I think I vaguely remember my mom chastising my dad for cursing in front of us when I was little, but I have so many memories I’m not certain actually happened. For years I could have sworn Mom came back to visit us one Christmas. Nic and Dad are adamant it didn’t happen, but in my heart it’s as real as anything else. The fact that I can’t distinguish fiction from reality fucks me up just enough so that I try to numb out all of my memories from when I was a kid. Something about being around someone and their mom is a big fucking reminder of all the shit I never got. I just hope Chey doesn’t feel half of what I do right now, because between Nic and Robin and Ruby and Alex, I’m all kinds of fucked up and moody.
“We, um.” Chey’s cheeks are bright red, and she’s trying to babble, but she’s so embarrassed by Duke’s comment—which I’ve heard before, mind you—that she can’t even make her tongue work well enough to babble.
“Right, of course you can’t talk,” he says flatly, his eyes completely focused on her. “You’re eating.” Like if her mouth wasn’t preoccupied she could actually talk. I don’t say shit about the fact that he has full conversations with her. It’s goofy as fuck, but it makes my sister smile, and the more she smiles, the less she bitches.
“You heard me?” he says as he lifts his head. “I’m not fucking kidding. Club’s got enough fucking drama. We don’t need you knocking up Knuck’s daughter on top of it. I change enough goddamn diapers around this house.”
Liar. Every chance he gets, he passes the dirty diapers off on me. If a crying baby isn’t a suitable reminder to wrap my dick, the nasty mudslides she creates are plenty sufficient.
“I know how to wrap my shit,” I say and nod to the baby in his arms. “Seems I should be giving you the talk about safe sex.”
Chey squirms uncomfortably beside me, but she remains silent. I wish Duke hadn’t jumped to the conclusion that we’ve had sex, but it’s not like there’s anything I can say to stop him from making this awkward, so it wouldn’t matter anyway.
“Riding your sister bare is one of life’s greatest joys.”
“Dude. Shut the fuck up. That’s nasty,” I gripe and scrub my face with my hands, ignoring the pain from the bruise that’s forming. I’m fucking tired, and the sun is going to be up soon.
“Seriously, though. No fucking when I’m awake. Makes me feel all parental and shit, like I should be stopping it or giving pointers or something.”
Because when Duke isn’t yelling, he’s finding ways to make me consider hanging myself. Fucking prick.
“Really? Even if I had the energy to pound one out, your kid killed the mood,” I say.
He grins. He fucking grins.
“Oh my God, shut up!” Chey snaps. Her face is still beet red, but she’s giving me a look that even I know to interpret as I’m definitely not getting laid again anytime soon. Maybe not even on our wedding night—whenever that might be. I know I said tonight, but I need sleep, and maybe we can wait until tomorrow or the next day to do it. I have to figure out how to even go about doing it.
Wedding night. Shit, that makes it real.
Duke walks Robin out of the room and tells her through muffled yawns that she has to be quiet because if Nic wakes up, then nobody is going to get any peace. Word, brother. Motherfucking word. Before he makes it into the hallway, he turns back and says, “Got that job later today.”
“I remember.” Of course I fucking remember. Today’s the day I help the club right a very big fucking wrong. Thankfully Chey’s yawning, and her eyelids are dropping. She’s not paying the least bit of attention to us anymore.
Slowly, I climb off my bed, cross the room, and shut my bedroom door that Duke so rudely left open. My body drags, and my thoughts are scattered and barely make any sense.
When I turn back to Chey, she shakes her head slowly in obvious judgment and says, “I’m going to sleep.” She hogs more than her share of my twin bed and hogs my pillow.
I mutter to myself about being too tired for anything anyway. It’s only half a lie, and I feel like crashing the minute I crawl in bed beside her. My mind is racing with everything coming up tomorrow, from the job with Duke to the whole getting married thing. It takes way too long to fall asleep, and when I do, it’s not a deep sleep by any means.
When I wake, all I can think about is being married and what that means. I’m getting married, and I don’t even know how it works or what to do. The sudden panic that overtakes me is almost painful, but I try to smile through it and grit my teeth as Chey slowly comes to life. I want to do this—for her, for me—but for some reason I feel like I’m about to shit my pants. Thank fucking God Duke and I got shit to do today.
CHAPTER 22
April
12 months to Mancuso’s downfall
Cheyenne holds my cut in her hands, clutching it furiously against her chest as she glares at me. Her eyes scan my appearance, appraising the plain black hoodie I’m wearing and the dirty, gray ball cap that rests on my head, covering my dark brown hair. In all this black and plain shit, the only thing that really looks like me are my eyes. They’re still that same dark blue that gets chicks wet even from a distance. But the thing that defines me most is in my girl’s hands.
I can’t wear my cut into that hospital, and it pisses me off.