THREE

Dog

My yell echoes off the trees, disturbing the serene night beyond. A simple rest stop on the hills near my old home—my mother’s favorite spot. It’s beautiful, just like she was. Peaceful and calming, exactly like I remember her to be.

Moonlight casts eerie shadows through the trees, the long spindly tendrils reaching for my boots where I stand on the gravel, flexing my fists, ruing what’s left.

I read somewhere that a boy will always have a strong connection to his mother, often so over that of the masculine bond between a father and son.

The ache in my hollow heart tells me the same.

I miss her. I fucking miss her. And the worst part? I can’t tell anyone about this pain because then the questions would start, the judging, the rumors. As far as my brothers at the Aces know, I’m the son of a farm mechanic, a delinquent looking for a stable home life.

Not even remotely true. My father’s no mechanic. The bastard wouldn’t know how to wield a socket wrench if the instructions were laid out before him. His hands are clean, unwrinkled and soft. He isn’t a real man. He’s a front, a fraud, and a callous asshole that only wants what’s best for him.

He’s everything I don’t want to be.

I draw in a deep breath, the air shuddering into my lungs as I breathe my way through the grief. I don’t cry, not often anyway, but fuck, at times like this it’s hard to keep that staunch front that’s become such a part of my life.

I play the fool, joke around and make light of my promiscuous reputation. But deep down there’s a little boy still calling for his momma, not ready to let go of her yet.

My phone breaks the still night; the shrill sound a cruel juxtaposition to the natural grace of the forest around me. I fish it out of my pocket, hitting the Accept button as I bring it to my ear.

“Where about are you, brother?”

Callum. Our VP.

“On my way back in.” I swallow the knot in my throat, steeling myself once more. “You need me for somethin’?”

“King needs you. He’s got a midnight run he thinks you would be good for.”

“Bit short notice, ain’t it?” We’ve been sitting on our hands for weeks; nothing more than a few ripples in the relative calm surface of the criminal underbelly to worry about. A run in the dead of night seems odd.

“He only just got the call to action himself. Can you make it?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you in twenty.” Lord knows I need the excuse to open the throttle a little wider and blow off some steam.

I disconnect and pocket the phone, turning for my bike. As I kick my leg over, a deep sense of something profound hits me in the chest, weighing heavy and stealing my next breath. I sit there awhile, staring out through the break in the tree line as the ache eases, my chest rising a little easier as time goes by. I know the feeling; it was what I got the day I walked into the Fallen Aces compound behind Callum, ready to be introduced as a new hang-around.

It’s the unease before the change—a new beginning.

Some would say it’s suicide to cut my father and his financial support off, but truth is, I’ve lived the past four and a half years without needing a penny from his filthy empire. I sure as fuck don’t need it now, and even if I did, I’d rather crawl bloody and broken over crushed glass to beg for it from our enemies before I let him lord that kind of debt over me.

A bird startles in the trees as I fire the bike to life and turn for home. At least, the only home that means anything to me since Mom died.

***

King’s bike is already lined up in the yard by the time I pull in, a couple of prospects loading one of our spare rides into the back of the crash van under his supervision.

“Hey, pres.” I tip my chin his way as I approach, pulling my smokes from the pocket of my cut.

“Dog.” He jerks his head in response, arms folded tight across his chest. “You good?”

I meet his concerned gaze and lie as I always do. “Yeah. Of course.” I finish the bullshit off with a chuckle and cheeky smile. “What’s the rush?”

He eyes the prospects as they strap the bike down, fixing it in place. “Hooch needs our help.”

Of course he does. If the guys up here think I’m trouble, then they should be thankful Hooch is all the way down in Fort Worth. He’s been quiet, moping around since shit went down in the ranks and his old man, and sister, got killed. But before that he was the quintessential shit stirrer, always causing trouble wherever he went.

“What’s he done now?”

“Picked up someone we need to bring home.”

I narrow my eyes on our president, wondering why he’s beating around the bush so much. King’s as straight up, no bullshit, as they come.

“Dare I ask who?” I say, sparking my smoke. “Or will you change the subject?”

He smirks. “How’s that new carburetor working out for you?”

Asshole. I shake my head, wandering over to the clubhouse to stock up on essentials. “How long we gone for?” I call out.

“Just the night,” he shouts back. “Bring a spare helmet.”

I hesitate at the door that leads inside and glance at him over my shoulder, lifting an eyebrow.

King laughs, pointing to the darkening sky. “Mighty fine weather we’re havin’ ain’t it?” Bastard’s laugh follows me down the hall as I walk through to the ruckus in the common room.

An hour ago I stared down the man who gave me life, wishing more than anything in the world I could have been born to anyone other than him. Just now, I felt what it would have been like had that wish come true.

Why waste my time with a man who doesn’t want anything other than to beat and shape me into his idea of perfection, when I’ve already got the role models I need in my life?

Everything I need is right here, right now.

Everything I am, contained in the colors that adorn my back.

Welcome home, Dog.