Chapter 33
Cook
When I stepped into Bou’s motorcycle shop, I felt the air change. The tension left the stitches in my wounds too tight. Maybe that was because I rode my motorcycle, ignoring how Maddie, Lanie, and Roni all warned me to take the truck. The bike gave me freedom, but the truck probably would’ve been the smarter choice.
I found my brothers chattering in the kitchenette. Church was nearly in session. Celt clapped me on the shoulder as I shook his hand, and Angel gave me a head jerk. Bou gave me a hug. It was good to see that she was safe in the mess that this had all become. She brushed her hand over my arm wound, like she was testing if I was okay, and I shot her a look.
She shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for checking.”
“Maddie checked me over,” I said.
“I bet.” She winked at me.
“Not like that,” I replied.
“So she didn’t roll out the red carpet?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not talking about this with you.”
“Now who’s the shy one? Yet your shirt says it all.” She motioned to my T-shirt that said, There’s no feeling like lipstick on your dipstick. “Did Maddie iron that for you?”
“Yup.” I grinned.
Bou rolled her eyes, and I turned to the kitchenette that was now cramped with a large round table. Our MC was growing.
“We moving these little shindigs into the house soon?” I asked Bou.
Bou beamed. “And miss you cooking in my kitchenette?”
I scoffed. “You have Wilde to make you meals.”
“He’s a terrible cook.”
“No one’s as good as the one and only Cook.” I smirked.
“I’ll give you a tour after church,” said Bou. “But we’re taking out the island and church stays here.” They’d installed a conference phone and television in the room too.
“I heard it’s a bit cramped up in your house right now,” I said, inclining my head to Celt.
“Don’t blame me,” he said. “It’s the fucking contractors. Someone needs to light a fire under Hammer’s ass.”
“Who let him into a club?” I asked Celt, and he ignored me.
“Building just takes a while, Celt. You should go see their place, though,” Bou told me. “I think it’ll go up quicker than ours. Studs are already up.”
I leaned over to her, nudging her with my elbow. “Studs are always up.”
She slapped me on the shoulder, and we all laughed.
“I will,” I answered her, “but you all are coming to my place later. Maddie is cooking up a storm now.” I had given her very specific pointers for what to serve. Lanie and Roni were already there.
“I’ll always go for free food,” said Celt.
Angel nodded. “I imagine I’ll spend a lot of time at your place with my Lanie around her sister.”
“Awww,” Bou moaned, placing her hands on her heart. “You two gonna kiss now? Celt, you jealous? Scared of losing your BFF?”
“Fuck off, Bou,” said Celt, but he gave me a hooded look. Yeah, it was still Celt and me. Had been since we were kids.
I leaned over to Celt. “Did you . . .?”
My best friend slipped an envelope from his pocket, and I took it, feeling the weight. Then I slipped it into my pocket, keeping it close.
“Thanks, brother,” I said.
Celt clapped me on the shoulder again. “Don’t mention it.”
Our conversation faded out as Wilde walked into our meeting room. He wore his leather jacket, and his shoulder hunched forward. He kissed Bou on the lips, though I doubted they had been parted long. She was a patched member like the rest of us here. She shifted her jacket on her shoulders.
Wilde smacked a gavel against the wood meeting table. “Business time.”
“The fuck is that?” asked Angel.
Prez waved it in the air. “Makes us official and shit.”
Celt chuckled and rolled his eyes.
Bou leaned over to me. “He’s pretty proud of it, actually.”
“And here I thought we were here to drink beer and shoot shit,” I said.
Sas, the big fucker, grumbled something under his breath and walked to the Prez’s right side, opposite Angel.
Wilde flicked on the new TV on the wall, and we got a view of the long table at the clubhouse in LA. Ward, Beans, Graff, Teller, and Jackyl stared back at us. The image of them wobbled and pretty soon, we were staring at an image of the warehouse ceiling. Angel hit a button on the thing in the center of our table. “Ya’ll good?”
Duchess’s face flashed on the screen. “Sorry boys.” She repositioned the camera and went into the kitchen behind the guys. She returned with beers for all, then scooted out of the picture.
The others in the room were quiet, watching Wilde and the TV with open curiosity. The Prez made the rules, and we did the bidding. Celt had taken a chair at the end of the table. I waited in the back. Even then, I had the guys checking over their shoulders at me. I was the enforcer, and while I had been injured, I wasn’t down for the count.
“To keep business strong and income flowing, we’ve entered into a business arrangement with the Mafia. Massimo Parisi, to be exact,” said Wilde, leaving out the details some members didn’t need to know. “Part of the deal includes an arranged marriage. We need a brother to hand over his cock.”
Already, heads were swiveling until all eyes landed on Sas. He looked up, his eyes started shifting as it dawned on him that he was in the hot seat.
“Sas?” barked Wilde.
“Shit man. That mean I gotta keep my dick in my pants?” He glared at Wilde.
“Not my monkeys, man,” Wilde answered. “Nothin’ about fidelity in the deal.”
“Fine,” he said smoothly, but a muscle jumped in his jaw. “No one else in line, anyway.”
“Good man,” said Wilde. “The second order of business, the Parisi transport of guns across our border.”
“What’s the cut?” Beans asked from the TV.
“Enough to keep the club and the town solid,” said Wilde. “Right, Rafe?”
I reached around my back for my gun. The cool metal was already pressed against my skin. I wouldn’t let it be taken from me again. Along with all my brothers, we all looked around to figure out who the fuck Wilde was talking to.
Bou, though, pulled open the door.
A man that looked like a fitter, thinner, less wrinkly Massimo Parisi stepped in through the back door.
“The fuck?”
“This,” said Bou, “is Raffaele Parisi, the younger brother of Don Massimo Parisi.”
He scowled but said nothing. The man was broad, wore jeans and military-style boots—the kind that go with desert cammies. His T-shirt was tight around his muscles, and he had one arm covered in bright ink while the other looked like a blank canvas. Hair... high and fucking tight.
“Meet our new secretary, boys,” said Wilde.
Several laughs started around the table but died off quickly.
Wilde turned back to the MC. “I’m giving two concessions to Parisi for this alliance. But they’ll pay tolls for each shipment if they want our help and protection. Seems fair. Right, Rafe?”
Maddie
I peeked down at the cell phone propped up on some cookbooks. I had tried to follow the instructions from the woman on the video, and I hoped it would look as mouthwatering as hers did when we cut into the lasagna. The rolls of freshly baked garlic bread were still steaming on the stove. Roni and Melanie were slicing them, whispering to one another, but their talking cut off when the roar of the motorcycles brought our attention to the road. I turned off the video. It wasn’t helping me now, anyway.
The roar of the MC only increased, dust waving in the air, as they parked their bikes outside my house. The table was set, but I still looked around like I was missing something. After pulling the pans of lasagna out of the oven, I wiped my clammy hands off on my pants.
Why was I so nervous? I knew all these guys. But they were coming to our house and eating my food. I didn’t want to disappoint Cook.
He was the first inside the house, crossing the living room in a few steps, even in his injured state, and pulled me into his arms. I fell against his chest, and the air whooshed from his parted lips.
He cringed.
Pain.
Before I could apologize, he kissed me deeply on the lips. He had seen me a couple of hours ago and was already kissing me like he hadn’t seen me in months. He treated me too well.
“I missed you,” he murmured into my hair.
“I missed you more.” It was like he took a piece of me when he left.
“Can I come in?”
I peeked around Cook to find Vivi poking her head inside. “Of course! Welcome! I hope you like what I’ve made.”
Doc and Kimmers and Ava followed her inside. Then the rest of the MC’s patched members came inside the house until we were basically crammed together. The ol’ ladies went to their men like magnets, Lanie falling into Angel as they shared a look. Bou walked in with Wilde, having brought their truck instead of their bikes to our house. I wondered if the pregnancy was starting to keep her off the bike.
Rowdy laughter turned into the clanking of metal and grumbling hunger as people grabbed beers, garlic bread, and lasagna.
I handed a plate to Cook, who leaned against the counter. He was the one who needed a seat, and I would kick out one of our guests for him to sit. He took the plate and then jerked his head toward his side, and I sidled up beside him, leaning into his good side. Still, he didn’t take a bite of food.
“You need to eat,” I said.
“Do I?” He dragged his eye down me. His dirty thoughts were apparent.
“You requested lasagna,” I said.
“Now I’m hungry for something else.”
My cheeks burned. “I’m not sure this is a good time,” I said, then added in a whisper, “Daddy.” Then I glanced down.
“That’s my good girl, but...” He dug into his front pocket. “I have something for you.”
“For me?”
He held out an envelope to me, and I took it. He had placed his food on the counter and now watched me openly. My heart thundered as I tried to school my features. Why had he gotten me something? I didn’t have anything for him. My hands trembled as I searched the nondescript envelope for a clue.
“Open it, baby girl,” ordered Cook, smirking.
I ripped open the envelope, spurred into action by him. Two pieces of paper were snuggly fit inside. I took out the colored piece of paper first and forgot how to breathe. I read my name on the check several times and counted the excessive zeros.
“Cook, what is this?” My words shook.
“Read the letter, nizhóní,” he said.
I hesitated, but he added, “Baby girl?”
He was my daddy. I did his bidding.
Holding the check between my fingers, I read the letter from Alain Fitzpatrick, curator at Art Avenue in Phoenix.
Dear Maddie Flemming,
It is with great honor that I offer you an advance for a gallery show to be scheduled next spring. Upon your acceptance into this show, please contact us to schedule the time frame.
Kind regards,
Alain Fitzpatrick
Curator, Art Avenue
I stared at the letter and read it again to make sure I understood. My hands trembled. My vision went bleary as tears burned my eyes.
Looking up at Cook, I asked, “What’s a curator?”
“The main guy at this art gallery. You liked his display at the festival, remember? He had the black and whites with the splashes of rainbow color.”
I gulped in a gasp. “And a gallery show?”
“A display of your photos,” said Cook, pushing a stray hair over my shoulder. “For the public.”
“My photos? On public display? And they are paying me for it?”
He plucked the check out of my hand. “Like a rock star, apparently.”
“You did this?” I asked, still fumbling to understand.
He shrugged like it was no big deal when it meant the literal world to me.
“Oh, Daddy.” I didn’t give a shit if everyone heard me call him that as I thrust myself into his arms. He gathered me up, and I backed him against the counter, kissing him, even though I felt him wince.
Whoops and cheers went up all around.
He didn’t care and neither did I.
I’d found so much here that I’d never expected.
A home and lover.
My sister and a mother.
A few great friends.
A brotherhood that made my ol’ man strong.
And a bunch of rough and rowdy people I planned to call my forever family.