“Earned your keep, Reina,” he slurred, swaying slightly in his chair as he lifted his ass and pulled out a keyring from his back pocket. “My car is out front, Ford Expedition. Go find your man,” he said, throwing the keys in the air.
I caught the keys in the palm of my hand and took a step closer to him. “What about you?”
“Just go,” he mumbled, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes.
“I don’t know where to go,” I said hoarsely.
“Try the house,” he offered, his words becoming less clear as he continued. “Kid’s birthday is today, on a mission to join him like he is every year on this day.”
I watched as he laid his head on the table, opened his eyes and stared at the needle, a lone tear falling down his cheek.
The men of Satan’s Knights were living in Hell regardless of who tried to save them but it wasn’t up to me to heal all of them, just the one that claimed me. Just my Jack. I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat leaving one tortured biker to rescue another, praying to God I wasn’t too late.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It’s a distinct moment in one’s life when they realize they’ve found a person who makes them whole, a solitary moment in time, you never forget. The moment I pulled in front of Jack’s house and spotted his motorcycle in the driveway, I released a breath I wasn’t aware I had been holding and it dawned on me. I could live without Jack, been doing it for twenty-eight years, but the missing piece, the part of me I thought was lost in the fire, actually wasn’t. I hadn’t found that missing piece until Jack. It didn’t matter what I had seen, what his club was about or the things he had done that were horrible, he was my missing link. You don’t throw that away no matter how imperfect. No, when you find that, and only the lucky ones do, you hang onto it with all you have.
Blackie’s warning rang in my ears, a reminder that the man who stole my heart, was hurt, damaged beyond repair, and looking for a way out of this crazy world. I have endured loss, mourned a mother I barely knew, grieved for my grandparents, and lived through the wounds of Danny’s death but I never lost a child. I couldn’t imagine how that weighed on a parent but I could imagine the guilt and knew that could work a person over. Imagine a person that was ill. I didn’t know the extent of Jack’s illness but I was sure being a manic-depressive didn’t work for a person who lived life haunted by the loss of a child.
I ran up the front steps, my heart in my throat, scared of what I’d find but determined to be the one that healed him. I knocked on the door, rang the bell, and called his name. He didn’t answer, and I felt the tears surface.
Please let me be the one.
Please don’t let me be too late.
I tested the doorknob, lifted my eyes to the sky and thanked God it was unlocked.
“Jack?” I called, slamming the door behind me, my eyes taking in the living and dining rooms. The place was so tidy the last time I was here, making it obvious that Jack barely visited his home but that wasn’t the case now. The frames that lined the mantle of the fireplace were gone, shattered in a million pieces, decorating the wooden floor. The picture that had once hung over the buffet was gone, displaying a gaping hole in the Sheetrock but that wasn’t the only one. The walls that were covered with pictures, sconces, art, were all bare except for the holes that marked them. I took a closer look and noticed there was no Sheetrock on the floor, that the holes weren’t fresh but had been merely covered by the decor.
“Jack,” I hollered, my voice cracking as I peeked into the empty kitchen. Not wasting another second I hurried up the stairs and opened every door in the hallway. He wasn’t in his bedroom or the bathroom. Lacey’s bedroom empty as well.
I froze, my hand still on the doorknob of the last room, as I braced myself for what I’d find. I prayed to God and slowly turned the knob. Peering my head into the room I took in the pale blue walls and the sports themed border that spanned the room. There was a toddler bed on one wall, perfectly made with a comforter matching the rest of the theme. There were toys on the floor as if a child had just dumped them out and played with all of them. The blinds were closed, the room only lit by the television. I lifted my eyes to the screen, a frozen image of a video. The screen illuminated by a baby in front of a birthday cake.
Such a beautiful boy.
I tore my eyes from the baby’s face and stepped further into the room toward the glider that sat cornered in the room, the back facing me. I walked around the chair as the television came to life and the people in the video sang happy birthday to the baby.
A breath escaped my lips, a sigh of relief as I took in my Jack—the torment etched along his face and the gun he held to his temple. My sigh lost its way and was replaced by a gasp. His eyes fixated on the screen and tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Jack?” I whispered, stepping in front of him, blocking his view of the television.
His eyes met mine but I was lost to him, just an object, an obstruction to the view he craved.