There is something to be said about New York City. Sure, it’s congested as fuck and the traffic will make you want to rip your eyes out, but man, there isn’t any place in the world like it. It never sleeps. In fact, it comes alive when the sun goes down. The bridges, the buildings, all the people, the whole fucking city pulsates twenty-four seven. And when the skyline comes into view after you’ve been on the road, you forget the reasons you left and welcome yourself home.
This is my fucking city.
These streets, they’ve been mine since I walked out of Tryon and they’ll remain mine until they put me in the ground.
That’s the beauty of making your way back home.
Merging onto the BQE, those lights fade behind you and you remember what brought you back to the streets you love. You remember the sanction of brotherhood, and though it’s failed you in the past, you’re not ready to turn your back on it.
My pride wants to tell me that it’s being back in the city that’s made me soft, but the minute Brantley got in my ear I knew there was no way I could sit back and let the club ride this one out. Riding through these streets doesn’t help either, every tight curve around another corner reminds me of all the shit we’ve been through. The things we’ve seen, the crimes we’ve committed and the undeniable truth that brotherhood is a sentence I chose.
There is no early release for good behavior.
The garage finally comes into my line of sight and I reduce my speed, taking everything in. To my surprise, nothing has changed. The lazy fucks still haven’t bothered to fix the aluminum sign and they probably won’t until it fucking falls on one of their heads.
Shaking my head, I stop in front of the gate. I punch the security code into the system and watch as it slides open before rolling my bike through. Once inside, I kill the engine on my bike and glance around the lot noting there aren’t many cars in for repairs. It makes me wonder if business is slow or if they’re fucking making a mess of things.
It also makes me miss this place.
For so long, this garage was as much a part of me as the patch was. Stepping away from my bike, I reach for my keys but pause. Testing their loyalty to my home, I twist the doorknob to the office and find it locked. As I reach for my keys, I can’t help but feel guilty for doubting they’d be anything but respectful. They didn’t ask for the garage, it was my gift to them, and even in my darkest hour, I knew they deserved it. I wanted the club to prosper, I just didn’t want to reap the benefits of anything anymore.
Pushing open the door, twenty years of memories slam into me fast and hard. I curse Brantley for putting me in this fucking position, for reminding me of what I walked away from. It’s not the ugly shit haunting me as I make my way through the office and into the garage. It’s the good; it’s the times we sat on these oil drums drinking beers until the sun came up. The times we passed a blunt and ripped on Wolf. When we were more than leather and we were family.
Standing in the middle of the room, I spot the table I congregated at for nearly three decades of my life. It doesn’t look as out of place as it should. Sitting under a lift surrounded by tools it fits just like I did. A noise sounds from the other end of the room as I run my fingers over the distressed wood. Startled, I instantly reach for gun.
Behind me the distinct sound of footsteps sound as I wrap my finger around the trigger. In a split second I turn, pointing my gun at the intruder.
“Fuck, man. You gotta be quicker than that,” Riggs says, keeping his gun aimed at me. “I could’ve splattered your brains all over the table.” He pauses, pushing his sunglasses on top of his head. The kid is fucking crazy. I’m not sure why he’s wearing shades at four in the morning seeing as the sun won’t rise for another couple of hours. “Imagine the mess,” he continues. “Guts and membranes everywhere! Jack would have to call hazmat.”
Lowering my gun, I tuck it into the waistband of my jeans and run my fingers through my hair.
“What’re you doing here?” I growl.
“No,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “Try again.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, drawing my eyebrows together as I study him.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Pipe?” he counters. His gun is still cocked and I realize in that moment this fucking shithead is serious.
“You going to shoot me, Riggs?” I ask almost amused.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he says with a shrug. “Answer the question,” he adds, raising his voice.
Riggs isn’t a guy who hollers at a brother. Himself? Yes. All the time. I’ve caught the son of a bitch standing in front of a mirror screaming at himself about owning his decisions and wrapping his dick. Granted, it was a long time ago, back when he thought his cock was God’s gift to the women of the tristate area and he accidentally knocked up his precious Kitten. Between Bianci, the mother-in-law from hell, impending fatherhood and the war with the Chinese, the guy lost his fucking marbles.
The point is, he doesn’t tend to lose his shit with his brothers and he’s picked the wrong guy to start with. Ignoring his tirade, I turn my back to him. I came here for a reason and engaging in Riggs’ temporary bout of insanity isn’t it. I need to get the pipe bombs out of this place and back to the woods where the only thing that exists is Layla.
Layla and that fucking mouth of hers.
Walking away from her after I got a taste was a test of self-control, something I wasn’t so sure I had anymore. If I didn’t have to handle this shit I would have thrown her onto the kitchen table and fucked her senseless. I would have lied and used the excuse I needed to release the tension Brantley put on me. But the truth is she’s getting to me. She’s inside my head; morning, noon and night. When I go to bed, I wonder if she’s awake. I dream of what she feels like, how she tastes and what kind of noises that wicked mouth makes when she comes.
“Keep testing me, Pipe. I swear if you take another fucking step I will shoot you,” Riggs growls, interrupting my thoughts of the woman I left behind.
“What the fuck is going on here? You lose your fucking mind or something?” I sneer, twisting around to face him.
“What’s going on here is I’m protecting my club.”
“I’m not the enemy, you idiot,” I hiss.
“Says who? You? The man who fucking left us,” he says. Ignoring the gun, I stare at the unhinged man in front of me and lift an eyebrow.
“This is really happening right now? You’re throwing a fucking tantrum. Don’t worry, baby, Uncle Pipe’s got nothing but love for you,” I bite back sarcastically.
“Fuck you, man,” he grunts. “Make fun all you want but you left us, the men you called your brothers. You selfish bastard, you left us all here to fucking rot.”
“I buried my fucking wife,” I roar as I lunge for him, gripping his leather jacket with my fists. “Now, get that fucking gun out of my face or use it, either way, I’m about done with this conversation,” I add, shoving him back and releasing my hold on him.
He holds my gaze for a moment before slowly lowering his gun. Reaching behind him, he tucks it into the waistband of his jeans before holding up his palms in mock surrender.
“I’m sorry you lost your wife, Pipe, but the club didn’t kill her. Just like the club didn’t kill Bones,” he says calmly.
“It’s not the same,” I snap, shaking my head.
“It’s not that different,” he argues. “I could’ve blamed you for giving those motherfuckers that killed him access into the compound. You remember that, don’t you? You had just made the deal with the bus company when fucking Wu came into the compound and shot my girl.”
I do remember. The club needed money and I negotiated a deal with Atlantic Express to fix their fleet of buses. I didn’t have room to work on them at the garage and sent them to the compound instead. We were waiting for them to arrive when the Chinese came through and shot Riggs’ girl. They would have killed her if Bones didn’t jump in front of her. He saved Lauren’s life and their unborn child too, but Bones lost his life. Riggs and Bones went way back but they grew up to be a lot like Wolf and I. Bones had found the club early on, and like Wolf brought me into the fold, Bones did the same for Riggs.
“I sat in that hospital for days not sure if Lauren and the baby were going to make it while my best friend lay in a drawer at the morgue,” he grinds out.
“I was there,” I grunt. “I know.”
“That’s right. You were all there. You took turns bringing me clothes and whatever else I needed so I didn’t have to leave their sides. You planned Bones’ funeral for me and allowed me the time I needed with my family. I was able to be a good man, a good father because the men I chose to be my family had my back when I needed them most.”
“Good for you,” I grind out, clenching my jaw.
“You would’ve had that too. We would’ve rallied around you, Pipe, but you had to go and be a pussy about things.”
I’m going to kill this fucking kid.
Bury him deep too so they can’t find his body.
“I can’t imagine what you felt,” he continues. “I don’t even want to think of what might’ve been if Lauren hadn’t survived, but I know for certain it wouldn’t have been the club’s fault. They attacked us, Pipe. They hit us where it hurts and the worst part about it is we never saw it coming. Had we known, had we had a fucking second, don’t you think one of us would’ve jumped in front of Oksana? The way Bones laid down for Lauren, one of us would’ve done the same for your woman but there was no time.”
“You think that’s what I want to hear?” I retort, shaking my head.
“I don’t know what you want to hear. You never fucking told anyone. You took off and damned us all to hell.”
The truth is I don’t know what I want. Would it be okay if Oksana survived and one of my brothers didn’t? Would that make me feel better? No, it wouldn’t. It’d be a different kind of pain but a loss all the same.
“Did you know Wolf asks for you every damn day? Every fucking day that man asks if one of us has heard from you.”
That stings.
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s alive,” he says, crossing his arms. Seeing as I’m out of patience, he rolls his eyes and continues. “They’re trying to make the beast drop some pounds so his heart holds up. They put him on a low salt diet so you can imagine how fucking grumpy he is.”
Wolf on a diet? He’d rather be dead.
“In case you were wondering, Jack’s son was born healthy too.”
My eyes instantly lift. Honestly, I forgot about the kid. I would’ve liked to have seen that. To see Jack become a father again. Not that it would’ve healed him or filled the hole in his heart his first son’s death left behind, but he deserved some good after that. He deserves a chance to do all the things he never got to do with Jack Jr.
“They named him Daniel after his brother…something you would’ve known if you had of listened to Blackie when he paid you a visit.”
He’s right.
I didn’t want to hear this shit from Blackie’s mouth and I don’t want to hear it from his.
“I didn’t come here for this,” I say frustrated. I didn’t drive all this way to have Riggs hand me my fucking ass. Everyone’s got an opinion, doesn’t make them entitled.
“So, what the fuck did you come here for? To make sure we were taking care of the joint?”
My eyes do another sweep around the garage as his phone starts to ring.
“Hold that thought,” he grunts, reaching into his pocket for the phone. Lifting the phone to his ear, he reaches for his gun with the other hand.
This fucking guy.
“Hey, Kitten,” he says as he aims his fucking gun at my head. “What? No. I went to get milk.”
From where I’m standing I can hear his woman shout through the phone.
“I know that’s what your father told your mother when he left, but we were out of milk and I wanted a bowl of Fruit Loops,” he says, pausing to point a finger at me. “Don’t even go there,” he warns before returning to the conversation he’s having with Lauren. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”
Taking advantage that Riggs is distracted, I cross the room. I grab a crowbar and pry open one of the oil drums in the corner. Tossing the lid, I reach inside and grab the duffel bag. I draw the zipper down and open the bag, checking to make sure all my shit is there before slinging it over my shoulder.
“Jesus, fuck, Kitten. Is this a hormone thing? Like should I pick up pickles? Can you hold on?” he asks, pulling the phone away from his ear as he peers back at me. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“We’re done here.”
“The fuck we are. I’m just getting started,” he growls, lifting the phone again. “Who am I talking to? The gas station attendant. He wanted to know if I wanted diesel fuel.”
“Good luck with that,” I mutter, tipping my chin toward the phone.
“Kitten, hold on,” he grinds out, pressing the phone to his chest to muffle out the sounds. “Pipe, get your ass back here or I’ll shoot you.”
Just when you think you’ve got it bad, Riggs comes along. Most of the time he makes your head spin and wish you never met him.
Other times, times like now, he lays down the truth and makes you think.
“Give it your best shot,” I call over my shoulder as I walk out of the garage. He follows me into the parking lot, continuing to lie to his woman about gas and milk as I straddle my bike.
“I mean it! I’ll shoot you,” he shouts over my engine. “What? No, not you. Yes, the gas station guy. No, I’m not going to shoot him. Jesus, Kitten, I’ve got to go!”
He also makes you laugh, both with him and at him.
Sometimes it’s with him but most times it’s at his expense.
Like now, I’m one hundred percent laughing at him as I glance out the side-view mirror and watch him juggle his phone and the gun. The gun goes off as he drops his phone and the bullet pierces the aluminum sign.
That’s Riggs for you.
At least he didn’t shoot himself.
Or me.