Chapter 16
sixteen
DARCY
After Dane enters a nearby room, intricately carved doors close behind him, blocking the rest of the world from the inner sanctum. A young skinny prospect rushes in from the back of the clubhouse, his boots thumping loudly against the floor until he’s standing sentinel over the entryway to “church.”
“I’m Sutton,” a young voice says. I see a pretty blonde teenager sitting criss cross on the sofa. “You must be the infamous Darcy.”
“I’m infamous?” I say with a laugh.
“Dane finally settling down? A lot of people are talking about it,” she says, placing her hand over her heart.
“That’s a Bordelon man when he falls,” Ms. Lina says knowingly. “Barely remember a woman’s name until it’s the one they wear on their neck.”
Turning to face her, I greet my friend with an eager smile.
I didn’t immediately realize that Ms. Lina is the same person as “Presh” Bordelon. You’d certainly never guess Cooker was her husband. The couple couldn’t have been any more opposite. The silver-haired woman looks more like a character in Steel Magnolias than the wife of the late president of the Bayou Dogs. Cooker, in turn, was all biker. His favorite words contained four letters, and while Presh seemed to disappear into the background, he loved to be the center of attention, usually telling the filthiest jokes.
I cried when I found out he’d passed away from one of Seth’s biker friends. It was long after the funeral, so I sent a sympathy card to Ms. Lina, the only comfort I could give her from so far away.
I don’t let the awkwardness of my absence stop me from embracing my friend, a cloud of her Elizabeth Arden perfume surrounding us both. She pulls me tight and rocks us both slightly.
“I was so worried about you,” she says once she finally lets go, bracing a hand on each of my shoulders.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you I was leaving. It’s just…”
Ms. Lina’s forehead creases, well-shaped eyebrows arched. “I am very aware of that father of yours. He came to the farm looking for you, mad as a wet hen. He was determined you were staying with us.”
“I’m sorry he was trouble,” I mutter, looking away. A year older and a lot wiser, my excuses seem shallow. I might have been legally an adult when I left, but so was the girl dragged to the conversion therapy center.
“You had to have been going through quite a lot to pack up like you did. So I told your daddy it wasn’t any business if you were and to leave. Figured if he thought you were with us, it would give you a head start wherever you were going.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to have to get mixed up in all of this.”
“Are you kidding? Telling him to get off my property was the highlight of my month!”
Given how strict the guys are with messing in family business, I’m honestly shocked hearing all of this. I was certain my father wouldn’t go to the police and lose face that way, but I had zero doubt he would come after me. “I assumed my parents would look for me back in Arizona, or with my cousin that left the church. It didn’t occur to me that they’d drag you into it.”
Sitting down on the sectional sofa, Presh crosses her legs at the ankles and pats the spot next to her for me to sit. “Well, that’s all over and done with. Why don’t we put all that behind us?”
Moving to take the spot, I agree, “Deal. It’s good to see you again, Ms. Lina.”
“You need to call me Presh like everybody else now. You’re my grandson’s old lady.”
“Well, we’re still kinda talking about things and…”
Presh, as I am now supposed to call her, makes a hmph sound. “He’s made up his mind and claimed you.” She shoots me a sly, knowing look that tells me the woman knows exactly how I spent my afternoon.
My face feels warm, and if I could melt into the tile floor I would.
Sutton, bless her sweet, sweet heart, is the one who saves me by interjecting, “I don’t know about y’all but I’m already getting hungry.”
“Isn’t there set up to be done, or food to cook?” I ask, hoping to move on from the conversation.
“Bobbi Jo owns a catering business. She’s setting up the food now with Meadow. Have you met her?”
“No,” I say with a shake of the head. “I think she was attending school in Lafayette when I was living here before.”
“She was. It broke Bobbi Jo’s heart when she dropped out. They’ve been fighting like two cats in a bag ever since.”
“Maybe we should go help them?” I suggest.
“Oh, the prospects are out there. Except for Flinch of course. He needs to keep an eye on you now that you’re Dane’s old lady.”
“I don’t think anyone needs to babysit me,” I point out.
She cranes her neck to steal an approving glance at Flinch, the only prospect hanging around, other than the one guarding the meeting room.
“It’s more for Dane’s peace of mind than anything. He’s being careful after losing his mother like he did.”
Suddenly the pieces fall into place. Of course Dane’s protective. A heavy weight settles on my chest when I think of him losing his mother so young.
Seth told me that story. It’s hard to forget.
“His mother took a shortcut through enemy territory to spend the night with her sister. They caught her with a flat tire,” he said in a lowered voice. “Recognized her because of the tattoo on her wrist.”
Since I knew Solomon, I got curious and did some internet snooping. My mistake was using my work laptop.
Linc pulled me aside the next morning in the breakroom and laid it all out. My face had flamed when I realized I’d been caught snooping. He was patient, explaining that times were very different back then for the Bayou Dogs. “The men that did that to Solomon’s old lady were punished by their club before we could even find them. We don’t involve women in our shit.” He seemed to want to make sure I felt safe working for White Dog more than angry, but before he walked away, he warned, “No more research, Nancy Drew.”
The more graphic details of the woman’s death, outlined in the newspaper article, make my skin crawl thinking of it.
Presh had walked in right after that, and the subject was dropped. It was the last time I saw Presh until today.
She’s staring at me now, lips flat, asserting, “Flinch is a bodyguard, not a babysitter. He’s here to keep you safe.”
“I feel bad though. Wouldn’t he prefer to be with the other men?”
She scoffs, “It’s an honor to protect you. Everyone was shocked to hear a prospect had been given the privilege.”
“So, does anyone want to read me in on what exactly is happening tonight?” I ask. “I think I have it all together, but I’m not quite sure.”
Presh puts her cup of sweet tea down on an end table and draws a long breath. “When Cooker passed, Linc automatically took the helm, since he was the second in command. The day Dane was voted in as his vice-president, Linc came up to him and said he was only staying to teach Dane the ropes.”
“So Dane’s probably going to walk out as the president,” I clarify.
“He’s going to be ,” she says with a certain nod of the head.
“What about Solomon?”
“Nothing in the Bayou Dogs passes from father to son, including leadership roles. Solomon has no interest in it anyway. He prefers to run the family farm.”
An unfamiliar male voice comes from the closed door adjacent to us, roaring with anger. Dane’s voice, cool and controlled echoes back. Something about profits and risks.
“Is church always like this?” I ask. “Or is it because of the vote?”
“The guys get a little loud sometimes,” Sutton says with an untroubled shrug.
“It’ll all work out, it always does,” Presh says with absolute certainty.
With their “boys will be boys” attitude, I try to relax. It’s difficult knowing what’s going on in the next room.
I understand why we’re excluded…it’s a brotherhood, their place. I just wish we knew what’s going on.
Trying to keep my mind busy so time passes faster, I scan the room, anxiety suddenly washing over me. The minimal furniture is nice, but I can’t imagine any of the guys kicking their feet up here.
On one end table, a collage of photos takes up the space. Each mismatch gold frame holds a different member of the club posing with a Rottweiler. The pictures turn from grainy color to a crisp portrait of a menacing-looking tan and black dog sitting at Couyon’s feet.
Along the wall next to me, four leather cuts are displayed, frayed and beaten from years of use. They each have the “president” patch that Linc wears, as well as a “founder” patch that I’ve only seen before on Cooker. I scan the names, more out of curiosity than anything. There’s Popeye, whose cut looks worn into nothing. He was the predecessor for Tomcat then Ruger, then closest to me, and at last, Cooker. I still can’t believe he’s gone. When I left town, he was in phenomenal health for his age.
“I’m surprised he didn’t want to be buried in his cut,” I mumble, mainly to myself.
“Oh, believe me, he was. Those are their jackets. The sleeves are folded backward,” Presh points out.
There’s something ominous about the long line of history displayed in the room. The club is so rock solid it seems inevitable that one day Dane’s jacket will be hung right next to his grandfather’s.
“Folgers, Mudbug, and Odin rebuilt the motorcycle,” Sutton points out, referring to Dane by his road name. Gesturing toward a bike bolted to the wall, she adds, “I think they were only in high school at the time.”
“A nineteen-thirty-eight Harley Davidson Knucklehead in Venetian blue with burnt orange detailing,” Presh throws out. “Cooker gave them three bikes to pick from to restore. I think they picked that one because it’s the same color as the patches.”
“The orange too,” I point out. “It’s on their back patch.” I used to wonder how the guys kept leather clean, since they wear it all day every day, and the backgrounds are, well, white. They certainly don’t live without it long enough for it to go to the dry cleaners. When I noticed that Band-Aid’s cut was suddenly cleaner looking and asked, he laughed and informed me they “get clean enough riding in the rain.”
We fill the rest of the hour with chit-chat, everyone waiting for the doors to reopen. I’ve always liked Presh, and it’s easy to like Sutton.
Not wanting Owen to disturb the meeting, I reach for him the minute he starts to squirm awake. He sleeps through his diaper change (a minor miracle).
As I lift my blouse to nurse, Flinch’s eyes grow wide and he pivots, his back to me while Owen eats.
“I covered up!” I call out to Flinch.
Flinch clears his throat, “I, umm..”
“Did Dane tell you not to look when she’s nursing?” Sutton teases. “Because I know you have a bunch of younger siblings your mother must have fed around you.”
Flinch doesn’t move a hair. Not a slumped shoulder or deep breath. It’s not lost on me that he doesn’t deny it either. It isn’t until I tell Flinch the coast is clear that he turns back around.
“May I hold him?” Presh asks.
“Oh sure,” I say. I lean over and place a burp cloth over her blouse, then a contented Owen.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve held a little one,” she says. She beams a smile at the baby once he burps, as if she finds it adorable, then cradles him in her arms.
Owen’s wearing his grumpy old man expression, as if he’s assessed the new environment and found it lacking. “Look at that mugging. A born biker if you ask me,” Presh says.
“He was born with that expression on his face. I don’t think he’s very impressed with the outside world.”
With sudden rapid movements, Flinch moves toward me and leans in, “Excuse me, the meeting is almost over. Prez asked me to move you.”
“President? I assume you mean Dane? Is it official?” I ask excitedly.
“We need to hurry,” he says.
“Darcy, you should do as Flinch says,” Presh says in a steady voice as she moves to stand. She leans over and hands me the baby. As soon as Owen is secure, his head resting on my shoulder, I’m wrenched up and dragged away from the front exit. Sutton and Presh are ahead, leading us across the expansive living space. A loud crash echoes across the room as we move deeper into the compound.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“It’s fine. We should have brought you to the rec room anyway instead of lingering,” Presh consoles in an untroubled tone.
I have barely any time to take in my surroundings before we walk into a room that must act as a bar, and through a wide doorway. Our path is blocked by a long, wide baby gate that comes up to my chest.
Sutton fiddles with the latch for a few seconds before it swings open. “Stupid lock! They had to switch the styles because he learned how to open the old ones.”
Forehead furrowed, I ask, “Does a baby live here?” With this atmosphere, so different from what I’ve imagined the clubhouse to be, it wouldn’t shock me.
“More like a toddler,” Sutton says in a tone laced with annoyance.
We walk one by one, Flinch behind me, into a second living space. It’s larger than the one we just vacated, and drips with casual luxury. Everything’s spotlessly clean, not a boot print in sight on the grey tile that looks like wood planks.
Multiple sets of coordinating furniture are arranged in cozy groupings. Three large televisions line one wall with a pool table centered in a nook. Against the stairs, a vintage motorcycle is arranged on a wooden platform, the chrome shined up to best showcase the detailed restoration work.
I turn around the room, taking it all in. We’re in the back of the building, a large picture window revealing a breathtaking view of the bayou below.
Sutton plops down on one of the oversized chairs and folds her thin body criss-cross applesauce. “Think it’s almost over with?”
“They’re handling a few things,” Flinch explains.
I sit down on a leather couch when a loud click-clacking on tile gets faster and louder.
Sutton looks heavenward. “They left him upstairs?” Her tone is exasperated, shoulders slumped.
I arrange Owen to face me, one palm supporting his head to enjoy one of his rare waking moments. “Is that a dog?”
My question is answered as a large black and tan Rottweiler comes barreling down the stairs tucked neatly against a rear wall. Once his feet trot down the last step, he takes off at full speed toward us, carrying a bundle of some sort in his mouth. A few yards away, he halts, his gaze focused in our direction as he seems to decide how to react to our presence. “Is he nice?” I ask nobody in particular. This must be the reason for the gate— the “toddler.”
“He won’t bite…” Sutton assures me. As an afterthought she adds, “Any of us.”
The chunky dog appears to smile now, blue fabric gathered in his mouth. His steps are slower, a stroll as he approaches, headed straight for me. I can’t see Flinch, he’s right at my back, standing guard, but Sutton isn’t worried at all, nor is Presh. In fact if anything, with this dangerous-looking dog nearing, they’re completely unbothered. Presh’s attention is on the TV and Sutton doesn’t look up from her phone.
He comes straight up to me, sits without being commanded to, and drops a baby blanket at my feet. Is that Owen’s blanket? “Umm hi buddy,” I say uneasily as the dog starts to nuzzle in my lap. His large thick tail is going a mile a minute when he jumps up next to me and starts to inspect Owen. His entire body is moving excitedly as he sniffs Owen. I place my palm over the baby’s head and tell the dog, “Hey buddy, manners!” It’s not that I dislike dogs at all, I just haven’t been around them much. He seems friendly, but curious, which is understandable if he’s never seen a baby before, or with the new smells.
I move Owen to my shoulder to put a barrier between the dog and the baby. It proves fruitless when oversized tan paws scoot along my body, lying across my lap. He’s huge, as heavy as a small human, his paws as big as a saucer. After lifting himself to sniff at Owen’s feet, the dog looks up at me smiling, as if to say, “ I found a baby.”
Despite his size, he’s being gentle as a thick curved tail makes happy thump thump thumps on the couch. He noses at Owen, licking his ankle, then my hand, making huffing noises. “You like Owen, is that what it is?”
He settles down, letting out a deep contented sigh as he rests his chin against the paws on my thighs.
Okay, he’s kinda cute. Waaay bulkier than any dog should be, but still, adorable. Reaching down, I rub the top of his large head, and he leans in closer, pressing his body against mine. What a love bug!
“So who are you?” I ask the dog.
Sutton takes in a deep, pained breath. “That’s Gris-Gris.”