The intercom buzzed to life and a gravelly voice crackled through the speaker. “Was wondering how long you were gonna sit out there.”
I instantly recognized the voice as Worm’s, a longtime brother of the club, and despite my nervousness felt a smile slip past my thinly pressed lips.
“Just mentally preparing myself for those roaming hands of yours,” I quipped.
“Welcome home, little D,” he said, chuckling.
After an entire day spent driving and worrying, his answering laughter, raspy due to many years of chain-smoking, was a welcome sound.
The latch clicked and as the gate began to slowly swing open, I could barely make out through the heavy veil of falling snow the front door of the clubhouse opening. Like a beacon in the midst of the surrounding gloom, a warm glow of light poured forth, spilling out into the darkness.
As I drove forward, a figure appeared in the doorway, imposing in size, taking up nearly the entire entrance. Despite the absence of the sun and the falling snow impeding my vision, I would know those shoulders anywhere. Those were shoulders that usually bore the weight of world upon them, yet somehow never fell.
After parking and with my luggage in tow, I began the trek through the snow-laden parking lot, battling both the biting cold and whipping wind until I reached the front door, a mass of quivering skin and chattering teeth.
Deuce took my suitcase from me. As if it weighed next to nothing, he easily hefted it up and over his shoulder and quickly ushered me inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he pulled me into an awkward one-armed hug. I stood there, momentarily frozen in shock by the uncommonly kind gesture. Deuce didn’t hug people, at least not if he could help it; hugs were reserved for his wife and children.
“Welcome home, Dorothy,” he said gruffly, giving me a hearty pat on the back that if it hadn’t been for his large body in the way, would have sent me flying across the room.
Through the snowflakes still clinging to my eyelashes, I looked up his leather-clad body, taking it all in—the tattooed dragons on his bare forearms, the president patch on his cut, the scent of cigarettes and liquor that always seemed to cling to him, before stopping at his icy blue eyes.
His smile wasn’t friendly; it never had been. Deuce had always snarled more than he’d smiled. But his eyes were soft and kind. Inviting, even. He’d aged a little more since I’d last seen him; he had to be around sixty now and it was starting to show. His long blond hair and beard had heavily grayed, the lines on his forehead and bracketing his eyes had grown longer, were etched in a little deeper.
Pulling off my knit ski hat, I shook out my damp hair and smiled. “I see my daughter has given you a few more gray hairs.”
His smile grew, causing several dimples to appear, and just like that, the changes in his appearance seemed to vanish. He stood before me the same fearfully handsome young man I remembered from my youth. Elusive and frightening, yet intriguing, he’d taken over his father’s motorcycle club and in turn changed the lives of so many.
“Your daughter and that mouth of hers is gonna give me another fuckin’ heart attack,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Her and my own fuckin’ daughters, my sons, my granddaughter, and . . . Jesus Christ, Cox, that motherfucker . . .” He trailed off, grimacing.
“Mm-hmm,” I murmured, glancing around the quiet club. Aside from Worm, who was standing behind the bar pouring himself a liquid snack, there was no one else in sight. As I brought my gaze back to Deuce, I found him watching me, all traces of humor gone, and my smile fell away.
“This shit with Hawk, it ain’t good, D,” he said. “And usually I wouldn’t be tellin’ any of my boys’ old ladies this kinda shit until I had more information, but I’m makin’ an exception here. One, ’cause it’s Hawk and there’s some shit you need to fuckin’ know, and two, ’cause it’s you and you’re family now.
“Let’s go to my office,” he continued, turning away, “and I’ll tell you what I know.”
For a moment I only stood there, watching as he walked off, still holding up my suitcase with those pillars of strength he called shoulders.
Family. He’d called me family. True, our children had married each other, would probably someday have children of their own, but still I’d never thought of myself as part of Deuce’s family.
Not only that, but he’d referred to me as an old lady.
Hawk’s old lady. It made sense, being that I was the mother of his child, and resided in the only other place aside from this clubhouse that he’d put down any sort of roots.
But still . . . I’d never realized . . .
A warm tear slipped out from the corner of my eye and slid down my cold cheek.
Home.
Chapter Six
Jase was glad he was drunk. If he wasn’t drunk and had to listen to Deuce explain that Hawk wasn’t actually Hawk, but instead Luca Fuckachev or some such shit, the son of the head of one of the most dangerous drug and weapons cartels in the history of cartels, he might have actually been pissed off that Deuce had kept this a secret for so goddamn long, like everyone else appeared to be.
Instead, he found the entire thing pretty fucking amusing. Especially the part about Hawk having been shot. But according to the Russians holding him hostage, he was still alive and would continue to stay alive, as long as Deuce and Preacher both agreed to their terms.
Terms that Jase wasn’t entirely aware of since he wasn’t paying much attention to Deuce. Something about guns and the East Coast, something about Preacher and his club, the Silver Demons, something about Hawk being killed if Deuce didn’t get Preacher on board, and something else about going to war with the cartel, blah, blah, fucking blah.
It wasn’t that he wanted Hawk to die, not really. Once upon a time, when the shit had first hit the fan and he’d found out the baby he’d thought was his was actually Hawk’s, and that Hawk and Dorothy had been having an ongoing affair right under his goddamn nose, yeah, he might have wished death upon the guy once or twice.
But that was then and this was now. Now he was freshly divorced, without his kids, having spent another Christmas drunker than shit at the clubhouse, watching Bucket and his girlfriend fuck like rabbits on the couch beside him. Good times.
So, no, he really didn’t give a fuck if Hawk lived or died. In his opinion, if it came down to the club or Hawk, Hawk could go straight to hell. Personal feelings aside, the asshole wasn’t even one of them; instead, he’d been using the clubhouse to hide from the law.
“Preacher’s on his way here,” Mick announced. “He’s on board with the plan and bringing his VP and three of his boys with ’im as a show of good faith to the Russians.”
Deuce nodded his thanks in Mick’s direction, and in turn, Mick averted his eyes.
“What?” Deuce demanded. “What the fuck is your fuckin’ problem?”
Mick shrugged. “I’m your VP, have been since day fuckin’ one, and even though we’ve butted heads a few time, I’ve always stood by your side. Fuck, Prez, I did time in lockup for you and you couldn’t trust me with this?” Mick shook his head. “I don’t know what to think now.”
“I never asked you to take that rap for me!” Deuce shouted. “You need to reel your fuckin’ bullshit in, right the fuck now!”
Mick jumped up out of his seat and slammed his clenched fists down upon the tabletop. “But I fuckin’ did! Because your old man had just kicked the bucket and this fuckin’ club needed some stability for fuckin’ once, not another prez who was locked up!”
“That was almost forty fuckin’ years ago,” Deuce said, purposely punctuating each word. Gripping the edge of the meeting table, he leaned forward, bringing him nearly nose to nose with Mick. “Why are you bringin’ this shit up now? You want me to suck your dick or somethin’?”