Unbreakable: Unrequited Part Two (Fallen Aces MC Book 2) (31 page)

Fucking life.
I won’t do it; I won’t back down and admit that I can’t have it all. Fuck the world. I
can
do it all. If I want Elena in my life and a club under my feet, then I’ll damn well make it happen.

Just fucking watch.

Elena

No sun breaks the dawn, hidden away behind a cluster of storm clouds. The weather mirrors my mood as I stare at the scribbled note King left before he walked out last night.

I won’t quit. Maybe I’ll wait most of my life, but there’ll come a day when you say yes.

I turn the fuel docket over in my hands, reading the time and place on it again. Why? Because somehow knowing that little detail of his journey, knowing where he stopped on his way to see me last night, connects me to him.

Dante slips in beside me, and I shove the note under my pillow before he sees it and asks what it says.

“Morning, Momma.” He nuzzles in behind me, cuddling up to my warmth the same as he has since he was big enough to climb onto my mattress himself. I rue these mornings, knowing they won’t last forever. One day he’ll stop coming in, and then before I know it, I’ll be phoning him up and trying to bribe him to come over on the weekend with his favorite meal.

“How’d you sleep?” I ask, same as I always do.

“Had a real strange dream,” he says. “Does my daddy have a motorbike?”

I’m going to hell for this.
“Wow, yeah, he does.”

“And I dreamed it?” he asks, surprised.

“That’s so strange,” I lie. “What else do you remember?”

“He made you cry.”

“Really?” I roll over and stroke the hair from his face. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I think you missed him, Mom.”

No crying. No more tears.
“Crazy.”
Time to change the subject.
“What are we going to do today?”

He sucks his lips together while he thinks it over. “Make a cake, and then we can take it to the park and eat it there. You can walk while I ride my bike.”

How can I say no to such enthusiasm? “Sounds perfect.”

***

By the time the cake’s made, cooled, and iced, we’re setting off for a late lunch at the local parkland. I fill a backpack with everything we’ll need and open the trunk of the car to place Dante’s bike inside. Wrestling with the handlebars, I curse as an urgent courier van turns up behind me. The driver hops out, envelope in hand, and jogs across to me.

“Elena Burgadas?”

“What do you want?” I sigh, realizing I’ve just chewed a stranger’s ear off because of my frustrations with Dante’s bike. “I’m sorry.”

The man looks at me, surprised, as I straighten up and run a hand over my hair. “Could you please sign?”

My stomach turns; the last time I signed for a delivery it ruined my chance of sleeping soundly for a solid month afterward.

I take the envelope from him and sign the handheld device. He nods and jogs back to his van, speeding off into the warming day.

I flip the envelope over and frown at the lack of sender’s details. Figuring I have nothing to lose, I grab hold of the tear-strip and rip it open. A single sheet of notepaper is inside, containing a printed message.

From King.
Damn it. Dante shuts the front door behind him and gets buckled into the car while I read the simple message:

Don’t have your phone number—you keep that hidden well, so here’s a message the only way I can get it to you . . .

You’re moving.

Closer to me.

Stop arguing.

I said stop.

You’re moving; it’s final.

You’ve got a week to pack.

That motherfucking—

“Mom. You coming?”

Ugh. Five hundred miles between us and he still manages to piss me off.

Still, I smile.

The man’s going to be the death of me, but what a sweet death it’ll be.

King

Ten months later

“Abbey, I need you to do me a favor, gorgeous.”

She looks up from her filing and frowns a little. A few weeks back, one of the newer club girls took her out to get her hair done and she came back with it cut to her shoulders. I still can’t get past how much more mature she looks.

“Can you pick up a birthday present for a seven-year-old boy?”

She cocks her head to the side—her way of saying she wants more explanation.

“Nephew,” I lie. Nobody around here knows a thing about my family to be able to call bullshit. The only person who knows is Hooch, and he’s miles away in the Fort Worth chapter.

Abbey nods and goes back to slotting the invoices away where they belong. I lean to my left and pull my wallet out of my back pocket as Sonya appears at the open door of my office and knocks quietly.

“What’s the matter, love?” I pull out a couple of twenties and wave them at Abbey. She snatches the bills and scoots out of the office.

“I tried to fire up the cooker just now and the gas was out.” Sonya chews on her bottom lip. “When I shot outside to switch the tanks over, ugh, they were all empty.”

Shit.
When did we last pay the gas company? I hold a finger up to her and snatch up the manila folder that sits on the left side of my desk. She waits patiently while I file through the enormous list of what still has to be paid and come up with a bill, a reminder notice, and a bright fucking sheet of paper with “stop supply” emblazoned all over it.
Damn.

“I’ll sort it out. Can you do anything without gas?”

She nods. “I’ll make subs. Don’t worry about a thing, King.”

“Thanks, precious.” Sonya transferred from our Forth Worth chapter with her man a few years back, and after he was taken too soon in a road accident, she’s been a staple around the club. I couldn’t run the place as efficiently without her.

She leaves with a smile, and I step out from behind the desk to make another run to beg for a loan I know I won’t get. The club digs deeper into the shit every week that goes by, and every option to try and recover, to try and cut costs, is exhausted. I’m out of ideas. Out of faith that I can keep this club on the right side of the law for much longer.

Abbey re-appears at the door, as I stop by the small mirror that hangs on the wall to check my appearance.

“Do you know what he likes?”

I shake my head. I have no idea what Dante’s into.
Parenting fail.

“I’ll ask the people at the shop what’s popular.” She slinks away, leaving me staring down the fake in the mirror.

I moved Elena closer to Lincoln nine months ago, and in that time I’ve seen my boy once. The worst part of it? It wasn’t because Elena stopped me from dropping by, like I would have thought, but because I’m exactly the man she said I was—I’ve put the club first over my own kid and missed two scheduled weekends because things here needed to be sorted out.

My gaze falls to the president badge stitched on my cut. I fucking fought it. I argued, I gave reasons why I should be overlooked, but nothing would change their minds. Those men went in to the meeting with a purpose, and no amount of bellyaching from me would change that.

I relented. I agreed to one term. A term lasts four years. I’ve struggled through the last ten months, so Lord knows if I’ll even be alive after a full fucking term. But it is what it is, and the best I can do is make it work . . . somehow.

The garage is empty when I head out, a small reprieve. Fingers would have asked questions, grilled me about the shitty look on my fucking face, and as of this moment I don’t have it in me to answer. I ride through the streets, half paying mind to the fact some cars straddle the side of the road when they see me in their rear view mirror. My image instills fear; it demands respect. Most of the time that’s a good thing, but I often wonder will the real man beneath it all ever be seen? Ever be appreciated? Ask a bunch of strangers on the street what they see when they look at me and none of the accolades would be anything good. I guess they wouldn’t be far off, though. After all, I’m a shitty father to date.

Once upon a time I’d thought I could change. Once upon a time I would have said, “Fuck the past; let’s make the future where it’s at.” But the years tick by. Age wearies my face, and I look at that guy in the mirror now wondering when he decided to give up, to only put in half the effort. When the hell did I think I’d finally get it all figured out? When I’m dead?

My tires whirr on the asphalt as I weave the bike from side-to-side, killing time until the road opens out into a stretch straight enough for me to pass the farm truck in front of me. I lift a hand and wave at a curly-haired girl who stares out the back window. Her lips spread into a wide grin before she twists around, pigtails flying as she does, and faces the front again. Every so often I come across a kid who’s not afraid—who hasn’t been jaded by life—and the acceptance is a welcome reprieve. I give the girl a smile as she looks one last time, the truck turning off to a side road.

My joy is short-lived as I pull up outside the bank and drag in a deep breath. Boots clinking and leather hot and sticky on my back, I head inside and give the young woman on the front desk a smile.

“How may I help you?” Her words are sincere enough, but her eyes dart to the other customers while she waits on my answer.

People stare. People whisper. And they make assumptions.

Let them.

“I’d like to speak to a lendin’ officer, please.”

Elena

With my palms braced on the edge of the kitchen counter, I stare at the old digital clock on the cooker as it ticks over another minute. He was supposed to be here more than an hour ago.

Laughter drifts through the house, followed by the shrill sound of kids’ voices battling over one another to be heard. Dante sits amidst the chaos, smiling large and enjoying the attention.

So he should; it’s his birthday.

“Do you need a hand with anything?” One of the mothers—her name escapes me—stands in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand braced on the frame.

“Uh, let me think.” I glance around at the stacks of unopened chips, candy bags, pop, and plastic plates. Yet I take none if it in. I’m still spitting mad at King. “I think I have it under control. We’ll do the cake soon.”

She nods, smiling, and walks away to rejoin the madness. I should be there as the host, making sure everyone’s enjoying themselves, but what good am I when my temper is as brittle as dry kindling? One spilt drink, one dropped plate of crumbs, and I’m likely to lose it.

Damn you, King.
This’ll be the third time he hasn’t shown up. What was the point in him forcing us to move here? So he could ignore us at closer proximity? I should have fought back harder, but there was only so much I could do when the controlling bastard paid our deposit on this place and cancelled our term at the last. How he did that, I’m yet to find out, but I’m sure it either involved a friendly fist or a lot of booze and women to convince the landlord he should listen to somebody who
wasn’t
on the damn lease.

I throw a handful of M&Ms in my mouth and puff my chest out, ready to tackle the rest of the party as though King was never meant to come. It should be easy to pretend he’s not a part of our lives given he seems hell bent of making sure he’s not.

The kids take no time at all to rip through the piñata and collect the candies off the ground. I lose myself in the simple things, laughing along with them as they act the fool, hyped up on sugared sweets. One of the families indicates they’re ready to leave so I duck back inside to take care of the cake before they all miss out. Candles alight, I carry it out and our small gathering sings an out of tune, but perfect rendition of “Happy Birthday” to Dante. The sponge cake is sliced, and I’m handing out the last plate to a cute wee girl with her hair braided to the side when the last damn sound I wanted to hear breaks the otherwise short-lived peace that is children feeding themselves.

My heart sinks when I notice one of the mothers leaning in and whispering to another as the deep rumble cuts out on our driveway.

“Excuse me.”

They all grace me with painted smiles as I shoot out the front to cut King off in his tracks.

“You’re too late,” I snap, drawing King’s attention from the present he has in his hands.

His shoulders drop, and for the merest of moments I wonder if I’m being too harsh on him, but then I remember Dante’s face when I’ve explained in the past that King wouldn’t be showing up, and my resolve is set. Yes, they’re still getting to know each other, but it doesn’t stop our son being disappointed at coming second to a bunch of men on bikes.

“Elena . . . not today.”

I laugh bitterly at him, punching my arms across my chest and burying my fists at my sides. “That’s exactly what I said when you failed to turn up an hour ago.”

“I had things to take care of while the place was still open, okay?”

“No, King,” I shake my head, determined to stop this cycle before it even really begins. “It’s not okay.
This
is exactly what I said I didn’t want when you showed up uninvited in Denver. And then what? You moved us here anyway and
nothing’s changed.
”

“Let me give him his present at least.” He squares his shoulders, finding some fight in himself, although his eyes show how truly tired and worn out he is.

“What is it?”

He stares down at the blue patterned paper and swallows.

He has to be kidding.
“You didn’t even buy it, did you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes it fucking matters.” I huff, throwing my arms down as I turn away, too angry to look at him anymore. “You couldn’t spare even an hour to go out and personally pick out a gift for your child.”

I spin around at the sound of a solid thump and find King sitting on his ass in the middle of the path. He sets the gift down on the grass and tucks his arms around his legs.

“What are you doing?” He can’t stay there. Damn it. He better not be thinking about camping out until I let him see Dante.

“I’m tired, Elena. Physically and mentally. I can’t be fucked fightin’ anymore.” He runs ringed fingers through hair that hangs the longest I’ve ever seen it.