The ride is simultaneously way too short and way too long. I need to clear my head of some of this shit, but I don’t have time for that. Every minute I waste trying to sort my shit is a minute that Alex is missing part of her security detail. As fucked as it is, I just don’t trust my brothers are going to pay enough attention that Mancuso Jr. isn’t going to get to her.
Pulling up to the dirt road that leads to the house, everything is near black. I slow the bike, remove the .38 from the waistband of my jeans, unclick the safety, and place my hand back on the handlebar. My head pounds and my mouth goes dry. The house is never this quiet. Junior and crew probably wouldn’t be here this quick unless they flew in. I don’t know how stupid they are, though. Flying commercially leaves too many records.
Suddenly, I’m basked in a blinding white light. The intensity of it kills my vision, and I’m left blinking relentlessly as I bring the bike to a stop. The hand with the gun in it itches with the need to do something, but with zero visibility, there’s nothing I can do.
The lights dulls to a warm yellow, loud popping rings out, and the only light left are the lights from the front deck and the side of the garage. My eyes take a moment to adjust, but when they do, I see Chief less than thirty feet in front of me, his homemade assault rifle pointed at my chest. Chief and I have never had a problem before, and typically lean the same way on club matters, but in this second, I’m not so sure we’re on good terms. That’s the thing about club life. No patched members say it aloud, and outsiders don’t usually bear witness to it, but violence between brothers is a very real fucking thing.
Then he lowers the gun, turns around, and walks to the house. I breathe a sigh of relief that I had forgotten about the flood lights Ma insisted Pop install before we headed out to Brooklyn. Behind him, standing on the side of the garage, is my father. Shaking away my paranoia, I rev the bike and roll up to the garage, where I park her and climb off. I pull the duffle out of one of my saddle bags and head for the front door. The shuffling of rocks and dirt sound behind me. I turn around to find Pop catching up to me.
“You planning on staying?” he asks. My muscles tense at the question.
“Junior’s on his way. Not gonna fuck around.”
The front door swings open, and Ma stands in the doorway. She looks lighter than she has in a long time. I walk up to her and give her a kiss on the cheek. Craning her neck, she smiles.
“She’s in her room, baby,” Ma says. Moving around her, I see the glare she gives Pop. Fighting off the laugh that threatens to escape, I make my way into the house and through the kitchen, down the hallway to see Cub. Stopping at her open doorway, I take a moment to see how she’s fucked up my old room.
The once-white walls are still the light beige Ma painted them right after Gloria called, worried for her niece’s life. It’s the rest of the room that she’s put her feminine stamp on. Her bedspread and throw pillows are a dusty purple, and so are the frames of the reproductions of the paintings she has hanging up. The bed frame is a solid oak and cost a fucking fortune, according to Pop. I poke my head in, seeing her in the closet, hanging up a jacket.
“You fucked up my room,” I say. She jumps in place and spins around, scowling.
“No,” she says slowly, “I fixed up my room.” I grin at her attitude and slowly enter the room, tossing my duffle down on her bed. Her eyes slide to the duffle on the bed, and she crosses her arms. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting comfortable,” I say, walking to the bed, sitting down, and kicking off my boots. I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Her nerves are on edge, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself, being invaded like this. Shaking her up is becoming a favorite of mine. It almost gets me off as much as getting off does.
She swings around the bed, grabs the duffle, and tosses it on the ground. Her dark brown hair is down now, falling over her shoulders. I let my eyes travel from her bare feet up to her yoga pants and the pink T-shirt she’s wearing. Just as my eyes reach her tits, her arms lifts in the air and her hand comes down hard on the side of my head. Reflexively, I stand, towering over her, and back her into the corner. Her arms reach behind her, finding purchase of the wall. Her lower lip trembles, and her eyes are wide.
“Now you did it,” I grit out, trying to control my temper. My chest vibrates with a mixture of rage and desire. I run my index finger down her neck and ghost my lips along her hairline. She stays very still as I place my hands on the wall, boxing her in. My head is swarming with a hundred things at once, but the only thing I can focus on is Cub.
Chapter 24
Falling in love is the best way to kill your heart because then it's not yours anymore. It's laid in a coffin, waiting to be cremated.
Ville Valo