EIGHTEEN

Mel

Fool.

I could see the excitement in his eyes when he thought I’d fold and grovel like all the other women he’s had. He might have my head all twisted up, but that doesn’t mean he gets to control me.

If any of Daddy’s lessons stuck, it was to hold my head high and do my best to maintain my dignity.

I head down the corridor and make my way to the opposite end. Yesterday was hard enough, which is why I put this off until now. At the opposite end of the house lies Dana’s room. Daddy wanted our bedrooms to be near each other, but she begged and whined until he relented and let her have this one amongst the male members’ quarters.

I push the door open, and hold my breath for a beat as I take it all in. I honestly expected they would have cleared it out like they did Daddy’s room, but instead her room sits mostly untouched, exactly as she left it.

The bedroom would have been the master in the original home, wide and with windows on each side that ensure sunshine spills across the floor no matter what time of day it is. Her bed sits made in the center, her furniture still adorned with her belongings. To the side, though, lays a black leather trunk. No guessing whose it is thanks to the winter jacket laid out over top.

I make my way across the dusty floor and drop to my knees. The stitching on the jacket is worn, a few barren holes left where a badge has been removed. I turn it over and run my palm over the Fallen Aces logo: a skull in a top hat, bearing the ace of spades. No matter where I go, who I become, I have no doubt this image will always provoke the same reaction within me. I lift a hand to my chest and rub at the ache brought by pride at who these people are.

My chin dimples, and yet I refuse to shed another tear over this fucked up situation. That’s what Carlos would have wanted: my misery. Dead or not, he doesn’t deserve that from me. He doesn’t deserve to make me suffer, even from the grave.

I bunch Daddy’s jacket in my arms and carry it across to the bed where I lay it out on the foot of the mattress. Two photo frames sit on Dana’s nightstand, and I smile as I look at the left one. It’s a shot of us three kids out on one of the club rallies. Mom is barely visible in the background, seated around a campfire. Daddy probably somewhere with his brothers. But what warms me most is the way the image captures how close we were as siblings. Hooch stands in the middle, his arms thrown around our shoulders as he rubs a loose fist on top of our heads. Dana’s face is screwed up as she leans forward to escape him. I’m turned to the side to try and tickle Hooch so that he’ll stop.

I remember everything about the day: the look on Murphy’s face as he snapped the shot, the smell of the wood burning on the fire, the rumble of a bike as it started in the distance, and the squeal of kids playing on the monkey bars that are out of shot.

We might not have had the most traditional of holidays, but they were memories worth making all the same. Daddy pushed us kids hard, forced us to make choices based on what it meant for the club. But I guess in retrospect I can see why.

He wanted to make sure that ideal life we had would continue into the future. He wanted the same security for us as he had for himself. Yet in reality, I think he was probably scared.

The Fallen Aces were so much of his life that I don’t think he would have known how to function as anything else. Like a long-term inmate re-entering the world, he would have felt lost if he didn’t have us.

I drop to the side of the bed, my hands hanging loosely between my knees and stare out the window at the breaking day beyond. My chest rises, slow and measured. Try as I might, I can’t stop the gradual slide my thoughts make as they slip back to Dog.

I’m convinced his words last night were spoken in the heat of the moment, in a weakened state of alcohol-induced lust. But I can’t shake how those deeper moments felt with him—the past few days, and back when he was a prospect. He was there when I didn’t ask him to be. He was there to comfort and keep me company. He cares, whether he says he does or not.

I don’t want to lose that friendship by rushing into something that might be doomed before it’s begun.

Crackers already seemed unsure when he helped me get Dog inside last night, and if Hooch were here … well, I know how that would go down. For Dog’s sake, it’s probably a good thing he’s on the run. My father might no longer be here, but that attitude that only the best is good for me certainly seems to lurk under the surface in my brother.

I gather Daddy’s jacket in my hand and rise, shutting Dana’s door as I leave the room. I could do with another coffee to keep me running thanks to no sleep, but knowing Dog is probably in the kitchen getting breakfast is enough to steer me toward the front door instead. The satin on the inside of the jacket is cool over my bare arms as I shrug it on and step outside.

I startle as a deep voice greets me from the right.

“Well, I never …”

“Hey, Johnny.” I head over and take a seat opposite our nomad, the same one who patted me on the leg as we rode away over a year ago and told me everything would be okay.

“It’s real good to see you, Mel.” He smiles, packing his cigarette paper with tobacco.

“Thank you, for what you did.” I pull the sleeves of the jacket lower over my hands. “I’ll always appreciate it.”

“Just doin’ my job,” he says with a tip of his head.

We both know it was more than that, though. He did his job, sure, but he put a hell of a lot more effort into it than some of the other guys around here would have.

“We’re still tied,” I remind him, pulling a smile from his lips as he licks the cigarette paper.

“You want a rematch now?”

“Why not?”

It was near on dusk when Johnny and I arrived at the rendezvous point all those months ago. We had to sit on the side of the highway, tucked behind a bank of scrubby bushes, and wait for over an hour before the guy showed up late to take me on to what I subsequently learned would be a trailer in the woods.

So we passed the time playing Tic-Tac-Toe in the dust. We were six apiece when the guy rolled up in his weathered gold Cadillac.

I grin as Johnny stands and dusts the crumbs of tobacco from his hands. He lights his cigarette, letting it bob between his lips as he talks. “Flip a coin to see who has the first move.”

“Heads,” I call as he tosses a quarter in the air.

The slap of his hand echoes off the front wall of the house as he peels the edge of his palm back. “Tails.”

“Shoot.” He usually wins when he starts.

And this time is no different. I laugh as he scrubs our game into the dust, his chains rattling as he sweeps his thick leg left and right.

“What’s on the cards for you, Mel, now that you’re home?” He heads up the porch steps and retakes his seat.

I lean against the railing and shrug. “Not sure, to be honest.”

I never had to think too much on what I’d do, always directed by Daddy or Hooch. But without my brother here, Crackers doesn’t have the same tendency to give me a task to complete or even some direction on what needs to be done around the place.

The picture upstairs sticks in my mind. “When was the last time the Aces held a rally?”

Johnny snorts, running the heel of his boot over a knot in the wood. “Not since way before you went away, girl. There’s been too much goin’ down for anyone to even think of having the club together in one place like sittin’ ducks.”

A smile creeps across my lips. “But that’s all over now, right? Now that Carlos is gone?”

“It’s not as bad, nope.” He narrows his eyes on me, chin tipped high. “What you thinkin’, girl?”

“That it’s about time this place did something to lift everyone’s spirits.”

I know I’m not alone in feeling beaten down and oppressed by recent events. One look at the people around me when I walked in the door yesterday told me everything I needed to know about what a toll this past year has taken on the club.

It’s about time we remembered what it was that drew each of us to this life.

It’s about time we held our middle fingers high and said fuck you to the things that want to keep us miserable and in the dark.

We are what we make of ourselves—a lesson I could take stock of too.

“You’ve got that look in your eye,” Johnny says with an amused smirk.

“What one would that be?” I duck my chin coyly at him.

“The kind a woman gets before she’s about to go stir shit up.”

I chuckle. “You might be right, there, Johnny boy.”

He smiles, leaning back in the wicker chair he occupies. “That your dad’s jacket?” He jerks his chin toward the beaten old leather.

“Yeah.” I look down at it, my palms hot against the cool hide as I clutch the hem in my hands. “I don’t know why I put it on really.”

He winks at me, his weathered and tanned skin crinkling at the corner of his eye. “Because you miss him, darlin’.”

Yeah. As much as the stubborn old fool drove me crazy, I do miss him and his meddling ways. We butt heads, had some dust-ups over the course of our time together, but there was one thing our differences could never take away: he was my daddy.

And I’m always gonna be my daddy’s little girl.