Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“I’d already broken up with her, but she still hung around the Iron Cage for a while.
Then I found out what she’d been doing with the South Five, and I told her to fuck off and never step foot near me or the Saints again.
The next night, she showed up at my house on a ton of shit.
She locked herself in my bathroom, and I had to break the door down.
I found her on the floor, seizing. She’d overdosed.
I took her to the hospital, then forced her into rehab.
I called last week to check on her. She’s doing good, apparently, but she still refuses to talk to her aunt or anyone else in her life. ”
“Jennifer thinks she’s dead.”
I shrug. If she wants to put her aunt through that kind of hell, that’s on her. “Amber isn’t my problem anymore.”
June frowns but doesn’t argue. She lets a long moment pass, then says, “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“All of it. I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I’m sorry I judged you too harshly too quickly. I’m sorry I rejected you outside my office today.”
I drop my arms. I didn’t expect that. The apology should make me feel elated, but I’m just tired. With a sigh, I sit next to her on the bed. “I expected you to be okay with whatever I wanted without considering where you were coming from or giving you all the information.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admits, her voice no more than a whisper.
“Me either.”
We sit silently side by side for several minutes. The peace between us feels delicate. I can feel her mind still working, and I don’t want to interrupt her thoughts.
“Can I ask you another question?” After I nod, she asks, “What’s up with going to the playground on the second Tuesday of every month?”
My chest tightens, the weight enough to split my rib cage and send splinters through my heart. I swallow hard, forcing down the memories.
I can’t tell her that. Not now. But I can give her part of the truth.
“That’s where and when Rocket asked me to lead the Saints almost five years ago. I go to remind myself what this responsibility means.”
“Rocket is a Hartley, right? James’s dad.”
“Yeah. He would’ve given the reins to James if he wanted it, but we all knew I’d be better for it.”
“James still seems to take the lead pretty often.”
“He’s vice president. It’s his job.”
“Why did Rocket step down?”
I lick my lips, stalling for time. The heaviness of reminiscence settles on my shoulders when I think of Rocket and everything that happened before he left. “He was tired. He’d had enough. And after what happened, I don’t think he had it in him.”
“What happened?”
“You don’t know?” My tone betrays my disbelief. There’s not much information about the Hartleys out there, but I figured she at least knew this. “What about your impressive research?”
“There’s shockingly little about most of you online.”
A smile threatens to pull up my lips, but they barely twitch. “That’s how we like it.”
“So? What happened to Rocket?”
I stand again and walk away from the bed. The memories are weapons in my mind. Thinking about this is like swallowing burning water. “His daughter killed herself.”
“James’s sister?” she asks in a whisper, as if saying it quietly will make it not real.
I nod. “Seven years ago. Rocket stayed as long as he could, but he was done. And he had the right to be. Rocket gave so much of his life to this club and the members for two decades.”
“And James?”
“What about James?”
“Is that why he’s not the leader? Because he lost his sister?”
I face her, hoping she doesn’t see the threat of tears in my eyes.
Time makes it possible to talk, but it doesn’t remove the pain.
“Partly. James doesn’t have the edge of anger and lack of morals that the Saints’ president needs.
I also don’t think he wanted to lead. He wasn’t ready.
Or maybe he let Rocket pass the reins to me because he knew I needed something to hold onto, a responsibility I couldn’t and wouldn’t abandon. That’s something he’d do.”
She nods. “What was her name?”
She asks it like she already knows the answer. I remember Bowie mentioning Scottie at the Cage and wouldn’t be surprised if June has heard things from the other Saints in the last couple of weeks.
Still, I want to answer her. I have to. Refusing to would feel like a betrayal.
“Scottie.”
“When did you start dating?”
“I was eighteen. She was seventeen.” My next breath struggles over the knot in my throat. “Rocket had all but taken me in by then, and I’d just become an official member of the Saints. Rocket never let anyone younger than eighteen join.”
“And y’all were together until she died?”
I nod. “For the most part. Seven years is a long time to be with one person, especially when you’re a wild kid. But at the end of the day, it was always me and Scottie.”
Hesitancy seems to sap her next question of strength, so her words are little more than a whisper. “What was she like?”
A year ago, answering would’ve brought me to tears.
Now, I smile at a mental image of Scottie, gorgeous and laughing.
Her red hair, wide brown eyes full of false innocence, ears covered in chains and earrings, and pierced tongue.
“She was her own person and didn’t care what anyone thought.
She loved to meet new people and always sucked the air from every room she walked into.
She hated pasta and ate a bag of sour gummy worms every day.
Rocket had her on a bike before she could walk, so she was an amazing rider, though she was never a member of the Saints.
I think she would’ve hated it, but she was still mad at Rocket and James for not letting her join. ”
“James didn’t want her in the club?”
I shake my head. “Definitely not. Partly because he was protective of his little sister and didn't want her near the danger. But mostly because she would’ve been a terrible member.”
“How so?”
“She was Daddy’s Little Girl, and Rocket let her get away with everything.
It would’ve been worse in the club. Even when she was just hanging around the Iron Cage or coming to club meetings as my Ol’ Lady, she’d cause trouble.
She had a habit of inciting fights by pushing people’s buttons and somehow blaming someone else for it.
She was pretty wild until…” I pause, running my tongue over my bottom lip.
Talking about that will always come with tears, I think.
“She eventually calmed down. She never stopped being herself, but she mellowed out, became more responsible, started putting family first.”
June is quiet, watching me, probably wondering what caused my smile to fall. “She sounds great.”
“You would’ve loved her. In some ways, you remind me of her. In others, you couldn’t be more different.”
“Do you know why she…” She trails off, but I don’t need her to finish the question.
Do you know why she killed herself?
I nod but don’t answer.
Thankfully, she doesn’t push. “I’m sorry you lost her. I can tell you really loved her.”
I shrug. “We were kids.”
“You were in love. How old you were doesn’t change that.”
“Yeah…” A rope made of memories and lost futures tightens around my throat.
There’s a slight sheen in June’s eyes, as if she, too, is fighting tears. “I’m not sure if Luna told you, but I killed my dad when I was fifteen,” she says.
I almost grin. I knew that already, but I appreciate what she’s trying to do. She’s offering a secret, something painful from her past, so I don’t feel as vulnerable.
I return to the bed, sitting at the head now so she turns to face me. “She mentioned her guess. You were obviously too drunk to remember.”
She winces. “My dad was a real asshole. He lost his punching bag when my mom went to prison, so I became his new one. In the two years it took before CPS intervened, he managed to break my arm, crack a rib, and give me a concussion.”
I knew he was abusive, but hearing specifics fills my veins with rage and coils my muscles. I fist my hands, fighting the desire to murder someone who's been dead for over a decade. I’d love to resurrect the bastard just to kill him again, slowly and painfully.
“I didn’t see him again until I was fourteen,” June continues. “My mom had recently married Calvin, who’s well-off. My dad showed up with the pretense of wanting to patch up our relationship, but he just wanted Calvin’s money.”
She pauses to suck in a long breath. “Anyway, he couldn’t hurt me anymore, but I wasn’t the only one around.
Calvin has a daughter of his own, Imogen.
She’s a year older than me, and she wasn’t the prettiest girl at school, so she was kind of desperate for love and naive to how the world really works.
I tried to protect her, to be her friend, but she never liked me. ”
Her words shake slightly, and she drops her eyes to the bed between us, like she’s too afraid to look straight at me while telling the story. As if I’d ever judge her for killing the man who hurt her. If I knew her then, I would’ve been by her side to hold the knife.
“One night, I couldn’t find Imogen anywhere.
Calvin and my mom thought she was at a party, but she didn’t go to parties.
So, I checked her phone’s location on her laptop and realized she was at my dad’s house.
I took my mom’s car to his house and found them in his bedroom.
He was on top of her, choking her while he…
while he…” She closes her eyes and gulps in a breath.
I reach forward to grab her knee and squeeze.
She doesn’t need my words, but she does need an anchor, something to remind her that she’s safe here with me, not back in that room with her father.
“I stabbed him in the neck with my pocketknife. Imogen screamed, of course. Afterward, I managed to convince her not to tell anyone by saying she’d be culpable for the murder just as much as me and that the cops may even think it was her.
I had left my phone back home, so only she could be placed at the scene, and only she had his DNA inside her.
And his blood on her. It was fucked up. I was fucked up.
But she was freaking out. I had to convince her not to go to the cops.
” Tears are falling in earnest. She shoves them away, sucking in another broken breath.
“Imogen hated me after that, of course. She was in love with my dad and convinced he loved her too. When she found out she was pregnant, she told our parents the father was a guy from a different school and she didn’t want anything to do with him.
She moved to her aunt's house in South Texas before having the baby. I’ve still never met him. ”
The shards of my ribs shred my heart to ribbons. I wish I could swallow June’s pain for her. I want to yell some sense into Imogen. She shouldn’t be alienating or judging June. She should be worshiping her for saving her life.
I know I do.
“Imogen hasn’t spoken to me in nearly twelve years.” A hiccup follows her words.
I lean forward, grab her waist, and tug her across the bed to tuck her into my side.
She wraps her arms around me, and I use one hand to wipe tears off her cheek and the other to rub her back.
I’m not sure how much time passes with us lying there in the quiet aftermath of so much vulnerability.
Our breaths sync, and my eyes grow heavy.
June’s tears eventually stop falling, but neither of us speaks.
There are no hollow sentiments to make us feel better.
That night, I sleep better than I have in years.