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Maverick hadn’t slept, not to speak of, in days. Since that last, entirely wakeful night in his cell, he’d been lucky to catch a couple of forty-five-minute naps in a night. The bed in this crash room was too big and too comfortable, the pillows too fluffy, the linens and blankets too soft. The clubhouse sounds and smells were all wrong.

And his brain would not shut the fuck up.

Even so, every morning, even after three nights spent staring at the ceiling, he was on his feet before six-thirty, working the kinks from his long-abused body. He showered and dressed and made his bunk...his bed. Then he went downstairs for breakfast.

The first morning, after that shitty, surreal encounter with Jenny, where he’d creamed his goddamn jeans like a thirteen-year-old, he’d stood in the middle of the room and waited for first count. Even after he’d realized how stupid that was, it had taken him a couple of attempts to make his body go to the door, try the knob, open it, and step through.

He had forgotten how to live a life without permission.

By Monday morning, he’d stopped waiting for first count, but he was far out of sync with the world nonetheless. Even a window without bars or chicken wire was strange and unsettling, and he’d caught himself several times staring out the club’s front windows, transfixed by the vehicles and people moving freely about.

Activity already bustled in the party room this Monday morning, when Maverick came down at about quarter to seven. Delaney had called church for seven, and Mo had come with him. Several boxes of doughnuts and pastries were lined up on the bar, and the rich aroma of strong coffee brewing wafted through the room.

Good coffee—absolutely one of the highlights of life outside. No more instant.

Mo smiled when he went up to the bar. “Morning, love. How’re we doing today?” She poured him a cup without asking and passed the cream over.

“I’m okay. You?” He ignored the cream. He’d taken cream before, but the crap they’d had inside had been the powdered creamer filth, and he’d never even tried to develop a taste for it. He’d taken the prison swill black, and his first cup of coffee with real cream on the outside had tasted like custard. He was a black coffee man now.

“Two more weeks before I go back to school, and I’m gonna enjoy every second. I was thinkin’ you and I could do some apartment hunting, if you’re of a mind.”

The thought of renting a place gave him a weird, vaguely sick feeling. A whole apartment to himself? Alone? He was too used to four close walls. More space than that made him feel loose and unsteady. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted the apartment he’d had with Jenny. That had been his alone for years, but it had become a home when she’d moved in. He wanted that home back.

But he didn’t have it, not yet, and Delaney had already told him that he couldn’t live in the clubhouse. He could stay only until he got himself settled, and the implication had been that he should be quick about getting settled.

He had money, at least. That wouldn’t be a problem. Delaney and Simon had handed him a fucking sack of bound stacks of bills, and Simon had given him a sheaf of papers accounting his earnings for the past four years, less what they’d paid to Jenny over those years—and an accounting of that, as well. It was all in code, but Simon had explained it. The partnership with the Volkovs had been lucrative work. His cut was smaller because he hadn’t worked the jobs, but even so, he had a decent nest egg.

He had money. Enough to put a good down on a little house, if he wanted. It’d be okay if Mo helped him out. Less lonely.

“Sounds good. I got...I gotta get with my probation officer today, and D wants me to put in some hours next door, but after work tomorrow, I could spend some time.”

“That’s good. I’ll spend some time today putting together a list of places to see. Any thoughts on what you’d like?”

Jenny and Kelsey. That was what he’d like. But she hadn’t called yet, and he wasn’t sure he believed she ever would.

Maverick shook his head. “I trust you, Mo.”

––––––––

~oOo~

––––––––

The club roster was not much changed since he’d last sat at this table—Griffin had been patched in while he was away, and Apollo had signed on to prospect, done his time, and been patched in during his sentence. The new prospects were strangers to him. But otherwise, he knew his fellow Bulls.

And yet, he felt like the stranger at this table. Becker had taken Maverick’s customary seat, and there was a minute or two of awkwardness as they figured out how to reconfigure the table. Ultimately, Becker made way for Maverick, and he sat where he’d always sat, and felt like it was somebody else’s place.

Delaney started the meeting by welcoming him back to the fold, and there was more cheering and back-slapping. But then that was over, and a normal club meeting began. As Maverick listened to the financial report and the status of various jobs he hadn’t been part of, including the Russian gun routes, he understood that he was out of sync even with his club. As stable as the club roster had been, much had changed in four years. They’d been dominant in local and regional outlaw circles before, but now they were playing on a national stage. They were moving guns for some very bad folks, to some even badder folks.

He was no law-and-order tightass. Hardly. He’d been a rebel from the time he’d first said no. He was far happier handling his grievances himself, with his fists, than looking to any system to do it for him. He fucking despised institutional power—even more after spending four years as its bitch. Nothing that the club had done before had given him pause. They’d kept the outlaw work in bounds, only laying down hurt where it was earned. They’d kept innocents clear, and they’d put good out into their neighborhood and town, good they wouldn’t have been able to do without the bad. He was proud to be a Bull. They’d earned the respect that patch got them—and it was respect, not fear.

But he wasn’t so sure that this work with the Russians was in bounds—not the same bounds, anyway. He’d killed two people in his life: one in a boxing ring, his last fight, and the other in prison, on the club’s orders—on Irina Volkov’s orders. Maverick had never even met the woman, but he’d killed for her, and he’d paid dearly for it.

Before the Volkovs, the Bulls had never done a contract hit. Even Rad, the patch with the most blood on his hands, who’d put a lot of hurt down on people over the years, and had killed a few enemies of the club, had never, to Maverick’s knowledge, killed for anyone but the club, in retaliation for harm done to one or all of them. Taking the life of someone with whom they had no personal beef? That was next-level shit.

It was going to take some work to get his head lined up with where his club had gone in his absence.

After they discussed the gun routes and the schedules for upcoming runs, none of which Maverick would be in on, since he couldn’t leave the state, Delaney said, “Now. I wanted to get all that out of the way before we talked about what happened last night.”

Everybody’s attention drew to a fine point. Maverick looked around the table and decided that Delaney, Dane, Rad, and Eight Ball were already informed, but whatever was coming would be news to the rest of the members.

“The prospects got jumped last night, comin’ out of Callwood Auto Supply. They’d picked up an order. Got the shit kicked out of ‘em, and lost the van.”

“Fuck!” Gunner barked. “They okay?”

Delaney nodded, and Dane picked up the talk. “Willa patched ‘em up. We sent ‘em home with a couple of girls to take care. They’ll be okay. The van was full of off-book parts, but D already talked to Tulsa PD, and there’ll be no blowback if they’re still in the van when—if—law finds it.”

The club van had delivered Maverick’s bike to him at McAlester. It was no great prize for a car thief. Same one they’d been rolling before he’d gone away. “That van’s a piece of shit. Were they after the cargo?”

“I don’t think they were, no,” Delaney answered. “Callwood is near Northside, just on the edge of Dyson turf. They’ve been setting little fires with us all around Tulsa for the past year or so, ever since...ever since you took Jennings out, Mav. Just trivial nuisance shit, slinging back and forth. But you’re released, and two nights later this happens across the street from their border? Still not big, but real harm this time. Prospects say the guys that jumped ‘em were black. I think Dyson’s looking to beef.”

Maverick was very interested in this. The hit on the prospects he didn’t know wasn’t the focus of his interest. The notion that the club might beef with the Dyson crew, though—he had a mountain of payback due on those bastards. He thought wiping out that whole fucking crew would go a long way toward getting his outlaw head screwed back on straight.

His hands curled into fists. He was all for this beef.

“Jesus fuck,” Rad growled. “We don’t do this shit in town. Not where we live.”

“We do if that’s where it’s dropped on us,” said Gunner.

Maverick turned and studied his friend. He really had changed a hell of a lot during these years. He’d always been the club’s loose cannon, loyal as fuck and great in a fight, but crazier than most, and he’d always carried himself like somebody who thought he was already halfway in trouble before he’d gotten out of bed in the morning. Maverick had spent a lot of time with him, helping him find ways to keep his head tied to his shoulders without bringing trouble on himself or the club. There’d been times when that had been nearly a full-time job.

Now, though, he seemed calm. Even just sitting in his seat, he was different. He didn’t fidget, for one thing. No infuriating shaking of his leg, his knee thumping against the table nonstop. Was that all about that pretty young blonde he’d marked?

“Right now, we need to know more. Apollo, get with your cousin at TPD and see if there’s word on the van. Rad, Eight, Ox—go to Callwood, see if anybody saw anything. I’m gonna go talk to the kids, see if they remember more after some sleep, some food, and some head. Everybody else, get on with your regular day.”

“D.” Maverick jumped in before Delaney could gavel the meeting closed. With the president stopped and nodded, he said, “I want in on anything Dyson. I want to sit up front on any move we make.”

“Could get dirty fast, brother,” Dane said. “You sure you want that risk already?”

“Positive. I got my own shit to work out on that crew.”

“Your head straight enough for it?” Delaney asked. “You’re not steady yet, from what I see.”

“I’m steady enough. If I’m not, that’ll get me there. I paid hard for doing that hit. I’m owed now.”

The table was quiet. Delaney narrowed his eyes and examined Maverick. Maverick stared right back. “Alright. You say you’re ready, you’re ready. But you hold tight until we decide what to do.”

Maverick nodded. As long as he was on point when the Dyson crew got hit, he’d wait for the plan that would make it happen.

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~oOo~

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After church, Maverick did a few hours at the Sinclair station. Simon had been doing all of their auto body work on his own these years, getting some help with the heavy stuff from a couple of the guys. He’d spread his shit all over the body-work bay, like he owned the damn place. So most of Maverick’s first shift was spent muscling himself back into place where he’d once had seniority. After that, he’d hung out in front with the codgers from the neighborhood. A couple that he’d known had died, and a couple who’d been working men back then had taken their seats. Sitting with the old men in the hot sunshine, being pulled into their aimless conversation, was the first time since his ride on Friday night, before he’d stopped at The Wayside, that Maverick felt some peace.

How long was Jenny going to make him wait? He was Kelsey’s father. No matter what she thought, he’d done nothing to warrant being kept away from his child. If Jenny didn’t want him, that would tear him up, but he’d abide by that. But not being kept from Kelsey. No fucking way.

He reached into his pocket for his wallet and pulled out the little school picture Gunner had brought him.

“What you got there, Mav?” Horace, one of the old men, asked.

“Picture of my little girl.” He held it out so Horace could see. It was the first time he’d ever shared that photo, the first time he’d ever introduced her as his own. “Kelsey. Kelsey Marie. She’s gonna be four soon.”

“Well, lookit that little miss. What a beauty. She looks smart, Mav. You must be proud.”

“I am.”

Horace handed the photo to Fred, who cooed over it as well. All the old men took their turn and made some comment or another that made Maverick’s chest swell with pride and ache with loss. When it came back to him, he stared down at that sweet face, his own eyes shining impishly from it. He brushed his thumb over the matte surface, a gesture he made often, like he thought he could touch her that way. He’d done it so much that the gilt had rubbed off the small printing, showing the name of her school and the year the photo had been taken. He could barely make out the words: Alphabet Acres Children’s Center, 1996.

The name of her school. It was the end of July, though—she probably wasn’t in school now. But she was only in preschool, and Jenny ran The Wayside. She’d need child care. Did preschool run year-round? Did this preschool run year round? Was Kelsey still in this school?

Maverick had no answers, but he knew where to start to get some. He went into the station, around the desk, and pulled out the Yellow Pages. Still holding the photo between his fingers, he opened the book on the counter, flipping it to the As and sweeping pages by until he was on the right one. Using the photo as a guide, he found the listing, with a number and an address. There was a note pad stuck to the side of the register; he ripped a sheet off and wrote the information down.

“What’re you doin’, Mav?” Gunner asked. He’d come in from the pumps.

Maverick didn’t answer. He shoved the paper in his pocket, put Kelsey back in his wallet, and slammed the Yellow Pages closed.

“I think that’s a bad fuckin’ idea, brother. This is the wrong time to piss her off.”

That was rich—Gunner Wesson giving him advice. It’d be a cold day in hell. “I gotta go. Meeting with the probation officer.”

“I’ll ride with you. It’s a light day on the pumps. Apollo can handle it on his own.”

“I don’t need an escort, Gun. I’m good.”

Gunner stared at the Yellow Pages on the counter. Maverick picked up the tome and put it away.

“I said I’m good.” He headed to the clubhouse to change out of his uniform.

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~oOo~

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The meeting with his probation officer was no big deal. He laid out the terms of Maverick’s supervision and gave him a bunch of papers to fill out. It was a lot of bureaucratic bullshit, but in his case, Maverick would be clear of all this shit after a year, and out here in the wide, free outside, a year didn’t seem bad at all. The officer—his name was Franklin—was impressed that he already had a home and work address. Slightly less impressed when he realized that it was the Brazen Bulls clubhouse and Delaney’s Sinclair, but the guy was civil enough.

Back at his bike after that was done, he fished the notepaper from his pocket. He’d grown up in Tulsa and knew every street and alley of the place, so he knew exactly where Alphabet Acres Children’s Center was.

Gunner was right; if Jenny found out he’d been lurking around Kelsey’s school, she’d lose her shit. He could destroy any chance of getting his family back the way he wanted.

It didn’t matter. He had—he had—to see his girl. Right now. He couldn’t wait for Jenny to decide he was worthy. Kelsey was almost four years old, and he’d waited long enough. He needed to see more than her image in fading, tattered photographs. He needed to see her running and laughing and playing. He needed to see her living.

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~oOo~

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Alphabet Acres was a single-story brick building on a corner at the entrance to a subdivision. It looked nice enough, and well kept. Big elm and sycamore trees shaded a playground enclosed by a chain-link fence. The chain-link was higher-end, with green vinyl coating the wire.

There were kids playing all over the yard. Maverick pulled up at the curb across the street and killed his engine, and the sound of their laughter filled the air.

Was Kelsey one of those happy kids?

For a minute or two, he stayed astride his bike and tried to make her out from there, but he was too far, and the trees obscured part of his sightline, and there were too many playground apparatuses for a good view. He dismounted and walked around to the long side of the fence, trying to be inconspicuous. He didn’t want to be perceived as some perv, and he knew that somebody might see his lurking around a preschool playground as decidedly wrong.

Beside one of the sycamores, he crouched down and scanned the yard through the fence. Still he didn’t see her, and he began to think that she wasn’t out there. Maybe her little class wasn’t having playtime or recess or whatever they called it now. Or maybe she was home with her mom.

Then a path cleared, and there she was, sitting on the soft playground surface, drawing on the rubber with chalk. He’d expected her to have pigtails, like in her picture, but her hair was loose over her shoulders, caught back from her face with a pink clip. That butterscotch silk lay on her back and over her shoulder, fluffing gently in the light breeze.

She sat alone. Not laughing or running. Just drawing, concentrating, sitting with her little legs tucked under her bottom.

Maverick felt a tickle on his cheek and swiped the wet away.

As he watched, his daughter looked up and right at him, as if she’d known he was there, and their eyes locked. His chest hurt, like things inside him were breaking apart, but he didn’t look away.

Kelsey stood and came toward him. Maverick stopped breathing.

When she got to the fence, she hooked chubby little fingers over the chain-link and smiled. “Hi. Do you want to play?”

Her little voice, sweet and high, was music. But he didn’t like how she’d come right up to somebody she didn’t know. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers, honey. Didn’t your mama tell you that?”

“Uh huh. It’s Stra-nger Da-nger. Mommy says don’t talk to strangers and hold her hand when we cross the street and say please and thank you and lots of stuff. Miss Betsy and Miss Connie say it, too. Are you a stranger?”

No. No, he most certainly was not. But to her, he was, and he didn’t like that she’d just come up to him like this. Yet he couldn’t make the word yes come out.

As he tried, she said, “Your eyes look sad. Are you sad?” and Maverick thought he’d die.

Then a woman’s voice called out “Hey! No!” and a heavy young woman wearing a smock over her jeans ran up and took his daughter’s hand, drawing her back from the fence.

“It’s time to line up to go in, Kelsey. Will you please start the line for me?”

Kelsey nodded and turned back to him. “I have to go now. I’m sorry you’re sad.” She spun, her hair flying around her, and he watched her run away from him.

“I don’t know what the hell you want, and I don’t want to know,” the woman snarled at him. “But we called the police.” She stalked back toward the building.

Maverick knew he needed to get his ass in gear before law got there, but he couldn’t move. He could still see her, standing near the door, while other kids lined up behind her.

God, she was even more perfect than he’d imagined.

When the line was long enough that he couldn’t see her anymore, he was able to get up and get back to his bike.

Gunner was parked behind him, sitting sideways on his saddle, his arms crossed.

Had the tables turned so far that Gunner was watching out for him now?

“What’re you doin’ here, man?”

Gunner laughed and cocked up his mouth in its crazy grin. “That, my brother, is the question I should be asking you. This is straight-up insane behavior right here. Skulking around a preschool? Kelsey’s preschool? Jenny will have your dick for supper and save your nuts for leftovers.”

“I know. They called the cops. We gotta roll.” He mounted his bike.

“Fucking fuck, Mav.” Gunner mounted up, too. “Follow me.”

He wanted to tell him to fuck off, but Gunner would just dog him all over town until he gave in anyway, so he nodded, and they pulled away.

They passed a Tulsa PD cruiser two blocks from the school.

––––––––

~oOo~

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He followed Gunner to a drive-up taco joint. He hadn’t eaten since downing one of Mo’s pastries with his coffee that morning, so he wasn’t entirely opposed to getting some greasy food. All food on the outside tasted like fucking Thanksgiving now.

They sat at a round plastic picnic table, under a round umbrella. Gunner was alone among his brothers in that he’d already fully assimilated the fact that Maverick was now mostly deaf in his left ear, and he always stayed to his right.

For a few minutes, they just ate. Maverick felt raw and desolate. It had been a mistake to go to Kelsey’s school, and not just because he’d probably fucked everything up even more.

Now his daughter was more than a concept, a dream. Now she was a living, breathing little girl. He knew the sound of her voice and the rhythm of her walk. He knew the light in her eyes. He knew that she was kind and friendly, and that she liked to draw. Now he really would die if he couldn’t have his family back.

And there was absolutely no chance in hell that Jenny wasn’t going to hear about his visit. The softness he’d felt in her on Friday night, the need he’d known that she still had for him, that would be gone.

He’d made his need more acute and his chances more bleak.

Gunner watched him, chewing his taco contemplatively.

“What?”

“I want to give you some advice. I know it’s weird coming from me, but gimme a sec here. If there’s anything I know, it’s what a noisy head sounds like. Remember what I call it?”

Maverick remembered. “Like a gear that can’t catch.”

“Yeah. That’s what you’re feeling, right? I see it in you.”

“I’ve been out four days. What the fuck d’you want?”

“I just want to throw some of your words back at you. Maybe help you remember who you are.”

“I’m not him anymore. He got lost at McAlester.”

“I think if you want Jenny and Kelsey, maybe you need to find him again.”

“Don’t try to be profound, Gun. It doesn’t suit you.”

He’d hurt his friend’s feelings, but he was offended himself. He didn’t like this table-turn. Gunner was the fuckup, not him.

Gunner shook off his offense and wadded up the paper from his first taco. “I love you, Mav. You are my best fucking friend, and I’d probably be dead a dozen times over if it wasn’t for you. I’d’ve run out of lives before I had Leah if it wasn’t for you. I’m gonna start paying you back by propping you up while you figure this shit out. And I’m gonna remind you that you gotta look close for now. Don’t think about what you want and don’t have. Don’t think about what’ll make everything perfect. Think about what’ll make this day okay. And the next day. When all your days are mostly okay, think about what’ll make ‘em good. Every step toward having what you want. Remember what you told me.”

“Fuck off.”

“C’mon, brother. What do you say?” Gunner reached out and hooked his hand over Maverick’s arm. He wore a new ring now; a big grinning skull that probably did serious damage in a fight. Maverick had never worn the big rings his brothers did. He wanted to feel the full impact of a punch directly on his hands.

He sighed. “Head down, shoulder to the day.”

“That’s how you get through. Thinking about the first time you told me that got me through some hard shit, Mav. It’s good advice.”

Maverick managed a laugh that was mostly sincere. Damn, he loved this kid. He’d turned out to be a fine man.

Proud as he was, it hurt in some way as well—sharply enough that he rubbed at his chest. Gunner had needed him once. Now he was the one who needed.

He still vividly remembered meeting the tornado in a meat suit that Gunner had been back then. He hadn’t been Gunner yet. Just Max, spinning out of control.