  “They are eight,” I whispered excitedly. “Or sometimes nine!”

  “Proud of you, baby girl,” my father said, his eyes shining.

  I beamed. When you are young, your parents are your entire world. My father was my world. If he was happy, I was happy.

  Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder again. “Eva, honey, why don’t you go get somethin’ from the snack machines so Daddy and I can have a word.”

  This was typical. At the club everyone was always “having a word”—words I wasn’t allowed to hear. Most times, I didn’t really care since all the boys loved me, gave me lots of hugs, let me ride on their shoulders, and bought me presents all the time. To a five-year-old biker brat, an MC full of surrogate big brothers and daddies is the equivalent to a normal child being able to celebrate Christmas every day.

  I took my uncle Joe’s money and skipped off to the snack machines. Two people were in line ahead of me, so I did what I always did when I was bored—I started singing. Unlike most children my age who were listening to New Kids on the Block or Debbie Gibson, I was listening to the music played around the club. A particular favorite of mine was “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. So there I was, shaking my butt and singing “Summertime” way, way out of tune, waiting in line for stale potato chips in the Rikers Island family visiting room, when I heard, “You like Hendrix, too, kid?”

  I swiveled around and was met with a pair of denim-clad legs with the knees worn clean through. I looked up, and my eyes widened in delight. He was tall and tan. His arms and legs were thickly muscled, and his waist was trim. His forehead was wide, and his jaw was strong and square. His head was shaved, only a fuzz of blond hair showing, and his forearms were heavily tattooed with different depictions of elaborate dragons. I’d never seen a more beautiful man.

  There are three different types of men in this world: There are weak men—men who run and hide when life slaps them in the ass. Then there are men—men who have a backbone, yet occasionally, when life slaps them in the ass, will rely on others. And then there are real men—men who don’t cry or complain, who don’t just have a backbone, they are the backbone. Men who make their own decisions and live with the consequences and who accept responsibility for their actions or words. Men who, when life slaps them in the ass, slap back and move on. Men who live hard and die even harder.

  Men like my father and my uncles. Men I loved with all my heart.

  Men like Deuce.

  “I like Hendrix,” I said. “But Janis rules. I listen to ‘Rose’ almost every single day!”

  He grinned down at me and dimples popped out all over the place.

  “I like you, kid,” he said, still grinning. “You got good taste in tunes, and you’ve got a pair of Chucks on instead of those stupid fuckin’ high-tops everyone’s wearin’.”

  He liked me. This was hands down the best day ever.

  “I hate high-tops,” I said, wrinkling up my nose.

  He winked. “Me, too.”

  I was so throwing out all my high-tops when I got home.

  When it was my turn in line, I stood on my tiptoes and popped change into the machine. I took my time studying the selections, deciding on a small bag of salted peanuts. Moving out of the way, I watched as the man bought two bags of potato chips, three candy bars, and a big chocolate chip cookie.

  “Wow,” I said. “You’re really hungry.”

  He laughed. “Not for me.” He pointed across the room. “My old man.”

  I spared a quick glance at my father and Uncle Joe. Their heads were bowed over the table, still “having a word.”

  “Can I meet him?” I asked.

  His eyebrows popped up. “Uh, he’s kinda cranky.”

  I laughed. All the men I knew were kinda cranky.

  I slipped my hand in his and looked up, ready to go meet his father. His hand was warm and comfortable, like my bed was after I’d slept in it all night.

  He stared down at our joined hands, his expression confused.

  “Ready,” I told him, tugging on his hand. Shrugging, he led me to a nearby table where an older man with a long gray beard and a shaved head sat, cuffed the same way my father was. He released my hand to take his seat, and I climbed into the seat next to him.

  “Hi,” I said cheerfully.

  “You got somethin’ to tell me?” the old man asked his son.

  “She likes Janis,” he replied.

  The old man studied me. “You like Janis, kid?”

  I nodded. “And Steppenwolf and Three Dog Night and the Rolling Stones and Billie Holiday—”

  “Billie Holiday?” he interrupted, sounding surprised.

  I popped some peanuts in my mouth and nodded. “She rules.”

  The old man grinned and his entire face changed. I knew immediately; a long time ago, this cranky old man had been as beautiful as his son.

  “I like Billie Holiday,” he said gruffly.

  “I like you,” I said spontaneously because I always said stuff spontaneously. “Do you want some peanuts?”

  “Sure, kid,” he said, smiling. “I’d love some.”

  I poured the rest of my peanuts into his hand, and he popped them all into his mouth at the same time.

  “Eva!”

  I jumped at the sound of my uncle Joe’s voice. He was walking briskly across the room toward me. Once he reached the table, not only did Uncle Joe looked pissed off, but so did my two new friends.

  “You got a death wish?” Uncle Joe whispered to the old man. “Horsemen are in good with the Demons. Let’s fuckin’ keep it that way.”

  “Ah,” the old man said, looking back at me. “You must be Preacher’s little girl. He’s talked ’bout you. Proud as fuck, he is.”

  I nodded proudly. “I am Preacher’s little girl. And I’m gonna be just like him when I grow up. I’m gonna have a Fat Boy, but I want mine to be sparkly, and I want a pink helmet with skulls on it. And instead of being the club president, I’m gonna be the club queen ’cause I’m gonna marry the biggest, scariest biker in the whole world, and he’s gonna let me do whatever I want because he’s gonna love me like crazy.”

  My uncle Joe burst out laughing, and the old man shook his head, smiling. The beautiful man turned to face me and leaned forward.

  “I’m gonna hold you to that,” he whispered.

  I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I was captivated by the intensity I saw in his bright blue-and-white-flecked eyes. They reminded me of a frosted-over lake. He had beautiful icy blue eyes that sucked me in to a warm, safe place that I wanted to stay inside of forever.

  He stuck out his hand, breaking the spell. “Name’s Deuce, sweetheart. My old man here is Reaper. It was nice talkin’ with ya.”

  I put my hand in his, and his big fingers closed around mine. “Eva,” I whispered. “That’s my name, and it was so, so great to meet you, too.”

  He smiled. And his eyes smiled, too. I got lost again in his pretty eyes.

  Then Uncle Joe picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. “Isn’t that fuckin’ expensive-as-hell private school teachin’ you ’bout talkin’ to strangers?” he said. “Gonna have a talk with those prissy fuckers. Gonna have a talk with my fist.”

  “Bye,” I yelled, waving frantically as I was marched away.

  Reaper gave me a two-handed handcuffed wave and a big smile.

  Deuce got to his feet grinning and gave me a two-finger salute. “Bye, darlin’.”

  Darlin’.

  It was official. I was head over heels in love.

  • • •

  Deuce watched One-Eyed Joe, Silver Demon lifer, stalk off with Preacher’s kid hanging over his shoulder, grinning and waving like a lunatic. He shook his head and smiled. When he could no longer see her, he lost his smile and turned back to his old man.

  His old man had lost his smile, too.

  “Cute kid,” Reaper grumbled. “Shoulda had a girl instead of you two fucks.”

  He stared at his old man. He had a moment of longing, watching
him smile at that kid and talk to her the way he should have talked to his own kids but never had. He’d been too busy beating on him and his brother.

  Good times.

  “Preacher’s on the move,” Reaper growled. “Takin’ that fuckin’ deal with the Russians right out from under you. Why the motherfuck didn’t you snap that shit down when you had the chance?”

  And there it was. He was VP, and that’s all he was to his old man. Someone to pass the fucking gavel to when he finally—and it couldn’t come fast enough—kicked it.

  “Preacher’s road chief beat me to it. Snagged that shit ’fore I even heard about it.”

  Reaper’s expression went glacial. “You’re such a fuckin’ fuckup. Shoulda made Cas VP. Shoulda had that fuckin’ cunt of a whore get ridda ya.”

  His mother had been a whore—not a streetwalker but a club whore. She was sixteen when his father knocked her up, his old man nearly thirty. After he was born, his old man kicked her to the curb with nothing but the clothes on her back. All he’d ever had of his mother was a gritty picture of a very young girl sitting on his old man’s Harley; Olivia Martin was written on the back. He liked to think that she started a new life somewhere else with someone who was nothing like his old man. Found some peace and a family who loved her.

  His younger brother, Cas, was the product of another knocked-up whore. Same story, different day.

  For twenty-three years, he’d been putting up with his shit. He’d had enough. Pushing out of his chair he stood up, placed his palms on the table, and leaned forward.

  “Nobody—and when I say nobody, I mean fuckin’ everybody—gives two fucks about what happens to you, you miserable shit. The club respects their prez, but not one of your boys gives a fuck whether you live or die. You got life, old man, and I been runnin’ shit in your absence. And seein’ as I been runnin’ shit a fuck of a lot better than you, I don’t have to come here. But I do outta fuckin’ respect, and I just lost the last shred of respect I had left.”

  “You little shit,” Reaper hissed. “You’re gonna pay—”

  “No. You’re gonna pay. Puttin’ the cash up for bids the minute I walk outta here.”

  Fear flashed through his old man’s eyes. He’d never seen anything sweeter.

  “Remember, you piece-of-shit fuck, when you’re bleedin’ out, that it was me who fuckin’ ordered it.”

  He turned away before his old man could say another word and strode through Rikers’ visiting room breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest, determined to end that man.

  “Deuce!” a little voice squealed. He turned.

  Eva was gunning for him. Just before she reached him, she came skidding to a stop, breathing heavy, and thrust her hand out. “Didn’t get to share with you,” she said breathlessly.

  He bent down and closed his hand around a small bag of peanuts.

  His throat closed up.

  This kid, this little fucking kid who didn’t know him at all, had just given him his first gift with nothing expected in return, no favors, no stipulations, no nothing. He’d been wrong. There was something sweeter than seeing fear in his old man’s eyes. Eva was far sweeter. If he ever had a kid, he wanted a kid like this one.

  “Thanks, darlin’,” he said hoarsely.

  “Will I ever see you again?” She cocked her head to the side, wide-eyed, waiting for his response.

  He stared into her eyes, her phenomenal eyes that were too big for her face. Big and smoky gray like a thunderstorm. Fucking beautiful.

  He smiled. “Hope so, sweetheart.”

  She gave him a killer cute grin and bounced back to her old man and uncle—who were staring daggers at him—shaking those pigtails.

  After shoving the peanuts in his pocket, he left. First street pay phone he saw, he posted the hit. It took all of an hour, and he had a buyer. Three days later, his old man bled out in the showers.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Seven years passed before Deuce and I crossed paths again.

  During those years, my father had been released from prison, and I had gained an older, pain-in-the-ass brother, Frankie.

  Franklin Deluva, Senior was my dad’s road chief. He died in a head-on collision with a Mack truck a few years back, and his old lady died several years earlier from breast cancer. As was the case with most biker brats, Frankie didn’t have any other family willing to take him on. Since my father didn’t have a son, he took Frankie under his wing and began mapping out his future as a Demon. If Frankie stayed the course, my father made it clear he’d be taking the gavel from him one day. Which was fine, great even, but there was just one big problem.

  Frankie was angry.

  All the time.

  So much so that all he did was get into fights—at school, at the club, on the sidewalk, in the grocery store. Frankie would fight with a brick wall if it pissed him off. You wouldn’t believe how many walls have pissed Frankie off.

  His poor fifteen-year-old body was already covered in scars from street fights. Since he had come to live with us, he’d been hospitalized sixteen times for various broken bones, knife wounds, and numerous concussions.

  Frankie also had serious abandonment issues.

  When he first moved in with my father and me, he had violent nightmares. He would wake up terrified, covered in sweat, and screaming at the top of his lungs. The nightmares turned into night terrors, and Frankie began thrashing in his sleep, beating his head with his fists while screaming and crying uncontrollably. My father had to hold him down until he either calmed or regained full consciousness.

  One night, when my father was out on a run, Frankie snuck into my room and slipped in bed with me. He slept soundly for the first time since he’d moved in with us, and he’d been in my bed ever since.

  And life moved on.

  Two weeks after my twelfth birthday, my father decided it was time for Frankie to tag along on an MC run. When he found out I wouldn’t be going, he threw a violent fit until my father caved. When it came to Frankie, my father was a total pushover.

  On the back of Frankie’s bike, I left Manhattan headed for northern Illinois. Our first stop: a pumpkin farm. When your father and his cohorts were involved in illegal dealings and needed to meet privately, criminal gatherings at pumpkin farms were more frequent than one would think.

  This sort of meeting usually lasted a couple of days; the adults stayed inside and the kids outside. There was always a lot of yelling, a lot of fighting, and a lot of drinking. And a lot of slutty women.

  I started developing early and looked rather awkward, being as skinny and as tall as I was—all elbows and knees with a pair of C cups. Several boys, who had accompanied their fathers to the meet, had been following me around, snapping my bra strap, and calling me “stuffer”—which was how I found myself hiding in a tree, my headphones on, listening to the Rolling Stones, swinging my legs and bobbing my head while singing along.

  I felt a tug on the toe of my Chucks, and I jerked my foot away.

  “Go away, Frankie!” I yelled.

  Frankie tugged my toe again, and I ripped off my headphones and glared down at him.

  It wasn’t Frankie.

  Except for his hair, which was now thick and sandy blond and hung down to his shoulders, he looked exactly the same. Still devastatingly beautiful.

  He grinned his multi-dimpled grin.

  “Heard you were around here somewhere, darlin’. You remember me?”

  “Deuce,” I whispered, staring at him. “From Rikers.”

  He burst out laughing. “I’m not actually from there. Home sweet home is in Montana. I was just visitin’ my old man, same as you. Remember?”

  I nodded. “Reaper. I liked him.”

  His smile slipped. “He’s gone now.”

  I never knew what to say to people who had lost their loved ones. Nothing ever sounded right. But seeing the faraway look in Deuce’s icy blue eyes, I had to say something.

  “He had a great smile,” I said softly. “Just lik
e yours.”

  His gaze shot to mine, and he smiled.

  And I smiled.

  “You know,” he said as he pulled a thin gold chain out of his dirty white T-shirt and lifted it over his head, “you should have this.”

  He grabbed my hand and placed the chain in it.

  “It was my old man’s,” he said. “Ain’t no one ever said nothin’ nice ’bout that bastard. Ever. Not even his own mother. Not until right now. Figure that makes it yours.”

  I held the chain up and studied the small round medallion hanging on it. The Hell’s Horsemen’s insignia was on the front. The words Hell’s Horsemen encircled a hooded Grim Reaper straddling a Harley and holding a scythe.

  On the back, it read Reaper.

  “That day seven years ago was the first time I’d seen that asshole smile. It was also the last.”

  I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say anything and just slipped the chain over my neck.

  “Thanks,” I said and tucked the medallion under my Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. “I like it.”

  Nodding, he looked off into the distance.

  “Gonna take a walk through them pumpkins, darlin’. You wanna join?”

  I hung my headphones around my neck, clipped my Walkman to my jeans pocket, and hopped down.

  I didn’t give it much thought and just slipped my hand into his, like I would with my father or Frankie. He glanced down but didn’t pull away, and his thick, warm fingers curled around mine as we started walking.

  As we walked, Deuce stared up at the cloudy gray sky, chain smoking, and not speaking.

  “Are you sad?” I asked.

  He glanced down at me, and his brows furrowed. I bit my lip. Had I said the wrong thing? Maybe he didn’t wanted anyone to know he was sad. My heart started beating faster and faster. I felt my palm grow clammy, and because my hand was in Deuce’s hand, I became embarrassed and started sweating even more.

  “Little brother died, darlin’. Few days ago.”

  I stopped walking and threw my arms around his waist, squeezing as hard as I could. “I’m so, so sorry,” I whispered.

  Deuce sucked in a breath. “Darlin’.”

  Then he fell to his knees and squeezed me until I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t care because it felt so nice, and I knew he needed it.