Iron Heart (Lords of Carnage Ironwood MC)

by Daphne Loveling

  “Hey, y’all!” he announces in that goddamn loud way of his. “How’s it hangin’?”

  “Fuck off, Mensa,” I snarl, rounding on him. He half-stumbles in surprise and veers off at a sharp right, toward the bar.

  Beside me, Mal chuckles. “Well, he’s gonna steer clear of you for a while.”

  “Good. Jesus, that fucker is irritating,” I mutter.

  Just then, Axel’s voice resounds through the main room. “All the patched members who’re in here right now, get your asses into the chapel! Church in three!”

  Mal and I look at each other. Ranger frowns. “Wonder what’s up?

  We don’t have long to wait to find out.

  “Just got word from one of the businesses we protect over in Youngsville,” he begins, referring to the next town over from Ironwood. Youngsville is in our territory, which means anything going on over there without Lords of Carnage consent is a problem. “Red Andrews. He tells me there’s some shady motherfuckers sellin’ drugs over there, with no link to our club.”

  Matthias’s face turns to stone. “That’s our turf,” he growls.

  “Damn straight,” Rourke agrees. “And either those fuckers don’t know it, or they do. If they do, they’re trying to piss us off. Or worse.”

  “Who you think they are?”

  “Unsure. There ain’t too many MCs around here who’d be stupid enough to make a play for our territory,” Axel mutters. “But I can think of someone who might be tryin’ to poke the bear.”

  “Los Caballeros,” I supply.

  Axel nods. “Probably some fuckin’ lackeys they sent there to be killed, but yeah. That’s what I’m thinkin’. They’re tryin’ to send a message.”

  “What’s the plan, Prez?” Bear’s grizzled voice pipes up.

  “We send them a fuckin’ message back.” The storm gathering on Axel’s face would make most men piss themselves. He looks around the table. “Gage. Rourke. Bama. Ranger. Matthias. You go talk to Red Andrews over at the butcher shop in Youngsville. Get any info you can on the location of these motherfuckers. If you find them…” Axel pauses, then shows his teeth in a murderous sneer. “Make sure they’re gonna need a closed casket at their funerals. Dump them at the edge of our territory and call me with their twenty.”

  “Will do.” Rourke nods once.

  “All right. We’re done here. The rest of you, watch your six for now.” Axel bangs his gavel and stands.

  “You think we’re headin’ for trouble?” I ask Mal as we file out of the chapel.

  “Could be.” He shrugs, then a grin slides across his face. “But I ain’t been in a good fight for a while.” When we get out into the main room, he looks across at Cyndi and lifts his chin. “I’m gonna take her back to her place. She don’t need to be here when shit’s goin’ down.”

  I nod, my mind flashing to Tori. “Probably a good idea,” I agree. Cyndi’s not Mal’s old lady, but it makes sense he doesn’t want her to be anywhere near any club business that could get her hurt.

  Mal calls over to Cyndi, who stands up from the bar where she’s been talking to Toni, one of the club girls. She waves goodbye to Toni, glances my way and flashes me a quick smile. Then the two of them exit out the front door toward the parking lot where Mal’s bike is parked.

  Turns out, that’s the last time I’ll ever see Cyndi alive.

  22

  Tori

  The next day, I wake up with my face smushed against a pillow that’s soaked through with my tears. My whole body feels like a washrag that’s had the last drops of moisture wrung from it.

  It takes me a supreme effort to drag myself up into a sitting position and put my two feet on the cold wooden floor. I feel like I have the flu, but I know I’m not sick. I’m just…

  I don’t know what I am.

  But it’s like I’ve had all of the life sucked out of me.

  I dress in some clothes I find piled on a chair, and slump down the stairs to the first floor. I open the front door.

  Dante’s tool box is still there.

  I can’t stand the thought of staying here today. I know if I stay in my house, I’ll spend the whole day hoping and waiting for Dante to come back for his tools.

  I can’t do that to myself. I’ll go crazy. And I can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’ve been waiting around for him.

  I have to get out of here. I have to get out of Ironwood.

  Dimly, I realize it’s Saturday. The ghost of an idea comes to me through the miserable fog in my brain. I text Savannah and tell her I’m leaving town for the weekend.

  Then I call my mom, and tell her I’m finally coming for that visit I promised.

  On the road, I phone my dad. He’s thrilled when I tell him I’ll be “home” for the weekend. My dad has absorbed so much of my mom’s anger and the guilt since my diagnosis, he sometimes acts almost like he doesn’t have the right to be my parent anymore. He tentatively suggests maybe we could go out for a nice dinner that night. When I tell him that sounds great, he sounds so elated that a knife edge of remorse cuts through me. I tell him how much I’m looking forward to seeing him, and resolve to be a better, more attentive daughter going forward.

  The drive from Ironwood to my mom’s house in the northern suburbs of Columbus takes just under two and a half hours. I get there just before noon, while my mom is still at her Saturday morning shift at her receptionist job for a real estate agency. I find the spare key under the decorative rock next to the attached garage, let myself in, and trudge up the stairs to my old bedroom.

  It’s still pretty much the same as I left it when I used to live here. My mom lives here by herself now, but she keeps my room more or less the way it used to be when we were all together. My dad lives in a sparse one-bedroom apartment closer to downtown.

  I set down my weekend bag on my bed and look around my room. All the mementos from my teen years stare back at me. The boy band posters. The decorative postcards from far-away places I used to pin on my wall, like a visual bucket list. A standing bookshelf is in one corner, housing everything from my first picture books, to the Babysitters Club series, to a dozen or so dog-eared romance novels. I know there are more books still in my closet — at least one full box of them, piled in with the other boxes of toys, diaries, and other trinkets and treasures.

  All these reminders of my past. All the souvenirs of a girl who had dreams and hopes for the future that would never come to pass.

  I wonder whether Dante’s got a pile of boxes from his childhood packed away somewhere. I know his parents are both dead, so there’s no family home anymore. There are no boxes of mementos stacked up in his mother’s attic. But maybe they’re somewhere, all the same. I wonder what’s in those boxes, if they exist.

  The thought of Dante opens up a fresh rash of rawness. I shake the idea of him from my head and leave the room, going back downstairs.

  The house is silent as I pad through it in my stocking feet. Mom has always had a strict rule about taking our shoes off when we come in the front door. It’s so silent that I can easily hear the muffled thud as our giant orange tabby, Schroeder, jumps down off of some counter and comes out to greet me with a low, rusty meow.

  “Hey, Schroeder-Woder,” I croon, bending down to pick him up. “Oof, I forgot how heavy you are.”

  He starts to purr loudly as I carry him into the living room and sit down on the overstuffed couch. I sit there with him on my lap for a few minutes and pet him absentmindedly, once again struck by the feeling that I’m in a time warp. My ten-year-old self, my nineteen-year-old self and my twenty-four-year-old self all coalesce here on the couch, all of us petting Schroeder. All of us contemplating the hundreds of times we’ve sat right here in this spot. Bored, or sad, or happy, or angry. Dreaming, or fuming, or just lazing around.

  And right now, none of us knows what the hell we’re doing with our life.

  When my mom comes home a couple of hours later, I’ve fallen asleep and I’m thoroughly covered in cat hair. S
chroeder is nowhere to be seen. Mom gives me a hug, but holds herself back at a distance from me, because she’s wearing her work clothes.

  “How was your trip, sweetie?” she asks as she motions for me to follow her up the stairs to her bedroom so she can change.

  “It was fine. Uneventful.” I’m not going to tell my mom the reason I decided to come. The last thing I need is for her to ask me all sorts of prying questions about Dante. Especially because she would be less than thrilled to find out he’s a biker. And that I’ve been on his motorcycle, God forbid.

  I lean against the doorjamb as she peels off her dark pants and sweater set, and pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. When she’s finished, she bends down and peers into her makeup mirror, then combs her fingers through her short, blond hair, just a shade darker than mine.

  “Well, I hope you’re staying until at least through Sunday afternoon. Sandra is having a group of us over for brunch tomorrow morning, and she wants you to come.”

  “I can do that, for sure. I don’t have any plans.” I say, then remember something. “Oh, except I am meeting Dad for dinner tonight. But that’s the only thing.”

  My mom turns to me, her face suddenly pinched. “The first thing you do when you come home is turn around and go out with your father?” she says testily.

  “Mom. Come on.” I swallow down my frustration, not wanting to cause any waves. “You’ll have the whole rest of the weekend with me. Okay?”

  Mom looks as though she wants to say something more, but purses her lips and turns away. Thankfully, after being quiet for a few seconds, she changes the subject to shopping plans for tomorrow. I tune her out and nod along, lost in my own thoughts.

  I meet my dad for dinner at one of our favorite places: King’s. It’s a family restaurant we’ve been going to since I was a kid. Primarily because they have the best chocolate malts in town. I haven’t seen my dad in a while, and I’m relieved that he looks like he’s in good health. His close-cropped light brown hair is showing signs of gray at the temples, and the creases around his eyes are a little deeper. But other than that, he seems like he’s doing okay.

  I order my standard: a single cheeseburger with fries (and of course, the malt). My dad gets a tuna melt, a basket of onion rings, and a butterscotch malt. I tease him that butterscotch is gross, just like I always do.

  “So, how’s my best girl?” he asks me after we order. He leans back in the booth and gives me his characteristic dad wink. The cold ball that’s been sitting in my stomach since Dante stormed out of my place begins to melt just a little.

  “I’m fine. Work’s okay, I guess. Ironwood’s same old, same old.” I pause. “I did have an electrical problem — old wiring that needed to be updated — but I got that fixed.”

  “That’s a lot of house for one person,” he says. It’s his standard line about Aunt Jeanne’s house. “You ever give any thought to selling it?”

  “Not really. Maybe someday,” I say noncommittally.

  His smile falters. “How’s… you know?” He taps his chest. My dad doesn’t like to say the word heart.

  “I’m fine,” I reassure him gently. “Taking my pills just like the doctor ordered. No problems.” Except for the attack I had with Dante, but my dad doesn’t need to know that. He frets enough already about me the way it is.

  “That’s good,” he breathes. “I know your mother worries.”

  That’s another standard Dad line. He has trouble talking about his own feelings, so he talks about Mom’s instead. Always has. But for some reason, when he does it now, it touches off a nerve inside me.

  “You shouldn’t worry about what Mom’s state of mind,” I find myself saying, more than a hint of bitterness in my voice. “It’s not like she bothers worrying about you.”

  Dad blinks in surprise. He contemplates me for a second, like he’s trying to think of how to reply.

  “Your mother…” he finally murmurs. “She’s had a hard time.”

  “So have you, Dad,” I reply, trying with difficulty to temper my tone. “Both of you had a hard time when I was diagnosed. Mom didn’t have a monopoly on worrying about her kid.”

  I’ve always resented the way Mom made Dad feel like my heart problems were his fault. But now I’m realizing I’m also kind of mad that my dad never stood up to her about it.

  “Of course it was hard, Tori,” he frowns. “But…”

  “I mean, Dad, don’t brush that off!” I interrupt. “It was hard for you. And Mom seemed to take every opportunity to make you feel even worse than you already did.” I stop myself short, but my question hangs in the air in front of me. Why didn’t you call her on it?

  Dad looks away, his eyes landing gratefully on the waitress who arrives with our food. I watch as she sets our plates and malts in front of us, then leaves. My Dad makes a remark about how hungry he is, and reaches for an onion ring. I sigh, and pick up a fry, then dip it into my malt — a ritual from when I was a kid.

  We eat for a minute or so in silence. I’m pretty sure this conversation topic is finished. But just when I’m starting to cast about for something else to talk about, my dad clears his throat.

  “You know, Tori,” he says quietly. “When people get married, they do it because of all the happy times they’ve had together. The good stuff. The fun stuff. Oh,” he waves a hand. “You say your vows about in sickness and in health. And you mean it. But it’s hard to really think about the bad stuff when it hasn’t happened yet.”

  Dad stares down at his plate. I’m looking at him, begging him in my mind to continue. Hardly daring to move.

  We’ve never talked about this. Ever. Not even when my parents told me they were getting divorced.

  “The thing is,” he sighs. “When things do get rough, sometimes you find out that you don’t have what it takes to make the other person feel better. And then sometimes, you realize that what the other person needs is…” He stops. “Well, that’s neither here nor there.”

  “No.” I insist. “Tell me. Tell me what you were going to say, Dad.”

  He takes in a breath. “Your mother suffered a lot when you got sick.”

  “So did you,” I say again, stubbornly.

  He looks down at the table, at his water glass. For a few moments, he’s quiet.

  “Yes,” he finally admits. “I did, too. But I think…” He pauses. “I think it was killing her to feel so helpless. I couldn’t take the fear and the worry away from her. But I think it made her feel at least a little better that your illness hadn’t come from her. That it wasn’t her fault.”

  Dad looks up and his eyes meet mine.

  The meaning of his words hits me all at once.

  I’ve always known that Dad loves me unconditionally. And I know he loved Mom unconditionally, too.

  He loved both of us so much, he would have done anything to take our pain away.

  No matter what it cost him in the end.

  Suddenly, I think I understand why Dad never fought back when Mom blamed him for my cardiomyopathy diagnosis.

  He never fought back because he knew she needed to blame him. Because she needed someone else to be at fault. Someplace else, to put her anger.

  My God. So, he let her do it. He didn’t argue with her. He just accepted it. Because it was what he could do for her. He could let her take some of her anger at the whole shitty situation, and direct it somewhere else.

  At him.

  All at once, the enormity of my father’s love for my mom threatens to overwhelm me.

  I want to burst into tears. To yell at him. To hug him. To tell him he’s my hero.

  “Dad,” I choke, but then stop, not trusting my voice.

  “It’s okay,” he says, smiling, his eyes shining. He sniffles, then lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “The important thing is, we’re all okay.” My father reaches over and pats my hand. “Right?”

  “Right. We’re all okay,” I whisper.

  That night, around nine o’clock, I get a text from Dante
.

  You around? I need to talk to you. It’s important.

  No apology. Not a shred of kindness in his words.

  There’s not one indication in his text that there has ever been anything intimate between us. Just it’s important. No indication what His Highness wants to talk about. Like I’m just supposed to jump at his words. Be at his beck and call.

  A wall of fury wells up inside me. I can’t imagine a single thing that jackass needs to talk to me about. Not one single thing that I care about at all.

  Fuck him, I say to myself, choking back a sob. I raise my hand to my face and sweep away my angry tears. Then I delete the text for good measure and shut off my phone.

  I don’t want to talk to Dante D’Agostino right now. I might not want to talk to him ever again.

  I spend the rest of the weekend with my mom. If she notices I’m quieter than usual, or more subdued, she doesn’t say anything. We go shopping. She takes me to a new chocolate and pastry shop everyone in her circle is raving about. I spend a couple of hours at Sunday brunch being poked and prodded by her friends, who all agree I there is No Good Reason I’m not engaged to be married by now, a Pretty Girl Like Me.

  All in all, it’s fine.

  When I get back to Ironwood on Sunday night, there’s an envelope and some other papers sticking halfway out of the mailbox next to my front door, in with my mail. I pull out the envelope. It’s a bill from Dante for the electrical work. My stomach lurches at the finality of it, and the impersonal language on the invoice.

  Underneath the bill is a note, scrawled in black marker.

  Tori.

  I need to talk to you about something serious. I don’t wanna do it in writing. Call me.

  - Dante

  I glance over at the corner of my porch, where his toolbox was. It’s gone.

  I still haven’t turned my phone back on since I shut it off yesterday. When I get back inside, I almost press the power button, but in the end, I decide to give myself one more night. I’ll do it tomorrow morning, once I’m at work and can focus on something else instead of obsessing over any messages Dante did or did not send me. I take it upstairs with me and put it on the charger in my bedroom. Out of sight, out of mind.