Christmas Eve Day

“Just sign the papers, Jason.”

Inside a secure and guarded room within the confines of the Montana Women’s Prison, Jase was seated beside his eldest daughter, Maribelle, staring across the dull metal table into the big blue eyes of his wife. Eyes that had once looked upon him with utter love and devotion, but now were filled with the bitter sting of resentment.

Chrysanthemum “Chrissy” Montgomery had once been a vision to behold. Never, in the history of ever, had there been a man who hadn’t looked her way. That wasn’t the case anymore. She was in her forties now, yet looking exceptionally older, hardened to the point where she’d become a woman he barely recognized.

He’d done this to her, ruined her, ruined their family and ruined . . .

A pair of pretty green eyes and a freckled face invaded his thoughts, that face framed in thick red waves. He closed his eyes, shutting out the view of his wife, remembering instead Dorothy, the woman who’d once made him feel so damn alive.

Those green eyes had once looked at him with love too.

Opening his eyes, Jase slumped down in his chair, wishing he were drunk. In fact, the only reason he wasn’t drunk was because he’d known he’d never be allowed inside the prison reeking of booze. But as soon as he got the hell out of here and back to the club . . .

He could already picture it, pouring himself a nice tall glass of “drowning his sorrows” because he didn’t have anything worth a damn left.

“This is really what you want?” he asked quietly.

Her request for a divorce hadn’t come as a surprise as much as Chrissy’s request to see him in person had. Every attempt he’d made in the past to visit with her, she’d refused. Then out of nowhere, Maribelle had called him early last week—another surprise since not one of his three daughters had wanted anything to do with him since gaining their independence—and informed him of her mother’s wishes.

“Your wife is up for parole in a few years, Mr. Brady. Her ties to you and your club will do her nothing but harm.”

Jase cut his eyes toward the pudgy-faced lawyer seated beside Chrissy. “Would you shut the fuck up? This ain’t your business.”

He wasn’t opposed to a divorce, but at the same time, even though he was loathe to admit it out loud, the thought of severing all ties to his wife and quite possibly his children because of it, terrified him. Aside from the club, this was all he had left; it wasn’t much, and it might be tattered, shredded to shit, but it was all he had.

But if he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that it had been his own fears and insecurities that had gotten him and everyone around him into this mess in the first place. And that if he continued ignoring the needs and wishes of those around him, prolonging the inevitable, tragedy was bound to strike again.

“Just sign the papers, Jason,” Chrissy repeated tonelessly. “You don’t want me. You never did.”

He stared at her, his stomach churning as his inescapable guilt welled up twice as strong inside him. That wasn’t true. He had wanted her. Once upon a time, when they were both still teenagers with endless possibilities ahead of them, he’d wanted her very much.

He’d loved watching that tight body bouncing up and down in her high school cheerleading uniform, and that beautiful, flawless face grinning as she cheered him on from the sidelines. But that didn’t mean he’d wanted to become a father at seventeen and a husband at eighteen, forced to spend the rest of his life listening to her prattle on about stupid, insipid bullshit he couldn’t give two shits about. She’d taken to married life, to motherhood, like she’d been born for it and he’d . . .

He’d enlisted in the Marine reserves to escape the hell that had become his life. He’d taken to drinking heavily too. And it was during one of the many nights he’d spent intoxicated at a local bar that he’d run into the local Horsemen president.

Not too long after, he’d found himself a patched-in member of one of the most notorious motorcycle clubs in the country, and a lance corporal in the reserves.

Jase had known he was an anomaly—Marine by day, biker by night—but the truth of the matter was he’d never been able to find a happy medium. Constantly dissatisfied and always itching to be on the move, always looking for something new, he needed the duality in his life. The Marine reserves kept him grounded, forced him to stay in one place, forced him to be the man he knew he had to be for his family, but the club gave him the excitement he always felt he was lacking. Despite his dual life, he found himself still searching for something more.

He’d found that something more in the most unlikely of places.

His Horsemen chapter had fucked up big-time. Two boys had been thrown inside, and word was they’d been about go turncoat and start singing to the district attorney. Everyone in his chapter had to scatter, especially him. Being a Marine, he couldn’t afford to have trouble with the law. He’d been lucky too. Being picked up by Deuce wasn’t something that happened every day. At first he hadn’t been happy about the move until . . .

Little Dorothy Kelley Matthews.

He should have left Dorothy alone; he hadn’t even meant to fall for her, but it was hard not to fall for Dorothy. They had all fallen for her in their own way, every last boy in that club, even the constant flow of whores had loved her. She was a natural caretaker, a mother to everyone. You couldn’t help but gravitate toward her, waiting for your turn to be enveloped by that beautiful glow that always surrounded her.

And, as was his usual MO, he’d put his own wants and needs before that of everyone else, and in turn had destroyed them all.

To his left, Maribelle leaned forward, her hard eyes catching his gaze. “Haven’t you done enough damage?” she asked, her tone acidic. “The least you could do is sign the papers and give her a fraction of a chance to get out of this place.”

Unlike his twin girls, Meghan and Marisa, Maribelle was the spitting image of Chrissy in her youth. Along with her blue eyes and long auburn hair, as well as her natural tanned and flawless skin, she possessed the same tall, slim, yet muscular body as her mother, and the two of them could have been mistaken for sisters if not for the apparent age difference. But that was where the similarities between mother and daughter ended. Whereas Chrissy had always been fun loving, most times bordering on silly, Maribelle was all piss and vinegar. Something else that was his fault.

Glancing from his daughter to his wife, feeling the heat from their hard, unwavering stares, Jase knew he didn’t have a choice. So, for the first time since he’d met her, he put Chrissy before himself. It was the least he could do after everything . . . he’d hadn’t done.

“Where do I sign?” he asked, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

The lawyer pushed a manila folder across the table. “I’ve made it easy,” the man said. “Anywhere you see a red tab, sign your full name, your initials, and date it.”

Muttering about the uselessness of needing both his full name and his initials, Jase opened the folder and quickly skimmed over the first page. It was all pretty cut and dried. She didn’t want a damn thing from him, not the house, not one damn penny. As for their children, all three of them were over the age of eighteen.

Fucking Christ, he needed a goddamn drink.

The pen felt cool within his clammy grip, and his first attempt at signing his name resulted in a barely legible scribble. But by the time he’d reached the final page of the document, his grip was firm, his hand steady and dry. Closing the folder, he slid it back across the table where the lawyer picked it up and promptly placed it inside his waiting briefcase.

“Thank you, Mr. Brady. I’ll be in contact if any further participation on your end is required.”

Jase nodded; what else could he do? What could he say? It was official, Chrissy was done with him. All those years they’d wasted together, him staying only for the children, her loving him, blind to all his faults, only to have it all blow up in her face in the worst possible way . . . and it all crumbled to nothing.

What a fucking waste. All of it.

“Can you give us a second?” Chrissy asked, looking to her lawyer and then to Maribelle.

Surprise flickered through Jase’s gut. He hadn’t expected her to want to speak with him privately, but he supposed it made sense since she’d requested to see him in person.

The lawyer had no argument; he packed up his remaining things and was gone. It was their daughter who hadn’t so much as moved in her seat. She continued to sit, stone faced, glaring at her mother.

“Belle,” Chrissy said, using Maribelle’s childhood nickname. “Please.”

Her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes flared wide, Maribelle shook her head emphatically. “No,” she said tightly. “I cannot think of anything you could possibly have to say to the man who ruined your life.”

The man who ruined your life . . .

Not Dad. He hadn’t been Dad in a long time now. He was just some man who’d ruined her mother’s life. Fucking hell, he could practically taste the liquor he so desperately needed.

“Belle,” Chrissy repeated, this time firmer. The two women stared at each other while Jase waited to see whose will would win out.

When Maribelle slammed her hands down on the table, the noise loud enough to draw the attention of the guard, Jase knew Chrissy had won the battle. As the short, stocky, masculine-looking woman standing outside the door turned toward them and frowned, Jase gave her a weak smile, only succeeding in deepening her frown.

Fucking women. They all hated him. Even ones with facial hair.

Dramatically, Maribelle pushed herself out of her chair. “Whatever,” she snapped, “what-fucking-ever. Just don’t take all day. The weather service is predicting another epic Montana snowstorm, and the last thing I need is to get stuck in Miles Shit City.”

Jase watched his daughter storm out of the small room before turning back to Chrissy. As her tired eyes met his, the guilt, the sadness, the regret he felt was overwhelming, stifling in its intensity. He wanted to look away from her, wanted to run from this room, from what he’d done to her. But like a car hitting a patch of ice, he could do nothing but watch as the guardrail came rushing up to slap him in the fucking face.

Chrissy took a deep breath before slowly releasing it. “Dorothy,” she started, jolting Jase. “I want to know how she’s doing. And the child? The girls could never tell me much, only bits and pieces—”

“Chris,” he said, interrupting her. “Why are you bringing this up?”

Irritation creased her features. “Because, Jason, I shot a woman, a pregnant woman. I could have killed her and that innocent baby, and I’ve lived with that fact every day, every year, since it happened. There’s nothing I regret more than what I did to her.”

He supposed that made sense; even so, he didn’t want to discuss Dorothy with Chrissy. But this wasn’t about him, and he owed Chrissy at least that much.

Shrugging, he said, “As far as I know, she’s doin’ good.”

“You don’t see her?” Chrissy asked. “At all?”

Feeling incredibly awkward discussing his longtime girlfriend with his wife, or ex-wife, even after all this time, Jase shook his head. “Not really. She comes into town sometimes, only to see Tegen or Eva. She never stays very long.”

“Not you,” Chrissy said. It wasn’t a question, but an observation.

“Not me,” Jase repeated. Even before her memories had returned to her, Dorothy had repeatedly refused any attempt he’d made to speak with her. And then, after Cage had gotten shot, when she’d threatened to kill him if he came near her again, he’d given up altogether.

“You lost everything,” Chrissy said.

He stared at her. She didn’t seem to be mocking him, she didn’t seem angry or bitter. In fact, much to his surprise, she appeared to have expected his answer.

“I lost everything,” he confirmed, then added quietly, “and because of me, so did you.”

This time, it was Chrissy who shook her head. “I still have my girls.”

Jase didn’t know how to respond to that other than to nod in agreement. It was the cold, hard truth. When it had all gone to shit, the girls had taken sides with their mother, barely acknowledging his existence even before they’d all left home. As much as it had stung, he hadn’t blamed them. He, more than anybody, hated what he’d done.

“For the longest time, I blamed you for everything,” she continued. “I hated you for lying to me, for betraying our marriage. Most of all, I hated you for destroying our family.

“But I’ve had a lot of time to think about . . . everything. And I’ve come to the realization that it wasn’t just your fault. The other women, Dorothy, I let that go on. I knew you weren’t happy, I’d always known, yet I chose to ignore it instead of dealing with it. It was only after I’d found out she was pregnant . . .” She trailed off, her eyes glistening with tears as she turned away from him.

“Chris,” he said softly. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” she insisted, sitting up straighter and wiping at her eyes. “I do. I need you to know how sorry I am. I asked Maribelle here for a reason, to give you some time together. I’d hoped . . .”

She swallowed hard before speaking again. “It’s almost Christmas, Jason, and I’d hoped that it being the holidays and seeing each other would help somehow.”

“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.