CHAPTER TWO

 

Undertaker and Blood strode through the clubhouse door and headed straight to the bar.

“Give us a shot, Prospect,” Undertaker ordered the kid behind the bar. A moment later two short tumblers were set before them, and the prospect tilted up a bottle of top-shelf whiskey, filling them with the amber liquor.

“Leave the bottle,” he growled.

It was set before him, and the prospect retreated to the other side of the bar, clearly able to see the Chapter President wasn’t in a good mood.

Blood rested his elbows on the bar and looked over at him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” He downed the shot and poured himself another.

Blood had the good sense to shut up, which suited Undertaker fine. He was in no mood today. That crap with Mutt had his blood boiling. His crew knew he didn’t tolerate that kind of drug use in this MC. Recreational use was fine, but addiction like that controlled a man, and if it controlled them, then that meant he didn’t, and that he couldn’t allow.

This club could be a lot of things to a man, but his loyalties couldn’t be divided. The drugs couldn’t become more important than the MC, and he was afraid that was exactly what was happening with Mutt. Part of that responsibility fell on him. He’d made the mistake of waiting too long to intervene, and it may cost him a brother. As President, he bore the burden for everything that went on in the New Orleans Chapter, good or bad. Making mistakes was not something he liked to admit, but he wasn’t afraid to own up to them; he only hoped he wasn’t too late with Mutt.

Mooch walked up and took the seat next to him. His VP had been with him for a lot of years, and every line showed on his face. The two of them had been through it all together. One look at his expression, and Undertaker knew he was about to drop another problem in his lap. “What now?”

The corner of Mooch’s mouth pulled up. “Hello to you, too.”

“You’re about to tell me some shit. I can always tell. You’ve got that look on your face like you enjoy it too much.”

“I resent that. This is my normal face.”

Blood snorted.

Undertaker cocked one brow, doubtfully. “So you don’t have something shitty to tell me?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Well…? You gonna tell me, or do I have to pull teeth here?”

“Your girl’s having another episode.”

“Fuck, why didn’t you say so?” Undertaker stood, tossed back what was left in his glass, and headed for the stairs.

“I just did!” Mooch yelled after him.

Undertaker flipped him off over his shoulder as he kept walking. He took the stairs two at a time and strode down the hallway to the room Holly was staying in. He paused outside the door, took a deep breath, and knocked. “Baby girl. It’s me.”

He leaned one hand on the doorframe and listened. The bed creaked and then the door swung wide. Her face was tear streaked, her eyes red, but he only had a moment to take it in before her arms were clamped tightly around his waist and her head was tucked under his chin. His arms wrapped around her, and his palm stroked over her hair.

Her voice trembled as she asked, “W-where were you? You were gone so long. I w-waited and waited.”

“I had club business to tend to. We talked about this, baby. You know I always come back.”

“I tried calling you, but it went right to voicemail.” She pulled back to stare up at him accusingly.

“When I’m on the bike, I can’t always hear it.” He walked her backward into the room and kicked the door shut with his booted heel. “Did something happen?”

She folded her arms defensively, one hand coming up to wipe the tears from her cheeks, then she shook her head, looking away. “No, but when you’re gone, I start to panic. I can’t help it.”

He reached out, tilting her chin up. “Hey, look at me.” He waited until her glassy blue eyes latched onto his. “I always come back. Have I ever lied to you?”

She shook her head.

“Then believe in that. You’re safe here. You know that, right?”

She nodded.

“Then why the panic?”

She shrugged.

“You know I have an MC to run. Responsibilities are going to pull me away sometimes. You said you understood that.”

“Yes.”

He studied her a long moment, thinking that perhaps he’d put off this talk long enough. He gestured to the side of the bed. “Sit down, babe. We need to talk.”

Nervousness came over her, like she was afraid what he might say next. Her palms rubbed down the thighs of her jeans, and she bit her bottom lip.

He reached over and took one of her hands in his. “Holly, maybe this isn’t the best place for you—”

“Please don’t make me leave,” she interrupted in a panic.

“I’m not going to make you do anything. I know you’ve been through hell, baby. I know you were frightened. I’m just saying you can’t stay locked up in here forever. You have college to get back to and a life to lead. Hiding out here can’t be the solution.”

“Cat is with Blood now. Even the thought of going back to school, of going back to the old apartment all alone terrifies me. I can’t do it. Please don’t make me leave.”

He studied her face, hearing every word she said to him. He didn’t dismiss her fears. He knew they were very real for her. “Have you talked to your sister? Have you told her everything?”

She looked away and swallowed.

He waited, knowing eventually she’d tell him.

“She’s tried to get me to talk, but I can’t.”

“You won’t.”

She turned, her blue eyes laced with a trace of ice. “Can’t.”

“You talk to me, and before the night of the fire—”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it. You don’t have to refer to it as the night of the fire. To me, it will always be the night you saved me from those men,” she corrected.

He nodded. “All right. And before that night you didn’t even know me. You’ve known your sister your whole life. How is it you can talk to me, but not her?”

She shrugged her shoulders and wouldn’t meet his gaze. “You make me feel safe.”

He dipped his head and stroked his palm over her hair. “You are safe. No one is ever going to hurt you again. That’s a promise. You need to start believing it.”

She looked up, searching his eyes, and he lost himself in their depths. He saw the devotion reflected there. She’d developed some type of hero worship for him, as crazy and misplaced as that sounded.

She reached up and cupped his bearded face gently. “I do believe it.”

She was lovely, and she idolized him. That was a powerful pull for a man, and he’d been tempted. Hell, she tempted him still, looking up at him like that, but he knew it would never be serious for him. Yeah, he could take her, and totally enjoy his time with her, but she’d never be ol’ lady material, at least not for a President like him who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He needed more. He needed a woman who could be strong for him when he felt that weight slipping off his shoulders, and someone as young as Holly just didn’t have the maturity for that yet. And it wasn’t her fault; it was just who she was.

He’d thought about letting things between them go further, but he knew if he crossed that line with her, he’d eventually hurt her, and she was too closely connected to the club. Her sister was Blood’s ol’ lady now. So, fucking around with Holly was out of the question. It would have too many ramifications, and she would always be around.

Undertaker had been with a lot of women over the years, but there had only been one who’d meant anything to him, and she was dead and buried. No one since his Angie had ever come close, and he’d accepted that. When he did find solace with a woman, they both went into it with their eyes wide open. That would never work with Holly.

So there was the rub of it.

When he’d rescued her from Black Jack, Blood’s derelict old man and New Orleans’ biggest crime boss, he’d never expected any of this. The poor girl had been used as a pawn between Blood and his father.

That was over now, but the trauma of it all had left its mark on the girl. Undertaker had promised her she’d be safe at the club and she could stay as long as she needed.

But it had been weeks now, and the situation wasn’t working out so well for the club. They were tired of walking around on eggshells in their own clubhouse, and Undertaker couldn’t demand it of them much longer. Something had to be done.

Cat had promised to get her sister counseling, but Holly wouldn’t leave the property, and he knew Cat was finding it hard to get someone to make a house call, especially to the clubhouse of an MC.

Doc Sanders, the club’s doctor, had tried to talk with Holly, but she’d clammed up on him, and besides, he was a medical doctor; counseling wasn’t his specialty.

Holly’s thumb brushed over his bottom lip, washing every thought from his head. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, and he knew he was slipping out onto thin ice.

A moment later their mouths were pressed together, and he wasn’t quite sure who had been the one to close the distance. Her lips were soft under his, and as her mouth opened for his tongue, he really didn’t give a damn who’d been the one to give in first.

His hands drifted up to cup her face as he took control of the kiss, promising himself he’d stop at just one. Cursing himself when breaking free of those sweet honeyed lips proved to be so much harder than he’d expected. He went back again and again until they were both breathing hard.

The soft bed was right there. It would be so easy to just push her down onto her back, to settle his body onto her soft curves, to sweep his hands all over her. And for a moment he was bowled over by the power of that temptation, almost swept along with it.

But he was nothing if not a man with an iron will, and he knew if he went further, he might never get her out of his clubhouse.

And so, he finally broke off, dragging in a deep breath.

She stared up at him, confused, her lips swollen from his kisses. “What is it? Why did you stop?”

He shook his head and stood.

She grabbed his hand, pulling him back as he turned to move to the door. “Please.”

Her soft plea gutted him, and he twisted to stare down at her. “We can’t, babe. Not you and me. I’m the last thing you need.”

“That’s not true. You’re exactly what I need.”

“I’m old enough to be your father. It could never work out between us.” He lifted his chin to the bed. “We do this, you’d come to hate me. And I don’t want that to happen.”

“Please don’t go.”

He cupped her face, then dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Get some sleep. Maybe later I’ll take you for a ride. Would you like that?”

She nodded, willing to accept whatever crumbs he threw her. It wasn’t right, but he took it, giving her a smile before heading to the door.

As he walked down the hall back toward the bar, he realized his hands were shaking. Yeah, he wasn’t as in control as he liked to kid himself. Fuck, he needed another drink.

When he got back to the bar, Blood, Mooch, Easy, and So Cal were all there. He sat at the corner, liking to have a clear view of the entrance. It was an old habit that had saved his life more than once. Not that there was any chance of danger coming through the door of his own damn clubhouse, but it was a hard habit to break.

Blood picked up his drink and took the stool next to Undertaker. “Heard from Cat.”

“Yeah, and?”

“She finally talked one of the therapists she works with at the hospital to come out here. A Dr. AJ Carter.”

“Thank Christ. Guess it pays to have a nurse around.”

“You know she’s just as anxious to get her sister out of here as you are.”

“Then why doesn’t Holly move in with the two of you?”

Blood gave him a murderous look.

Undertaker chuckled. “Right. It would put a damper on your sex life.”

“Wouldn’t stop me in the least, but I don’t think Cat would feel the same.”

“Nope, probably not. So when’s this guy coming by?”

“They’re on their way, but there was one request.”

“What’s that?”

“Cat thought it would be better if there weren’t a lot of guys around or a parking lot filled with bikes. No sense terrifying the good doctor before he gets in the building.”

“Right. Then why don’t you take the guys to your place? Isn’t there a Saints game on tonight?”

“Gee, thanks.”

The corner of Undertaker’s mouth pulled up. “Come on, take one for the team.”

Blood rolled his eyes, but walked off. “Come on, men. ESPN at my place. President’s orders.”

“I’m in,” Bam-Bam said, getting up from his barstool. “Hope you got plenty of beer.”

Blood gave Undertaker a death glare, to which he just chuckled.

Mooch took the empty stool.

“You’re not goin’?” Undertaker asked.

“Nah. I’m heading home in a few minutes.”

Undertaker jerked his chin at the prospect behind the bar who wasted no time coming over. “Take those keys,” he ordered, nodding to a set on a hook behind the bar. “Move the van from behind the building to out front so you can’t see our bikes on the other side of it.”

The kid left to do his bidding.

Once he was out the door, Mooch took a hit off his beer and asked, “She all settled down?”

Undertaker moved behind the bar and reached into the cooler. He put the long neck to the bottle opener under the bar and popped the cap. “She’s fine.”

Mooch grinned. “All these years and I had no idea that one of your special skills was babysitting.”

Undertaker gave him a look. “The cracks about her age are wearing thin, Brother.”

“Okay, okay. Seriously, you have a way with her. I’m glad she’s fine now.”

“Hopefully she’ll be better after Cat brings this doctor to see her.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. They’re supposed to be on their way. I hope he’s worth a shit and can help her.”

“You and me, both.”

“You don’t like our house guest?”

“I like the kid well enough. I know she’s been through a lot—”

“She’s been through hell. Lost her innocence, lost her naiveté, lost her trust…”

Mooch nodded. “We all have loss we have to deal with—for some of us, it takes years.”

Undertaker lowered his bottle, his eyes narrowing. “You talking about me, old man?”

Mooch huffed out a laugh. “You forget. I was there at the beginning.”

The beginning, Undertaker mused. It seemed like a thousand years ago and just yesterday all rolled into one.

 

Fifteen years ago—

 

Walking out of Louisiana State Penitentiary that hot humid afternoon, Undertaker remembered the blazing sun more than anything. That and the way the smell of bike exhaust reached his nostrils. It was a scent he hadn’t smelled in eleven long years. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with it.

Squinting against the bright sun, he swept his gaze over the line of shining chrome and metal of ten bikes, a pickup, and a bunch of dirty leather-clad men he called his brothers. The mangy bunch had never looked so sweet.

A broad grin split Mooch’s face as he pulled Undertaker in for a bear hug. A moment later, he was enfolded in the group, his back slapped a dozen times.

Bam-Bam took him by the cheeks and laid a big smacking kiss on his face.

He shoved him off as the bunch guffawed with laughter. His eyes moved over the crew again, counting faces, new and old. One in particular stood out missing.

“Where’s Skeeter?”

A couple of his brothers exchanged glances, no one in a hurry to tell him.

“What?”

“He’s not doin’ so good, Undertaker.”

He nodded. The old man was getting on in years, but he hadn’t heard he was in poor health.

“Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Undertaker nodded again. He couldn’t argue with that. The sooner he put a hundred miles between himself and this stinking prison that had been his living hell for so many years, the better.

“Let’s roll, Brother,” Mooch said, nodding toward Undertaker’s old bike that sat shining in the sun.

Undertaker moved to it, running his palm over the seat lovingly, his eyes sweeping over the motorcycle he’d missed so much. “Looks like you boys took good care of it.”

“Damn straight. The girls gave it a wash yesterday, and the new prospect polished it up for you.”

“Thank you, boys.” At the mention of girls, Undertaker met Mooch’s eyes, only one girl on his mind. “You find her?”

He shook his head slowly, sadness written on his face. “Sorry, man. Can’t find a trace of her.”

Undertaker lifted his gaze to the horizon, nodding. She was out there somewhere—Angie and his daughter. He’d find them. Somehow.

He swung his leg over the seat, his hands enfolding the grips, taking in the feel of his bike under him at last. He fired it up and listened to that sweet rumble.

Mooch tossed him his cut with a grin. “Lead us out, VP.”

He shrugged it on and felt its weight on his back. Goddamn, it felt good.

With a twist of the throttle, he roared out of the crushed gravel lot and onto the pavement, blasting down Highway 66 as fast as his bike would carry him.

He glanced back once in his side mirror. He couldn’t see much of the vast prison except the entrance gate, the guard tower, and rows and rows of looped razor wire fencing. But he remembered his last impressions of the place as he’d stared out the window of the van as the guards had driven him up to the facilities near the gate for processing out.

His eyes swung to the left. Far in the distance, he caught a glimpse of a work gang, inmates in their prison garb out working the fields, the guards on horseback with their rifles at the ready. It passed by him in a blur, fields of crops they’d been forced to work day in and day out in the endless thousands of acres under the blazing hot sun. And lastly, the sad little cemetery where they buried the lifers who lived out their last days on earth and would never leave this place.

His hand tightened on the grips, and he looked forward, vowing never to think of that hell on earth again.

Three hours later—and one stop for a steak dinner on the way—they arrived back at the clubhouse.

The parking lot was packed with bikes, and as they walked inside, Undertaker saw all the decorations and the Welcome Home banner on the wall. People he’d loved and missed soon surrounded him, all except for one—the chapter President.

“Where’s Skeeter?” he asked Mooch as someone pressed a bottle of Jack in his hand, and he took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

The man lifted his chin toward the staircase that led to the second floor of the cavernous building.

“He comin’ down?” Undertaker asked. Mooch shook his head, and a weird feeling skated down Undertaker’s spine. Something was up, something they weren’t telling him. His voice dropped to a low growl. “What’s going on? Mooch, you better fucking tell me.”

“Come on. Let’s go see him together.” Mooch put an arm around his shoulders.

They moved through the crowd, the bottle still in his hand as they headed to the stairs. The long hallway at the top led to Skeeter’s office at the far end, and that’s where Undertaker assumed they were going until Mooch paused just short of it and turned to the door on the left of it—the one that led into the rooms Skeeter used for himself.

Mooch tapped on the door and then opened it.

There was a big bed on the left and a TV on the wall, one bigger than any he’d ever seen in prison, and again he was reminded of how much things had changed while he’d been locked up. The big screen only held his attention for a split second, because he was drawn to the big man lying in the bed.

Skeeter didn’t look good. He looked like he was on death’s door, and now it all made sense. This was what no one had wanted to tell him. Their President was dying.

Fuck.