Chapter 24
R estarting the bike and heading the rest of the way to the jail, the remainder of the trip is intoxicating. The taste of her sits on my tongue like a well-aged wine’s legs, slowly traveling down the sides of the glass. Every second it lingers is one additional second to enjoy her flavor.
Pulling into the parking lot of the jail, I’m reminded of my time inside. Where I was housed was more a vacation spot than where Mayhem is. He’s at Lompoc. It’s its own circle in Hell. Actually, Hell would be a naked cruise on the Riviera with a ship full of ready, willing, and gorgeous women. Mayhem would pay for a pinch of that enjoyment. He’s been inside jail so long that a glimpse of a woman’s tit would probably make him pop a nut. I know the first thing I did when I got out was to gorge myself on the female body. Every ounce of skin, every inch of flesh, I made sure I devoured it all on more than one woman.
Standing at the entrance to the jail, staring at the door and those going in for visiting hours, I grab a stick of gum and gather my courage. I cannot take her inside, and I’m not one for leaving her out here, but she’s safer by my ride than in the watchful eye of Mayhem. “Stay put. I’ll be out soon. There’re cameras everywhere. You’re safe here. Just don’t go anywhere. Got it?”
“Don’t take candy from a stranger and stay away from musical ice cream trucks.” With a nod she understands she’s not to move, I cross the parking lot to the front door.
Her sarcasm has me feeling a bit lighter as I step toward the jail and toward a moment I really don’t wish to create. It’s necessary though.
I had done everything I could to avoid Mayhem after he’d been jailed. I’d always thought his incarceration was for his betrayal to the club, to us, and to his family. Now? Now I’m wondering if it was all to keep a secret.
For all this time, I’d thought my mother was dead. That was part of why Mayhem was in jail. Now? Well, now I think it was all a cover-up. I didn’t tell Toni about the call, or that Hylo was alive. I didn’t want to add to the insanity we’re already dealing with. I told myself, one problem at a time.
When I was almost eighteen, just about a year before my own incarceration, it was a day when Mom had taken J and I to the mall to get me gear for football and J cheer runners. She and J had a falling out over the color of the shoes or some shit. Instead of going home with us, she stuck around with her cheer assholes, leaving myself and a toddler, Tlaloc, to go home with a pissed-off mother. I wasn’t ready to go home either, so before we reached the car, I let her know I was going off on my own too. Annoyed further, Hylo bundled my brother into his seat and tore out of the lot. By the time I got home later that day, I found out she had died. At least that was the story we were told. She died, Poc remembers none of it, and Mayhem told us it was our fault. The spoiled brats who had to have new shit were the cause of their mother’s death. Not the drunk driver who hit her.
Our father was arrested for killing the guy in the car who had hit her, in full view of the cops who attended, and we were left to the club’s membership to be cared for. Or at least that was the story. If Mayhem hadn’t gone to jail and she hadn’t died, possibly my life would’ve turned out different? I wouldn’t have been left to my own devices with the club, Morriso wouldn’t have set me up for jail, and I would’ve had time to know my son.
I had always thought Mayhem was the fuckup, and Hylo was closer to sainthood than sinner. I know now she was more heathen than angel. I’d placed my mother on a pedestal and Mayhem was never to be thought of again. Don’t get me wrong, he’s no saint, but I may have thought wrong of him.
Yanking open the door, leaving Toni outside to stay at the bike, I know she’ll be fine. No one is going to bother her in a place highly guarded and with more cameras than a high school girls’ locker room. She’s safe.
Wandering past parents corralling unruly children into the sign-in area, the heavy set, sixty-plus, grizzled old white guard behind the glass barrier asks absently, “Who are you visiting?” He barely looks up from his clipboard to acknowledge me. It’s obvious he’s been placed out here until retirement, out of the way of the gen-pop and lifers he once watched over. Now he’s a “Walmart greeter” for the degenerate family members who come for a visit.
Writing my name on the page, I hand him my ID and answer his question, “Clayton Crow.”
I don’t look up, but I can feel the prison guard’s heated gaze on the back of my head as I scribble my own name. I don’t give a shit. It doesn’t matter. I stopped caring what others thought years ago.
He growls out, “I can’t say I’ve seen you as one of Mayhem’s guests before.”
“First time for everything, I suppose.”
Not blinking at my comment, flatly he grumbles, “Stay over there until you’re called forward.” Handing me back my ID and a visitor badge, I walk away from the crotchety old bastard.
It doesn’t take long until the officers start calling us through for our security searches prior to entry. As far as I’ve been concerned, Mayhem was dead to me in all the ways that counted. Even now, he’s nothing more than a source of information.
After a quick body search and entering into the visiting area, I take a seat on one of the steel rows of tables to wait.
Sitting, watching others as they pile in with their kids, the room crowds up quickly. The sounds are light, and the feel is sullen yet excited. When the doors open from the other side and the inmates begin to appear, the sounds of happy kids, joyful wives, old ladies, and girlfriends now sit quietly, each patiently and silently waiting.
One after the other, each of the men in cream-and-orange or brown-and-beige outfits pile into the room, taking a respective seat across from their loved ones. Eventually the face I need appears. With his hair tied tight into a long dark braid, Mayhem’s dark gaze sharpens as he sees my ass awaiting him. Wearing a plain white tee and orange prison pants, tight to his well-trimmed and aged muscles, his once-raven-black hair is now peppered gray, strung down his back reaching close to his ass. His sharp dark brown eyes shine upon seeing me. As always, he’s an assuming man.
Mayhem strides across the room as if he’s the king of everything. “- yázhe?. ” His smile widens as he calls me... son.
I don’t share his enthusiastic reply.
“Mayhem.”
Narrowing his gaze, “What brings you to see me after all this time? I thought you said you’d never come.”
I’ve always been direct, and I don’t have the time to dance around the subject. “This isn’t a social, Mayhem. I don’t plan to be here more than a few minutes. I want answers about Hylo and the Queen.”
The quick smile dissipates, replaced by a glower. Glaring at me as if I’ve just flung hot coals on his skin, I see the wheels turning deeply in his mind before he crosses his arms, purses his lips tight, and stares.
“Nothing to say?” I question.
No response.
“Nothing to say or nothing you want to say?” I ask again curtly.
“Same thing,” he finally replies flat-out. I hate his stubbornness. His resolute demeanor has always been a hard pill to swallow.
“I’m not asking for you to cross her, I just want the truth about the woman I thought dead.”
“She is dead.” Deadpan and without remorse, his cutting words are as sharp as always. “Hylo died in that car. You saw the casket. The funeral.”
“I thought I did.” Shaking my head, I counter, “She isn’t dead. You knew that all along though, didn’t you?” I don’t wait for his reply as I continue on, “N’ now, I’m being dragged into another mess because of her. Because of your lies. Jaz is—” I pause, thinking that card is not one I wish to play yet. “Jaz is pissed and so am I.” Pounding my hand on the table, the heavy clunking noise alerts the guards. Blowing out a breath, I lift a hand to show I’m sorry for the outburst. With a quieter tone, flaring my nostrils, I demand, “Tell me the truth for once in your miserable life.”
Nonchalant, he replies, “I can’t tell you what you want, Bennett.”
“Won’t. You won’t. Not will or should for what you owe me.”
He waves a hand around the room. “I think I’ve done my time for what you and the club are owed.”
“Not enough as far as I’m concerned.”
“Kid, you’re gonna need a better reason to visit me after all these years, other than to bring up a dead woman.”
“Don’t toss shade my way. Where is she? I know she’s still alive, I just don’t know where she is.”
Gritting his teeth, the words slither out of his tight lips, “I taught you better than to listen to gossip from the old ladies. Hylo died.”
I don’t dare tell him I already dialled the number, and the woman’s voice who answered left a chill up my spine. “It isn’t gossip. I know the truth.”
Sitting back, resting on the round stool, with his thick arms crossed and a resolute look in his eye, with a quick move, he leans forward, resting on his elbows. His quirky smile is devious and dangerous. “You don’t want the real truth. Truth is an answer that can hurt more than any lie could.” Going silent for a second and leaning back, that quirky smile turns to a frown. “Some shit is just best left dead.”
“She isn’t dead, and I think if you lie to me further I might ask the club to—”
“What? What are you going to do, boy? It’s not like you’ve had the balls to fucking stop me before. Or stop anyone. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even have that position.”
I’m beyond annoyed by his accusation. The presidency may not be what I wanted, but I learned quickly it’s what I needed to survive. “It wasn’t a position I wanted, but I earned it.”
He laughs out. “No one held a gun to your head to be President. You were voted in and you’ve done well enough for yourself, Death.” What a condescending tone full of sarcasm and attitude, it’s exactly what I’d expect from a man who’s cornered and...
Afraid. Afraid of the truth he thought was long buried.
When my mother died and he ended up inside, losing his position as the President, I thought we’d never survive or get out from under the shitstorm we were left with. Jaz, Apoc, and I, along with the club, found a way to repair it. We built Humble and Wheelz, our civilian garage, and we’ve thrived. Well, up until the cartel, but we’re managing now with the cash from the mayor.
Mayhem has no idea of what I’m capable of, and most importantly, what I can handle. He’d missed my formative years and once I ended up in jail, he had even less control over my growth, my strength, and over the man I became.
But this petty bickering isn’t getting me anywhere.
Knowing this is not where I want this conversation to go, and it’s a part of his ploy—distract and deter you from your real reason for coming by—I push our conversation back on track. “I have the Queen’s book. It brought to light a few inconsistencies.”
He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at me. “You have it? How did a little shit like you get it?”
Nice. Insults.
“The club came across it after the murder of the current Queen. The girl who brought it back from Mexico was able to decipher a great deal of it.” He says nothing in response, so I continue, “We were able to make out dates, drops, and the deep connection to the Army, among other things.”
Rubbing his hand through his hair, he mutters, “I always told her that book was going to fuck us at some point.” Rubbing the scruff on his face, he adds, “There’s so much in there that you don’t want to know. Boy, there are some truths I can’t shield you from, and if you have that book, make sure no one—and I mean no one—but you reads it. Some secrets will do more damage than good.”
From the corner, an extra-large, very assuming guard calls out for all those in attendance to hear, “Visitors. One minute.”
Walking over to our table, the same guard taps Mayhem on the shoulder, and nods. “You have ten.” After nearly thirty years of internment in a place such as this, his power is still all encompassing. As a child, I found that power enduring and awe-inspiring, as a man, it tells me his reach is farther than most wish he was capable of.
As the two of us wait while the room empties of families and inmates, Mayhem sits perfectly still. When the final bodies have dispersed, leaving only ourselves and two guards, Mayhem pipes up, “Don’t dwell on Hylo, Bennett. She wasn’t the saint you’d made her out to be.”
“She was there for me. I always found that better than your absenteeism,” I remark through gritted teeth.
Rising from his chair, this time slightly slower, darker, and disturbingly scary, he looks me dead in the eye with hard intent. “It’ll jeopardize the love you had for her, and it’ll harden you. Hylo only looked out for herself. She left me in this hell and if you push too hard, you’ll be right beside me soon enough. Just ask your FBI friend, Johnson.”
Walking toward the guard positioned at the door, turning just before leaving, he stops. “You won’t want the answers that you’ll find if you go digging. Trust me on that. And if you have to choose between the club or family, make sure you choose family. That includes yourself, -yázhe?. ”
Passing through the door, leaving further questions swirling dangerously in my mind, he’s gone back to his cell, leaving me to sit and stew in questioning disgust.
What else can be found in that book that could cause us grief?
Fuck.
If it’s bothering him, it has to be pretty good.
Now, more than ever, I want to get back to the house to pore over it further.