Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Eazy
With my eyes fixated on the dull wood, I stand rigidly outside the bedroom door before stepping back and heading downstairs. My boots thud softly on the worn floorboards, echoing, mimicking the rhythm of my heartbeat.
I can’t shake the heaviness in my chest, which feels like a lead weight. Why the fuck did I bring Noelle and her kid brother back to the clubhouse? The answer to that question has me in a chokehold. Noelle stirs something in me. Bringing them here is a risk when we know nothing about them or the baggage they carry, but it’s a decision rooted in an innate desire to protect them.
But something deeper tugs at my insides.
We found them huddled behind the bar, shivering in her old piece of shit car that struggled to fend off the freezing winter air. There’s more to their story, and I plan on finding out what brought them here in the first place. Irritation builds the more I dwell on the fact she never mentioned her brother Zack. “Why the hell do I even fuckin’ care?” I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my scruffy hair as frustration fills me. Anger churns in my gut, not just at the circumstance but at the fact she was running from something or someone—maybe a violent ex, a debt owed, or worse, someone who wouldn’t think twice about entangling my club in their mess .
I go to the brown leather sofa in the corner of the common area, worn and welcoming, as chaos swirls in my mind. When I sink into the cushion, I feel the familiar weight of the leather against my back, the scent of aged tobacco and whiskey permanently embedded in the leather. My clubhouse is a refuge, yet tonight, it’s a huge space for my racing thoughts to fill.
It’s still early morning, and inky blackness swallows the small amount of light in the room.
The sound of boots against the floor breaks through the clusterfuck of thoughts in my head, and I turn toward Brewer, approaching me.
“Tech and Wire towed the car to the shop, and Poet is on his way back with your woman and kid’s shit.”
I nod and ignore the way he called Noelle my woman while rummaging for a smoke. I feel the weight of Brewer’s stare pressing down on me. “Got somethin’ more to say?”
“Just tryin’ to figure out where your head is with this woman, brother. It isn’t like you to bring one to the clubhouse.” Brewer leans against the railing of the pool table a few feet in front of the sofa where I sit.
“You questioning my orders, brother?” I raise my brow, my tone sharp with agitation for calling out my unusual behavior. I’m mad at myself because I can’t make heads or tails of my decision either.
My clipped words do not affect Brewer. “We’ve known each other since we were shittin’ in diapers. You know I’m not pushin’ back on your authority, brother.”
My actions and thoughts about Noelle morph into something complicated and heavy. Is she clouding my judgment? Should I give them this one opportunity to rest, fix her fucking car, and send them on their way, never to see them again?
I reach into the pocket of my leather cut, pull out the pack, and take one out. With a flick of my thumb, the lighter ignites, and the flame catches the cigarette’s tip hanging loosely from my lips. I take a long drag, letting the smoke curl and weave through the air. The nicotine burns a trail down my throat, creating a temporary haze in my mind, chasing away the shadows of my actions and bringing Noelle ever so closer in my mind.
I inhale again, nicotine pouring into my lungs. I exhale slowly, and the thick cloud hangs momentarily in the air before dissipating, unlike the unwanted feelings about a woman I just met. Her name burns my thoughts like the cherry on the end of this cigarette. “Fuck,” I mutter, exhaling a stream of smoke that curls. I lean further back into the leather sofa, the familiar grasp of tension in my shoulders releasing.
“She could be trouble,” Brewer states, and I don’t bite back at his concerns. That woman has trouble written all over her. She’s like a caged bird. I glance upstairs at the corridor as if the woman sleeping in my room, in my bed, will offer me answers if I barge in there and demand them. My approach to her, though, needs to be softer—kinder—than I’m used to dishing out. She needs to know she is safe.
“We will deal with all that soon. The sun will be up in a few hours. Use the time how you see fit and let the others know that Church will follow breakfast.” I roll my head, trying to ease the built-up tension.
“I’ll make coffee.” Brewer pushes from the pool table and strolls off toward the kitchen area on the other side of the room.
Each puff of the cigarette takes me deeper into my thoughts. Like it or not, I’m drawn to her. I want to know why she is running and protect her from whatever problems follow her. The weight of my decision to bring her here and make her problems mine is pressing down on me, but it’s one I am standing by.
The aroma of fresh coffee fills the air, instantly taking me back to the early mornings I spent with my old man for so many years when times were more straightforward and I had less weight on my shoulders.
Suddenly, a clip of a random conversation takes over my thoughts. Don’t fear dyin’. Fear not livin’. You haven’t lived without the love of a good woman, and trust me when I say she will come along when you least want her or think you need her. My old man’s words from one of those many mornings echo in my head.
Is Noelle my endgame?
I take one final, contemplative drag from the cigarette, feeling the warmth of the embers as I watch the smoke curl into the air before crushing it into the ashtray resting on the arm of the sofa.
My old man’s words repeat in my mind, cutting through the chaos and filling me with a newfound clarity—to embrace the possibilities of what could be.
The low murmur of voices fills the building as the sun crests the horizon, sending rays of light spilling through the windows of the clubhouse. The common area of the first floor consists of leather sofas, recliners, and a couple of pool tables. The bar is located against the far right of the space. Across the room on the left is a large flat-screen television, and at the far end is the kitchen. Upstairs is where the bedrooms are located, and currently, my focus, because Noelle and her brother have yet to come out of the room.
The large wooden table in the center of the kitchen is crowded with my brothers, like me, ragged from lack of sleep. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon permeates the entire room.
I lounge back in my chair at the end of the table, my eyes flicking between my brothers and the staircase. At the same time, I watch my mom continue to whip up breakfast for the men—a labor of love that has become a staple in our lives.
My mom is a breathtakingly beautiful, petite woman with shoulder-length hair that cascades down her back in a striking shade of smoky gray. She fiercely loves her family and the club. Her presence helps smooth the rough edges of the clubhouse—or, I should say, the men in it. She smiles warmly at the men as they banter, her hands skillfully flipping buttermilk pancakes on a well-worn skillet.
A soft thump echoing down the staircase catches everyone’s attention. I turn to see Zack slowly making his way down from upstairs. His tousled hair and sleepy eyes contrast with the wide grin that spreads across his face as he rushes down the last few steps.
“It smells awesome in here,” Zack calls out, his voice bursting with youthful enthusiasm.
“Zack.” Noelle reaches for her brother as he races into the kitchen, all lightness and innocence, oblivious to anything but his hunger.
My eyes land on Noelle, who slowly follows her brother. Her gaze falls on me momentarily as she passes me to the kitchen.
“I hope you’re hungry because I made extra just for you and your sister,” my mom boasts, enjoying the energy Zach brings to the room.
“I’m starving,” Zack announces, patting his stomach.
Mom glances over her shoulder to meet our temporary guests. Her eyes widen at the sight of the young boy’s battered face. “What in the world happened?” She gasps, turns around entirely, and tenderly takes Zack’s face in her caring hands.
“It doesn’t hurt much anymore,” Zack says.
Mom looks at me and then back at the boy, her shoulders loosening. She smiles, trying to hide her emotions. “You like hot chocolate with marshmallows?”
Zack nods. “You bet I do.”
“Good. Help yourself.” She points to the pitcher of warm cocoa sitting on the stovetop. “The marshmallows and mugs are in the cabinet above the coffee machine.” My mom’s attention shifts to Noelle and moves in her direction, closing the distance between them. “You must be Noelle.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Honey, call me June. Ma’am makes me feel old.” My mom laughs, smiling warmly.
“Could you use any help?” Noelle asks with a hint of nervousness, and my mom catches it.
“You’d be doing me a huge favor if you could finish frying all this bacon while I whip up these pancakes,” Mom says.
“Put me to work.” Noelle smiles.
I sit back in my chair and watch Noelle move about the kitchen, helping Mom with breakfast. She keeps a cautious eye on her brother, slipping him some cooked bacon pieces while he downs his hot chocolate.
Feeling eyes burning into my skull, I tear my attention from Noelle and look across the table where Brewer is eyeballing me with a shit-eating grin. “What?”
“Nothin’.” Brewer stares, knowing it’s making me uncomfortable.
Zack plops down in the empty seat beside me as the women place platters of food in the center of the table. “I like it here.” He grins, eagerly waiting to fill his plate. “There is lots of food, and everyone is happy.” Rooster passes a platter to Zack, which is piled high with pancakes. Using his fork, he pokes and plops a stack of three onto his plate. “Best of all, no one is drunk and yelling,” he mutters.
“Zack,” Noelle whispers harshly, and I cut my eyes her way as she sits beside me blankly. Noelle holds my gaze until Rooster speaks, “Who was drunk and yellin’?” Rooster asks as he passes the syrup to Zack.
“Mostly my dad.” He covers his pancakes in maple syrup, then gets quiet.
Noelle’s eyes bounce between her brother and me, but she remains quiet.
“Your old man the one who hit you?” I want to know.
Zack looks at his sister. “Yeah,” he then faces me. “But he paid for it later.”
“How?” I ask, and sense Zack’s hesitation to keep talking. “Look around.” I coax him to glance around the table, and he does. “You and your sister are safe here.”
Zack takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and looks me in the eyes, about to speak when Noelle interrupts him.
“I shot him,” Noelle confesses.
A beat of silence passes before I speak, “You kill him?”
“No,” Noelle says.
“Look at me, baby.” I wait for Noelle to lock eyes with me. “What you say here stays in this room. Got it? No one else will know.” I wait for my words to take root and for her to understand their meaning. She nods, understanding that they are safe and that we will keep her secret. “What’s the motherfucker’s name?”
Noelle looks back at her brother, unsure if she should offer what I’m asking for.
“It’s okay, Nelly,” Zack offers. “Please. I don’t want to leave. I want us to stay.”
As Noelle gazes at her brother, her eyes reflect her deep affection, shining with warmth and tenderness. After a moment, she glances back at me, her expression speaking volumes about the strong bond they share and the trust she is putting in me and the club. “Rob Cross from Silver Lake City, Texas,” Noelle informs me.
I look to my brother, Tech, who will use the information to dig up what he can on the piece of shit.
The room falls silent until Zack asks, “Can someone please pass the bacon?”
Sitting across from Zack, Poet reaches into the center of the table and grabs the platter of bacon. “A man after my own heart. Let’s eat!”
After breakfast, the men and I file into Church. Hopefully, Tech’s dug up some useful information on Noelle’s stepdad. Looking at her brother’s face makes every man sitting at this table willing to drive that long stretch from here to Texas and give the bastard a taste of his own medicine.
“What did you find out, brother?” I ask Tech.
He lights a cigarette, drawing in his first toke, and speaks as the smoke expels from his lungs. “This fucker is a real piece of shit, Prez. Rob Cross is Noelle’s step-dad and is Zack’s biological father. The bastard is a deadbeat who can’t hold down a job due to a drinking and gambling addiction. He likes hanging out at the local strip clubs. His criminal background consists of domestic battery from a few years ago, resisting arrest, and disorderly conduct.”
I clench my jaw. “Noelle admits to shooting him. You find anything related to that?”
Tech flicks ashes into the ashtray in front of him. “Nothing reported to the law that I can find.”
I scrub my palm down my face. “Noelle put a lot of miles between them and that piece of shit. Hopefully, the bastard doesn’t have the smarts or means to try to track them down. He’d be foolish if he did.” I look at my brothers. “We need to make sure nothing more happens to them. They’ve been through enough.”
“There’s a bit more I can fill you in on.” Tech snuffs out his cigarette. “Noelle filled out several reports about her brother’s well-being, but nothing came of it. The kid was gettin’ hurt, and the fuckin’ system swept it under the rug.”
I feel the vibe in the room change. The men exchange glances, all of them with the same angry expression.
You don’t hurt women.
And you damn sure don’t fucking hurt kids.
“I want eyes on Noelle and her brother until we know her troubles haven’t followed her to Ember Falls. No one touches her or the kid. Got it?” I exclaim, and my brothers collectively nod without hesitating.
With the club backing me, we will keep Noelle and Zack safe.
And I won’t rest until she and her brother can breathe easy again.