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“On it.” He disconnects. My head reels from the sudden silence, feet rooted to the floorboards.
I get the sense I’m in a snow globe. Standing center with all the little things that display who I am laid out around me. I’m just waiting for some fucker with big hands to shake it all up. To send me tumbling.
I hate the feeling.
And I hate even more the realization that it’s Tyke who’s held this feeling at bay. More so since I returned from duty. I’ve let the man take control of my life, of my daily activities, and I’ve tucked it all under a pretty bow labeled Presidency. But that isn’t it. That’s not why I let my big brother rule my head and my hand.
I’ve done it because I’m scared. Scared of doing the wrong thing, making the wrong decision. Fucking it up, and with serious consequence. I let him take all the blame, shoulder all the responsibility, and I did so with a cheery disposition and a willingness to serve so that nobody questioned why I’d do that to my own flesh and blood.
Why I’d make a man carry the enormity of the load on his own.
Tyke’s the leader of this club. Sure. But fuck it all, I’m his goddamn brotherandthe Vice President. A full-grown man with the fucking capabilityand the titleto do more, be more.
It’s time I started to act like it.
It doesn’t takeme long to figure out which house is hers. A wreath of black roses hangs on the painted blue door, six cars are parked on the driveway and front lawn, and the trashcan is set to overflowing with empty food boxes and takeout containers.
She was thirty-six years old and a mother of two. And we let her die to save our own lives. Her sacrifice is a reminder that we ain’t all that different: Terry, Volkov, and the Reapers.
I sit two doors down on the opposite side of the road and watch the house, little clouds of sweet-smelling smoke obscuring my view when the front door opens, and a family of five pour out only to hesitate on the porch while they talk to the man of the house.
I catch sight of a head of dark hair against his thigh, tender hands wrapped around his knee.
What did he tell them? Did they get the same bullshit line we did when our momma passed? Do they believe in Heaven, or have they seen too many devils to believe there’s any good left in this life?
A text buzzes through, vibrating my phone against my ribs. I pull it free and glance down at the brief words from Kane.
Tighter than a nun’s around the blocks. Don’t feel good.
The lower levels are on lockdown, which means they think the opposition has a better chance of winning. I punch back areply to send Tyke’s boy home, send two messages to Turnip and Minion, and then jerk my helmet and gloves on. The visiting family tuck themselves into a beaten sedan as I ride past, only a boy’s head turning at the sound of my bike.
The widower spotted me an hour ago.
The noise of the road brings some comfort, a gentle white noise to soften the harshness of the thoughts burning through my head. I ride past the turn-off to the compound, past the town limits, and out onto the open road. I ride until my wrist fucking aches and my ass goes numb. Ride until all that damn spaghetti upstairs starts to make some sense.
Until I have a plan on what we’re gonna do and how we’re gonna do it.
And then I ride home.
Dusk leaves deep hues on the horizon when I ride back through the gates of the Red River Reapers property, the yard lights spilling a warm white glow across the rough seal. I park the bike up, stretch my stiff back, and move around enough to get the blood flowing properly before I make the short walk across the yard to the clubhouse.
I’ve practiced what I’ll say to Tyke and how I’ll broach the subject. Prepared myself for his reaction, for him to want to know why I question his authority. I’ve role-played the fuck outta what happens next during the ride, confident I’ve got any possible outcome covered.
Confident I’ve done the right thing.
That is, until I walk through the barn door and find my brethren all seated around the fireplace, no music to be heard over the perpetually playing speakers, and tension thick enough that I lift my hands before me as though ready to push through.
“What the fuck’s goin’ on here?”
Minion takes a step forward from where he resides before the great brick fireplace. “Take a seat, Dig.”
I glance left at my brother. At the way he cradles his brow in the crook of one hand, elbow on the arm of the sofa, other hand fisted against his knee. It registers, then, the spread of broken glass across the table.
The stiff expressions on the officer’s faces.
The way Rae sits at Tyke’s feet, arms curled around his calf and body leaning toward him in comfort.
My stomach curdles, head swimming with the sudden loss of blood. My hand slips into my inside pocket, and I pull my phone free. Fuck knows why, but it feels pertinent at that moment to check the damn thing, and sure enough, there they are.
