Chapter 34

At the clubhouse, shut inside Preacher’s office, I absentmindedly traced the dark ink stain on his desk. Much like everything else inside this room, the stain had been there all my life.

It was late yet the clubhouse was full, friends and family were filling nearly every room. I knew I should be out there visiting, but there were other things weighing heavily on my mind.

Leaning back in Preacher’s chair, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. It smelled like my father in here—leather, his favorite brand of cigarettes, and hints of the cologne he sometimes wore. And I wondered how long it would be before it no longer did.

The door opened, hinges squeaking. Opening my eyes, I sat up and squinted through the dimly-lit room. A head full of dyed black hair, fashionably streaked with gray and white and curled to perfection, peeked inside. A wrinkled hand tipped with long red nails waved hello.

“Hi, baby girl.” Sylvia’s rough-hewn, nasally voice filled the room. “Can I come in?”

I gestured her forward, and the door opened, revealing a large metal box clutched between her arms. Elbowing the door closed behind her, she hurried across the room and placed the box on the desk in front of me.

Wringing her hands together, she took a step back. “I’ve always wanted to tell you the truth about her, Eva. So many times. Your mother, she was my friend, you know?” Taking a breath, Sylvia shook her head. “She was such a sweet girl and I loved her very much.”

Sylvia nodded at the box. “Your father—he threw so much away. He was hurting. He wanted to forget, I think. But I kept as much as I could get my hands on.”

With my heart in my throat, I stared at the box, already imagining what might be inside.

“I’ll leave you alone.” Sylvia moved toward the door.

I jumped up. “Aunt Sylvie, wait!”

She paused and turned, and I noticed the tears in her eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you,” I said.

Confused, Sylvia shook her head. “For what?”

“For helping him take care of me. For helping him raise me. You and I both know he couldn’t have done it without you.”

Sylvia’s hand went to her throat. “Oh God, Eva, it was my absolute pleasure.” Again she nodded at the box. “You come find me when you’re done, okay?”

As the door closed softly behind her, I looked down at the box before me. With shaking hands, I lifted the heavy lid and peered down at the contents inside—a short stack of notebooks, a few articles of neatly folded clothing, a small brown purse, and a couple of books and trinkets.

I bypassed all of it for the notebooks.

Laying the first one on the desk, I opened to the first page. The drawing had yellowed and faded some, but not so much that I couldn’t make it out. One hand flew to my mouth while the other hovered just above the page, quivering. It was just as Preacher had described—a smiling man with a little girl on his lap.

Carefully I flipped through the pages, finding hand-drawn illustrations of the story my father had told me. I saw Preacher, young and handsome, stretched out on a bed, sound asleep. And Sylvia, heavily pregnant with Trey. I saw Joe and Max, and my grandparents—Ginny with a cigarette in her hand, smiling, and The Judge with his arms crossed over his chest, his squared jaw and proud nose reminding me so much of Preacher.

I pulled another notebook from the pile, finding page after page of what I assumed were my mother’s first impressions of New York City—sketches of the clubhouse, the neighborhood, the Statue of Liberty, and the Empire State Building.

I touched the next drawing tentatively. Beneath a shock of dark hair, wide eyes set above plump cheeks stared back at me. “Frankie,” I whispered, my eyes filling.

There were more sketches of Frankie, of Tiny, of my uncles, and other club members—some of whom I knew, and others I only recognized from photographs I’d seen.

I paused on a drawing of Preacher, standing inside a room I didn’t recognize. Standing beside a window, his gaze was fixed on something the artist couldn’t see. He was shirtless, his arms folded across his chest. His long hair was unbound, hanging loose around his face.

The detail was incredible.

She’d drawn him so carefully. So exquisitely.

She’d drawn him as if she’d loved him.

I flipped to the next page and instead of a drawing, I found a discolored Polaroid photograph tucked into the binding. As I pulled it free, my hand began to shake.

In my hand, I held the family I’d never gotten to have. A handsome young man grinned at the camera, his arm wrapped protectively around the beautiful girl smiling beside him—a tiny baby swaddled in her arms.

That beautiful girl was my mother and that baby is me.

Tears clouding my vision, I found myself stumbling backward, nearly tripping over the chair behind me. Oh God, I couldn’t breathe. It was too hot and I couldn’t fucking breathe.

Clutching the picture to my chest, I hurried across the room, threw open the office door, and burst into the hallway, gasping for air. The hall was thankfully empty, and I sagged back against the wall, breathing hard.

Glancing around, I felt as if I were seeing the clubhouse for the first time.

Everything felt different now—foreign.

And everywhere I looked, I felt her—the ghost of a girl I’d never gotten to know.

I could see her now, walking down this very hall. Young and beautiful. Pregnant with me yet still just a baby herself. And utterly without a clue as to the kind of world she’d stepped into. I wanted to reach out and grab her, pull her to me, and keep her close. Keep her safe from those who would try to take her from me.

I followed her ghost until my eyes stopped on a familiar shape skulking in the shadows by the stairwell. “Tiny?” I called out, squinting. “What the hell are you doing?”

Tiny shuffled out from stairwell, his eyes on the floor. “I’m sorry, Eva,” he whispered, his sad eyes finding mine. “I never wanted to lie to ya. ‘Bout your mom and ‘bout your old man bein’ so sick.”

I shut my eyes for a moment and then let out a sigh, and with it any residual anger I was harboring. There was no use in yelling at a bunch of old men who’d only been doing what they were told. It would only hurt both them and me, and it wouldn’t change a damn thing. My mother was still gone, and Preacher was still dying.

“You can make it up to me,” I told him.

His head bobbed in earnest. “Anything, Eva. You name it, it’s yours.”

“You spent so much time with her—my mother.” I lifted the picture, showing him. “Will you tell me about her? I want to know everything about her, Tiny. Every single thing.”

A wobbly smile stretched across his sagging jowls. “Is that all? Where do ya wanna start? Shit, I still remember the day you were born like it was yesterday.”

He offered me his arm and I looped mine through it. Arm in arm, we headed toward the living room.

“Scariest fuckin’ thing that ever happened to me,” he said.

I bit back a laugh. “I love you, Tiny,” I murmured, shaking my head. “With extra sugar.”

• • •

It was nearly four in the morning by the time I dragged myself up to my old room. Pushing open the door, I cringed when it creaked, and then smiled, unable to remember a time when it hadn’t creaked.

The television was on, bathing the room in muted, flickering light. I took a moment to look over the familiar space—the posters on the wall, the framed photos, the rows of shelves filled with cassette tapes and CDs. It felt like home and yet… didn’t.

Eventually my gaze landed on Deuce. Lying on his stomach in bed, he wore only a pair of boxer shorts. His lack of snoring told me he wasn’t sleeping.

We hadn’t spoken since we’d left the hospital and he’d disappeared within minutes of our arrival at the clubhouse.

I sat down beside him, visually tracing the many tattoos covering his broad, muscular back, marveling at his beautiful body. Whereas my father looked ten years older than he should, Deuce looked at least ten years younger than he was. Not that it mattered what age he looked—Deuce would never not be beautiful to me.

“Baby? You awake?”

“Nope.”

 “Are you ignoring me?”

“I’m fuckin’ talkin’ to you, ain’t I?”

A smile tugged at my lips, and I bent down to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. His warm, smooth skin twitched beneath my mouth, and a shiver shook through Deuce.

“We can talk about it if you want,” I whispered. “Don’t let it fester.”

Deuce sighed heavily, his big body lifting off the mattress. Flipping onto his back, he folded his arms beneath his head—a move that caused his impressive biceps to shift and swell beneath his colorful skin.

“There ain’t shit to say,” he muttered. “You know I hate this fuckin’ city, hate this fuckin’ house, hate this motherfuckin’ room. But those are my demons, darlin’, and you’ve got bigger shit to be dealin’ with.”

I stared at him a moment, hating him for clinging to things that couldn’t be changed, while also loving him at least a hundred times more for always being so glaringly, unapologetically him.

“I don’t want to deal with my own shit right now,” I told him. “Right now I want to pretend that I don’t have any shit to deal with at all.”

“That still don’t mean we should talk about mine.”

We fell silent, watching each other in the semi-darkness.

“Are you coming with me tomorrow—back to the hospital?”

“That’s a dumbass fuckin’ question, Eva.”

Again the silence stretched between us, my gaze wandering away with my thoughts.

“He loved her, you know,” I said suddenly.

“Babe.” Deuce’s tone gentled. “He ain’t never stopped.”

I nodded distractedly. “She loved him, too. I know she did.”

When Deuce didn’t say anything, only continued to watch me, I bent down and pressed a kiss to his lips. His large hand cupped the back of my head, and his mouth covered mine. Demanding lips, rough strokes of his tongue, he nipped my bottom lip before breaking the kiss.

“That was so fucking hot,” I told him breathlessly, eyeing him hungrily. “What gives you the right to be so old and yet so fucking hot?”

He snorted. “You are one crazy bitch.”

Straightening, I laughed at him. “That’s all you got? I’m a crazy bitch?” Brow lifted, lips twisted, I blew him a kiss. “You are getting soft, aren’t you? Old, and soft, and sweet.”

Grabbing my wrist, he set my hand on top of the bulge in his boxers. “Yeah? That feel soft to you?”

I shrugged. “Kinda…”

Deuce let out a low growl, and a heartbeat later I was laid out flat on the bed, his big body hovering over mine. His hips dipped and mine arched, and our mouths met in an explosion of need. Clothing was shed, as were any reservations. Frenzied, we touched each other in ways we hadn’t touched in years. My staccato breaths joined the fray.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like this, so turned on, so crazy needy. Nothing more than a thrashing mass of flesh and bone, desperate for more of him.

“I wanna see you,” he said, reversing our positions.

Straddling his hips, I watched as Deuce’s eyes traced a greedy path over every inch of my bare skin. Lips parted and breathing hard, his hooded gaze met mine and the way he looked at me? I felt young again. And beautiful. And oh my God, so fucking alive.

One hand planted on his chest, I rushed to guide him inside of me. And as our bodies connected, a gasp and a growl collided in the space between us.

I bent to kiss him. Our mouths fused together, I snapped my hips forward, eliciting a throaty groan from Deuce. Panting and eager, I began to move.

His thumbs hooked beneath my hip bones. Calloused fingertips dug into my backside, stilling me. My eyes fluttered opened, finding his.

“Babe,” he said, low and raspy. “I want it fuckin’ slow.”

Shivers raked up and down my spine, and I sighed against his mouth.

Then I gave it to him slow.