Dunning didn’t, of course. He had a sweet deal at his parents’ house, just like I did at mine. He and I also never made any real friends outside of the Woodlands. My future VP is a lot like me. Softer, sure, but so was I at eighteen. While he has calmer parents, I did enjoy the luxury of not having a baby in my house.
Crystal Sinema was born hollering. We heard her down the hallway in the waiting room. After the birth of her long wished for child, Topanga cried nonstop—literally. She changed diapers while crying, showered while crying, etc.
“I’m worried about dehydration,” Lowell told me more than once.
After giving birth to a child she showed only the slightest interest in, Amity continued living in the Sinema family’s basement. There was no reason to move back to the Overlook, and our house—with her bedroom suite—wasn’t ready yet.
And one night in that basement, Dunning kissed Amity. I knew this fact after she told Monroe, who immediately shared it with me.
“You need to know what your future VP is up to,” my honey said when I teased her about gossiping. “And how his mind ticks, so you’ll trust his judgment.”
“Sure, and you just like the idea of your brother getting lucky.”
“He’s too old to be a virgin,” Monroe explained while tracing one of my tats. “And he’s lonely. All the girls he fell for didn’t fall for him. He can’t have fun with the bunnies because Topanga won’t let him. He’s treated like a child and dismissed as a loser. At least, Amity thinks he’s hot and respects him. If they fuck, she’ll make him feel sexy instead of like an eighteen-year-old virgin.”
“Hey, you don’t have to sell me on it. I started fucking bunnies when I was fifteen. Just ask any of those girls still around, and they’ll tell you I was a born stud,” I said before adding quieter, “And they’d be lying.”
“Did you jizz like five seconds in?” Monroe asked, smirking.
“No, I couldn’t come. I’d just be fucking and fucking until we were both like, ‘Is this thing on?’” I explained, sending Monroe into a giggling fit that ended with her looking ready to reward my dick for its funny story.
“Well, you got better,” she finally whispered. “Topanga doesn’t want Dunning to be a man because she isn’t ready for him to stop being her baby. But now, she has a tiny person to focus all her obsessive love on. So, Dunning has a chance to grow up.”
Monroe wasn’t wrong about Dunning needing his parents to back off. That included Lowell. I understood why father and son butted heads so much. Like the time Lowell taught Dunning how to ride a motorcycle. The teenager was so busy worrying about embarrassing himself or letting down his dad that he kept fucking up. That’s why he’ll never learn to be a member of the Executioners from watching Lowell. There’s too much emotional baggage between them.
That’s why I start having Dunning follow me around. When I handle the pot business, he’s right there. When I’m checking on the trucks going out with our product, Dunning listens to every word I say. We train in the gym together, too. At first, he gives me shit. Dunning still thinks like a spoiled kid, and I’m his big sister’s sex slave.
“One day, your dad and my uncle will be busy rubbing Bengay on their old-man muscles. The men older than them in our club will be napping away their afternoons. The safety of the Executioners and the Woodlands will rest on the younger guys’ shoulders. Wyatt’s nothing more than muscle. John Boy is still a baby. Farts is weak. Those last two can grow into solid club members. But, right now, they’re coasting on their daddies’ reps. And we’ll be the ones who’ll have to keep them in line, make sure no one fucks with the club, and protect the Woodlands.”
Dunning loses his snotty teenager expression. He sees a future where bad shit might happen to his mom and baby sister. Not because Lowell and Bronco fucked up. No, it’ll be on us.
“Elko is safe because men killed and bled to make it that way. In the not so far-off future, you and I will be the ones bleeding and killing and maybe dying.”
“I get it,” he says, sounding too young to really understand.
And right there—the way he can’t hide his emotions—is Dunning’s true problem. He never learned to disguise his feelings. Topanga wanted her little boy to express himself. Yet, despite more growing up to do, at his core, Dunning does get it. He might need a few years to build his mask, but he has the grit to help me lead.
I don’t know when Bronco will step back. Right now, we take turns at meetings and handling midnight emergency calls. He’s still president in the eyes of the club. I view him the same way. One day, though, I’ll be in charge. But thanks to Dunning—and his sister’s prodding—I won’t be alone at the top.
PART 10: EPILOGUES
MONROE
Ass backward is how I usually fumble my way into success. That’s how I started my life in Elko, and I’m not changing now. This is why I decide to try for a baby as our house is in the beginning stages. Of course, we hit the jackpot on our first try. Then, I find myself setting up a makeshift nursery in Barbie’s house for a baby I probably should have waited a bit longer to make.
But I wanted a little Conor so badly that I can’t help myself. And Amity’s pregnancy made the timing seem perfect. Plus, Conor mentioned how my baby and my newest sibling will be almost the same age. That’s the kind of wacky shit I love. Yeah, not the best reasons to make a kid, but I have no regrets.
Long before we conceive the little guy, Conor and I decide on our son’s name. While stoned and listening to “Chinese Democracy” in his mom’s barely lit basement, he says he wants the name Willie. I assume he’s fucking around and start throwing out names that’ll honor my parents.
“Leedy,” he suggests, snickering as his hands feel me up in the dark room.
I sound out names while Conor wiggles his way between my legs and blows on my bare pussy. I’ll never tell my son how we came up with his name while his father licked me into submission.
My first pregnancy is easy. I’m shooting hoops with Dunning up until delivery. I feel as if the entire pregnancy is too laidback. Except for my boy kicking me, my little belly, and a lack of a period, I’m exactly like I was before. So, I assume delivery is where I’ll suffer payback from the universe.
Screaming and begging for pain medicine is how I imagine my birthing experience. Instead, my water breaks, I walk around for a while, the mild contractions speed up, we go to the hospital, I push once, and Noel Billy Jessup slides out while screaming his head off.
Yeah, that’s where the universe’s revenge comes in. My firstborn—a handsome child who looks like Conor mated with himself—never seems to stop crying when awake.
“He’s a whiner,” Barbie says, carrying him around the family room to give us a break. “That’s why God made him beautiful. No one’s putting up with this shit for an ugly kid.”
Pixie offers another theory. “They say if you’re angry during pregnancy, your baby will be born with rage imprinted on its heart.”
“But I wasn’t angry during pregnancy. I didn’t even care when Ballerina Barbie called me fat.”
“You called me Little Miss Cunt Barbie.”
“Well, we were both right,” I reply, making her smile. “But, no, I was rarely angry.”
Pixie sighs. “Then, I don’t know why he cries so much.”
And neither does the doctor. There’s nothing wrong with Noel, who is always fussy. I don’t know what Conor and I would do if we were alone. Noel’s crying haunts me. I even hear it in my dreams.
Needy plays nanny at night. Topanga and Lowell are always giving us a hand, despite their new baby. Bronco and Lana take Noel often for a few hours. Pixie and Anders babysit at other times. And not only our closest friends help out. The Woodlands community organizes a schedule, so someone comes by every day. Even the bunnies volunteer to watch him.
I love my son so much, but he’s always unhappy. We rarely share quiet moments between us unless he’s asleep. I’ve seen videos from right after my birth when Needy would
hold me in her arms. We’d stare quietly at each other for the longest time. I rarely get those moments with Noel. If he’s awake, he’s crying or whining or preparing to do one or the other.
“He hates me,” I cry to Conor more than once.
“I think maybe he hates everyone,” he always whispers, more exhausted from our parenting failures than a lack of sleep. “Or maybe he liked the world inside you better than the one out here.”
“I don’t want more,” I say a million times a day. “I’m no good at making one baby happy. How will I handle two miserable children?”
Then, on his third month, second week, and fourth day of life, Noel Billy Jessup shuts the fuck up and smiles at me. I don’t know what switch flipped in his little head, but he settles down.
“His smile is like magic,” I tell Conor after a few days with a more chill baby.
“I guess he finally got over missing his home inside you.”
“Or he learned to hide his misery like you do,” I say, suddenly worried that my sad child is faking shit for our benefit.
“I say this with all the love in my heart,” Conor whispers against my cheek. “But our tiny baby’s brain is too dumb to pull off that move.”
Conor is right, of course. I’ve spent months playing detective, trying to figure out why my baby is miserable. Conor remained cool, waiting for our son to realize the world wasn’t ending just because he was out in it.
Motherhood is easy after his switch flips. Sure, Noel still cries, and he throws tantrums as a toddler. My boy isn’t perfect. Yet, after such a stressful beginning to our relationship, I appreciate his smiles and laughter more.
“Jessup men make you work for it,” Conor says one night while we’re outside in the backyard of our gorgeous new home. “That’s why you still have to buy me dinner occasionally to keep the spark alive.”
We’re comfortable people, falling into a groove quickly. But he never lets our relationship get boring. When we irritate each other, we drive to Cincinnati to vent our frustrations by crashing bumper cars.
Conor never takes me for granted. I’m still the safe place he craved all his life. I even suspect this is why his relationship with his mom has improved. They can butt heads and drive each other crazy. Then, he’ll return to me where he’s safe to lower his guard.
Though I don’t know if time heals all wounds, it sure does calm old grudges. Taryn, DeAnna, and I will never be friends. Yet, life smooths out our relationship’s many sharp edges. They even offer to help when Noel goes through his crying phase, and I’m actually willing to let them by then. Everyone can change, not much in some cases, but enough to make a difference.
After her daughter’s birth, attention-hog DeAnna fulfills her need to feel special by doting on what she believes is the cutest child on the planet. This delusion distracts her from being a cunt most days. Taryn finally lowers herself to hooking up with Farts. Some women need a man to find their purpose, and she’s one of them. Her devil son isn’t so bad once he has a parent who doesn’t think his bad behavior is funny.
People change, and they learn to live together. And that was what I had to do with the Woodlands community. Conor is a package deal. His mom and his family and his club and their families. I couldn’t just get the great man and ignore the rest. These are my people now. Fortunately, I’m good at melting into not-always-warm family situations.
By the time Bardot comes along, I’m the president’s wife. Shy Lana couldn’t ignore them when Bronco was running the club. She mostly smiled and played nice while Topanga, Barbie, and Bambi did the heavy lifting keeping the other old ladies in order. After all, women who marry bikers don’t tend to be on the timid side and will butt heads with the best of them.
Once I’m the Woodlands queen, I don’t start wagging my tits around. However, I’m more willing to shove the other three women aside if I feel they’re wrong. Over the next few years, Barbie and I become quite the ballbusting duo. She plays bad cop. I play the jaded cop who lets the bad cop go too far before finally stepping in and acting semi-rational. Then, if we need a good cop, we’ll pull Topanga into our madness. Not only does this system work, but the old ladies also find it entertaining.
My kids have two wonderful grandmas while they think of Topanga as one of their aunts. Needy is the fun, soft grandma who also has rules. Barbie is the wild grandma who starts shit with their parents and makes them laugh. All of Barbie’s “I won’t have those sticky fucking things in my house touching my shit” declarations go out the window once the kids are born. She lets Noel climb over literally everything.
“Rules make kids weak,” she claims more than once.
Conor knows she’s full of shit. Growing up, she was the parent who set the rules. She spent decades complaining about how lenient Bambi and Rooster were with Wyatt and Taryn. Yet, now, she claims amnesia. Needy finally puts her foot down.
“I’m sick of being the mean grandma,” she says when Noel barfs up a pile of candy he ate at nice grandma’s house.
Knowing there’s only one way to deal with Barbie, I suggest, “Well, if she throws a punch, go for her weak left knee.”
Needy does confront Barbie. Mom Squad loyalty only goes so far. Rather than watch the show, I hang out at Pixie’s house so our kids can play. Somewhere, our men are doing manly shit. It’s a day like any other except for how my mom might need to beat up Conor’s mom.
“Well?” I ask when Needy appears in Pixie’s backyard.
“We talked,” she says and gestures to Pixie. “Fairuza played peacemaker.”
“Did Barbie blow you off?” I ask when Needy just messes with Bardot’s tiny pigtails.
“No, but we understand each other now.”
“Dumb it down,” I push while Pixie and I frown at Needy. “Did she threaten you?”
“No, Barbie said she would be more careful about going overboard, but she still planned to be the fun grandma. I understand why she needs that now.”
“Understand what?”
“She was always the bad guy with Conor,” Mom explains and sighs. “She set the rules, but she was also unstable. Barbie’s mood swings made him fear her. She never got to be the fun one, so she wants that now with Noel and Bardot.” When I still frown, Needy strokes my cheek. “When you were young, we had fun together. I also had rules, and you got mad at me. Normal stuff. We had more good times than bad ones. Barbie’s getting old and struggling with her regrets.”
Sometimes at community get-togethers, I catch Barbie watching Conor. At first, I got creeped out by how she stared. But I can see now how she wishes she were different long ago. One day, she just randomly announced to me that “Conor was a miserable child.” I assumed this comment was an insult. Then, I realized she meant how she didn’t do enough for him. Neither did his dad.
Barbie and Wheels grew up getting kicked around and neglected. They thought as long as they didn’t beat their kid or withhold food, he was lucky. But Conor needed more emotional care than they offered. Now, he’s grown up, and there’ll always be distrust between him and Barbie. It’s also why he didn’t cry when Wheels died. Conor rewired himself as a boy to protect his heart. And he can’t change that now. The only way for her to fix what she did in the past is to pamper the little versions of Conor in her life.
And Barbie can’t help seeing him in her grandkids. They look just like Conor. Bardot—named after nice grandma and Needy’s love of old movie stars—is a smaller version of Aja. Wheels Jessup really did have dominant genes.
Conor is effortlessly cool with his kids. He handles Noel’s tender heart and Bardot’s wild streak like a man built for fatherhood. I love the sight of him holding his kids while talking with the other men during our many backyard parties.
Thanks to Conor, I have everything I’ve ever wanted, including blessings I never dreamed of. So many things could have gone wrong when Lowell found out about me. Yet, the universe whispered in Conor’s ear and started us on this path, where I got my hero, and he found his safe
place.
CONOR
Life moves along, having highs and lows, yet never announcing the important moments. A person has to pay attention. Sure, the death of my father was obviously big. But smaller moments—seeing Monroe for the first time or choosing to sit down with Aja at Burger King—could have passed by without notice. A few different choices and my life would have been measurably worse in a million ways.
Nothing is ever made official when I take over the Executioners from Bronco. We do what he wanted—sharing power by taking turns leading meetings and acting as the club's voice.
This goes on for years. My modern-traditionalist home is built. My children are born. My beard attempt flops. Monroe’s short bob isn’t much more successful. So many milestones pass before I realize how Bronco isn’t sharing power anymore. I’m the one running the Executioners. He never really retires as much as demotes himself. Bronco’s no longer the guy who gets the call in the middle of the night, but he still has my back.
This process is so gradual and easy that we skip the parts where I have to deal with old men thinking I’m too soft. By the time Dunning takes over for his dad, we’ve been working together for years. No one views him as a boy anymore. By then, he’s built his own house. Somehow, Dunning and Amity stick it out. I honestly don’t get them, but Monroe acts as if they make perfect sense.
“Dunning’s insecure around women, and Amity is very generous emotionally. He feels safe. She feels safe. Everyone’s happy.”
Who am I to disagree? Monroe and I only needed twenty-four hours together before we were in love. Sometimes, life’s just that easy.
By the time I’m president, Wyatt’s gotten a lot of his shit together. His personal growth didn’t come easily, of course. Living in his own place with his wife and their redheaded daughter, he got cocky again. He figured Bronco was taking too long to hand the club over to me. Our uncle must be having second thoughts. Lots of ego bullshit. Though Wyatt did manage to tone down his bad attitude when Noel went through his three months of misery, my cousin remained a raging asshole overall. I doubted he could help himself.
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