Chapter 12

JULY 22

There was only one place Reb wanted to be at two o’clock in the morning and riding his bike down I-80 wasn’t it. Only one thing would get Zag and Reb out of bed at this time of night: their rival club, the Saddletramps, and whatever fucked-up shit they’d done at his house. So his mind should’ve been on club business, but Reb was thinking about Emily.

Emily and that breathy sound she made when she came. Emily and that pretty pink color of her nipples. Emily and her determination to do everything herself, including taking care of her stalker problem.

But she was dead wrong. That was his job. Would be his job as long as they were together. He took care of his women.

But her stalker wasn’t her only problem. If Rhonda found out about them, there would be hell to pay. And she would find out eventually. Between the small world of their apartment complex, Rhonda’s network of friends, and Tucker, his relationship with Emily wouldn’t stay a secret for long. Rhonda was a bitch on a good day, but when she felt crossed or slighted she’d rain hell down on anyone and everyone. That had been sexy as fuck when they’d been dating and young and stupid, but it had lost its luster pretty damn quick when she turned it on him. Rhonda wasn’t afraid of burning bridges, or whole fucking towns.

Which was why he had Bumper watching Emily. Her stalker wasn’t the only loose cannon in her life right now. And if Reb couldn’t be there to watch out for her, he’d make damn sure she was taken care of.

When he pulled up his driveway five minutes later, he would’ve sworn someone was having a party at his place and forgot to invite him. But the men huddled at the top of his driveway weren’t in a celebratory mood—at least judging by their drawn faces and the lack of drinks. No one who partied at his house at two in the morning would still be sober.

Reb ripped his helmet off and swung off his bike. “Whatcha got?”

Zag stepped forward. “Tramps.”

“Son of a bitch.” From the driveway, Reb could already see some of the damage. His huge bay window littered the ground in shards of glass, and judging by the slashes of black he could see through the hole where the window used to be, someone had brought spray paint. Son of a bitch. “Who was on guard duty?”

“It was supposed to be Bootleg, but his old lady came down with a bug and he needed to stay home with their kids. So I pulled a prospect in.”

“Why the fuck would you trust my place with a fucking prospect?” Every word left Reb like a bullet. “Aren’t you thinking? We don’t trust prospects with things like guard duty. They haven’t been tested. Especially when it comes to my house.”

“Because it was Bam Bam. I didn’t think any of those fucking Tramps could get the upper hand with him. The guy’s built like a tank.”

“Then you should’ve put Tank on duty. Fucking hell, man.” Reb shouldered through the group of men and made his way through the shards of glass and into his house.

What he found there didn’t make him feel any better. Every window in the living room was either busted out or busted in. His boots crunched over pieces of glass that littered the walkway as he walked to the far wall where some asshole had spray painted “Property of Tramps” in huge, wavy letters. Not fucking funny. Neither were the destroyed picture frames scattered everywhere. He bent down and picked one up. Tucker’s image stared back at him from behind splintered glass.

The rage inside Reb boiled. He needed an outlet, but those fucking Tramps were long gone. Instead he turned to his leather couches and kicked the end as hard as he fucking could. The muffled thump didn’t lessen his anger. But neither did the sight of the deep gouges in the leather. His buttery soft couches were a clusterfuck of torn leather and stuffing. That one was Tucker’s favorite spot. He’d lie there and play videogames or read a book. And now it was gone. Ripped from him by those fucking Tramps. Reb’s rage multiplied.

Turning to Zag, he unleashed. “I want every fucking member here. Now.”

“Will do.”

“And if it’s not too much to tax your tiny brain: Prospects. Don’t. Do. Guard. Duty. Ever. We clear?” The walls shook with his fury.

Zag jerked his head in a tight nod as a muscle flexed in his jaw. He obviously had something he wanted to say but was too smart to unload just now. Reb wished he would. Nothing made him feel better than unleashing with his fists.

Instead Zag turned around and lifted his phone to his ear.

“But not Bumper or Hatchet,” Reb yelled at his back. “I’ve got them on something more important.”

Zag froze for a second, then walked out the door.

Reb turned, eager for a fight. Somewhere. Anywhere. But no one would meet his eyes.

Instead Reb gave his former sofa one last, brutal kick. The arm of the sofa gave way and collapsed inside the body of the couch, but it still didn’t help that rage inside him. Nothing would do that until he got some of his own back from the Tramps. His shoulders heaved with his billowing breath. For now he’d have to suck it up and bury his anger. Like a fucking grown-up.

“Don’t just stand there.” Reb glared at the five men who were standing around fiddling with their thumbs. “Get to cleaning. I’ve got Tucker this weekend and he’s not coming back to this shit. So move!”

His living room was a sudden hive of activity as the men cleared away all the broken furniture and knickknacks. Reb watched for a few minutes while he waited for his rage to ebb. Eventually he pitched in and helped move the ripped sofas.

An hour later, he was standing over a pile of photos that had been removed from their ruined frames. Tucker as a baby. Reb and Zag standing arm in arm next to Zag’s first repaired bike at Dirty Side Down. Christ, they looked so young. Especially Zag. He had to’ve been only seventeen in that picture. All baby-faced and proud as fuck.

“Some of the guys are gonna hit the garage for plywood for the windows. You need anything, Reb?”

Reb looked up and into the eyes of the man who felt more like his first son than a friend. “Nah, but I’d appreciate it if you hung back so we can talk.”

Zag’s face took on a blank expression. “Yes, sir.”

“In here.” Reb led him over to the kitchen. On the way, they exchanged head nods with the guys who were leaving for the shop and stepped around those busy painting over the Tramps’ tagged wall.

In the kitchen, Reb cleaned out the dregs from the coffeemaker and started a new pot. The grumbling percolation noises filled the tense silence. Reb grabbed two mugs from the cupboard, then turned to Zag. He set the cups on the counter between them. “How’s Bam?”

A steely quality entered Zag’s golden brown eyes. “Doc says he’ll be fine. He’s monitoring him for signs of a concussion, but nothing looks broken. Just a few gashes and bruises.”

“Good. He might be a Brother after all if he’s got such a hard fucking head.”

Zag didn’t so much as crack a smile.

Okay. Reb cleared his throat and stopped beating around the bush. “We’ve got a situation with Rhonda that I want to bring you in on.” Reb quickly filled him in on his visit with his lawyer and the intel Emily had given him about Tucker’s living arrangements. “I want someone on that apartment complex anytime Tucker is there. Right now I’ve got Hatchet watching the place. But he’ll need a relief in ten hours or so. And not a fucking prospect.”

A muscle in Zag’s cheek flexed but he nodded. “I don’t get why you just don’t force her to agree to custody. You say the word and we can get a few of the guys on it. Hell, most of the old ladies would be fucking thrilled to lend a hand if we asked. The only reason she didn’t get a knife to the back years ago was because she’s your old lady.”

“Was.”

Zag tipped his head in acknowledgment of the verb tense.

“I’ve thought about it. Fuck, it’s practically become my wet dream of late.” Reb laughed sadly. “But I just can’t do that to Tuck. She’s his mom. He loves her. I can’t be the one who roughs her up or makes her disappear. Or even the one who orders it. I couldn’t face my kid after that.”

Zag gave a slow nod. “How much longer can that bitch draw out your fucking divorce?”

“Until she milks everything from me that she thinks she can. Christ, this is ridiculous. Hopefully this latest fuckup will speed things up. I’m not giving one inch on custody. Tucker belongs here. He’s mine.”

Silence stretched between them at his unintentional reference to the words Rhonda had thrown at him last Labor Day. Let me know when you figure out who his father is, because it sure as fuck isn’t you. But neither man spoke of it. Zag knew more than anyone that blood didn’t make a father. Plus they both knew Rhonda was a fucking liar.

Needing to do something to keep his hands busy, Reb got up and poured them both coffee.

“And I also got Bumper watching Emily.” Even though he was pissed about the clusterfuck that was his life lately, Reb couldn’t hold back the smile that spread over his face when he said her name. He was practically twitterpated. (And he really needed to stop watching so many cartoons with Tuck. If he said that word out loud, he’d lose his street cred.) “Her stalker is back. I’ve had a few words with the punk, so I don’t think he’ll be a problem anymore, but between him and Rhonda, better safe than sorry.”

Zag looked at his mug of coffee. “That bitch wouldn’t hesitate to screw with Emily if she thought it would get to you.”

Reb grunted in reply.

“So would it? Get to you?” Zag pushed back from the counter and met Reb’s eyes straight on. “That girl’s had a hard life. She doesn’t need someone like you in it unless you’re serious about her.”

“I don’t need any lectures from you about how to take care of my woman.”

Zag smirked. “Man, I’d love to throw your own words back at ya from when you found out about me and Jessica, but I’m just too fucking happy to see you like this.”

“What? Plotting ways to get rid of my bitch of an ex-wife and Emily’s stalker? That’s not anything out of the norm. Maybe we should go with quicklime this time—I hear it does a great job getting rid of the evidence.”

“No. I mean it’s good to see you happy, content even.”

Zag’s simple words took all the wind from Reb’s sails. Reb opened and closed his mouth a couple times. He couldn’t think of what to say in the face of Zag’s observation.

“It’s a great change. You were so fucked up a year ago after Rhonda left. Don’t get me wrong, none of us were sad to see her go—but I know it took a toll on you and Tucker. It’s only been two days with Emily, and you’re fucking smiling.” Zag cleared his throat awkwardly, then took a slurp of his coffee. “It looks good on you. That’s all I’m saying.”

Reb took a bracing gulp of coffee. “Yeah, well, thanks. I guess.”

The guys sat in somewhat uncomfortable silence until the coffeemaker beeped, signaling its warming cycle was over. Finally Reb turned to Zag. “I need you to work out some guard duty rotations for the next while.”

“So we’re watching here, the clubhouse, Tucker, and Emily. We’re gonna be spread pretty thin for the next while.”

“Don’t care. It’s important. And—”

“No prospects guarding. Gotcha. I heard ya the first twenty times. Asshole.”

Reb smiled and slapped Zag on the back. Sometimes words just weren’t necessary. But fuck, he loved this guy.

“What are we gonna do about our little Tramp problem?” Zag tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “This shit is fucked up. Striking our prez’s home? Those fuckers need to learn a lesson. A painful one.”

All the levity leached from Reb’s body. They’d hit his home. The place where, above all else, his son was supposed to feel safe. “Oh, those fuckers will pay.”