Unbeloved Page 6

  “The girls don’t need me,” he said, nearly choking over his words as he fought back a rising wave of intense emotion. Fucking hell, he was so sensitive lately. Hopefully it wasn’t an aging thing, because if it was, if he made it to sixty, he’d be a weepy fucking mess. Worse than a goddamn woman.

  Chrissy reached across the table and surprising him, covered his left hand with hers. For a moment, he could only stare down at their hands, joined yet both without their wedding bands, and another wave of regret crashed through him.

  “They do,” she whispered, squeezing her fingers over his. “And it’s your job to show them that.”

  Jase turned to look outside the room, to where his daughter was standing. With her arms folded across her chest, her face a mask of impenetrable stone, she could have easily passed for one of the guards. One of the not-so-manly-looking guards.

  “I’ll try,” he said, turning back to Chrissy.

  She gave him a sad smile. “That’s all any of us can do now.”

  • • •

  “You don’t need to walk me to my car,” Maribelle muttered, picking up her pace. “I’m not a little girl.”

  Jase quickened his own stride through the prison parking lot. He didn’t want to fight with her, yet knew no matter what he said, it would turn into an argument. It always did. Scrubbing a calloused hand across his grizzled jaw, he tried to think of something to say to her that wouldn’t set her off.

  “Pretty big storm headed this way,” he called out, “and you got a long drive ahead of you. You got snow tires on that piece of shit you’re drivin’?”

  Maribelle stopped walking so abruptly, he nearly barreled right over her. Backing up a couple of feet, he braced himself for what he knew was coming.

  “Stop it!” she hissed. “Just stop pretending you give a shit about me!”

  Feeling both exasperated and exhausted, he lifted his hands in a gesture of peace.

  “Belle,” he pleaded. “I’m just tryin’ to talk to you, is all. It’s Christmas Eve, baby. Throw your old man a bone, for shit’s sake.”

  Maribelle’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “You’re right!” she shouted. “It’s Christmas Eve! And like usual I get to spend it without my mother!

  “Whose fault is that?” she continued. “Whose fucking fault is that?”

  Jase opened his mouth, not knowing what the hell he was going to say, but knowing that something, anything had to be said to defuse her anger before they had prison security descending upon them. But Maribelle beat him to it.

  “Yours!” she screamed, her hands clenching into small fists. “You ruined our family, you ruined everything, and now you’re a sad old drunk who thinks just because it’s Christmastime you have some right to talk to me about snow tires? As if you even give a shit! All you’ve ever give a shit about is that fucking club and that whore of yours!”

  “Keep your damn voice down!” he whispered harshly, “before you get slapped with cuffs and I’m bailin’ your ass outta jail.”

  Even as angry as she looked, he could still see the sadness, the disappointment she was trying to hide from him. It reminded of him of her as a child, learning to ride her bike without the training wheels. Over and over again she’d fallen, skinning her shins and knees, but she had been a determined little girl. Even when he’d been ready to throw in the towel, not wanting to bring her home to her mother covered in blood, she’d grit her teeth, dry her eyes, and get back up on that damn bike. The memories only served to worsen his mood. He didn’t have nearly enough of them because he’d never been around.

  “Belle,” he said, sighing heavily. “I took all that blame a long fuckin’ time ago and I never denied it, not fuckin’ once. But there ain’t nothin’ I can do about the past. All I got is right now, and I’m tryin’. I’ll never stop tryin’. You’re my daughter, my baby girl, and that shit means somethin’ to me. Always has.”

  Maribelle continued to glare at him, seemingly unwavering in her resentment, except for the slight tremble of her bottom lip.

  Seeing an opening, he took a step forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I know I’ve no right to ask you for a damn thing, not after everything I took from you and your sisters, but I’m askin’ anyways.”

  Maribelle looked up and directly into his eyes. “And what exactly are you asking for?”

  He stared down at her, into the mirror image of his wife twenty years ago, realizing for the first time that if he didn’t try to right this wrong, really try this time, his daughter’s eyes would continue to grow colder, losing their light the same way her mother’s had.

  “I’m askin’ for Christmas,” he said. “I want you home for Christmas.”

  In fact, he wanted all of his daughters home for Christmas, but the truth was that the twins took their cues from Maribelle. She had, along with Chrissy’s parents, taken over as their caretaker. Jase was persona non grata. But if he could get Maribelle home, the twins would undoubtedly follow suit.

  Several long moments passed by in uncomfortable silence, during which it began to snow. Jase glanced up at the darkening sky, worrying about Maribelle’s long drive home, and while he was distracted, Maribelle slipped out from under his hands.

  “I can’t,” she said as she quickly backed away. “I’m sorry . . .” She shook her head. “No, I’m not sorry, but I just . . . can’t.”

  Then she turned and hurried off.

  Jase remained where he was, watching as she fumbled with her car keys, waiting until she was safely inside the vehicle and halfway out of the parking lot before finally lowering his gaze.

  “Back to the club,” he muttered. Because there was no way in hell he was going home to that empty house on Christmas Eve. There was no Christmas tree, no decorations, no presents to be wrapped, no turkey baking in the oven, no giggling coming from the kids’ rooms upstairs. There was nothing but four walls, dusty furniture, and a dirty floor.

  Ever since his two youngest had left home, he’d been at the club more than ever, unable to stomach the ever-present emptiness that had not only taken root inside his house, but inside him as well.

  If only he’d realized sooner that it wasn’t the house, four walls and a roof, that made a home. It was who had lived inside those four walls, his wife and daughters, the true support beams of the structure. Without them the roof had caved in, the walls had collapsed, and the foundation had crumbled away.

  And as he headed for his truck, he found himself wishing for the millionth time since Dorothy had been shot, that Cox hadn’t wrestled the gun from his hand.

  Chapter Five

  My grandfather used to say that when it rained, it poured. Or in my case, when it rained, it rained like Christmas in San Francisco until eventually it flooded and pulled you under, leaving you flapping your arms and kicking your legs, gasping for a breath you already knew wouldn’t come.

  After Tegen’s phone call, I’d spent the following thirty-six hours flapping and gasping under a waterfall of problems. It seemed as if the universe, Mother Nature herself, was determined to keep me away from Miles City.

  First I’d needed to find a place for Christopher to stay. Not knowing what awaited me at the clubhouse, there was nothing on earth that could convince me to bring my son into what could potentially become a dangerous situation, or worse, a devastating one.

  This proved to be a problem as I had very few friends in San Francisco. Due to some minor residual side effects from my brain injury and my lack of education, I hadn’t been able to find a job that would provide me with a more substantial income than my disability checks already did, which meant there were no coworkers I’d grown close with. I’d made nice with the other mothers at Christopher’s school, and I’d gone on a few dates over the years, but there was never anyone serious, and most definitely no one I’d trusted with my most precious possession.

  It was Tegen who’d suggested Hayley, one of her closest friends, and I mentally kicked myself for not thinking of her sooner. Hayley and he
r husband were kind souls, full of happy energy, who had a young child of their own.

  Hayley had readily agreed; it was Christopher I’d had to convince. More time was spent explaining to him why his mother had to leave him, and on Christmas Day no less. I ended up lying to him, something I had promised myself to never do, and told him his grandfather was sick.

  Being that I’d had no contact with my family since I’d divorced Tegen’s father, something Christopher was aware of, I could tell he was skeptical, as well as feeling put out that I was leaving him behind. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t very well tell him his father was in danger or worse. In the end he took it in stride, further proving how very much like Hawk he truly was, and only serving to make me feel even worse for lying to him.

  Once Christopher was settled at Hayley’s, I ran into a whole other slew of problems. Due to a winter storm that was bearing down on the entire Midwest and spilling into the surrounding states, flights to Montana were being either canceled or delayed indefinitely.

  I waited at the airport for hours, my anxiety worsening each time another flight was canceled, until I eventually gave up on the airlines altogether and ended up renting a car.

  The next twenty-four hours were spent on the road, only four of which I’d allowed myself a quick nap in a rest area off the interstate.

  By the time I reached the state of Montana, I was well into the center of the storm, unable to see more than a few feet in front of me, and unable to drive more than thirty miles per hour. It was slow going for a while; my only reprieve was that the roads were virtually empty, and I was determined to make it to my destination.

  Now I was parked just beyond the clubhouse’s razor-wire-topped gates. Releasing my death grip on the steering wheel, I released a large breath of pent-up air and looked up at the building before me.

  The whitewashed warehouse was massive, the Hell’s Horsemen logo painted on the front, huge and intimidating. Nothing about the appearance was warm or inviting, something I’m sure Deuce did purposely.

  I’d been here a thousand times before, even after my move to California, but something felt different this time.

  I felt as though I were standing on a precipice composed of quickly unraveling thread, and once I passed through those gates, my quiet life, my now peaceful existence and everything I had rebuilt from the ground up, all of it was going to disintegrate and send me free-falling back into the never-ending abyss of the unknown.

  That thought, the fear it caused within me, was nearly enough to make me turn the car around and go back to California.

  But this wasn’t about me. This was about Hawk and the little boy I’d left behind.

  Taking a deep breath, I swallowed my fears and pulled the vehicle forward. Rolling down my window, I reached out into the blistering cold and pressed the call button on the intercom.

  The intercom buzzed to life and a gravelly voice crackled through the speaker. “Was wondering how long you were gonna sit out there.”

  I instantly recognized the voice as Worm’s, a longtime brother of the club, and despite my nervousness felt a smile slip past my thinly pressed lips.

  “Just mentally preparing myself for those roaming hands of yours,” I quipped.

  “Welcome home, little D,” he said, chuckling.

  After an entire day spent driving and worrying, his answering laughter, raspy due to many years of chain-smoking, was a welcome sound.

  The latch clicked and as the gate began to slowly swing open, I could barely make out through the heavy veil of falling snow the front door of the clubhouse opening. Like a beacon in the midst of the surrounding gloom, a warm glow of light poured forth, spilling out into the darkness.

  As I drove forward, a figure appeared in the doorway, imposing in size, taking up nearly the entire entrance. Despite the absence of the sun and the falling snow impeding my vision, I would know those shoulders anywhere. Those were shoulders that usually bore the weight of world upon them, yet somehow never fell.

  After parking and with my luggage in tow, I began the trek through the snow-laden parking lot, battling both the biting cold and whipping wind until I reached the front door, a mass of quivering skin and chattering teeth.

  Deuce took my suitcase from me. As if it weighed next to nothing, he easily hefted it up and over his shoulder and quickly ushered me inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he pulled me into an awkward one-armed hug. I stood there, momentarily frozen in shock by the uncommonly kind gesture. Deuce didn’t hug people, at least not if he could help it; hugs were reserved for his wife and children.

  “Welcome home, Dorothy,” he said gruffly, giving me a hearty pat on the back that if it hadn’t been for his large body in the way, would have sent me flying across the room.

  Through the snowflakes still clinging to my eyelashes, I looked up his leather-clad body, taking it all in—the tattooed dragons on his bare forearms, the president patch on his cut, the scent of cigarettes and liquor that always seemed to cling to him, before stopping at his icy blue eyes.

  His smile wasn’t friendly; it never had been. Deuce had always snarled more than he’d smiled. But his eyes were soft and kind. Inviting, even. He’d aged a little more since I’d last seen him; he had to be around sixty now and it was starting to show. His long blond hair and beard had heavily grayed, the lines on his forehead and bracketing his eyes had grown longer, were etched in a little deeper.

  Pulling off my knit ski hat, I shook out my damp hair and smiled. “I see my daughter has given you a few more gray hairs.”

  His smile grew, causing several dimples to appear, and just like that, the changes in his appearance seemed to vanish. He stood before me the same fearfully handsome young man I remembered from my youth. Elusive and frightening, yet intriguing, he’d taken over his father’s motorcycle club and in turn changed the lives of so many.

  “Your daughter and that mouth of hers is gonna give me another fuckin’ heart attack,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Her and my own fuckin’ daughters, my sons, my granddaughter, and . . . Jesus Christ, Cox, that motherfucker . . .” He trailed off, grimacing.

  “Mm-hmm,” I murmured, glancing around the quiet club. Aside from Worm, who was standing behind the bar pouring himself a liquid snack, there was no one else in sight. As I brought my gaze back to Deuce, I found him watching me, all traces of humor gone, and my smile fell away.

  “This shit with Hawk, it ain’t good, D,” he said. “And usually I wouldn’t be tellin’ any of my boys’ old ladies this kinda shit until I had more information, but I’m makin’ an exception here. One, ’cause it’s Hawk and there’s some shit you need to fuckin’ know, and two, ’cause it’s you and you’re family now.

  “Let’s go to my office,” he continued, turning away, “and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  For a moment I only stood there, watching as he walked off, still holding up my suitcase with those pillars of strength he called shoulders.

  Family. He’d called me family. True, our children had married each other, would probably someday have children of their own, but still I’d never thought of myself as part of Deuce’s family.

  Not only that, but he’d referred to me as an old lady.

  Hawk’s old lady. It made sense, being that I was the mother of his child, and resided in the only other place aside from this clubhouse that he’d put down any sort of roots.

  But still . . . I’d never realized . . .

  A warm tear slipped out from the corner of my eye and slid down my cold cheek.

  Home.

  Chapter Six

  Jase was glad he was drunk. If he wasn’t drunk and had to listen to Deuce explain that Hawk wasn’t actually Hawk, but instead Luca Fuckachev or some such shit, the son of the head of one of the most dangerous drug and weapons cartels in the history of cartels, he might have actually been pissed off that Deuce had kept this a secret for so goddamn long, like everyone else appeared to be.

  Instead, he found the entire
thing pretty fucking amusing. Especially the part about Hawk having been shot. But according to the Russians holding him hostage, he was still alive and would continue to stay alive, as long as Deuce and Preacher both agreed to their terms.

  Terms that Jase wasn’t entirely aware of since he wasn’t paying much attention to Deuce. Something about guns and the East Coast, something about Preacher and his club, the Silver Demons, something about Hawk being killed if Deuce didn’t get Preacher on board, and something else about going to war with the cartel, blah, blah, fucking blah.

  It wasn’t that he wanted Hawk to die, not really. Once upon a time, when the shit had first hit the fan and he’d found out the baby he’d thought was his was actually Hawk’s, and that Hawk and Dorothy had been having an ongoing affair right under his goddamn nose, yeah, he might have wished death upon the guy once or twice.

  But that was then and this was now. Now he was freshly divorced, without his kids, having spent another Christmas drunker than shit at the clubhouse, watching Bucket and his girlfriend fuck like rabbits on the couch beside him. Good times.

  So, no, he really didn’t give a fuck if Hawk lived or died. In his opinion, if it came down to the club or Hawk, Hawk could go straight to hell. Personal feelings aside, the asshole wasn’t even one of them; instead, he’d been using the clubhouse to hide from the law.

  “Preacher’s on his way here,” Mick announced. “He’s on board with the plan and bringing his VP and three of his boys with ’im as a show of good faith to the Russians.”

  Deuce nodded his thanks in Mick’s direction, and in turn, Mick averted his eyes.

  “What?” Deuce demanded. “What the fuck is your fuckin’ problem?”

  Mick shrugged. “I’m your VP, have been since day fuckin’ one, and even though we’ve butted heads a few time, I’ve always stood by your side. Fuck, Prez, I did time in lockup for you and you couldn’t trust me with this?” Mick shook his head. “I don’t know what to think now.”