“What the hell did you do?” I yelled at him. “Who I screw is my business! Not yours. Not the club’s. You stay the fuck out of my life, brother.”
He held up his hands, clearly not wanting a fight. Tough shit. I jerked him to his feet and hit him again. Blood spurted from his nose, and I saw—reflected in his eyes—the instant he decided to start fighting back.
I’m not sure how long it lasted.
What I do know is that we tumbled off the back porch, through the shrubs, and onto the lawn all without losing a beat. By the time it ended, Clutch, Grass, Kelsey, and several random women left over from the party were all standing on the back porch watching.
Pretty sure Clutch and Grass were taking bets.
I decided the winner owed me drinks, because I’d kicked Skid’s ass … But by the time I had him knocked out and helpless in the dirt, my brain had started working again. I glanced up at our audience and frowned, staggering slightly. He’d gotten in some pretty good hits. My head was spinning—I figured there was a decent chance I had a concussion.
“Go away,” I growled. “This is private.”
Grass herded them back in, although Kelsey tried to insist on staying outside. He ended the argument by picking her up and carrying her while she rewarded him with a flurry of head smacks from the spatula.
I collapsed to the ground, staring blankly up at the clouded sky.
“You okay?” I asked Skid. He rolled over, moaning.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I had to do it, bro.”
“You didn’t have to do shit.”
“She’s no good for you,” he said. “She’s not some little puppet you can control. She lied for you to her own club, which is fuckin’ romantic until you consider that same loyalty is attached to the Reapers, too. You’d never be able to trust her, brother. And if you did, we’d never be able to trust you.”
“Still not your decision to make,” I said slowly. “So you figured it out, I guess?”
“Phone records,” he said shortly. “Don’t worry. Won’t show ’em to anyone. Figure I owe her that much, given that she saved your sorry ass. But seriously—elections are coming, and unless you want to pull out, you can’t be with her.”
“That’s my problem,” I told him.
“No, it’s a club problem,” Skid said seriously. “Burke needs a right-hand man he can trust, and we all know it’s you. But I’m your right hand, bro. It’s my job to make sure your head’s in the game. Right now it isn’t.”
I flipped him off, draping my arm over my eyes.
“Nobody knows about that phone call,” I said. “It’s not an issue.”
“I know about the phone call,” Skid replied, his voice quiet without compromise. “And the day it puts our club in danger is the day I’ll stop guarding her secret. It’s not personal, brother. I don’t actually dislike the chick, despite what you might think. But I can’t let her get too close to you.”
I sighed. Fuck.
“This isn’t over,” I told him. “I’m not giving up on her.”
“You giving up the national office?” Skid asked. “Think carefully, bro. You can only have one or the other.”
I didn’t reply—I’d spent the last eight years working to prove myself, to show Burke I was the man he could count on in a fight. I wasn’t ready to give up all I’d earned.
Shit. Skid was right.
I had a problem.
Chapter Eleven
ONE WEEK LATER
EM
I couldn’t breathe.
Something heavy crushed my chest, pressing down on my lungs. Something evil, I realized. A demon hungry for my soul? I hovered in that dark space between sleep and wakefulness, terrified as my worst dreams came to life.
“There’s ghost monkeys in the closet …” a soft, weirdly high-pitched voice whispered in my ear. Adrenaline spiked and I sat up, tumbling a four-year-old devil child off my chest.
“Ouch!” Silvie squawked, looking up at me from the end of the bed with an air of betrayal. “Ghost monkeys are scary! I want you to get them.”
Oh, fuck. Was it morning already? I glanced at the clock. Sure enough, seven a.m. Already. Pisser. Well, at least Silvie was in here pestering me and not Cookie. That woman worked way too hard—she deserved a morning to sleep in.
“Sorry, baby,” I said, opening my arms. Silvie scampered up the covers and crawled into them, snuggling into me tight. “What’s this about ghost monkeys?”
“In my closet,” she said, eyes wide. “Wanna eat me.”
“There are no ghost monkeys,” I told her firmly. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Cody,” she whispered. I should’ve known. I’d only lived here two weeks, but I already hated Cody Weathers, a five-year-old brat who went to daycare with Silvie. His parents let him watch anything and everything on TV, which meant he was constantly filling Silvie’s little head with bullshit and scary stories.
The worst part? He wasn’t even doing it to be mean. So far as I could tell, little Cody had a serious crush on our Silvie girl.
“Cody doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I said. “Would I lie to you about ghost monkeys?”
She cocked her head at me, then shook it gravely.
“Let’s go look in the closet together,” I said. “I’ll show you it’s safe, and then I’ll use some of my monster spray just to be sure.”
We crawled out of bed. She held my hand while I grabbed a spray can of vanilla-scented air freshener I’d bought for just this purpose. Then we stepped across the hall. I heard murmuring voices from the kitchen—apparently Cookie had company. We were coming up on the one-year anniversary of the death of her husband, Bagger, in Afghanistan. She was doing pretty well all things considered, which meant she wasn’t doing that great at all, but she hadn’t rolled over and died, either.
Cookie impressed the hell out of me.
“The monkeys were there,” Silvie said, pointing to the closet fearfully. I flipped on the bedroom light and walked over to the door, opening it.
“No ghost monkeys,” I declared, taking a few seconds to examine every inch, knowing it would make a difference to her. I even checked behind the hanging clothes.
Wasn’t the first time I’d had to inspect Silvie’s closet for monsters.
“Spray,” she demanded.
I coated the small space thoroughly with air freshener.
“There we go,” I said. “No way ghost monkeys or any other creatures will get in there now.”
“Thank you,” Silvie whispered, wrapping her arms around my legs.
“Any time,” I muttered, fighting back a yawn. Shit, I needed some coffee. “Let’s go find something to eat.”
“Mommy’s in the kitchen talking to Uncle Deke.”
Interesting.
So much for Cookie sleeping in.
“Uncle Deke” came to visit a lot. He was the president of the Portland Reapers chapter, and he’d been looking out for Cookie since she moved down from Coeur d’Alene. I couldn’t tell whether he was just taking good care of a brother’s widow or there was more going on.
If so, I was pretty sure Cookie hadn’t noticed him.
I walked in to find them sitting at the kitchen table, coffee cups between them. A box of doughnuts sat on the counter.
I didn’t know Deke very well. He was probably around thirty years old, although hard to tell for sure. I knew he’d been in the Marines before joining the club, so I figured he understood what Cookie was going through better than most. He was a big guy, powerfully built, and one of his arms had been burned pretty bad. Now scars roped it, although it’d missed his hand. Some guys would keep that covered up.
I’d never seen Deke in a long-sleeved shirt.
“These doughnuts for anyone?” I asked, drifting toward the counter.
“Help yourself,” Deke answered. He and Cookie had fallen silent, and I wondered what they’d been talking about.
“Silvie, baby, let’s go get you dressed,” Cookie said. She smiled at me, the hint of sadness she always wore these days firmly in place. Even her hair seemed different since Bagger’s death. The wild, red corkscrew curls were somehow flatter.