TWENTY-SEVEN

Hooch

Dog and Mel walk on ahead of me, oblivious to the fact I’ve stopped in my tracks. We rode for five and a half hours straight to get here by nightfall, and as the last tones of a beautiful sunset promising a clear night disappear on the horizon, the sum of my reality hits me square in the face.

Crackers wants an explanation. The table will want know what’s been going through my head. And I owe it to them. I just don’t know if I can physically voice the why, because the reasons behind my distance unravel the deepest parts of me I’d rather keep hidden.

The parts I ignore in the hope that over time the pain they cause will diminish. Maybe if I face my demons another day, they won’t be as savage? Or maybe I will have forgotten how to fight them?

I’m scared. Scared of who I am, of how weak I’ve become, and what it means for the rest of my days. I’ve lost grasp on who I am and how to control it. I loathe every fiber of my being so badly that the sheer thought of having to live out the rest of my life in this façade of strength makes me want to cry out in despair. I can’t keep doing this. Pretending I’m okay, that I’ll be okay one day, rips me apart in the slowest form of torture a man could imagine.

Mostly, I’m scared of being scared, because men like me? Yeah, they aren’t supposed to feel fear like this. Fear is an asset to be gained, used, manipulated, and twisted for your own benefit. Not something that should leave you cowering at the sight of your own shadow.

“What’s going on?”

I snap out of my daze to find Mel before me, her hands on my elbows as she looks up into my eyes with nothing but concern. Dog is gone, presumably inside the Lincoln clubhouse already while I stand here frozen in the garage, trying to pretend I didn’t just have a mild panic attack.

“You ever get the feeling it’s too much?” I ask. “When you think about Dad and Dana? About how shit our family turned out?”

“All the time.” Her expression softens as her hands drop away. “You need to talk about it though, big brother. You can’t shove it all down and expect it to stay buried.”

“Who did you talk to?” She’s been in hiding since our lives went to hell in a hand basket. She’s had no one.

“I wrote letters.” She jerks her head towards a stool, taking residence on a crate nearby. “Someone told me once that writing things down is the same to your mind as talking with another person. It shares the burden. So I wrote how I felt, the things that made me angry, the unfairness I felt at what Carlos did, and when I was finished, I’d burn them. It felt … it was like setting the thoughts free.”

“It’s different for you, though. You get that, right?”

“Because I’m not the president?” She tips her head to one side.

“Because you’re a woman.”

Her brow scrunches as she fires up. “Don’t start that shit, Hooch.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not being sexist, sis. You know what I mean, and don’t say you don’t. Women, they’re allowed to cry and break down. People expect them to be shaken up when bad shit happens. It’s acceptable to be nurtured when you’re a girl.” I shrug, not sure how else to explain it. “But men? We’re conditioned to hidin’ the softer side of our feelings from when we’re boys. You don’t cry when you hurt yourself, you suck it up and carry on. And you sure as fuck don’t ask somebody to give you a hug because you’ve had a bad day. You’re supposed to be all cold and clinical, macho and all that bullshit.”

“It’s not the 1950s.”

“I know, but it sure feels like it some days.”

Mel rises, reaching out and tugging my hand. “Come on. Give them a shot in there. They’re probably more understanding than you think.”

“I hope so,” I say, allowing her to “pull” me up. “Because if you’re wrong, I think it’s going to be the last straw.”

“Just give them a chance.”

We enter the common room of the Lincoln clubhouse just as the tail end of my officers file into the meeting room. King stands aside at the door, raising his chin in greeting as I cross over to him.

“Figured we’d get the formalities out of the way so you can have a breather afterwards without it preying on your mind.”

“Crackers filled you in then?” I ask.

“Only on the main points.” He jerks his head toward the men waiting at the table. “Let’s get to it, huh?”

I hesitate as he takes his spot at the head, fire racing through me at the thought of being boxed in with a room full of hard truths. A flash of color in my periphery catches my attention, and I turn toward it, thankful for the distraction. Mel pulls Dagne in for a hug near the bar, and my stomach becomes a tight fist at the frustration of having to do this meeting right now.

I want … I don’t even know what it is I want. I just know I can get it if I go to her.

“Today, brother!” Crackers calls out from behind me.

I walk inside having caught Dagne look across to where I stand, and with the weight of all my lies and mistruths weighing heavily on my shoulders, I shut the solid doors to seal us all in.

“I’m purely here to mediate,” King starts as I take my seat at the opposite end. “This table is yours, but if I feel any of you aren’t gettin’ a fair say, I’ll step in.”

“Thank you,” I respond, pulling the focus to my end. Breathe. “Normally, I would have started this with a rundown of events, but I understand you got that from the horse’s mouth this time.” I meet the hard gaze of my second in command, Crackers, as he waits patiently for me to say my piece. “Anybody unclear on the details? I guess we’ll take this one question at a time.”

Crackers indicates he’d like to speak, so I give him the nod while trying to decipher if my sweaty palms are from nerves or the fact I haven’t had a hit of anything illicit in over a day.

“How long has this been an issue?” Crackers stares at his hands clasped on the table before him. “When did the asshole first approach you?”

“Three months ago.”

I don’t miss the flare of his nostrils, or the murmur from a couple of the others. My stomach twists, and I reach instinctively for my tinderbox—the one I lost a week ago.

“And you thought it best not to bring the problem to the table, because …?”

I stare Crackers down, willing him to look up and see my conviction as I answer. “I thought it would blow over soon enough, that the guy was bluffing.” He refuses to meet my eye.

“What did he have over you?” Digits asks. “He wasn’t real clear on that.”

His tone, the glint in his eye as he digs for more dirt: this fucker isn’t on side. Noted.

“When Carlos paid for Mel’s head,” I explain, “he had contingencies in place to know the job had been done. I had to follow through with somethin’, otherwise he would have known we got her to skip town.”

“So what if he did?” Jo Jo asks. “Mel was out of town. What could he do?”

I frown at the idiot before realizing he never met the psycho nut job of a drug lord. He’s only heard stories, and until you’ve seen the result of those urban legends in the flesh, it’s easy to pretend they’re over inflated hype.

“He would have picked apart our club, our families, our children, until he found out where she was.”

Crackers nods in agreement. “He wasn’t the kind of guy who’d let you make a fool of him. Something had to be done.” It’s not news to him—he helped me execute the idea.

“What did you do?” Digits asks.

“Found another body to take the role.” I can’t say it, can’t admit what I did out loud. Killed somebody else. Sick fucks that deserve to die? Yeah, I’ll take them out without hesitation. But some vagrant bitch too hooked on her habit to recognize the signs of a trap when they were presented to her? Makes me fucking scum for taking advantage of her downfall, that’s what.

“So, this guy, Jessup,” Jo Jo asks. “He found out what you did?”

“They found the body while searching for something else. DNA came back, and what do you know, the belongings didn’t match the body.”

“She was in Dana’s clothes,” Crackers clarifies.

“He had that swingin’ over your head, huh?” Digits taps the table with his fingertips, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah. Look, I get why you were concerned that I kept it to myself, how it looks, but—”

“How does it look?” Digits asks with an undertone that has even King straightening in his seat.

“As though I’m guilty. As though,” I say, leaning forward, “I was prepared to cave.” Digits smirks, eyes still on the table. “But you knew that. Everyone at this fuckin’ table could work that out, so why ask?”

He twists to open fire with a barrage of insults or the like, yet King steps in, slamming the heel of his hand on the table. “Stick to the subject, huh?”

Crackers eyes Digits, a silent caution passing between them. Makes me wonder what’s been going down in my absence. “What is it he wanted from you?” Crackers asks, returning his focus to me.

“The details on whoever is taking our buyers. The DEA is putting the coke into circulation to uncover people of interest, but this time it backfired. They don’t like having egg on their face when some anonymous boss has one over them by being untraceable.”

“But we don’t know who’s takin’ it, either. So why grill us?”

“I strung him along; made him think I could find out.” I lean back, still keeping a cautious eye on Digits as I answer Crackers. “I thought I’d see if he gave me anything we could use.”

“And did he?” Murphy asks. My sergeant’s stayed silent until now. The feeling I’ve disappointed him is strong.

“He knew less than we did.”

“So we’re still at square one,” Crackers murmurs more to himself than anyone else.

“Yeah, we are.”

“I’ve had Mighty do some digging through his connections,” King interjects, “but this new player is smooth. The Wingmen don’t even know who’s headin’ it up. They deal with a number, and a bunch of messengers. Never seen the top dog.”

“Silent partner?” I ask.

“Don’t think so.” King turns the gavel under his palm. “All indications point to one power hungry asshole.”

“Great,” Crackers moans. “Another fuckin’ Carlos wannabe.”

“You got your guy in Kansas on it?” I ask King.

“Bronx? Yeah, he’s keepin’ ears to the ground. So is his woman and her old man, Tuck.”

“Tuck, as in Devil’s Breed, Tuck?” Digits asks, concerned.

“Yeah,” King answers. “Why?”

“No reason. Just didn’t know we were extending our issues wide enough to get other clubs involved.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. We need to shut this shit down, fast.”

“You think we will?” Digits presses.

“Without a doubt.” King’s focus moves back up my end of the table. “Now that’s cleared up, how about you fill us in on what exactly you were up to with an outsider and your sister?”

Any pretense I had of comfort fly out the non-existent window as I stare down a table full of curious gazes. One more so than the others.

“I figured when Jessup realized I wasn’t going to deliver that he’d round me up.” I run my eye over each man, making sure they understand where I’m coming from—that I speak from the heart. “We don’t have many allies left in State, right?” A murmur circles the table. “I figured if I went in I wouldn’t have any chance of comin’ out, even if I was given a lesser charge, and I didn’t want Mel’s whereabouts stayin’ secret.”

“I still don’t get where a fuckin’ gypsy fits this equation,” Murphy barks.

I lift my hand to calm him, my stomach twisting tighter, tighter, tighter … “I wanted someone neutral to the club to run the message so that the chance of them being followed was slim.”

“But she was followed, right?” Digits snaps. “I mean, she ended up needing you to ride in and save her, so what gave?”

My head. My heart. “I guess Jessup was watchin’ me the whole time, saw her leave the gas station. I don’t know.”

“Jessup swore he didn’t know a thing about her, man.” Crackers fixes me with a frown, but it’s the daggers Digits shoots into the table that have my focus.

“Sure he wasn’t bluffing?” I query.

“Dude,” Jo Jo scoffs. “He was down a finger and two molars by then. He had no reason to lie about that.”

“So if not him, who then? Who bribed the cops to pull her over?”

The table falls silent, each man eyeing the next. Great. More fucking mysteries.

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” King states. “Where was the message headed though?”

I swallow, feeling barely a quarter of my six-foot three stature. “My mom.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Murphy swears, his head tipping back. “You thought she was a better choice over your brothers?”

“I didn’t know who to trust anymore. I still don’t.”

His face burns red as he skids his chair backward, standing with both fists closed on the table. “I served alongside your father for over twenty-five years, you little shite, and watched as that fuckin’ mad woman ripped a hole in his heart. And you,” he says, shoving a thick finger at me, his accent strong in his rage, “are tellin’ me you don’t trust me?”

“Sit down,” King urges quietly.

“No,” Murphy rages. “He owes us a fuckin’ explanation. Come on boy.” He throws his arms wide. “Tell your brothers what they’ve done to lose your trust.”

The words don’t come. The pressure from them all staring at me, waiting on an answer is too much. Air is thick and heavy in my lungs, blood feeling like lava as it moves through my veins. My knotted and twisted stomach threatens to unfurl at warp speed sending the contents skyward.

So I bail.

I don’t have the adequate words to explain that it’s not them who are to blame for the lost trust, but the fact I don’t believe in myself anymore. I can’t place trust in anyone, or anything these days, and that makes it damn hard to believe that there’s good out there in the world for the taking when you’re forever wondering what’s going to fall apart next.

I take the coward’s way out and swim for the surface, fighting the black ocean of my mind as I gasp for the life-saving breath that only comes with solitude.

“I need a fuckin’ smoke,” I mutter as I rise from the table and push through the doors.

A ruckus breaks out behind me, but I don’t stop. I don’t turn around, and I sure as fuck don’t acknowledge what I’ve done.

I’ve tapped out. Failed. Crumbled at the last hurdle.

I’ve committed career suicide.