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Five years ago, I asked him to end the war we'd been in for years after one thirty-second phone call. Not for the club or Ma or even me.
But for my son.
And that psychopathic motherfucker did. He ended the warring between clubs with the ultimate sacrifice.
My general annoyance rises with each step toward the clubhouse. Thinking about the complicated relationship I had with a complex man usually does that to me.
The sun beats down on my back as I clear the courtyard of RGRC, Rosewood Garage and Repair Company. It's what we call the collection of mechanically-inclined businesses on Reaper property.
The Vault is a garage on the left, dedicated to restoring classics. And Southern Steel is the studio building on the far right. All custom art goes through my brother inside Southern Steel. That asshole has more talent in his pinky finger than the lot of us combined.
And in the middle is the original RGRC garage that's been standing for generations, in desperate need of a new air conditioner.
Beads of sweat roll down my back, and I find myself longing for a cool shower to wash the day off. Normally, I'd march my ass up to my house at the back of the compound and do exactly that. But today is a Grandma Day for my boy. And the way he treats it, you'd think it was some national holiday, and not something that happens every week.
My brother, Nova, and our cousin, Bane, and I came up thick as thieves together, and they've been a godsend when it comes to pitching in to help with my independent five-year-old. But on days when the three of us are all needed in one of the garages? Then Ma hangs out with him.
She sent a text an hour ago that she's at the clubhouse. Something about the kitchen and Helen.
Helen is a bit like a den mother to the club bunnies, the girls that hang around the club. Most still hold out hope for some rags to riches love story with a brother.
A lot of shit has changed when I stepped up as president, including the way the bunnies are treated. And as long as they don't cause problems, I really don't give a fuck who's in which brother's bed.
Helen Whittiker and Ma have been friends since high school. She's turned down six offers for a permanent seat on the back of a brother's bike, allegedly content to live unattached, hopping from one bed to the next.
And as far as I know, she never fucked my old man. Not because he was a pious man either. That asshole stuck his dick in whatever he felt likewheneverhe felt like it. But there's no way she'd still be breathing if she did that to Ma.
Dixie St. James is a fucking menace to society if you cross her. And the only thing that gets her heated faster than blatant disrespect is if you threaten one of her boys.
My brother, my cousin, my son, and me.
I wrap my appreciation for her and all the shit she does for us around me like armor, preparing myself for the onslaught of people and questions as soon as I step foot inside the clubhouse.
You'd think these people didn't have access to me every single day by the way some of them trap me in forty-five minute conversations sometimes. Like they gotta cram every detail about some reality show I've never seen into one run-on sentence. It's fucking exhausting.
I love my club and my guys. But my brother is the mouthpiece of the Reapers for a reason, and it's not because he's better looking, no matter what that little shit says.
I sigh and pull open the back door, cool air washing over me in a blissful stream. I walk down the corridor toward the front, where the kitchen is.
Hopefully, Ma sorted the problem out. I'd hate to add another thing to my list of things that need replacing.
The president patch along my right pec feels like it pierces my flesh with its sharp, weighted corners.
Thankfully, it's a weight shared. My brother and cousin have stepped up to share the spotlight with me. And, of course, the other members of the club and the council.
The Reapers aren't a dictatorship. Even more of a democracy now than when my old man wore this patch. Every big decision comes down to a vote. From the trivial things like should we get the new game console in the shared living space to the big shit like should we continue to provide protection to the businesses on the other side of Rosewood's city limits.
I expel a sigh, shoving my crowded thoughts to the back of my mind. The unmistakable smell of chocolate chip cookies hits me in the chest, and my stomach rumbles right on cue.
I should've guessed he'd sweet-talk Ma into baking today. He's been obsessed with chocolate chip cookies ever since watching a cooking show with her two weeks ago.
I scan the open doorways as I pass them, looking for the familiar mop of messy dark brown hair.
My boy runs around this place often enough to know all the best places to hide, and I hope like hell he's not currently in the middle of one of those games. There are too many shadowed corners and small places for him to sneak away in a place this size, and my patience is running thin today.
Nothing a cool shower and a hot meal won't fix though. It's a mantra I find myself repeating often.
“Yo, Prez. We got a meeting tonight?” Gunnar asks from somewhere inside the room on my right.
