Truck Stopped: Satan's Devils MC #11

by Manda Mellett

  “Drum.” I’d gone into his office. “I want to come to the prison tomorrow. I’ll go with Hound in the crash truck.” I’m bouncing with excitement, so eager to see my man.

  “Sit down, Al,” he’d instructed, tiredly. “There are some things you need to consider.”

  I tilted my head to the side and waited.

  “I’ve seen men come out of prison more times than I like to remember. Men who’ve kept up with the outside world through visits with friends and family. Even then they find they need a period of adjustment to get used to living on the outside again. Truck? He’s been in solitary confinement for most of the time. Not allowed visits or phone calls. It’s cruel what’s been done to that man, and I’m worried about the effect on him.”

  “I realise that Drummer. I just thought he’ll be excited to see me.”

  His steel eyes had that rare gentle look. “You’ve been through hell, Al, and have come out the other side. Truck might need to work through some shit too. Got no doubt he’ll do that, ‘specially with a strong woman like you by his side. But he may need time to return to being the man you married.”

  I bit my lip. Of course I knew being alone in a cell would be awful. To keep myself sane, I’d not been able to dwell on it. Truck was safe and alive, that’s what I’d hung onto. I’d had enough to do getting myself well both mentally and physically, and learning how to care for a baby. I’d worried about Truck, but hid the worst of the details from myself. Now Drummer’s making me face reality.

  “You think seeing me would be too much?”

  “Possibly. Too much, too soon. Let him adjust gradually, Al. Look, he might come out wanting nothing more than to see you and hold you, or he might need time. You’ve got a great excuse for not going to meet him. If he asks I can say Hope’s fussing or something like that.”

  I considered his words carefully, then, after a moment, replied, “I’ve waited a year, Drum. I can wait a little bit longer.”

  “Fuckin’ strong,” he smiled, “that’s what you are.”

  Strong?

  The words spoken yesterday evening echo in my mind. Before my pregnancy I hadn’t thought I was one thing or another, but being laid up while I was carrying Hope had put me at my lowest point. Strong? Nah, I was weak, had to have others do everything for me. But I’d done it. Persevered and wouldn’t give up, and have Hope to show for it.

  Well, there’s no doubt I’ll need all the strength I have now. I know I’ll have to give Truck some leeway, he’s not going to walk in and pick up where we left off. Too much water under the bridge now.

  I just hope it’s still me that he wants.

  I pick up my phone to check the time. Not long now.

  “Come on, baby girl. Let’s go and meet your father.”

  Hope is dressed in denim shorts and has a pretty tee with Daddy’s Girl written on it. A not so subtle message from me even if she doesn’t understand it. I’m hoping it won’t go unnoticed by Truck.

  The brothers who haven’t gone to the prison are all milling around in the clubroom. Voices are loud, well, it’s something to celebrate after all, and bikers never need an excuse to party. Old ladies are laying a table with a feast suitable for a king. There’s a Welcome Home banner stretched over the bar which Diva’s standing behind.

  She waves me over. “Oh, let me have a cuddle. She’s looking so cute!”

  Sweet butts don’t normally mix with old ladies, but I’m not going to turn my back on them or deny my past. I’ve remained on friendly terms with the women, and Diva’s taken a liking to Hope. She’s getting heavy now, so I don’t mind passing her over for a while.

  “Drummer said he’d spoken to you,” Sam says, having come to my side.

  I know what she’s talking about. “I’m ready for anything,” I affirm, while wondering if that’s really the truth.

  A loud roar of bikes signals the time is here. They’re back. And out there, somewhere, is my man. I take a deep breath. It’s all I can do to stop myself from running out and straight into his arms. What would I do if they don’t open for me? My worry keeps me rooted to the spot, and instead, I take Hope back from Diva, and position myself close to the entrance.

  The room goes quiet.

  When the door opens, Drummer steps in first, with Truck behind him. As soon as he enters, the room erupts with a roar.

  Truck turns on his heels, knocks Peg who’s close behind him out of the way and strides off. His familiar limp more pronounced now than when I last saw him, the sight tugs at my heartstrings.

  I push Hope at Sam, who takes her for me without question, her mouth open and her eyes wide with concern.

  I run out of the clubhouse and after my man.

  “Truck!” I call out when I see him walking past what, for the last few months, has been my home. “Truck. Stop. You’re going the wrong way.”

  He falters, looks at the blocs, then shakes his head and starts moving again.

  His pause has allowed me to catch up. “We don’t live up there nowadays. This is ours now.” I point to the bloc we’ve come alongside.

  “That was Peg’s.” His voice has changed. It sounds rusty as though he’s not used to using it.

  “Was,” I echo. “It’s ours now. Come inside.”

  He stands, undecided. His stare fixed on the mountains. Then he lowers his gaze, and his eyes look directly at me. “I don’t even know if I can do this anymore.”

  What’s he talking about?

  He enlightens me. “You, me, the club. I don’t know.”

  My heart sinks. His blunt statement chilling me. Strong. Be strong.

  “Come inside, Truck. Come, sit down. Have a beer. Just relax. We don’t need to talk if you don’t want to.”

  “And if I want to be alone?”

  Hasn’t he spent enough time by himself? Too much, probably. But I have an insight into why he walked out of his party. It was too much, too soon.

  “Just come inside, Truck.”

  It may not have been my words. It might have been Blade and Peg heading in our direction that made up his mind. Whatever, I’ll take it as he inclines his head toward Peg’s, our suite.

  I lead the way, bypassing the bedroom and opening the door into my, our, sitting room. I wave toward the couch and enter the kitchenette, taking two bottles of beer from the fridge. If ever there was a time I needed a drink, this is it.

  Truck’s at least sat down, his eyes fixed on the crib which I’d moved out of the bedroom, and the toys on the floor. The reality of having a baby probably hitting him.

  He takes the bottle from me, his movements more jerky than smooth. He’s far from the confident man I remember.

  He takes a swallow, then another. His eyes closing briefly in what I take is pleasure. Maybe a drink, a taste he remembers, will bring something back of the man he was before.

  Then his eyes fix on me. “I’m not the man who went into prison, Allie.” He shakes his head. “I’ve dreamt of this moment for twelve months. Gone over all the things I wanted to say to you. Wanted to do to you. Thought everything would cycle back to how it was before. Now I’m here, I’ve got nothing to say. I feel numb inside. I don’t even want to be here.”

  Don’t let it get to you, I remind myself.

  “Where would you prefer to be?” I ask him.

  “I’ve no fuckin’ idea.”

  “When I…” I notice then he’s staring deliberately at the part of the room which isn’t covered in reminders of Hope and change what I was going to say. “When I came out of the hospital, I thought it would feel like a magic wand waved over me. That everything would suddenly be right.” I check that I have his attention. He appears to be listening, so I carry on. “It wasn’t. It all seemed upside down and inside out, and I couldn’t cope with… anything. It took time, Truck, time, love and support from the club and therapy. But I’m right again now. No one’s expecting a miracle from you. It’s hard to imagine what you’ve been through, but no one expects you to come out unscathed. You,
we, have just got to take things slowly. I love you Truck, and I’ll be here. However you need me.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t even know if I love you anymore.”

  The old Truck would never have hurt me so bluntly. I remind myself that this is the after-effect of prison talking, and not my man. Neither of us should make decisions rashly. Though inside I’m trembling with fear that he might mean it, I suspect and hope, with time he’ll come around to view things differently.

  “How do you feel, Truck?” It’s as though I’m back in therapy, this time in the opposite chair. Asking questions and prompting thoughtful answers.

  He considers for a moment, before telling me. “I don’t feel anything at all. No excitement, no commitment to anything. I feel empty.”

  “Time,” I tell him again. “Just give it time.” I reach out my hand to rest on his, he flinches and pulls it away. Human contact must feel strange after all this time.

  His eyes fall on the crib again. He studies it for a while, then asks, “Where is she?”

  “Do you want to meet her?” I counter with a question of my own.

  Another rise and fall of his shoulders. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

  Luckily Hope’s too young to realise if he rejects her as he’s doing me. Telling him to stay where he is, having an expectation he might take the opportunity to escape while I’m gone, but knowing I’ve got to take the risk anyway, I leave the suite to go retrieve our daughter.

  I don’t take long, more time on his own won’t help Truck any. I wave off Sam’s concern, answer Drummer tersely with the briefest summary of Truck’s state of mind—bad—then, with Hope in my arms, I make my way back to our home.

  A baby that was in my slight swollen stomach when he had gone on that fateful ride to Nogales that day. A baby was something he’d asked about in the abstract before she came into existence. A baby was what he’d been told he had when she was born. It’s totally different to see a ten-month-old wriggling bundle who already wants to exert her independence.

  I stand, holding her in my arms, watching his expressionless face.

  I don’t know what he’s going to do, or what I should do. Should I go over and hand her to him? He’s her father after all.

  Slowly he pulls himself to his feet. Then, with hesitant steps, approaches me.

  Hope turns her head and stares at him with her big blue eyes. I’m wondering what she makes of the man whose face is so heavily scarred, with overlong hair flopping down into his eyes.

  She gazes, curiously. Then, as though sensing he’ll do her no harm, she reaches out her arms toward him.

  For a second Truck’s hands remain at his sides, then he raises his right, and gently touches the baby soft skin on her face. She grabs hold of his finger and pulls it to her mouth. Recently she’s started teething, and will chew on anything. He grimaces slightly when she bites down with the one tooth she’s got.

  A strange expression comes over his face, making the decision easy for me. I hold her out.

  “Want to take her?”

  He hesitates, then his hands come around her waist, and I relinquish her to him, hovering making sure he’s got her tight.

  In that manner of firsts, first smile, first chuckle, first managing to roll over from her back to her stomach, Hope does something she’s never done before. She kicks out her legs and says triumphantly, “Dada.”

  It’s pure coincidence. It has to be. I always knew that was likely to be her first word, there’s been enough babies on the compound. But the timing was impeccable.

  “She knows me,” Truck states, wonderingly. Now he’s cradling her in his arms, rocking her gently.

  As though she’s accomplished a new trick, she says it again, “Dada, Dada, Dada.”

  “Yeah, I’m your Dada. And you’re my clever girl.”

  The first emotion he’s shown since he got here appears as tears start to run down his face.

  “I’m your Dada,” he repeats with a sob.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Truck…

  I remember it was a standard joke around the clubhouse that all the babies say Dada first, before attempting Momma. The brothers used to mock the old ladies about it, so knew it was likely coincidence rather than the impossible, that Hope had sensed I was someone important to her.

  But that she voiced it, then, at the point I was feeling so low, meant more to me than anything anyone else could have said.

  So full of emotion, I hand Hope back to Allie and stumble into the bedroom where I lie on what seems an overly soft bed and curl up in a foetal position, tears running down my face and sobs coming one after another. It’s as though a dam has broken. I’m hoping Allie has the sense to steer clear and not try to comfort me. Yes, these are tears of distress, but they’re also cathartic. Stuck in that cell I’d locked all my feelings away to prevent myself going mad, or at least, as a weapon against being put in that straitjacket again. Feeling was too much when I couldn’t do anything about it, and hurting myself seemed the only result, a physical pain to counteract the mental agony.

  Now, like a black-and-white film that suddenly becomes colour, emotions hit me all at once as a kaleidoscope of images runs through my head. Allie, the first time I’d had her in my bed, Allie when she came to my apartment. Allie by my side when I had my eye fixed, Allie, Allie, Allie.

  Then replaced by my brothers, one after one I mentally go around the table, realising I’d rebuffed them today. Allie’s right, they once were my support during my physical recovery, they’ll be there this time too.

  I’m not going to return to normal in an hour, a day or a week. If I ever return to being the man I used to be at all. Prison has changed me irrevocably.

  I recognise I’m not the only person who’s different, Allie is too. I noticed a new hardness about her. Hardness? Perhaps the wrong word—strength, maybe. She’s been challenged in ways she never expected, and that’s all down to me. From getting her pregnant to leaving her to face her pregnancy, birth and first few months of bringing up Hope alone. I may have missed seeing my baby, but though she’s been on the outside, she’s had it just as difficult as me.

  That she could greet me in the way that she did, that there was no blame, just understanding, blows me away.

  I told her I didn’t love her anymore.

  Maybe my feelings have changed. Maybe the time we’ve spent apart means we have to get to know each other again, maybe we’re both different people, shaped by our experiences and will have to grow together into our new personalities.

  It’s different what I feel for her, but also in many ways the same. She’s my old lady, and nothing’s going to change that. I married her for better or worse, and in time, I’ll be the husband she deserves.

  I’ll hit bumps in the road along the way, setbacks which will make me retreat into myself, but I’ll keep moving in the right direction. That’s my promise to her.

  We’re parents. Fuck, that thought brings me to my knees. It’s not just about us now. There’s a third in our family, the most important member, who’s just by chance or divine intervention called me by the right name.

  Her dada, her dad, her father, her old man.

  And she’s mine. My daughter. Nothing is more important than making her happy.

  I may only have known her for a couple of minutes, but already she’s got me wrapped around her little finger.

  A tentative knock sounds at the door. It has to be Allie. Straightening I roll over onto my back, and put my arm over my face.

  “You can come in.”

  She does, but stands just inside the door, her arms folded. I watch from under my arm as she critically examines me.

  “You like that hair?” she asks.

  “Fuck no.” It gets in my eye, and looks a mess.

  “Come on then.” She walks purposefully across to the bathroom as if expecting me to follow her.

  For some reason, I find myself getting to my feet and doing just that.

  “Sit,” she ins
tructs and points to a stool.

  When she picks up the shaving foam and the razor, her intention is clear and I don’t object. Soon I feel the coolness of the foam, then watch my hair falling to my feet.

  “I’m leaving the beard,” she tells me. “I like it on you, and it may have certain, er, possibilities.”

  I pick up on what she’s not saying, and the thought makes my mouth quirk. Just a twitch. My cock though, he’s not interested. Time, she’d said. I need time. I was only released from my nightmare this morning.

  But I don’t want to mislead her if she’s got intentions. “Allie, I don’t think…”

  “I’m not ready yet,” she says quickly. “Believe me, Truck, after everything I went through. I’m terrified about having sex again.”

  She’s scared?

  “Oh babe,” I call her a pet name automatically. And there I’d been worrying she’d jumped into someone else’s bed.

  “I’ve got an implant. But I’m still worried.”

  “I’ll never go ungloved, Allie, until I can get myself fixed.” I still intend to do that. Even if she wanted another baby I couldn’t see her go through that again.

  “Let’s just take everything slowly,” she suggests.

  Raising my eyes, I look into the mirror seeing a man I hadn’t seen for such a long time, I barely recognise my reflection. A bald-headed man instead of a balding one, but now with a beard which hides some of my scars. I like what I see. I’ll never be handsome, but I now look presentable.

  As Allie wets and then uses a washcloth to remove the remainder of the foam, I grab her hand. “Allie, I…” I don’t even know what I want to say.

  But she understands. She covers my hand with her other and nods.

  “Where’s Hope?”

  “Napping. I fed her and she’s gone down.”

  “Do you… do you breastfeed her?”

  “No, I never did. I was too low when she was born, Truck. I wasn’t in a place where I could. Maybe I should have, but I didn’t.”

  She might have, had I been there.