“Yeah. Know why?” I squeeze Zander’s cheeks with a big grin on my face. He tries to block me, but he’s still not learned to anticipate my moves. “Because it’d be a shame to spring you on him and have him say the wrong thing. I don’t want to take him out right when you just get to meet him.”
“You’re insane,” Zander says. He finally manages to evade my love pinches and heads for the living room where his sister is parked in front of the TV watching some godawful kids show that makes me want to drink myself into a stupor. Zander grabs the remote and changes the channel. Half a second passes before Piper’s head whips around and she glares at her big brother. I have one foot out the door when she yells, “No!” and I’m running down the drive by the time she’s in a full blown fit. Before I can even get into my SUV, the TV is back on her channel and Zander is griping about something or other, but he’s doing it in a gentle voice. There’s one thing I never have to worry about with him—he’s a great big brother even though most of the time he doesn’t show it.
Knowing my babies are safe, I head into town to make things right with their father. The drive is longer than I’d like. I have time to think, which I hate, and time to worry about everything from the way I look to what I’m going to say to him. I dropped a six-foot, fourteen-year-old bombshell on him, and now what? I just expect him to be gung ho about being a daddy?
I pull up into Forsaken Custom Cycle’s parking lot, having resigned myself to walking into the lion’s den in my mom wardrobe. Yoga pants, old-ass tank that’s stained from any number of things, worn nursing bra I have no business wearing anymore except for the fact that it’s the most comfortable one I own, hair up in a messy bun. I’m a hot mess minus the hot part, and there’s no making this disaster look any better. I can’t make the “I don’t care” look work for me anymore.
The gates to the clubhouse are shut, the black plastic slats in the chain-link closing off the outside world. I honk my horn and wait. A young guy, a prospect, who can’t be older than twenty or so, opens the gate just enough to step out. He walks to my driver’s window and eyes me but says nothing.
“Hey, I’m here for Wyatt,” I say and turn so he can see the Forsaken tattoo on my shoulder. His eyes narrow as he thinks about letting me in. He’s being safe, and I can respect that, but the fact that he doesn’t know me just rubs me wrong. It’s my fault, of course, but that doesn’t make it suck any less. Wyatt’s been here for over a decade, he’s this guy’s president, and yet he doesn’t know me. This kid should be fearing me. He should know how I like my coffee, what my daughter’s favorite stuffed animal is, and how to track down my son when he pulls one of his disappearing acts. But he doesn’t.
I need to change that.
“You ever hear of Wyatt’s crazy bitch of an old lady?”
The prospect doesn’t say anything, but his eyes slide to the open gates behind him like he’s looking for help. Leaning forward, I angle my back and point at the large script tattoo I have on my back between my shoulder blades that says my man’s name. The kid sucks in a deep breath and nods his head.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Rink. Sorry about this.”
“Don’t you ever apologize for keeping the club safe and this place secure.” The relief shows in his face. One thing I learned about being an old lady from both my mom and grandma is how to talk to prospects. Some old ladies are real bitches to the boys before they earn their top rocker, and a few are still bitches to them after they’re patched. Those women don’t stay around long because the real old ladies, the ones with lasting power and a deeply embedded respect for the club and its members, run them off. We’re a family—all of us—and we don’t treat family like shit. The brothers will fuck with the prospects, but Forsaken takes care of their own, and that includes kids that haven’t been patched yet.
Rink lets me through quickly, but I kind of wish he’d held me up longer. The parking lot isn’t exactly full, but it’s not empty either. There’s a red Suburban parked in the far corner, an old Jeep a few spots down, and an old beat-up sedan next to the Jeep. I pull in between the Suburban and the Jeep and head for the door. On the other side of the lot, along the side of the clubhouse, are the Harleys. They’re all lined up like the pretty pieces of chrome and leather they are. With the number of bikes that are parked out here, the entire charter must be inside.
Great.