Rev (4 page)

She doesn’t smile, nor does she say a word. Her face hardens, and she nods her head. It’s a long moment before she pulls away and crosses the room to where her stepmother and younger half-brother and sister, Stephen and Izzy, sit. Izzy jumps up and wraps her small body around Elle’s immediately. Stephen is slower to follow. After the kids have had their moment with her, Barbara uneasily reaches out and gives her step-daughter a hug. It’s an awkward moment between the two, but at least they’re both trying to mend fences.

My brothers move to congregate around Jim as he starts giving orders. I pat Cheyenne’s back, and she lets go, and then I join my club. Jim scratches at his chin and looks at Ryan and says, “You know the order best. Put Elle in the back with the prospect. Don’t care which side.”

“Prospect hasn’t even been riding a month now,” Ryan says with obvious annoyance in his voice. “I don’t think he should ride.” The kid’s dad is an incarcerated brother, so he was fast-tracked into prospecting—we gave him a cut and told him he was going to have to earn his top rocker. The kid had no fucking clue how to ride when we did it, but he’s family and apparently we’re all about making exceptions for family these days. Jim gives Ryan the order again, and, like the idiot he is, he’s about to argue when Wyatt closes in on him and he backs down. He’s not a total moron after all.

We break, and the room empties as we all head outside. Between the line of bikes and the line of SUVs is a glass hearse with a Harley trike attached to the front of it. It’s a bit extravagant for our usual tastes, but we let Ruby do some of the planning, and this is what we ended up renting. No fucking clue where she got a hearse attached to a Harley, but fuck if it doesn’t make a statement.

Fish, Bear, and the prospect help get the women and kids into the SUVs. Jeremy tries to put his sister, Nic, into an SUV, but she refuses. Nic’s as much Duke’s Old Lady as Ruby is Jim’s. She’s just not voted in yet—that’s going to take a while. But I suspect Jeremy’s insistence on sticking her in the SUV comes from the fact that she’s carrying his nephew. I watch as Duke catches sight of the disagreement and lumbers over. We ride with our women on the back of our bikes—pregnant or not—all the time, but Duke’s been a special kind of protective over Nic since the moment she let him in. It surprises me when he pulls her into his side and tells Jeremy that it’s cool.

“They’re cute together,” a soft voice says from beside me. The words are filled with love and happiness. If it were anybody else who sounded so happy right now, I’d have their face in the pavement beneath my feet. But as I look over at Ruby, knowing all the hardships she’s endured in her life, I can’t help but let her have this. “You used to look at Layla like that,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“How she doing?” she asks. I quickly glance around and breathe a sigh of relief when I catch Cheyenne standing by an SUV with Barbara, the kids, and my mother at the other end of the parking lot. “Relax, you know I wouldn’t ask if she could hear me,” Ruby says, always so in-tune with everybody’s feelings.

“Fuckin’ jacked. Got an Old Man up in Redding who’s got her sucking dick for crank.” Lying to Ruby and telling her I don’t keep tabs on Layla is useless. She knows me too well.

“Stupid bitch,” she says and places a hand on my upper arm. “Gave up a lot for a couple of rocks and a high, didn’t she?”

When I look over I see that her eyes are firmly on Cheyenne. Layla leaving her kid because she couldn’t handle reality and all that it entailed never has sat well with Ruby—nor should it, considering everything she’s sacrificed for her own children—and she’s never hidden that fact from anyone, especially not Layla.

“That she did,” I say and decide to skip my monthly trip to go check on her. It’s only a few hours’ drive, and it’s worth the peace of mind to know whether or not my kid’s mom has overdosed, but she’s hospitalized right now so that’s not much of a concern. She was supposed to be here today, but Chey snubbed her for dinner last night, and like always, Layla couldn’t handle it. By the time I got to her motel room, she was already having chest pains and difficulty breathing. Wyatt had barely gotten there with his truck when her mood spun out of control and the paranoia set in.

“Do yourself a favor and let her go,” Ruby says. “If life has taught us anything, it’s that it’s too fucking short to spend it alone.” She casts me a small smile and walks over to Jim, where she climbs on the back of his bike and places a soft kiss to his top rocker right between his shoulder blades. Ruby thinks she’s like the biker love connection or some shit. She’s convinced that nobody should spend their life alone or that they should be without what she has with Jim. But she’s smoked too much of that shit we grow—not everybody wants that kind of baggage. Layla being gone is a fucking blessing in a way. It means I don’t have to worry about my Old Lady doing me dirty, or losing her. That shit’s already happened, and now that I’m out of it, I have no desire to make it back to that place where I have one more fucking thing to worry about. Love isn’t a blessing; it’s a fucking burden.

“Saddle up, shithead,” Wyatt yells from his bike, seated next to Jim at the front of the caravan. I snap out of my thoughts and take my place on my bike behind Jim. My nerves turn to lead as I eye Ryan to my right. Thin, pale arms wrap around his waist, and a heart-shaped face rests against his back.
Alex
. For a brief moment, her eyes meet mine, but then she thinks better of it and looks at the ground. Fucking bitch shouldn’t be here. We risked too much to keep her ass safe, and now this fucker is taking her out in the open like we’ve got nothing to lose.

Ryan, being the road captain, has the responsibility of organizing rides and, at times like these, organizing placement of the club. Highest ranking officers always ride at the front, but the mid-level officers and non-office holding patched brothers are up to Ryan’s discretion. And the bastard just can’t help but fucking taunting me. His head turns my direction, and he lifts his chin. I grip the handlebars of my bike as tight as I can so I don’t jump off and pummel his ass. Chief would be here if it weren’t for Alex’s presence in our lives, and to have her here is a fucking disgrace to his memory.

“Chief would want this,” Ryan says firmly. His words cut to my soul. Would Chief want her here? He probably would, but he was a fucking pussy when it came to women. He was also a better man than I ever will be. I know he wouldn’t blame her. She didn’t ask for us to take her on, nor did she do anything other than exist to get him killed. But even though I can see through the anger long enough to know that, I don’t feel it in my heart.

We fire up the bikes and ride slowly through town, purposefully creating as much noise as possible. As we travel down Main Street, some of the natives stop what they’re doing and watch us as we ride by. Passing by the hardware store, Old Man Hill even removes his worn ball cap from his head as a show of respect. I rev my engine and keep in line with my brothers, making sure that as we pass through, we occasionally glance at those who are paying Chief respect by watching us pass. I steel myself as I see two men, each with an arm slung over a slick black Mercedes, both wearing dark sunglasses—despite the overcast sky—and impeccably tailored black suits.
Mancuso
. Signaling that we’ve got company to Ryan, who gives notice to Jim and the rest of the men, I don’t take my eyes off the Italians until I’m forced to keep my eyes on the road. Hopefully they’re just making a statement and not making their next move in what’s turned into a war.

The show of disrespect is almost more than I can handle, but I refuse to let my anger get the best of me today.

I LET MY
fingers drift over the cold granite surface that rests flat in the grass. I'm careful not to touch the engraved letters that tell the story of the best man I ever met. Rather, I trace around them. It's not the letters that make up his name—Charles Phillips—nor is it the inscription that reads "beloved brother, loving father, proud Cheyenne," that pains me. Unlike some clubs, who bury their men in a uniform fashion, Forsaken's founding members didn't want their men to ever forget that they are more than just soldiers. The club is a brotherhood, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that we’re also fathers and sons. The same Norse warrior that adorns our cuts stares back at me from the granite, but it’s just a picture stenciled into rock. No, it’s the year of his birth, followed by the year of his death, at the very bottom of the flat stone that is most upsetting. There shouldn’t be a year of death on there, because he shouldn’t be dead. But he is.
A few blades of freshly cut grass rest atop the stone. I blow them away, suddenly discontent that we didn’t wait until we could get an upright headstone in here.

Not that my younger brothers have bothered to read them, but it's in the club bylaws that were put in place when the club was founded in the middle of fucking nowhere Nevada way back in 1946. It's important, I think, to know our history and to not forget it. That's something Chief taught me back when I was barely old enough to understand what it meant. He taught me a lot about what it means to be a man, and a father, but most of all what it means to be a brother.

And he's gone.

"Well, you're an asshole," I say.

A cool wind picks up and slices right through my cut. I'm worn the fuck out and fighting a nasty hangover. Everything about being here, both at my best friend's grave and in this fucked-up world, hurts like a bitch. Even the wind, though not particularly icy, is painful.

"You always pushed me to be a better man, but look where that got me—I'm talking to a fucking piece of rock like you can hear me. You could've left me alone you know, back then. You didn't have to help my retarded ass out of those charges. But fuck, you hadn't shown up,
I'd either be doing 25-to-life, or selling insurance in Albuquerque. Either way, I'd rather be dead. I wouldn't have Chey had we not rode up to the bar in Arizona.

“That night, with Layla, you told me she wasn't right. I didn't listen. I remember all that shit, like it's a broken record, but I can't shut off. Everything you told me about women is ingrained into my fucking skull. Not that you've ever been some kind of relationship expert—I hope you found it entertaining that your whore wanted to ride in the SUV with your goddamn wife and kids. You always thought you were so wise, giving out advice like you were some kind of sage, when in reality you were just one high motherfucker whose dick was too social for his own good. Doesn't matter. I still take that shit with me everywhere I go, and in everything I do. So here I am, acting like a fucking brokenhearted bitch. I hope you're happy."

We laid Chief to rest not too long ago. Mancuso's guys kept their distance and didn't interfere. Still, seeing them on the side of the road on our way to the cemetery was enough to fuck everybody up for the rest of the day. It had been so long since we'd lost a brother, especially the way we lost Chief, that none of us were really in the right frame of mind to organize his burial. Thank fucking Christ for Ruby. She did right by the guy, even down to figuring out the exact details for his coffin, which she had custom made. I give Jim shit for letting her lead them around by his dick a lot, but she's a damn good woman, no doubt. She even arranged to have a medicine man from a local Native American tribe officiate the service. It was perfect—the blending of his heritage, which he had been so proud of, and the life he chose.

Barbara, Chief's widow, asked if I wanted to say a few words. I was selfish though, and didn't want to look like a pussy in front of my brothers. As a strict policy, we keep our burial services private. No press, no law enforcement, no hang-arounds, and no outsiders. All of the old ladies, even Nic, ended up in tears. As expected, it was particularly tough for Chief's kids. His youngest daughter, Izzy, clung to her mother, and his son, Stephen, held his older, half-sister's hand. I had to look away when I saw the tears roll down Elle's cheek and Stephen lean in and comfort her. Elle Phillips is one tough bitch, and seeing her fall apart almost did me in. But it was the sight of Ryan introducing Cheyenne to Alex that shredded me. It was then that I realized I have to get right with the shit and move on with my life. It's what Chief would want, at least that's what everybody tells me.

The stark ring of my cell pulls me for my thoughts. Without looking at the caller ID, I slide my thumb across the screen and bring the phone to my ear. "You got Grady."

"Mr. Grady, this is Principal Beck. I need you to come down to the school. There has been an incident between Cheyenne and her counselor, Ms. Mercer."

“What did Mercer do to my kid?” I snap. This bitch is barking up the wrong fucking tree.

“Actually, Sir. Cheyenne lashed out and, should Ms. Mercer choose to do so, she can be suspended for her behavior.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a few,” I say and hang up. Just as I shove my phone back into my pocket, I blow out a frustrated breath and scrub my face with my hands.

“Have a kid, you said,” I say as I stare intently at the Forsaken logo that rests above “CHIEF” in bold lettering. “It’s the best feeling in the world, you said. Look, I ain’t blaming you because I didn’t wrap my shit, brother. Alls I’m saying is that you could have given me a head’s up.”

The ride to the school is short, but it gives me time to think shit over. My mother doesn’t say too much, but she’s obviously worried that I’m not snapping out of this funk. Mourning, she says, is one thing, “but this place you’re in is dangerous.”

As I park my bike and head into the office, I take a deep breath and focus on the task at hand. Chey’s been struggling the last few months, and I don’t know why. She won’t talk to me, and she swears nothing’s wrong. If she tells me she’s “fine” one more time, I’m sending her ass to Ruby. She’s probably the one person on the planet who hates that word more than I do.

“I’m here for Cheyenne Grady,” I say.

It’s no use, but I try to keep my bad fucking mood from getting even worse. Shit is not good anywhere these days, and now I have to deal with straightening Ms. Mercer’s stupid ass out. Fucking perfect. For some reason, this bitch has it out for my kid, and I’ve had enough of it. I got no doubt that Chey earned herself some trouble, but why now? I bet Mercer’s got an ax to grind with the club—just like her cock-sucking boss—and she’s taking it out on Chey. While most people in Fort Bragg are cool with the club, there are a few who turn their noses up at us, and apparently this glorified paper pusher is one of them. We’re too loud, too wild, and too dangerous.

If only they knew.

“Yes, Mr. Grady,” the woman behind the desk says in a faux polite tone. Th
e name plate on her desk reads MARGOT FLORES. She hits the ancient buzzer beside her computer and announces to the principal, Mr. Beck that I have arrived. It’s but a few moments before I see him striding down the hallway with a scowl on his face.

“Mr. Grady,” he says, “Thank you for coming down so quickly.”

He leads me down the hall to his office—a place I’ve never been before. Until recently, Chey’s never had trouble at school. The only trouble I’ve heard about has been from this Mercer bitch, which leads me to believe she’s full of shit. My daughter is a good kid—she just occasionally has to deal with a rough patch, almost always after she sees her mom.

“Yeah,” I say and follow him into his office. It’s small, and every bit of furniture appears to be an aged wood and olive mix. In one corner, near a bookcase filled with awards, is Chey. Her arms are folded over her chest, and her eyes are wet with freshly fallen tears. In the other corner is Ms. Mercer. Her light brown hair is falling in her face as her head is tilted toward her lap. Mr. Beck gestures to a chair between the two, and I sit as he rounds his desk and takes his place.

“We had an incident during a counseling session that needs your attention,” he says.

“What happened?” I ask, looking at Chey. She pulls her lip in and diverts her eyes, a sure sign that she did something she knows damn well she shouldn’t have. When she doesn’t meet my eyes, I wrap my hands around the wooden arm rests of my chair and take a deep breath. “Cheyenne, look at me.”

Still, her eyes don’t lift to mine.

“During a counseling session where Ms. Mercer expressed concern for Cheyenne, your daughter made a comment which was inappropriate and requires immediate attention. She used a curse word to describe Ms. Mercer,” Mr. Beck says.

“You curse at this lady?” I ask Chey, who is determined to be unresponsive. When I finally tire of staring at the top of her fucking head, I turn my attention the other direction toward the bitch who’s started all this shit. I don’t know what went down, and to be honest, I only kind of care. Mercer’s had it out for Chey for months now, and I wouldn’t put it past her to push my kid’s buttons to see what happens.

“What did she say?” I ask Ms. Mercer, who is now looking me in the eye. For such a bitch, she’s pretty fuckable. Her complexion is nice and smooth, and she has light brown eyes that are complemented by her light brown hair and pale skin.

“Cheyenne called me the B word,” she says. I scoff before I can stop myself and earn a disapproving look from both Ms. Mercer and Mr. Beck.

“She called you a bitch,” I say. Ms. Mercer’s lips form a straight line, and her eyes narrow. Yeah, she’s uptight all right. Uptight as all fucking hell. I wonder when the last time she got laid was. I have half a mind to bend her over the desk and show her how to let loose. It’d be a fucking public service. I bet she’s so tightly wound that she’s never even jaywalked before.

“Yes,” she says in a clipped tone.

“Why?” I ask.

“Excuse me?” she says, like she suddenly can’t speak English. I raise my eyebrows and gesture to Chey.

“Why,” I repeat.

“Mr. Grady,” she says then shuts her mouth quickly. From my other side, I hear a sharp intake of breath. I look to Chey, who is glaring across the room.

“
Ms. Mercer
thinks I’m being abused or neglected,” Chey says with serious attitude. She started this shit a few years back, and it’s only gotten worse with time.

“Cheyenne,” Ms. Mercer pleads in a soft voice. “I’ve apologized. It’s my job to make sure you’re safe.”

“Holly,” Chey says with more venom in her tone than a fucking rattlesnake has in its entire body. “I
thought
you were cool. I thought we were friends!”

“I am cool, but I will
not
ignore a situation that concerns me,” Ms. Mercer says. There’s obviously more going on between these two than I’m aware of.

“That why you called her a bitch?” I ask Chey, who nods. Her mood’s picking up now that she thinks she has something on Ms. Mercer. She doesn’t, because the second I get her ass home, she’s grounded. But I’ll let the little princess think she’s snowed me for now. I just don’t want to give Mercer the satisfaction of knowing I don’t exactly have everything under control.

“Okay then, we’re gonna go,” I say to Mr. Beck.

“No, you cannot,” Ms. Mercer says as she stands in objection. “You daughter cannot run around speaking like that to adults, especially adults at her school, and expect no consequence.
This
is what I was concerned about.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna tell me how to parent my kid,” I say loudly and stand from my seat. Ms. Mercer takes a step closer to me and places her hands on her hips.

“You are a very troubled man,” she spits out with such anger I think she might melt the fucking floor around us. “Time and time again, you refuse to accept responsibility for your daughter’s poor behavior. Further, you have done her no favors by demonstrating to her that she can ignore consequences for mistreating others and that she is without fault. Cheyenne is an awesome kid, but she needs discipline. I’m not telling you how to parent. I am telling you that I won’t stand to be treated so poorly by a student or her parent.”

“Is that so?” I ask, rage boiling in my veins and my heart. I know I’ve been fucking up and it just pisses me off that this stupid bitch has the nerve to call me on it.

“Yes,” she says in a firm voice. I take a step closer to her, but she doesn’t budge. If I could think clearly, I could examine the scowl on her face and see that she’s more than fuckable—she’s actually kind of pretty. Not the kind of pretty I’m used to at the clubhouse with the whores who hang around at a dime a dozen, but a natural kind of pretty. The kind of pretty that a person wakes up with. Too bad she’s such a cunt.