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10
It’s nearly one in the morning when I hear the roaring of the bikes and the blaring of the van horn. Crux called ahead, so I was expecting it, but nothing prepares you for the call that shit went sideways. My blood boils as I head outside, and they rip open the van. There’s blood all over the place, and the body covered by a jacket is Moby. A twenty-two-year-old patch member that was one of the best drivers we have had. Monroe and Sully are dirty but otherwise appear fine.
“Em? Where’s my daughter?” I demand as they get off their bikes, looking over their shoulders. Inside the van pushed into the back is my daughter, holding her cousin, my nephew Saint. “Are you hurt?” I bark. I can’t help it, this is my baby girl, and I never should have allowed Saint to get her into it like this. She’s not a leader. She shouldn’t be going on runs or in fucking shootouts.
“Dad, I’m fine. Saint-they fucking poisoned him or some shit. His pulse is thready, and his breathing is really shallow.
That’s my girl, the nurse in her has kicked in, and she’s doing the medic role. “Let’s get him in the house. Too many eyes out here.” Reaching for Saint, I’m pushed aside by Monroe, Sully, and Drysten. I back out, and they follow me into the house. My hands go into my hair. This isn't how it was supposed to go down. It was supposed to be clean, no traces and only one survivor.
***
“He’s stable.” Huffing, I close the door to my den, looking at Bridget still naked on my leather sofa. I love my girls. Their mother, however, is another story. I married Kathryn because I had the fastest swimmers on the train that popped her seventeen-year-old cherry. The paternity test proved it. Delia is ten months older than Saint, and my Em is two years younger. Kathryn couldn’t give me boys, so that made her pretty useless. She spends most of her time in San Francisco, doing her thing, while I do mine.
Bridget’s head falls back. “Thank God.” She rolls over, getting up. At fifty-two, she’s still a knockout. “I don’t understand what happened. I thought we were good with the Columbians.” She pulls on her dress, straightening her hair out.
“I don’t know. I’m going to have to make a few calls. Saint isn’t really in a place to do that.”
“Fuck all.”
I turn to see the boy leaning into the now open doorway. I look at Bridget, who is almost on top of him. “Baby, boy.” She says with a mother’s concern. “You shouldn’t be out of bed. Look at you. You need stitches in that eye.” Her fretting would be sweet if it wasn’t a blatant perversion. Her codependency for the boy is a blurry space in our peripheral.
“Get the fuck off me.” Saint snaps, looking between us. “I've got my shit handled. You need to remember your fucking place, old man.” Again his eyes dart between us. “Maybe look into fixing your own shit. Em is stitching me up, then I'm going home to my girl.”
“We don’t know what they dosed you with, you could be hemorrhaging internally, or God knows what else.” I insist. If I can keep him here, I can figure out a way to finish it.
“I'm fucking fine. I'm a little tired and weak. They didn't hit me with nothing I ain't put in myself at least once or twice. Now, if you'd get the fuck off her cunt and listen, maybe you'd learn a fucking thing or two. I'm president, and I've got my Goddamn table. You're not in. Learn you fucking place, Uncle.”
He wobbles and then drops into the nearest chair. I roll my eyes. “You’re president, but all you are is a puddle in my leather chair right now. Boy, you would do well to respect the elders that made you. I called for you to come to the table—”
“You called me? Right! You've always wanted my fucking spot. It was only yours because I wasn't fucking ready. You didn't have one Goddamn hand in raising me! My father—"
“That’s it!” Bridget stomps her foot. “I have had enough of you glorifying that idiot. He couldn’t find his way out of a wet paper bag if it was open on both ends. With the blanks he was shooting, do you actually think he had any hand in conceiving you? Take a look at Uncle Calan. Where do you think those blue eyes came from? I only married your father because I needed to get out of your grandfather’s house.”
“Fuck you! You lying fucking cunt! Your relationship with me has always been fucking sick! It's the whole reason I turn to—” Saint breaks when he's grabbed by Monroe and Sully.
“I think the boy’s had enough,” Sully speaks up, staring daggers at Bridget. My mouth hangs open.
“I—I didn’t—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Sully barks, the man rarely cusses, but when he does, it’s a sure sign that the next person to open their mouth is going to be eating through a fucking straw.
