“I’m worried about you,” he says.
“What are we supposed to do, Rock?” What the hell does he expect from me? How does this change our relationship going forward? First we were hangaround and mentor. Then brothers. Treasurer and president. Now father and son? “Am I supposed to call you Dad?”
“If you want to, yes.” He elbows me in the ribs. “Shit, you and Murphy have been doing it for years anyway.”
How the hell am I ever going to share this with Murphy? The one person I’ve never kept secrets from. “Yeah.”
We sit there, staring at the ground until I can’t stand another second of the silence. “Shit, just when I think I can’t hate my mother any more, something else happens.”
“She’s…something.”
My stomach churns thinking about my mother and Rock. It’s too gross and wrong to contemplate. At least in my early memories, before things turned to shit, my parents had seemed to care about each other. “Did you love her?”
What a stupid question to ask him.
Rock doesn’t call me out. No, his eyes bug, like he’s trying to digest the question without choking.
“Never mind. You were a fucking kid.” I slide my gaze toward him again. “Did you like her at least?”
He blows out a relieved breath, like this question isn’t as tricky. “Yeah. I liked her a lot. Looked forward to her coming over. Before we got involved, I mean.”
Involved. That has to be the most delicate term I’ve ever heard Rock use for fucking.
“My father fell apart after my mom died,” he continues. “He earned the money, and she took care of me. That was their arrangement. So, he didn’t know what the fuck to do without her. I missed her so much. Cried a lot. He really had no patience for that.”
“Jesus, Rock.” The flowers he leaves on his mother’s grave for her birthday every year make so much sense now. My grandmother.
“He drowned his own sorrows in alcohol. Made him a fucking asshole, and I resented the hell out of him. Really fucking hated him when he started trying to replace my mother with any woman who gave him a passing glance.”
Good Christ, the only thing that could make this worse would be finding out that Rock’s father—my grandfather—took a turn with my mother too. “He and my mother didn’t…?”
“No. Fuck no,” he answers quickly. A little too quickly for my taste. “Not that I ever knew.” He closes his eyes, like he’s desperately trying to claw back fuzzy memories.
“He’d take me to bars and shit,” Rock continues. “I was nine, maybe ten, so he’d make me stay in the car. Got so cold one night, I tried walking home. Ended up getting picked up by the cops. I wouldn’t tell them anything, but they didn’t need my words once he showed up. Narrowly missed going to jail and having me taken away. After that, he asked one of the neighborhood girls to come watch me. Don’t remember her much except she kicked me in the teeth with a fuckin’ wooden clog one night.” He stops and taps his front teeth. “Split my lip. Never saw her again.”
“On purpose?”
“Nah, I was probably trying to look up her dress or something.”
I burst into laughter. “Sounds about right. Go on.”
The smile fades from his face. “Tina was next. I think she worked at the gas station…”
“That makes sense. I remember her telling me about her first job selling cigarettes before she was old enough to buy them. It’s why I was always so adamant about Heidi not working when she was in high school.”
“I was always impressed with you for the way you looked after her.”
I can’t take the guilt of thinking about my sister during this conversation. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on,” I encourage him.
“He paid her to stay with me while he went out whoring and drinking. I didn’t mind. It was better than being in the back seat of the car until last call. We’d play video games, watch cartoons, normal shit.” Rock pauses. “I met Grinder maybe a year later. Started hanging around the MC when I could. Told my dad I didn’t need a babysitter anymore. But she’d still come around.”
“Was your dad still paying her?” I’m not sure why that matters. Does it make things better or worse?
“Probably. I never asked.”
Memories of stories I heard at the MC early on flood my brain. “I remember you joking about seducing your babysitter when you were a kid. Fuck, I even remember Grinder joking about it. Never thought you were talking about my mother.”
“That’s not on you, Marcel. That’s me. And her. It has nothing to do with you.”
What the hell kind of bullshit is he trying to sell me? “It has everything to do with me. You think she knew?”
“It’s not an excuse, but I was a kid. I never thought—”
“Jesus, Rock. I don’t blame you. I can’t believe she roped my father…” Embarrassment and shame swallow the rest of my words.
“What do you want, Marcel? What can I do to make this better?”
Make this better? There’s no way to do that. I want to shake off every bit of my “family” that I can. “How would you feel…? Would you…?” I take a deep breath. “I want to take your last name.”
Rock stares at me, surprise darkening his eyes. “Yeah. Yes. Absolutely.” His voice picks up speed and enthusiasm. “There’s nothing I’d like more.”
How will I explain that to everyone? Shit, Wrath already calls me Rock’s mini-me. They’ll think— “Not now. I still gotta figure out a way to explain this to Heidi, and I don’t know how you feel about telling the club.”
“I’ll tell them right fucking now.” Rock’s body jerks as if he’s ready to run into the clubhouse and shout out the news. “No hesitation. None, Marcel.”
Too much, too soon.
CHAPTER SIX
Teller
“Sunshine, I’m home,” I call out as I step into the house. It’s unusual for Charlotte not to meet me at the door.
Unless she’s waiting in our room with a surprise. The thought of her sprawled out on our bed in some sexy outfit propels me up the stairs. Every inch of our old farmhouse has been remodeled but the old stairs still creak in certain spots. There’s no sneaking up on Charlotte unless she’s in the shower or maybe asleep.
The bedroom’s dark. As my eyes adjust, the faint shapes of a dresser, nightstands, and our bed fall into place.
She has to be home. Her car was in its usual spot. Unless she’s at Rock and Hope’s. Or she’s visiting her brother.
A soft sniffle breaks the silence.
“Char?” I push the door open wider and slide my hand along the wall, searching for the light switch.
“Don’t,” she says in a hoarse whisper.
“What’s wrong?” I cross to the bed and find her wrapped in a ball of blankets. “Hey, are you sick?”
“No.”
Cold fear strikes me in the chest. Our little secret. The news we haven’t shared with anyone yet. It was too soon.