Eighteen months.
Eighteen months of my life locked up, and now I was free.
Why didn't that feel better?
I took my last walk escorted by the guards, going through all their administrative bullshit. Answering questions, signing shit, getting my possessions-- just the clothes I'd worn the day I surrendered myself to the state--back.
All I could think about was getting the fuck out of there. I wanted to get home, get my bike, and ride until I didn't remember what it felt like only being able to enjoy the fresh air with armed men watching. I needed the wind, the taste of dust in the air, and the roar of an engine instead of hundreds of assholes making a shit-ton of noise at all hours. I knew the brothers were going to want to make a thing of my release, but I wasn't in the mood for some party they'd no doubt throw together for me.
The second I stepped out the gate, I froze. There it was--freedom. Finally. Dropping my head back, I took a deep breath in.
Then, "Prez!"
Daz. The loud motherfucker.
He was a couple yards away, straightening from leaning against his truck. He had a big, shit-eating grin plastered on his face, and I could already see the black leather dangling from his hand.
My cut. The Disciples patch and the declaration of my position as voted by my brothers.
Mr. President.
Fuck, would she ever get out of my head?
I walked to my brother. I should have known he'd be the one to get me. He also came to see me more than anyone else. I knew it was guilt driving him, something I’d tried to put an end to but hadn’t yet managed to do. Now that I was out, I’d have to see to that.
At the same time, I saw to everything else, like the club I’d had to leave behind all this time.
Why, for the love of God, was that cell I’d finally escaped seeming not so bad at that thought?
Daz’s arms came up, one reaching for my outstretched hand, one—holding my cut—reaching around to slap me on the back.
“Fucking finally,” he muttered as he pulled back, tossing my cut at me.
For the first time since I’d gotten my prospect patch, the worn leather felt foreign in my hand. I put those colors on every goddamned day until I went away. I shrugged it over my shoulders, noticing the difference in the movement as I did. There wasn’t a lot to do inside, so I’d bulked up a bit, exercising both to make it clear what I was capable of and to pass the hours.
If even that cut that defined me for years felt wrong, what the fuck was going to feel right anymore?
“It gets easier.”
I looked at Daz, who had none of the usual levity the brother was known for in his expression. He’d spent years in lock up, would be spending more now if I hadn’t stepped in. He knew from experience where my head was at, even if he hadn’t shown a bit of that when he’d been released.
No, the brother had been all about pussy and booze, which we provided him plenty of.
“Everything feels off for a while. A couple months, maybe less since you weren’t in as long. You’ll get used to it.”
It didn’t escape me that he said “get used to it” not “get back to normal.”
Not wanting to dwell on this shit that was going to be in my head either way, I shot back, “That woman of yours is making a real impact, huh?”
He got my gist. “Fuck you. Asshole,” he threw back even as he smiled. Letting the heavy shit drop, he walked to his truck, leaving me to follow.
Without looking back at the building behind me, I did.
“Fair warning,” Daz said from the driver’s seat as we pulled into town. Hoffman, Oregon looked the same. The place damn near always did. At least that was a comfort. “The old ladies have been gearing up for today for months it seems. Avery’s probably cooked up more shit for this than she’s stocked the bakery with.”
Avery was Daz’s woman. She used to be a dancer and manager at the strip club we owned. One of the few ventures the Disciples had a hand in to keep the brothers living comfortably. Now, she’d lived out her dream and opened a bakery. No fucking lie, that shit was a public service. The woman had been sending me baked goods weekly—yes, every single week for the year and a half I was in there, and extras when there were holidays and shit—and I still hadn’t tired of it.
“Not feeling much like a party,” I told him.
“I get that. Wasn’t how I was feelin’ when I got out, but I get how you would. They need this though. Those women, the brothers, Avery fucking especially. She’s felt responsible every goddamn day for that shit. Doesn’t matter what I say. Doesn’t matter that it was my fucking fault…”
Daz’s knuckles were stark white as he gripped the steering wheel.
Fuck, I needed to get a handle on that shit.
“Two years ago, you made a decision to protect your woman,” I cut in. “When they arrested you for that, I made my decision. You’d have been looking at a decade or more with your record versus me sacrificing a few months of my life to keep that from happening. I made my choice, and I don’t regret it. Somehow if I ended up back in time, I’d do it all over again. You were needed at home. I had the power to make it happen. You gotta let this go, brother.”
“You spent eighteen months in a cell for something you didn’t even fucking do,” Daz spat.
“And I’d serve eighteen more! I’d let them lock me up in there to rot for the club, or any of you.”
The silence in the cab felt like a physical weight pressing in on us.
“We’re not your responsibility,” Daz said lowly after a few minutes. We were getting close to the clubhouse, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted more time to set him straight or to get the fuck out of there as soon as possible.
“I’d have made the sacrifice from the time I got the word ‘prospect’ on my back. The minute you all voted me the pres, you and the rest of the club became my responsibility.”
“That’s bullshit.”
He could think that. The whole lot of them could, but it wouldn’t change anything.
He turned and pulled into the gravel drive outside the clubhouse.
“That’s the way it is.”
Daz hadn’t undersold it. The whole club was on hand the second we walked through the front door to the clubhouse. The converted warehouse only amplified the sound of their cheers as I entered.
I took in all of them. My brothers, their women, the handful of kids that had come along over the last few years. It should have felt incredible. It should have been the greatest fucking thing to happen to me in years to see them all. Instead, I saw them all in front of me and I felt more acutely than ever the time that had passed.
Then, I heard a near-screeched, “Uncle Stone!” just before a streak of blond curls and pink came flying at me. I dropped down just fast enough to catch Emmy, Sketch and Ash’s daughter, in my arms. She wrapped herself around me tightly, and the tightness in my chest increased at how much she’d grown. She was seven now, her birthday having just passed. It was the second one I’d missed out on.
“You’re home,” she said, her voice muffled into my shoulder, her grip on me not wavering.
Fuck, I felt those words right in the gut.
“Yeah, little one. I’m home.”