Stroking the hair from her face, I ask her about the one piece to her puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. “How can a guy who’s only been in the country for three years know about your past but nobody else does?”
“He found something out from Big Mike before he killed him. Mike used to supply Harris’s club with weed.”
“Who’s Harris?”
“My uncle.”
“Oh, right.”
“He was a member of the Devil’s Breed. That’s all I remember about him; that damn cut he wore all the time—I never knew what the picture on the back represented until a few years ago. I was a kid, you know? It was just a devil on a leather vest to me.”
Devil’s Breed. “You must know about Horse then, right?”
“The old guy who hangs out at the Lion? Yeah, I know about him—know he’s one of them.”
“So . . .?” Why hasn’t she just asked him?
“Harris is dead. There’s no point talking to Horse about it.”
I can see how that puts a dampener on things. “He might still have the answer, though.”
Ryan pulls herself up to sit, looking me square in the eye. “You do know the basic rules of MC, right?”
“I know enough bikers to understand a few, yeah.”
“So you know that members don’t discuss club business with anyone, let alone a woman, and more so a woman who doesn’t belong to the club?”
Of course. How fuckin’ stupid are you, Bronx? “What if I asked him?”
She sighs, as though explaining this to me is physically taxing on her. “He wouldn’t tell you either; you’re not a member.” She pats my leg with a kind of finality. “Eddie’s my only option.”
Right. I rub a hand over my head. There has to be a way around this, to know for sure. King? One of the Saints? Sure, they aren’t the same club, but there’s a kind of brotherhood between bikers that doesn’t exist between a civilian and a patched member. It could work. “What if I told you I know a few guys who might be able to help?”
Her eyes grow wide. “Who?”
“How much you know about MCs outside of the Devil’s Breed?”
Ryan tucks her legs up, leaning an arm on the back of the sofa so she can face me. “I’ve heard a bit about the other clubs around here. Talked to a woman at a party one night that reckoned she was a club whore for a while. Now she had some interesting stories to tell.” Ryan smiles.
“You heard about the Fallen Saints?”
“Group from Lincoln, aren’t they?”
“That’s the main chapter, yeah.” I get up and pace to the far side of the room, excitement coursing through me as I fiddle with a picture of Gunter and Tommy as kids on the mantelpiece.
What the fuck am I doing, though?
You know what you’re doing, dick. Yeah, I’m only about to reveal the whole gig to Ryan. King’s threat circles through my mind, but I shove a gag in that fucker’s mouth and asshole him out the door. He said it best—when all I can think about is Ryan, I need to tell her that and let her be the one who decides how this will play out. It’s time I stopped beating around the bush and gave her the truth. Let the cards lie as they will and deal with the fallout when it happens.
“You okay?” she asks, breaking me out of my head. I turn back to find her kneeling on the sofa, her hands on her thighs while she watches me curiously.
“I’ve got some things I need to tell you, but before I do, understand I’m tellin’ you not only because it might help you out, but because I can’t keep lyin’ to you.”
Her brow twitches, and she slumps back into the cushions, unfurling her long legs. “Lying.”
I nod, unable to look at her. I can’t risk seeing the pain or betrayal on her. That shits guts me every time. I can’t get it from her, too.
“What have you been lying about?”
“Why I’m here.”
She lets a laden breath out through her nose and frowns. “I don’t know if I can hear this now. I mean, with Tommy and everything. I can only take so much in one day, Bronson.”
“Don’t call me Bronson anymore. Please.”
Ryan pinches the bridge of her nose, squinting her eyes closed. “Let me guess—that’s the first lie.”
“It’s pretty much the whole lie,” I affirm. “The rest is circumstantial.”
She shakes her head, still pinching her nose while uttering a quiet ‘fuck’s sake’. “No more, okay? I can’t take more right now.”
“I want to help you.” I’m seconds away from falling to my knees and begging.
“Well, you’re not. In fact you’re making me want you to do anything but help. Shit!” She jerks her hand away from her face, throwing her head back and growling at the ceiling. “Is there a single fucking person on this planet who can damn well be open with me?”
“I’m trying to be,” I say, my tone a lot harsher than intended.
“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Right after you fucking lied to me while you were busy shoving your tongue down my throat. Get out.” Her arm flings out toward the door. “Get the fuck out—now!”
“Ryan . . .” I hold my hands up, pleading.
“No, Br—whatever your name is. No! I gave you the truth and told you something about me that hardly anyone knows, and you know what? I feel like a fool for doing so, given you’ve been playing me this whole time.” She stands from the seat, fists at her side. “What are you after? Money? Drugs? Eddie’s spot?”
“All of it.” Her face reddens. “But none of it’s for me.”
“What? You’re going to tell me you’re a modern day Robin Hood, or something?”
I laugh coolly at the image of myself in green leggings. “Yeah, I guess so, when you put it like that.”
“Nobody puts this much effort into a job without getting paid,” she states, crossing her arms over her chest a few steps short of where I am. “What are you getting out of it? What’s your reward . . .”—her eyes search the carpet for something—“Jesus, just tell me your name so I don’t keep going to call you Bronson.”
“Bronx,” I murmur. “It’s Bronx.”
“Close enough, I guess.” She closes her eyes briefly, clearly trying to compose herself. “Tell me what you get from this. Give me something redeeming about you, Bronx, because fuck it all, I really want a to forgive you for this and go back to what we were starting.”
“I get my life back.” The answer was automatic, a raw truth, but saying it out loud slots something into place inside of me. I get my life back. Settling this deal with Carlos doesn’t just get the fucking drug lord off my back, it settles debts, and evens the playing field for everyone. It gives me space to breathe, room to move, and time to decide what the fuck I want out of the rest of my life.
Who do I want to be when these hands are no longer capable of fighting for a living? When arthritis sets in after years of neglect and my joints scream at the simple task of stirring my coffee, what then? Who will I be without the ability to fight and maim?
Ryan tips her head to the side, her brow furrowed as though she’s trying to work me out. “What makes you say that? Has somebody got a hold over you?”
“More or less.” I shrug, taking a step sideways to slump onto the arm of a chair. “Heard of Carlos Redmond?”
“Yeah, and of his son, Sawyer.”
Fuck—hasn’t everyone? “Yeah, well his old man, Carlos, wants me dead as collateral unless he gets what Eddie took from him back.”
“Like that’s ever going to happen.” She scoffs, turning away with her arms still firmly folded over her chest.