Having It All (4 page)

Jenny

Motorcycle clubs take care of their own shit. You don’t go running to the cops. A club member who did would be betraying his brothers. I’m not a Hellfire Rider, I’m not an old lady, but I’m Saxon’s. By telling Landauer anything about last night, I’d be betraying him.

But I keep seeing that blood. And I wonder what would be harder to live with: Saxon dead or Saxon not loving me?

I know the answer. Because in the moment last night that his eyes closed and his bloodied body seemed lifeless, I’d have done anything,
anything,
to bring him back. Even if I never held him again.

Maybe there’s another way, though. I don’t know what it is. I’m trying to think of one, but Hashtag has moved away from asking questions; instead he’s telling me about the night-vision goggles that he and Scarecrow will be using to make sure Reichmann doesn’t try to sneak up on us in the dark again. Then he says that everything would be a lot easier if they could just bomb the shit out of the Eighty-Eight’s compound, and Scarecrow tells him that he’s been fighting overseas too long and forgot about the old ladies and kids that are probably living out there, or maybe he just doesn’t give a shit about collateral damage and would like to send in a drone, then they start sniping about the last presidential election and I have to tell them to shut the fuck up so I can think.

But I’m not thinking. I’m just hurting. And now they both keep apologizing, so I tell them to follow me up to the house where I can make us all something for lunch. As soon as I’m there I sit them down in the kitchen, then open the refrigerator and stare at the nothing inside.

A little milk. One egg. Usually one of the Titans’ prospects goes grocery shopping for my dad on Monday morning—a perk of being the president of a motorcycle club is that he doesn’t ever have to do any of that everyday stuff—but Bottlecap must not have gone today, because he’s in an emergency meeting.

Because Saxon was shot.

Because he agreed to protect me.

“I guess we don’t have anything,” I say dully, then something inside me breaks and I’m bawling. For an endless time, I stand sobbing helplessly in front of the open icebox and I can feel both Scarecrow and Hashtag silently panicking behind me, wondering what to do, but there’s nothing they can do.

Maybe there’s something
I
can do, though.

I wipe my face and draw a ragged breath. “Don’t tell Saxon I did that, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Hashtag says. I know he’s lying. “It’s just delayed shock or whatever.”

“Right.”

Scarecrow offers, “How about I run into town and grab us all something to eat? It won’t take me long.”

I’ve got a better idea. “How about we all just go? I wanted to meet up with Anna sometime today, anyway.”

“All right,” Hashtag agrees. “I just need to let the boss know we’re headed out. You got a magic spot around here so I can send a text?”

Somewhere the phone reception gets through. “Sometimes you can get a bar or two if you’re in the window seat in my room. But there’s a land line here. The clubhouse is the first number on the speed dial.”

“Yeah, that’s great, but real talking sucks. Is it okay if I head up to your room?”

I nod and start for the stairs. “I’ll show you.”

Because I’ve got a couple of messages to send, too.

• • •

Saxon

My shoulder’s hurting like a son of a bitch on fire. The few ibuprofen I took aren’t cutting it, but the heavy-duty painkillers I’ve got will fog up my brain and put me half to sleep. Maybe there’s no difference, though. There’s pain that clears your head and pain that empties your head, and I’m right on the edge of the second.

Luckily I haven’t had to do much talking. Instead Red’s been laying everything out—who the brothers need to be looking out for and which parts of our asses we need to cover before any cops come poking around. Where the safe houses are if anyone wants to tuck away their family for a bit. The equipment and info we still need before we can head out to the compound.

“The easiest way to get that info is to grab a Henchman and persuade him to tell us about their setup. But Reichmann and the others are likely to be lying low the next week or so,” he says. “They got to know that the sheriff’s watching all of us real close. Reichmann’s as stupid as a donkey’s ass, though, so he might want to come out and bray.”

“But even if he does, he’ll still hide behind someone,” I say and the flare of agony in my jaw puts spots in front of my eyes. “He’s got two gears: hurting someone weaker than he is, or ordering his brothers to hurt someone stronger. So he’s not going to come out alone.”

“And if he does come out?” Beaver asks.

“Ride on. You let us know he was out, but you ride on. We’re only looking to get one alone.” I glance at Blowback. “And we’ll make sure he talks.”

Picasso frowns. “What about the prospect that trashed Zoomie’s bike? We know where he is, don’t we?”

“He’s gone.”

Eyes flat and face hard, my veep answers. Looking at him, most of the brothers are probably assuming that Blowback took the prospect out. He didn’t. Blowback got some info from him a few weeks ago—mostly about the Eighty-Eight’s meth operation—but the prospect vanished about a day after. We still don’t know if he took off or if Reichmann killed him for talking.

“So we need that info,” Red says. “We don’t want to leave shit to chance. And we don’t want to leave anything that’ll point to us. So when we burn their house down, we need to be like a dick in a rubber—we go in clean and we come out clean.”

Fuck. That’s a good one. But grinning makes my head pound and my temper short, so when I see Bottlecap sidling along the wall toward Red and me, the look I give the prospect freezes him in place.

He holds up a phone—
my
phone. The last I saw it I was dumping it in a basket with everyone else’s so there weren’t any distractions and no one got their asses kicked for texting during the meeting.

“You got a few messages,” the kid says.

“Prez,” Red reminds him quietly.

“You got a few messages, Prez. I’m on phone duty.”

“Bring it here. Everyone else, take ten minutes.” Two messages. “You got reception here?”

“No, sir. I was babysitting them out by the bend in the road.”

One from Hashtag.
Miss E was crying her eyes out because the fridge is empty. We’re heading to PV for lunch.

Into town. “Who usually shops for groceries?”

“Me, sir.”

“You make sure you get them this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.”

I read the message again. My chest is tight as fuck.
Crying her eyes out.
Jenny doesn’t cry easy. Not over food. She told me she’s all right.

She’s not.

But there’s no message from her, asking for me to come. Just one from Zoomie. According to Blowback, she’s not here because she’s flying a helitack crew out to a wildfire a few counties over. That probably pisses her off. She’s real careful never to give any brothers the opportunity to say she isn’t pulling her weight—and some will. They won’t say shit about the others who couldn’t get off work to come to this meeting. But some will say maybe she’s afraid to mix it up with the Eighty-Eight.

It’s not about the meeting, though.
Jenny’s asking me if I know any aerial photographers so she can make a brochure. BUT SHE DIDN’T WANT TO HIRE MY BIRD. I gave her a few other names but WTF? She wants them by tomorrow. TOMORROW. Is she okay?

Irritation spikes through me. What’s the big fucking deal about tomorrow? There’s nothing else going on. And if Zoomie’s upset that Jenny wants to hire someone else, that’s her damn business. Jenny’s not running a lemonade stand. Everything she does with that brewery is based on all kinds of marketing research and she plans everything ahead—

Hell. She plans a lot further ahead than
tomorrow
. That’s what Zoomie’s getting at. There’s nothing particular about tomorrow. It’s just that Jenny doesn’t run her business that way.

She’s usually generous with her friends, too. I’ve seen it. There’s pretty much nothing she won’t give them and tossing a little business in their direction is just part of it—just like the brothers look to each other before hiring someone outside the club.

And she’s not all right. Breaking down and crying.

It isn’t hard to guess what’s going on. Throwing herself into work, distancing herself from her friends. She’s blaming herself for this. Maybe worried she’ll put a target on Zoomie just by being close. Probably real scared the Eighty-Eight will come for me again. If that’s the case, nothing will help her but getting out to the Eighty-Eight’s compound and finishing this.

And I’m the stupidest fuck that ever lived.

I write a response.
She’ll be all right. Get your ass here ASAP. I need to hire your bird.

Bottlecap’s still waiting. I give him the phone. “That’ll send when you get back out there, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get back out there.” I look to Red. “We’ll get eyes on the compound. They’re just not going to be on the ground.”

• • •

Blowback will be going up with Zoomie tomorrow night. She’ll fly, he’ll scope the place out. Easier than nabbing a Henchman—and less likely to go balls up. I’d rather it be earlier but it might be best this way. I pushed too hard today. I can deal with pain but my shoulder stiffened up. If I don’t get a full day of resting this arm I won’t be any good when the time comes to go after Reichmann.

But I’m already damn sorry I took those painkillers before coming to the ranch house. I’m feeling almost drunk and didn’t put up much resistance when Jenny pushed me down onto her big bed and told me to stay put. But she’s not here with me. Instead she’s putting away the clothes that she picked up from my house. So I’m just lying here, my body heavy, watching her make room for me in her place. Though in truth, it’s an easy fit. I don’t have much and Jenny’s basically got the whole upstairs floor to herself. They’ve opened up and expanded the rooms, so she’s got a huge suite with big windows overlooking the orchard out back. Nothing girly, either. I’d have been fine with that if it was. But instead there’s lots of browns and golds and greens, like she took the colors from her hair and eyes and made a room of them.

And I don’t think I was wrong. She’s distancing herself. Blaming herself. It’s subtle, but she doesn’t look at me as often as she usually does, and sometimes when she does she glances away quick. She’s moving stiffly, too, back and forth from the bench at the end of the bed to the closet big enough to be its own room, holding herself really careful so she doesn’t break.

Seeing how this weighs on her hurts more than being shot does.

“Zoomie said you asked her about pilots.”

“I did.” She’s paying close attention to my jeans as she refolds a pair that were already folded. “I’m thinking of pushing the local angle. You know, hops from local fields, supporting the local farmer. That kind of thing. So I’ll get photos of some nearby farms.”

“You rolling out any organic beer?”

“No, but that would be smart. Eventually I will.”

“I get asked all the time to put more organic stuff on the menu at the Den.”

She shoots me a surprised look. “The Riders ask you for it?”

Shit. Laughing hurts like a motherfucker. “Nah. The lunch crowd. Especially tourists.”

Her smile comes and goes too quickly. She turns toward the closet again. God damn it.

I get up and go after her, my feet bare and my arm stuck in a sling. Every muscle seems to weigh a ton. “You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you?”

Her whole body freezes up. Her widened eyes shoot to my face. “What? No. Guilty about what?”

“No? Then why are you running around here all skittish?” I know she’s not afraid of
me
. Which means she’s just afraid. “Am I gonna have to fuck the answer out of you?”

Her jaw sets. “I hate it when you do that.”

“But it works.” Because she never keeps distance between us when I touch her. But I don’t ever warn her that’s what I’m doing—and I’m not going to do it now. Her breath is already shuddering. I like it when she’s mad but right now she’s closer to crying. Gently I slip my free arm around her waist and bring her in against my chest. “You know what I’m thinking?”

She’s hiding her face. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders when she silently shakes her head.

“I’m remembering sitting in my cell and getting a letter from you. Just pages and pages of how sorry you were for getting mixed up at that rally and walking into the Eighty-Eight’s territory. Of how sorry you were that you couldn’t get away from Reichmann by yourself. On and on, because you were sorry for every step that landed me in jail—even those steps that you hadn’t taken. So now I’m thinking that maybe you’re feeling the same way, but you haven’t written it out, and you’ve got pages and pages of ‘I’m sorry’ building up in you right now. But I don’t want them. You remember what I wrote back to you and said?”

“I do,” she whispers. “So let me go, Saxon.”

I don’t want to but I do, and watch her walk around the bed and open up a drawer in the nightstand. She pulls out a note and unfolds it. The creases are tattered. The paper’s all but falling apart. She hands it to me and it’s a punch to my chest. There’s my response to her. My writing.

Don’t you EVER be sorry. I’m not.

—Sax

My throat feels thick as hell. She kept this. And by the state of the paper, I guess she must have unfolded and read it hundreds of times. I swallow hard and say, “My answer this time is just the same. Last night? That was on Reichmann, not you. And I’m not sorry. I wasn’t sorry for going to prison when I didn’t know you, and I’m sure as hell not sorry for being with you last night. Even if it had killed me. All I care about is whether you’re safe.”

She flinches when I say it might have killed me. “You think I care less whether
you’re
safe?”

“No. But would you be sorry for taking a bullet for me? That’s never going to fucking happen. But just saying. Would you be sorry?”

Her eyes close. “Are you saying you wouldn’t feel guilty if I did?”