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“No, man, it’s all good. I’d rather you give it to me straight.” He ran a hand down his face while huffing out a rough chuckle. “Shocked the shit outta me.” He cocked his head. “Just so you know, you don’t have to prove shit to anyone—even yourself. What went down with your arrest and conviction wasn’t your fault. You’re a victim like any other.”
A victim. Since meeting Copper, Curly considered the burly president wise beyond his years. But in this, he was dead wrong. “I may not have had shit to do with Joy’s death, but you can’t exactly call me innocent.” He shrugged as though not bothered by the facts that kept his mind churning long into the night. “My club wasn’t like yours. You got good people here. Hard-working, moral—even if it’s your own code—you’ve got a fucking family. My club was a rowdy band of common criminals and thugs with a handful of nastier fuckers thrown in there. Way I see it, those thirteen years were the universe’s way of getting back at me for all the other fucked-up shit I did.”
The drugs he’d sold.
The deadly weapons he put into men’s hands without a thought of their use.
The shit he’d stolen.
The people he’d threatened, assaulted, hurt.
Hell, if the universe were just, he’d still be rotting in that cell. But for some reason, he wasn’t. Now it was time to take the gift he’d received and do…something with it.
Copper leaned his massive form across the desk. “Come on, man. Doesn’t work that way. If it did, I’da been right there in the cell next to you. So would most of my men. You know who spewed that same bullshit?”
Curly lifted an eyebrow instead of responding.
Copper wore a fierce expression of indignation. “Holly’s fucking father. No way I’m gonna let you get away with thinking of yourself the way he thought of you.”
Fuck.
Curly ran a hand through the hair which had given him his name. One day it’d be long again, and he’d feel more like himself. Or so he kept promising himself. In reality, he feared he’d never be entirely comfortable in his skin again. It was as though someone had hit the fast-forward button on a movie everyone had seen but him. Thirteen years was a long time. People died, others were born, jobs were had and lost. Hell, multiple presidents held office. He’d stepped into the prison in one era and out in another. For fuck’s sake, he’d been looked at like he was from another planet when he hadn’t known who Mark Zuckerberg was. Why the hell did he think regrowing his hair would fix any of that?
“I hear you, man. Just takes a while for the words to sink into my bones. Know what I mean?”
Nodding, Copper relaxed back in his chair. “I do.” He crossed his arms over his chest. They bulged in a way that probably intimidated the hell outta most people. Those who didn’t know that beneath the leather, muscles, and gruff expression lived a family man with a very pregnant wife and a daughter who had him wrapped around their pinkies.
“Now,” Copper said. “Let’s talk about this idea of yours because I’m starting to think it’s a pretty fucking good one.”
CHAPTER TWO
CURLY SECURED THE strap on his saddlebag then gave the decades-old leather an affectionate rub. The smooth glide of leather beneath his fingers felt almost as heavenly as the wind whipping past his face as he rode. Such a simple thing, but those saddle bags, which were the first he’d ever purchased at eighteen, represented independence, choice, the openness of the wide world. All things he’d been denied for long, lonely years.
As soon as the prison released him, he’d had the bike shipped from the storage unit where his meager important possessions gathered dust for thirteen years.
While locked away, he’d missed his Harley more than most guys missed their wives. It wasn’t until his ass finally hit the worn seat that he felt free after his release.
And the first time he’d flown down the highway after so long?
Fucking nirvana.
After sex, riding was his absolute favorite activity. At least he’d had his hand to provide sexual release in prison.
He hadn’t had a single thing that came close to mimicking the thrill of riding.
Now he and his baby were about to cruise down to Florida. It was time to scope out potential properties for a clubhouse and begin recruiting members for the Florida chapter of the HHMC. Settling back into the home he owned was high on the list as well. Hopefully, he’d be able to breathe life back into the house. For all he knew, it lay in a pile of rubble. More likely, squatters, snakes, and those rabid Florida termites inhabited it now.
He’d find out soon enough.
“Curly Whatever-your-last-name-is!” Holly stormed out of her house wearing sweatpants and what had to be her ol’ man’s T-shirt because she got lost in the thing.
