Long Ride The Slayers MC #3) (6 page)

My hand tangles its way into her hair and grabs hold of a thick handful, twisting and pulling until I have her attention. She wants me to shut up and fuck her?

Fine.

But, I’m gonna let my eyes say everything I need to say to her then.

~*~

“You tired babe?” I ask as Angel yawns while snuggling closer back into me.

I’m spooning her from behind, my body following the curve of her body, fitting together perfectly where my hand can rest on her small belly, splayed out over it, protecting it.

“A little.” Bullshit. Her voice is a dead giveaway that she’s exhausted.

All those books she’s been reading keep telling her to get more rest and even nap if she needs to. At least that’s what I get out of the parts she reads aloud to me. Yet, I swear, she’s doing more now than she ever has before even though I get pissed sometimes that she’s not taking it easier.

“So you made a new friend tonight, huh?” I rattle of random thoughts to pass the time before we both fall asleep.

My hand tickles the skin of her outer hip mindlessly.

“Who?” She asks, only half interested.

I forgot the woman’s name already. I just remember she was a little uptight. Usually, we don’t condone our women going outside the club, making friends with perfect strangers, but I’m beginning to see that may not be realistic now that Sasha’s making friends of her own.

Chick’s talk. I don’t want Angel to be the odd mom out and feel weird around school shit. Our kind get enough sideway glances and dirty looks because of the leather and the bikes. Angel don’t need anything else adding to that when dealing with these other moms.

“You know… what’s her name? Sasha’s little friend’s mom,” I describe the woman,

Angel holds her breath. I can feel it. “What? What is it?”

She’s quiet for a second or two. “I don’t think I’m the type of woman she would want to call a friend.”

I exhale. For as long as I’ve known her, Angel hasn’t fully understood how perfect she is and how lucky other people are to have her. I had hoped it would get better by now, but that last statement shows me it hasn’t.

“Oh? And why’s that? Because you’re not stuck-up, and pretentious enough for her? Or you think she’s shallow enough not to have a friend that is sexier and hotter than she is?”

Angel gives a weak laugh. “You know damn well why. I’m not exactly in her league.”

I can’t wait to hear what type of bullshit reasoning she gives for this one. I swear, chicks are crazy sometimes.

“She’s a mom. She’s probably in the fucking P.T.A. I’ll bet she doesn’t curse and she definitely has never been on the back of a bike before. What do we have in common? Nothing.”

I’ve had just about enough of this. My hand pushes against her, forcing her to roll over and face me. She fights me half-heartedly. Once on her back, I spread my large hand over the warm skin of her stomach.

“You are a mom. You wanna join the fuckin P.T.A.? Then join it. Run the goddamned thing. Just don’t sell yourself short,” I make my case.

Angel rolls her eyes. “Sasha’s always going to be the one who lives with her aunt and uncle. She’s always gonna be different and—”

“That’s what’s got you all upset? The fact that you didn’t push her out yourself?” I know how much Angel loves that little girl. It never occurred to me that something like this would eat away at her.

Maybe it’s because I have my club and think of each of them like a brother even though we don’t share blood. I know first hand that family has nothing to do with who shares your name or who’s on your birth certificate.

Apparently Angel doesn’t see it the same way.

“Then let’s do something about it.” I propose a solution. There’s only one way to solve this. “You want her to be your kid? Then let’s make it happen. Adopt her. Make it all official and shit.”

She rolls her eyes again. Mmmmm. If we weren’t having such a serious conversation, I’d throw her sexy ass over my knee for it.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t adopt her. She already has a mom, even though it’s a piss poor junkie version of a poor excuse for a parent. Forget it, okay? I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m exhausted.”

I know when to push and when not to. Angel can get bitchy when I press her on shit like this.

“Fine. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” I kiss her, silently apologizing for bringing up a topic that clearly hurts her so much.

She rolls back over and backs into me until our flesh is pressed up tightly against one another.

It kills me to see her torn up about something like this. Neither of us speaks, instead we lie still, silent, although I know we’re both still thinking about it. Her, because I know when something bothers her to the point that this obviously does, she obsesses over it.

And me, I can’t help but think of ways to fix it.

That’s what I do. If something bothers my woman… I fix it.

CHAPTER SIX

STITCH

“You’re gonna return this shit, right?” I’m doubtful I’ll ever see the tools I’m handing over again.

Gryff shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah. I mean, what the fuck am I gonna do with ‘em? Keep ‘em? I mean, who even uses half the crap in here anyway?”

It’s ironic that he’s come here looking to bum some tools off me because he obviously doesn’t have any of his own, yet doesn’t see the practicality in owning any.

“Oh, I don’t know… people who actually build and fix shit, maybe? What self respecting man doesn’t own a toolbox?” I throw a box of screws over to him. If he doesn’t have tools, he sure as hell doesn’t have screws.

The box rattles as he catches it mid-air. “The kind that don’t build shit. If Uno hadn’t been such a pussy then there’s no way Dawson would be making me build the dump tank and I wouldn’t need to borrow this shit. So, thank Uno.”

A scary thought crosses my mind as I scan my shelves looking for whatever other power tool he may need for his project. He’s right. He doesn’t build shit. The man lives in a brand new house that still has stickers on the goddamned windows because he’s too fuckin’ lazy to take ‘em off. I’ll bet my Harley he doesn’t even have a goddamned screwdriver of his own.

A man like that, has no business using some of this equipment, especially since it’s mine and he’s probably gonna either break it or hurt himself. Not to mention, I’m going to be highly suspicious of the structural integrity of whatever he winds up with at the end.

No way in hell is it gonna be able to hold water like it needs to and probably won’t even be able to handle the body weight of the person stuck inside. I don’t know what Dawson was thinking when he ordered Gryff to do this, but let’s just say it’s not gonna work out well.

“Tell you what… I’m the only brother with a decent tool shed. I got nothin’ to do for the next day or two other than helpin’ Baby with the kid.” I can see his eyes grow round and interested.
Too
interested. “You bring the beer and the shit to throw on the grill and we can build this thing here. I’m not having it on my conscience that it falls apart and hurts someone ‘cause you don’t know the difference between a damn nut and a bolt.”

I have a sneaky suspicion I’m being played, that Gryff knew exactly what was gonna happen.

He laughs and grabs his junk. “I know all I need to know about nuts, right here, boy. The ladies fuckin’ love it.”

I snicker to myself. Yeah, they fuckin’ love it alright. Until they realize the prick those nuts are attached to ain’t got much else to offer other than a bed for the night. I don’t even pay attention to the chicks that rotate in and out of Gryff’s life anymore. It’s not worth it. I know I’ll never see the same one twice.

“You buy all the materials, too.” No way in hell am I footing the bill for this shit. He broke it last year, then he can pay for the new one this year. I take the drafting pencil on the nearest shelf and begin to scribble a list of lumber and supplies. If I’m the one doin’ most of the work here, then I’m gonna milk it for all it’s worth, adding a shit ton more to the list than I really need.

“Here,” I hand over the scrap of paper with writing on both sides. “Get a few cases of Bud and some steaks for the grill, too.”

Gryff doesn’t even put up an argument while taking the list. He does hesitate before moving, however. “Sure. No problem, brother. Uhm… one question, though. Where do I get this shit?”

He’s
got
to be kidding me, right?

“Call Uno. Tell his ass to get over here and he can go get the shit with you. Dawson told you two to do this thing together? Then neither one of you are getting off the hook and pawning it all off on me.” Lord help me. This is going to be a shit show.

~*~

Second to the sound of a nice tailpipe on a Harley, the sound of a screw gun is like music to my ears. It relaxes me. Soothes me almost.

One of the only saving graces while I was locked up in the pen was being able to work in the prison wood shop. Of course they’d never let us have power tools and we had to do everything the old-fashioned way by hand, but I didn’t mind. For whatever time I was working on some piece of shit broken desk or fixin’ doors or whatever menial shit they had me doin’, it was less time I had to spend thinking about how much I missed the things that really mattered. My woman. My club. My bike. My tools.

Baby once said I treated the things in my tool shed like a woman treated the shoes in her closet. Whatever the fuck that means. All I know is a man’s tools say somethin’ about the man himself.

It says he can take care of shit. It says he can turn random things into
something
.

Growing up, my pop had an old rusted metal tool box where the hinges creaked when you opened the lid. Didn’t matter though, because once you saw what was inside, it was like looking at the Holy Grail. That shit sparkled in the sunlight, it was so damn pristine and clean.

Every tool in there had a place, every nail, every screw, every washer had a home.

Any time Ma would complain that somethin’ was broken, it was like a small miracle for pop. He’d get up from his beat-up recliner, go fetch his tool box and pretend it was some sort of inconvenience that he was gonna be missing some of his TV show, but we all knew he was happier than a pig in shit to be able to work with his hands.

He was a truck driver by trade, and so other than fixing flats, pumping gas, and tinkering under the hood every once in a while, the only use his hands were for most of the day was to be wrapped around the steering wheel or fiddling with the remote control at home.

In another life, my pop would have been a carpenter. He always talked about how that’s what he was meant to be. But, life had other plans. For however poor we were when I was growin’ up, his folks had been twice as poor. Going to trade school and learning the craft hadn’t been much of an option for him. He needed to get out there and make some real money fast to help take care of his responsibilities.

Back then there were only a few ways to do that in a small town like his. You either became an outlaw or you hustled on the right side of the law. Either way, though, you hustled.

And he did.

Quit school at sixteen, got a bogus driver’s license until he was old enough to get the real one, and started driving a truck. Without a proper education, his options were limited, but he always made sure he took care of his business.

The man dies not having owed a single penny to anyone his entire life. He may not have had much, but he never went without, either. Neither did his family. The one thing he would ever spend money on for himself was his tools, and that’s why he took such good care of them. He had worked his ass off and scrimped and saved to have been able to buy them and took pride in them.

He may never have had a tool shed of his own or a basement, or even a garage to house them, because we always lived in small apartments growing up. But he had the old rusty metal box. It fit neatly in his closet from place to place as we moved, and never let him down.

I have my own tools now, more than I know what to do with, in part to over compensate for him not being able to have the kind of set-up I know he would have loved.

Emphysema got him years ago, before Baby and I even bought this house. The entire time I was building this shed and stocking up the tool collection, I always thought of him and how I was doing it in his honor.

With not much to leave behind, I got the only thing I wanted as his only son. I inherited his tool box and it sits on a shelf as a memorial to him and every once in a while I empty it out and clean them all just like I know he used to do.

“You boys hungry? Steaks are almost done,” I hear my woman’s voice from over by the open garage door to the oversized tool shed.

One more screw to go until I’m done with the top half so I quickly put it in place before setting down the heavy screw gun and turning to face the small crowd. I don’t know how this turned into a fucking group activity, but it has.

Baby is the newest to join the group, making her announcement about the grub. The kid is swaddled in a soft pink blanket in her arms. Forget the mention of food, which is usually enough to grab the attention of these guys. They’ve now got a little girl to fawn over.

“I swear,” Uno peeks over her. “She looks more and more like you every day, Baby.”

Uno never had any kids of his own and I’m not really quite sure why. Not the kind of thing you ask a man. I know he seems to love kids, doting on Angel’s little girl, Sasha and now my own little girl too. His Ol’ lady, Trix, runs a goddamned day care and preschool. You’d think the two of them would have a had a littler of their own.

“She may look like me but she’s got her daddy’s cranky attitude sometimes and his bottomless stomach all the rest of the time,” my lady jokes although what she says is most definitely the truth.

I can be a cranky ass when I’m tired.

“You sure we can’t call her Lucy?” Dawson sucks one last sip of beer through his teeth before pushing Uno aside to see the baby. “She’s such a pretty little thing. Why do you want to call her Lu?”

Baby rocks Lu back and forth, but darts her eyes past our visitors and over to me. “Ask her pop. It was his idea.”

Damn straight it was and I stand by it to this day. “Because she’s gonna be a world famous architect and master carpenter one day, and I’m not having some sexist pig of a man see her name and automatically think her work is going to be less because she’s a chick. They see
Lu
and it’s a different story.”

Baby shakes her head. “See? Makes perfect sense, right?” She’s being sarcastic. “Because
every
little girl wants to grow up to work with tools. Why not plan her name around that?”

“Oh yeah? Then
why’d
you agree?” I’m just as sarcastic back.

She looks down at Lu and makes some sort of funny baby face to keep her interested. “Because I liked the name. It’s original. It’s cute. And, sometimes I like to let you think I’m letting you have your way when in reality it’s something I want anyway.”

Uno laughs and Dawson agrees. “I swear, they must teach you broads how to do that in school or something. Angel does it to me
all
the time. She’s so good at it, I don’t’ realize what she does it half the damn time.”

Baby smirks. “How else do you think we keep you boys in line? Speaking of Angel, she feeling alright? I remember I was as sick as a dog that early on.”

D shrugs his shoulders. “She gets sick most mornings, but tries to hide it.”

My woman’s eyes soften in empathy. “Yeah, I remember those days. Sucks. But, at least you’re there if she needs anything. Just keep letting her know that, and she’ll be fine.”

Now, I know Baby. I know her better than I know myself, and I’m positive she’s not taking a stab at me with that comment, but I feel the invisible knife burying itself in my chest anyway.

I
wasn’t there for her back when she was the one getting sick.

I
wasn’t there to to let her know I’d take care of anything she needed.

I was fucking gone, locked up in a cell to leave her all alone while she was going through that. The room grows silent, as everyone else realizes the irony of Baby’s words. She’s telling Dawson firsthand what to do for his own Ol’ lady. Telling him to do what
I
couldn’t back then.

It makes me feel like shit.

“Uhm. Steaks are getting cold. Everyone come eat,” Baby tries to cover up the awkwardness and leaves quickly, off in the direction of the house.

Uno and Gryff follow quietly, leaving Dawson and I behind.

I feel a rage of self-hatred building. One that started building the day I got arrested and doesn’t seem to have a limit to how much it can grow. Every phone call, every letter, every sonogram picture Baby would mail me while I was locked up would make me lash out at myself in anger.

I failed her. I failed myself.

A part of me thought it would get better once I was released, that I’d somehow be able to make up for all the shit I’d missed, all the shit I’d made her go through alone.

But, it doesn’t. It doesn’t get any better.

If anything, it actually gets worse now that I see firsthand all the things I’d only been able to think about while being so far away. Sure, something as simple as morning sickness had always been part of the equation. She’d told me about it in her letters, brushing over it quickly to move on to some other topic. Whenever I’d make my collect calls to her in the morning, I’d be able to hear how raspy her voice was and know she’d just recently gotten sick but wouldn’t tell me.

Seeing the look in her eyes though, the look she gave Dawson when hearing how Angel was dealing with it… I saw something that made it more real to me than it had been back then when she was handling it.

Then, hearing the words come out of her mouth, advising D on how to be there for his Ol’ lady… It must be some subconscious thing that she had wanted and needed and didn’t get.

I’ve found myself searching for a hidden meaning behind most everything she says, looking for proof of how she must resent me, how she must hate me even on some deep level for abandoning her.