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.”
“I never asked you to take that rap for me!” Deuce shouted. “You need to reel your fuckin’ bullshit in, right the fuck now!”
Mick jumped up out of his seat and slammed his clenched fists down upon the tabletop. “But I fuckin’ did! Because your old man had just kicked the bucket and this fuckin’ club needed some stability for fuckin’ once, not another prez who was locked up!”
“That was almost forty fuckin’ years ago,” Deuce said, purposely punctuating each word. Gripping the edge of the meeting table, he leaned forward, bringing him nearly nose to nose with Mick. “Why are you bringin’ this shit up now? You want me to suck your dick or somethin’?”
Normally, a comment like that would have sent the rest of the boys into a fit of laughter, followed by more lewd comments or gestures, but not today. Tension was high, and even the most lighthearted of the brothers were sitting stone faced in their seats.
“He never fuckin’ told me,” Ripper suddenly muttered. “What the fuck . . .”
Out of everyone crammed inside Deuce’s office, Ripper looked the most put out, even more so than Mick. Probably because he’d been the closest to Hawk, more than anyone else associated with the club.
Except for Dorothy, Jase thought bitterly. Obviously she’d been a hell of a lot closer to Hawk than Ripper had.
Deuce tore his angry stare away from Mick and pinned it on Ripper. “He was under my fuckin’ orders not to tell a damn one of you! Do you do shit I tell you not to fuckin’ do . . .”
Deuce trailed off and closed his eyes. “Never mind,” he said, sighing. “Of course you fuckin’ do.”
Seated beside Ripper, Cox elbowed him in the ribs. “He’s talkin’ ’bout you fuckin’ his daughter,” he whispered loudly. “We weren’t supposed to do that, dude, and you didn’t listen.”
Ripper shoved Cox and in turn Cox shoved Ripper, and as the two of them proceeded to shove and slap at each other like the two little girls they often acted like, the rest of the room burst into a fit of laughter. The thick tension that had been holding the entire room hostage for well over an hour seemed to evaporate. Even Deuce and Mick, who—other than Jase—were the only two club members not laughing, looked more at ease than they had only moments ago.
And just like that Jase was no longer amused, but instead, straight-up pissed the fuck off. Slamming his palms down on the table, he shoved his chair back and shot to his feet. Of course, since he was shitfaced, he had to continue holding on to the table for a few more seconds to ensure he wouldn’t go toppling backward along with his chair.
Heads shot up all around the room as his brothers peered curiously at him with raised eyebrows. He paid them no attention as he stumbled his way to the office door, more than ready to be done with this bullshit meeting.
“Jase!” Deuce bellowed and he paused, his hand on the doorknob. “I didn’t say you could leave. This is a meeting and a vote. I made that pretty fuckin’ clear.”
Jase glanced over his shoulder at his president and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t give a fuck what you do with Hawk,” he spat venomously. “Or Luca, or whoever the fuck he is. My vote goes to the club.”
Yanking one of the office’s double doors open, Jase forced his body into action, managing to stay upright just long enough to breach the doorway and slam the door closed behind him with enough force that the connecting walls shook in response.
With every intention of heading straight for the bar and the copious amount of booze beckoning him from its shelves, he spun away from the still-rattling door and started forward.
“Jase?”
Recognizing the voice, he froze in lumbering midstride and nearly fell over because of it. He’d known Dorothy was here, or at least he’d known she was in town, but had already figured he wouldn’t be seeing her, since she usually went to great lengths to ensure she was never in the same place at the same time he was. Never in a million years would he have guessed she would have come to the club.
Slowly, he turned to face her, squinting across the considerable distance between them, and found her standing just outside the hallway that led to the kitchen. He looked her up and down, just drinking her in for the first time in what felt like far too long.
Gone was the fresh-faced girl next door he’d fallen for. She no longer carried with her that aura of innocence and naïveté she’d held throughout her twenties and thirties. No, Dorothy finally looked like the grown woman she was. Her features had matured, sharpened, were no longer cute, but instead a refined sort of beautiful.
“Dorothy,” he said quietly, focusing on her face and those big and beautiful green eyes of hers. Her eyes hadn’t changed, and for some reason he took comfort in that. “I didn’t realize—”
“The vote,” she said tersely, interrupting him. “Did you vote yet?”
Jase’s mouth snapped shut as he noticed for the first time the slight tremble of her lips, her rigid posture, the way she was gripping her hands, wringing them together.
She was afraid.
For motherfucking Hawk.
Of course she was. After all, she had come all the way from California just to find out what was going on with him. But what Jase had initially thought was only concern for the sake of her son’s father, looked to be something else entirely.
Jesus fucking Christ, did she still have feelings for the man? Did the two of them have something going on that no one else knew about . . . again?
Feeling suddenly awkward, he reached up to rub his hand across the back of his neck, using the maneuver to avert his eyes, hoping she didn’t realize the sudden overwhelming disappointment that had gripped hold of his heart.
“I . . . uh . . .” He stumbled over his words, trying to form an answer that didn’t include telling her he’d just announced how much he didn’t care whether Hawk lived or died, seeing as she so obviously did care.
“No vote yet,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m just taking a piss break.”
Nodding, Dorothy’s lips pressed tightly together and her eyes perceptibly widened. He knew that look, had seen it hundreds of times before. It was the face she made when she was desperately trying not to cry. Seeing that, something rattled painfully inside Jase’s chest, and his insides clenched uncomfortably. He hated that face, he fucking loathed it . . . mostly because he’d always been the cause of it.
“Don’t worry,” he said quickly. “We’ll bring him home.”
“Okay,” she whispered, nodding more to herself than to him. “I’ll just be . . . I’ll just be in the kitchen.”
He watched her disappear around the corner, listened as the swinging doors to the kitchen creaked back and forth as she passed through them, and shortly after that came the banging of pots and pans.
Something warm burst forth within his gut, easing the uncomfortable tightening that had taken root. She was back, not only in Miles City but inside the clubhouse, and back inside the kitchen no less.
It was so fucking familiar and, goddamn him, so incredibly comforting. After so many years of feeling nothing but the cold shoulder from both her and his family, feeling this semblance of his past, a place where he’d been happy and content, was more than welcome.
And he didn’t want to lose it.
Turning around, he burst back into Deuce’s office. Ignoring the stares of everyone in the room, he marched forward, shoved Anger out of the chair he’d been occupying before he’d left the room, and reclaimed his seat.
When it came time for him to cast his vote, he looked directly into Deuce’s narrowed eyes, raised two fingers in the air, and answered, “Yay. Bring him home.”
What bringing Hawk home would accomplish, other than putting Deuce and Preacher at the mercy of the Russian cartel, Jase didn’t know. All he knew was that it would keep Dorothy around, if only for a little while longer . . . as well as keep her from crying.
At the very least, he owed her that much.