Chapter 9—Bass
N ot showing any emotion on your face when staring down a killer isn’t as easy as the movies portray. Maintaining eye contact with psychopaths is a trained talent, not something a person is born with. Watching people get abused and being told to maintain position, not to react and just let it happen, is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.
But all of that is a piece of cake compared to having a possible ten-year-old watch your every move.
I’m not opposed to kids. I’m not aiming to have some anytime soon, but I’m not anti-kids. Not that I make time for them when I see them around the clubhouse. I acknowledge them, keep eyes on them to make sure they stay out of trouble, but that’s about it for my interaction with them. They don’t come to me, and I don’t go to them. It’s the natural order of things. We don’t seek each other out.
But this kid does, though I doubt it’s because he wants to interact with me. More like he’s watching me. With his mom still passed out on the couch, last I saw, he’s on guard duty, it seems.
I’m not faulting her for sleeping, of course. It took her a while to fall asleep last night. It’s obvious that she’s been on her own for a while, just her and the kid. Can’t blame her for taking some time to settle in. Even then, she jolted awake more times than not at any noise, ready to jump into action. I even noticed the small knife at the ready during a particularly loud cricket chirping moment. She doesn’t know me or the club. No matter that we wouldn’t hurt a mom and her cub, she isn’t going to understand that after one night. Especially since we’re forcing her to be here.
Not that I trust her. God knows I didn’t get enough sleep myself. After I saw her finally fall into something more than just a nap, I made it through the rest of the Royals’ game recap, then went to bed. Even though I had the alarm set and had a club brother monitoring the surveillance around my property all night, I couldn’t get a full two hours before I was up again checking on my new houseguests. I walk softly, knowing how not to make noise, but she sensed me anyway and tossed and turned each time I checked on her. Once I gave up on trying to sleep through the night at half past four, I ventured out into the living room. To my surprise, Ollie was sitting in front of his mom on the couch, watching cartoons on mute.
He didn’t say anything when I got up, and I didn’t have the urge to talk myself as I went about making my coffee. I actually like that he doesn’t talk much in the morning. I’m not as bad as Mama Bear with her addiction to coffee, but I’m not a morning person if I don’t have to be. But the kid and I could communicate enough that when I pulled out the bowls, he grabbed the spoons.
There are many things I love about my club, but what I love most about prospects is when they’re on grocery duty. Since they want to get in good with us, especially an officer like me, they tend to go above and beyond. The one who filled my pantry this time went way beyond by picking up three types of cereal. I’m not picky, and I’m not sure if the kid is or we just got lucky, but he seemed content with the Frosted Flakes .
We ate in silence as we both watched the cartoons. I had to turn it up, just enough to hear but not enough to wake Sleeping Beauty. I think the fact that she never stirred as we made our food and cleaned up was the most surprising thing. Sleep had either consumed her completely, or she faked it and knew what was going on enough not to worry.
Once we were done, I headed out to my garage to put my stuff away. Yesterday, I just secured my pack, but today, I plan to clean and store everything properly.
And that’s how I got my shadow. He doesn’t say much, and neither do I. But I don’t have a problem asking him to hand me things.
Granted, I didn’t ask him to touch the guns, the bullets, the knives, or my grenades. And yes, I have those, plus a few more things that some might see as extreme. What can I say? I’m a collector. The kid didn’t shy away from anything, but I also made a point not to bring out my trench blade. Left that in the house, locked in my bedside table. I might not be a nice guy or care about kids, but I don’t want to cause trauma if I can help it.
And while I’m not expecting this to be a quiet morning, I’m enjoying it as much as I can. I know it won’t last. Brooklyn chick doesn’t seem like the type to not start yelling as soon as she wakes up. And the thought of it has me adjusting my dick—discreetly, of course. Not sure why I like it, but her yelling is like Viagra to my cock. Never had that reaction before, but I bet it has something to do with her accent. Always was a sucker for someone who had something unique about them that just set me off. Got me into more than one situation. Most of them involved me and a bed for the night, but I’m not picky. Had a few on a table, in the back seat, even against the bathroom wall. When the moment hits, I take it. Learned long ago that you never know how long it’ll be before you get another moment or two to be alone with someone.
And since I’m on a sabbatical of sorts from our little mercenary setup, I might as well make the most of it. But I’m not about to shit where I eat and fuck this dude’s mom. For one, I don’t like complicated, and two, I don’t bring chicks here to sleep with. That’s what the club is for. Mostly because they know where the exit is at the clubhouse, unlike my house, where they seem to think the door is no longer an option and feel the need to lay a claim on me and my things.
I make the decision that getting out of the house might be the best option for all of us. I’m less likely to slip and fall with my dick in the woman if we leave here—I can do that with any of the vamps at the club. I also don’t like people in my place longer than necessary. The club knows this, which is why I don’t get many visitors. Not going to send a brother away who shows up, but I rarely offer a spare room unless I must.
This place is sacred to me. My gramps left the land to me and not his asshole of a son-in-law, much to his chagrin. I just shrugged when the will’s reading deemed me the property owner. My dad went all shades of red and started screaming, but I enjoyed the karma of it all. At seventeen, I was already well aware that my dad was an ass. He only cared about himself, a fact he proved each time he went out for a four-course meal and left me at home with an out-of-date can of tomato paste and no can opener.
My dad was such a class act that he would have left me at the doorstep of an orphanage if he could, but Gramps wouldn’t let him. When his daughter died while giving birth to me, Gramps saw me as the last good part of her left in the world. At first, my dad could con my gramps into footing the bill for “kid expenses,” but instead of using the monthly allowance to buy me clothes or vitamins or whatever kids need, he used it to make himself look like a god to those who he associated with. He spent the monthly allowance on lavish trips and dinners, all to improve his status in life, while I was left home alone, searching for food that we didn’t have.
Gramps became wise around my fifth birthday when he showed up with a gift, expecting a birthday party since my dad claimed he needed money for it, only to find me alone eating uncooked rice. Things changed for me after that, and I couldn’t have been happier. Dad still tried to take what he could, but he got cut off unless he started taking better care of me. I would have rather lived with Gramps, but the guy was already in his eighties, and his health was deteriorating, so I had to stay with my dad. He rarely paid attention to me unless he wanted something, but at least he made sure I was clothed and fed. But I grew up with a chip on my shoulder since I was on my own most of my childhood.
Looking back, I guess I had it better than some. Sure, my dad was a dick, but at least he never hit me or anything—mostly because he forgot I was there to begin with.
This land was one of those “golden goose” opportunities Gramps ran into in his youth. It was cheap at the time, so he bought it as an investment. Gramps was always doing that, buying low and selling high. Dad even worked for his company for a bit when he met Mom. It was just a coincidence that this land that Gramps bought for practically nothing was sitting on an untapped oil field. As soon as Gramps found that out, he got everything in place, to include getting the mineral rights for all of his properties, starting with this one. He only set up one pumpjack, but apparently the land is rich enough to hold half a dozen. Gramps didn’t want the property ruined; he just wanted to make enough money to start a nest egg. Funny really, since that nest egg was used to raise me before he died, and now I’m building my own rainy-day fund out of it.
Okay, fine, it helps my habit of buying new toys too. Some might consider me the typical all-American redneck with my desire for weapons, but I really do use most of it, either for club work, training opportunities with Operation Hell Hound, or just regular hunting. I don’t collect guns; I select what’s best for the club. Part of my job with the Hounds is to keep us geared up with the best of the best. I know my shit, and I’ve got enough connections to get us good deals if we need something specific. Like land mines. We don’t use them for much more than a deterrent when we have to set up camp in a place that has more enemies around than not, and we need a few hours of rest. Don’t worry, we take the unused ones back with us. We aren’t monsters, despite what a few townies think. We don’t take risks with innocents.
I kept the land as Gramps had it, only added the two buildings and made a few clearings to use for target practice when I want to let off steam or try out a new weapon. I had most of this place built when I went in the Army right out of college, where I got selected at an early age for Delta Force. I was determined to do the job right, so I focused and got the attention of a few people within Delta who recruited me for the elite group. It wasn’t something I sought out when I joined, just wanted away from my dad and, at the time, this place. A few years of learning every type of weapon, as well as going on a few missions that I considered soul crushing and the government saw as opportunities to gain intel, had me looking for more out there.
That’s about the time the Hounds found me. Law is many things, but one of the best parts is that he’s a great recruiter. He might have never served in any branch of the armed services, but he has enough buddies who do, and they’re great at passing the word around to those who are looking to make a change and also not give up the opportunity to kick ass when needed. Or at least that was how my team lead, Master Sergeant Drew Ross, described it. Guy was a sucker for all things club related, but he was a lifer in the Army. He saw himself as a two-sided coin—wanted to be both but couldn’t—so he did the next best thing. With his rank and status, he saw the best of the best. He could see potential in anyone, and when someone was looking lost, like me, he sent them to the Hounds. Flint, Casper, and I were just a few who found our way into the club because of Ross. Not that we knew each other beforehand, but it was nice that others had a similar background.
I’m from here, so I knew about the club, though nothing beyond that they rode motorcycles. I was too consumed by my own problems to venture out and discover the true offerings of this place. Since I’ve been back, things have changed. I don’t feel the need to run from my past; rather, I fight to hold on to it a bit. Gramps was the only good thing about my childhood, and while he might have seen me as the last thing left of his daughter, this place is the last thing left of him and the good times I had, even if they were limited.
The sound of a whistle has me looking away from the gun magazine I’m cleaning to glance at the open bay doors of my garage. Seeing no one, I arch a brow at the kid. I’m not going to play dumb and pretend it was a bird or some shit. To his credit, he doesn’t look up from watching me work, as my eyes might have strayed, but my hands didn’t. Habit I picked up in Delta Force—taking apart a gun and putting it back together blindfolded. Sure, they taught us, but it was the club that made it a game to see who did it the fastest.
Kid just whistles back with a small head turn but otherwise does nothing else except keep watch. I glance once more at the doors, expecting the other person to walk through it. When they do, my hands fumble, and I drop the barrel that I had moved on to. Thank fuck none of my brothers are here to witness me picking up a part of a gun off the floor, or I’d never hear the end of it. That game about who’s the fastest? I got an extra half second on Casper, and I’m not about to lose my unofficial title because of a woman in shorts.
Not just any shorts, mind you. Skintight black ones that are painted on and frayed at the edges. Showing a lot of leg that ends in shitkickers that seem far sexier than a pair of heels on any day of the week. Especially paired with a white wifebeater. But none of that is what has me losing focus. It’s the ink. So much ink.
Before, she wore jeans, and even at Wyatt’s birthday party, her shirt was a quarter sleeve, so I only saw part of the tattoo sleeve she had on her right arm. No clue she had the top half on her left, along with most of her damn left leg, done too. And her hair? Total bedroom look from the tossing and turning all night, no doubt with bedroom eyes to match. She might be tired, but she sure as hell doesn’t look it. And when she speaks? Fuck, it’s like hot liquid with the way her voice is all sultry in the morning .
“How long you been at this?”
“A while,” Ollie answers as I get back to work, focusing everything I have on the cleaning process.
“You packing?”
Her words have me looking fast and hard at her like she’s crazy, but her eyes aren’t on me. I turn to the kid and see him nod a second before he shows her one of the carving knives I keep in the kitchen. No fucking clue when he got it. Even worse, I had no fucking clue he had it.
I’m both impressed with the kid and worried about who the club let into my house. Maybe I should be the one worried that I’m going to get cut up into tiny pieces and spread through the trees.
“Nah, would take too long,” Ollie says with not a hint of humor in his voice as he puts the knife back behind him.
The fact that I spoke my thoughts out loud is drowned out by the way he’s acting. He’s freaking me out a bit. I mean, what kind of kid sits quietly for hours, helps when asked, watches without blinking, and carries around a knife larger than his hand?
A psychopath.
Or maybe a kid who’s been through some shit and has learned that being quiet, watching a threat, and protecting himself is the only way to survive. Fuuuuck.
I close my eyes for a split second and let that realization sink in. He’s not out here with me because he’s curious and lonely. Nah, he’s out here playing sentry duty. Watching my every move to see if I need to be put down.
I shake my head at that. I might be an ass, might know how to kill a person sixty different ways, and within reach of me are about thirty things I could use to get rid of the kid and his mom without a second thought, but I don’t—and I won’t . I’ve seen enough victims to know when someone is faking it, and these two aren’t.
Even before the shooting last night, she and the kid kept bouncing around in my head. I doubt I would have stayed away as it was. I’m not wired to look the other way like that. No Hound is. I just probably would have done it from a distance, and with Flint’s or Gator’s computer skills at the ready to keep a lookout.
Now I get to be up close and personal to this shit. I don’t like people in my space, but I’d rather know they’re safe here than out in the world of the unknown. It sedates a part of me, a part I don’t hide from. I’ve got a protective streak. You have to have one to be in Delta, even if shit is so fucked up and they try to take the humanity out of you on a few missions. My protective instinct is dimmed down now for sure, but it’s not snuffed out. It’s half the reason Law has me taking a bigger part in setting up Operation Hell Hound, linking all our sister chapters. Not only do I need to know it’s okay to have that side in me but also ’cause I’m able to see it in others. Not saying I can save every brother out there who’s reeling from some nasty shit in their past, but I can at least know if a brother is volunteering for the right reasons or just looking to fuel the demon inside him.
Again, nothing wrong with that. We’ve all got a demon, hence why the Reaper chose us to be his Hounds. But there’s a difference between owning your demon and your demon owning you. Sometimes we need a brother to go psycho on someone, but we also need that same brother to notice when an innocent is in the crossfire and not to smile if they get hurt .
I finish my cleaning and put my stuff away. Neither mom nor kid says anything. At least I’m starting to understand Ollie a bit more. But Milly? I’m still trying to get a read on her. She might be a victim, but she doesn’t seem as lost to the depths as Ollie does sometimes. There’s a sadness in her eyes when she looks at her kid, but then it usually changes so quickly to anger that I’d miss it if I wasn’t looking.
And I’m looking. I’m looking a lot.
Club wants answers. While the boys work the computer angle, I’m working the mental one. Not trying to see what makes her tick, just what would set her off. We protect our own, but we also protect those who wander into our lives.
Even if it’s from themselves.