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I look up to see a tall, leggy blonde looking into my basket at my baby boy and I feel a flush of pride. That’s my boy—adorable. But he’s going to grow up to be rugged and manly. I already know it. My boy is going to be a lady killer.
“Thank you,” I smile. “His name is Jenkins.”
She leans down and taps him on the nose, smiling and laughing as he squirms in his set and burbles at her. The woman stands up and gives me a smile.
“He really is adorable,” she says.
“He takes after his mom,” I reply.
“Have a nice night,” she says and walks off.
I push the basket and continue my quest for snack food. There’s something about having a baby that makes me seem normal and not as threatening to people anymore. I’m still the same guy. I’m still as large, rough, and rugged as I’ve always been. But I’m not wearing a cut anymore, so I guess that’s the difference. People see me now and they don’t see me as an outlaw or somebody prone to violence. They don’t see me as somebody to be feared. With my baby in tow, they see me as a normal member of society. A family man, maybe.
The weird thing is, I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid being considered a normal member of society. I’ve done everything in my power to fall outside those lines. I don’t like the thought of somebody pegging me as this or as that. I don’t like being put into a box or labeled according to somebody else’s definitions. It was one reason I joined the Kings to begin with—I wanted to be outside the lines of what was considered normal. I didn’t want to be known as somebody who conformed to what was considered acceptable.
But now, I’m happily embracing everything I rejected before. And it’s kind of tripping me out. Granted, we are a very non-traditional family. We don’t have a permanent residence right now and spend our time traveling the country in our RV. Molly and I are content to stay on the open road and see whatever we want to see. There’s something liberating about waking up in the morning and not knowing where you’re going to go that day. Never knowing what you’re going to see. I like not having a destination in mind and simply making it up as I go along.
That’s all going to change, though, when Jenkins is old enough to start school. We figure when that day comes, we’ll have to give up our nomadic lifestyle and settle down somewhere. That’s a day I’m not looking forward to. Being tied down to one place isn’t my thing. But I know I need to do what’s best for my little boy. And that means stability. That means a permanent home and a roof over his head rather than wheels beneath his feet. It’ll be a sad day for me but a good day for him. We both want Jenkins to have opportunities we never had.
I also want our newest child to have those same opportunities. Molly thinks she’s been slick in hiding her pregnancy from me. I don’t understand why she’s doing it, but I trust that she has her reasons. I don’t want to pressure or stress her out. I want her to tell me in her own time. I just think it’s funny she thinks she can hide it from me. As if I’m not going to notice that she’s doing all the same things she did when she was pregnant with Jenkins. That I won’t notice her wildly fluctuating mood swings or how quickly irritable she can get. She thinks she’s hiding it but she’s only making it more obvious to me.
It’s funny and I want to laugh but that will only irritate her and would likely end up with me catching a frying pan to the face. When she’s cranky and pregnant, she’s as dangerous and potentially violent as any biker I’ve ever known. Not that I’d ever say that to her face, simply because of the aforementioned frying pan.
I pull a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream out of the freezer section and put it into the basket. Then I pick up a few more things Molly requested and head for the checkout counter. I pull out my phone and type out a quick text to see if she wants anything.
Jenkins and I wait, and I try to make small talk with him, desperately trying to get him to say “papa” earlier than “mama.” I’ve got a hundred bucks riding on it with Molly.
I check my phone and still don’t see any response. No big deal. She might just not have seen it yet. I made sure to get everything anyway.
We pay for our things, and I take it out to the car, and I load it all into the trunk. After getting Jenkins squared away in his car seat, I close the door, then lean against the car. I miss my bike. A lot. It seems like it’s been forever since I’ve been on a ride. Since I’ve felt the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. I would give anything to hop on my Harley and just ride for a while. But my bike is back at the clubhouse under a sheet and is gathering dust. I haven’t even had time to fix it up. It’s a depressing thought. A bike like that deserves to be ridden.
At the same time though, I wouldn’t give up my life as it is right now for anything. Not even for a shot to ride my old Fat Boy again… though it might be tempting. Not that I’d ever say that to Molly for fear of the frying pan. She likes to pretend she would never do something like that. That she’s above petty violence to resolve any differences. But I’ve got a scar on my forehead and a concussion that says otherwise.
I climb behind the wheel of the car and point it back to the campground where our RV is parked. On the way back, I stop at a roadside diner and pick up a couple of shakes—strawberry for my queen, of course. That done, I run through my mental checklist to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. I don’t think I have, so I drive on home.
I pull into the campgrounds and park the car. The first thing I do is get Jenkins out and take his carrier into the RV. The moment I step inside though, I can tell something is wrong. Something isn’t right. It’s not that I see anything out of place or broken, there are no obvious signs of a struggle or violence. But I can feel that something’s off. It’s like somebody who doesn’t belong here disturbed the air in the RV and left behind their stink. I can smell them.
“Molly?” I call out. “Mols?”
There’s no answer and I feel a stitch in my heart. My mouth is dry and my heart is pounding. Something is very, very wrong here. I set the baby carrier down on the table, then turn around and go outside.
“Molly!” I call out.
My voice echoes through the woods around us. I cup my hands around my mouth and call out for her again. Still nothing. With my heart in my throat, I run back into the RV and look around for a note thinking that maybe she’s out on a walk. Maybe she’ll be back soon and I’m freaking out over nothing. I can’t help it though. I can feel just how not right something is around here and I have no idea what it is.
When I walk into the bedroom compartment at the back of the RV, my heart drops into my stomach and I taste bile in the back of my throat. My hands clench into fists and I grit my teeth, trying to control the trembling in my body.
On the bed in front of me is my old cut. Specifically, the cut we put on the headless corpse we were using to masquerade as me. That tells me one thing and one thing alone: where Molly is.
“Hammerhead,” I mutter. “You fucking son of a bitch.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
“Are you sure?” Reaper asks.
I toss my old cut down on the table between us. “Look familiar?”
He picks it up and looks it over, his face paling as he does. “Son of a bitch. I can’t believe this is for real.”
