“Drew,” I say her name softly. “You know the club law—you lived it. He was dirty.”
“Was it you? Is that how you got your patch?”
Memories of that day flood in, suffocating.
Eight years ago
“It’s time to make a choice, boy. Are you royalty or mundane?” My father’s deep baritone carries through the club as his heavy footfalls announce his arrival. The brothers part like the red sea, giving him a clear path to where I stand looming over the man who fucked over his club—my father—my mother.
Mitch Wells, Drew’s old man, someone I once respected and thought of as family. My father hands me a gun, the weight heavy in my palm. I’ve held many guns, shot targets and bottles for shits and giggles, but this time is different—this time will change everything.
The brothers close in around our Prez as he reaches for the cowering fool on his knees, begging for his life. All the brothers tilt their chin to their Prez, showing loyalty, respect, and glee in finding this traitor so fast.
I wanted that respect, that allegiance. My father was a fucking king to these men, and treason came with a death sentence.
“I just needed an out,” the rat pleads, reaching out to grasp my father’s jean-clad leg. As quick as lightening, my father brings his knee up, connecting with Mitch’s jaw. Teeth chip and break on a crunch.
He falls to his back, gurgling blood. “You’re a fucking traitor. After everything this club did for you, for your fucking kid…”
“She has nothing to do with this, Prez. Please,” he chokes out, spitting blood and one of his teeth to the ground.
“I’m not your fucking Prez. You forfeited that when you sold out your club, your brothers—me!” Another boot to the face. A couple more teeth fly from his mouth.
“If she wasn’t my son’s girl, I’d pass her around the brothers like a club whore and force you to watch while they defiled every hole on her body.” My blood runs cold at his words, my fists clenching. No one is going near Drew. They’d have to get me eat a bullet first. My teeth grind together with the effort to keep my mouth shut. He’s just letting off steam and trying to scare her father.
“Feeding feds information about our club—what’s the punishment for that, son?”
“Death,” I spit out.
“What?” My father holds a hand to his ear.
“Death!” I roar, gaining a round of cheering from my soon-to-be brothers. Rolling his head over his shoulders, my father pulls a knife from the sheath inside his jacket. “Death, but not a clean one,” he growls, grabbing Mitch by the scruff of his hair. Kai steps up, restraining Mitch’s arms, holding his body still against his own.
“And for killing my boy’s mother—my fucking wife?” My father grits his teeth.
“Death!” I holler, aiming the gun and pulling the trigger over and over.
Click. Click. Click.
Nothing happens. My old man turns to me, taking the gun from my trembling hand, a look of shock and pride overcoming him. “You make me proud—and your brothers proud. But this kill isn’t yours, boy.” He was testing me? Gave me an unloaded weapon…
“Joslyn…” Mitch cries out, breaking free from Kai’s hold, a gun in his hand. My eyes track the empty holster on Kai’s hip. Fuck! He turns the gun on himself and—bang!—blows his own brains out before anyone can blink. Brain matter and blood spray Rage’s face, who was standing a couple feet behind him.
Every nerve ending inside my body fires off, coiling my muscles and sending a spike of adrenaline through my veins.
“Motherfucker!” my old man snarls, stamping his boot down on the carcass.
Present
“He shot himself, Drew. He was surrounded by brothers all wanting a piece and knew it was either end it himself or suffer a painful death.”
“You’re lying to protect me from the truth. You got your patch. I know what it takes to earn a patch.” She waves her arms around, animated and hysterical.
I grab her arms, pinning them to her side, and stare her straight in the eyes. “I was willing to kill him. I was hurting about my mother and saw the video of him on the phone with the feds while she was fucking dying. The memories of her blood coating my hands…” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to clear the flash of images assaulting me. “I was willing to kill him, and that was enough to get my patch. But I promise you, Drew, he grabbed the gun out of Kai’s holster and shot himself under the chin.”
Tears leak to her cheeks, trailing down like raindrops. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry this happened, that we were ever put in that fucking circumstance, but why should we lose each other on top of everything we’ve already fucking lost?”
My hard breathing and her sobbing plays around us like the soundtrack to our lives.
“I need time,” she sniffles. “Just let me get some sleep, please. I need to just digest everything.”
“You can have my old room.” I tuck her hair behind her ear, letting the pad of my thumb stroke her cheek.
“Old room?” she croaks, her voice broken.
“I moved rooms. I couldn’t sleep in that room. It was consumed with memories of us.” I hold my hand out for her, sighing when she slips her palm into it. I open the door to the back hall—the one she ran down eight years ago—and lead her to my old room, unlatching the bolt I placed on it.
I couldn’t sleep in there, didn’t mean I wanted anyone else in there.
Pushing open the door is like stepping into the past. Nothing has been touched since we made love in the bed. Her boots still lay haphazardly on the rug.
“It’s like a museum.” She sniffles a laugh, swiping at her eyes.
“I can have clean sheets put on the bed. It’s probably dusty as all hell.”
“No, it will be fine.” She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “If only we could rewind time with the knowledge we have now.” She moves inside, swiping her fingers over the dresser to collect the dust there.
“Would you save him knowing he killed my mother?” I ask, making her wince.
“I just don’t know why he would write the letters claiming she already knew about him talking to the feds and them planning to run away together.” She shrugs. “If your mom knew and was talking to them, would you have been able to let your dad kill her?”
My hands clench. “I don’t think so,” I tell her honestly.
“He was my dad.” Her shoulders slump as she sits on the bed, her eyes tracing over the rumpled sheets.
“When you told me back then I was safe, was it true?”
How can she ask that? I drop to my knees in front of her, taking her hands in mine. “Yes. God, I would have killed everyone to protect you. How can you not know that? My old man knew we had plans to travel, that you wanted to go to school and see the world. He knew wherever you went, I’d go, so he made me promise we’d stay here—that I’d patch in and become a full, dedicated brother.”
I fucking hate the tears streaming down her face. They’re breaking my fucking heart. I want to pick up all the pieces of our broken story and stitch them back together.