Chapter 17
seventeen
DANE
White sand pools at the bottom of the brass hourglass, each grain another call to vote, another count of raised hands. It sits in the center of a cypress table carved from the trees grown on the land we’re currently occupying. Fingers tap impatiently, the silver ring on Merlin’s finger making a click-click-click noise until the gavel strikes one last time. Right before the last grains of sand spill into the bottom, things are settled. I am officially the sixth president of the Bayou Dogs, Parran Chapter.
Folgers is my V.P and Couyon is promoted from enforcer to Sergeant-at-Arms. Everything is in order. Mudbug even agreed to take on the responsibilities of Road Captain from Slim…but only so he doesn’t miss out on any of the epic parties typically thrown while traveling. The big surprise is that Riffraff asked to step down as treasurer after more than twenty years, declaring it was time to let the younger ones do the work. Farm Boy was voted in.
Linc and I both stand. His president patch has already been removed from the black leather that’s been his second skin for thirty years. You can still see the stitched outline, a permanent reminder that he once served as our leader. He’s giving it up at such a younger age than my grandfather did, but he’s determined to retire while he’s healthy enough to enjoy it.
I remove my cut and hand it to Linc with a nod of gratitude. His blue eyes twinkle as a grin spreads across his bearded face. “I distinctly remember telling you to never take this off,” he jokes. That was eight years ago, when he handed it to me. Tonight, he’s patching me in as president.
As Linc carries the black leather to the side table, my father stands by with my new patch and a hot glue gun, ready to temporarily adhere the cloth to leather.
Pulling out the chair, I take my spot at the head of the table. For today, business is done and it’s time to celebrate. Merlin didn’t get the memo. His face is beet red as he stares menacingly at his brothers gathered around the room, searching for support and coming back empty.
Pounding an arthritic fist against the table, he bites out through gritted teeth, “This is not the club I joined. We used to be real men and make real money.”
Several bodies around the table tense, their natural instinct suppressed by my pre-meeting orders not to react.
From behind me, Linc’s cold voice is heard.
“And with that real money , we paid a third to lawyers, and spent another third caring for our brothers’ families. We put two of Fiddler’s kids through college and he’s still in Angola.”
Linc is radiating tension as he casts a blank stare at the man he sponsored for membership decades before.
It’s a delicate thing, suggesting someone as a prospect. You risk your name to grow the club, vouching that he’s worthy of a chance. Right now, Merlin’s proving himself anything but deserving of the patch. He wants to cause chaos, shattering the club until it’s easier to maneuver his way. The club is about brotherhood, bringing men together.
Merlin is never going to gain any footing with his plan. Until today he was just an annoying gnat. But then he got desperate. I don’t know what happened between yesterday and today…not yet anyway. I thought he may have at least a vote or two from the old regime. There were none. It makes me wonder if he bragged about his plan with the spike strip and it backfired.
Plastering on a menacing smile, I stare down at the man who had once been one of my “uncles,” daring him to continue. “Look around you. Does it look like anybody here is suffering? For fourteen years, we’ve managed to keep our women safe and our asses out of prison. As long as I’m wearing this patch, it’s gonna stay that way.”
The sad thing is that I expected him to try to fuck with my Harley. It’s part of the reason it was stashed in an outbuilding on the property. Spike strips were something I never considered. Normally they’re thrown down just as someone approaches. They were only noticed because of the low speed I was traveling with Darcy on the back. A fresh wave of cold fury climbs up my spine. Darcy, Owen, or Flinch could have been hurt.
Merlin’s attempt at a coup has only succeeded in making him an outcast. With Darcy on the back, and Owen following behind, not a single person around the table will oppose any punishment I choose to hand out.
With the way Linc’s gaze hasn’t left Merlin, I may not have the chance.
As Merlin rants and raves like the lunatic he is, all of the different ways I want him to pay run through my mind. Sensing eyes on me, I shift my gaze, meeting Linc’s frigid stare wordlessly saying, “This is mine to deal with.”
I give him a nearly imperceptible nod and turn back to Merlin. “I don’t give a damn about whatever bullshit you’re spewing. The vote was nearly unanimous.”
Merlin kicks the chair he just vacated, leaving a dent in the gray paint. Couyon runs a hand over his shaved head and lets out an exasperated breath. “You know the rules. Five hundred dollar fine, payable to me.”
Merlin leans on the table, toward Couyon, “So you’re going to be Odin’s little bitch boy and not say anything about all of this?” He’s trying to bait Couyon like a prize buck ready to be hunted, the same shit he always pulls when things don’t go the way he wants.
A sinister grin tugs at Couyon’s lips but he doesn’t let the older man entice him into a fight.
Pointing to the large screen mounted on the meeting room wall, showcasing another profitable quarter for the club, Merlin snarls, “All of that is pissant compared to what we used to earn.”
“And it was my mother who paid,” I snap.
We’re not moving bricks again. It’s too high risk, especially when every single man at this table is more than comfortable. Between the casino, bookkeeping, and the legitimate profits from White Dog chains, the club is earning more than enough for us to live very well without the increased danger and prison time.
After my mother’s murder, my grandfather saw a new rule written into the bylaws—no gun sales, no drugs. Anyone arrested for associated charges will not have their legal defense backed by the club, nor will they have our support in jail. The only exception is pot, but our local sheriff gave up arresting us for the petty charge long ago.
That rule will stand, regardless of how much shit is stirred up.
My grandfather was right to see the bylaws change. He insisted people get hooked, get caught, get desperate, and get to talking. From the club’s inception, members have been banned from using any substances other than alcohol and pot. The way he figured, if we aren’t using it, we won’t be messing with people who do.
Merlin stalks over to the doors and throws them open. “He’s going to lead this club into nothingness. We’re going to be a bunch of bankrupt pussy ass zipcode riders,” he swears to the others.
Most people don’t bother to watch as he storms out. Merlin knows the rules. The doors open, and all talk of business is done. He had to have the last word, embarrassed after a unanimous vote.
As much as it kills me, I let him leave. It’s against our bylaws to kill a patched member under any conditions. We’ll have to hold a quorum of officers later tonight and vote to remove Merlin’s patches before Linc can deal with him.
Linc is tense as he hands my cut to my father. A chair scrapes against the tile floor and Dad comes to stand behind me. The vest is held out, showing off the new patch that’s temporarily adhered to the leather. I stand, and with my father’s help, I don my cut again, this time as the president.
Turning back to the table, I announce, “As my first act as President I’m officially claiming Darcy Richards as my old lady, and Owen as my son.”
There are claps, a few whoops, and a smart-ass comment from Yogi that earns him a one-finger salute. Dad waits by my side as if memorizing every second of this moment the same as I am. His eyes say what his lips never would. I wish your mother could see this. Taking a deep breath, his eyes swim with emotion as he pats me on my shoulder and says in a broken voice, “Now, I need to find that grandbaby of mine.”
“I haven’t gotten to hold him yet,” I argue. No way is Dad holding Owen before I get to.
The other patched members file out of the meeting room, the atmosphere quickly changing into a celebratory one. With one more piece of business to handle, I purposefully go last.
Not allowed into church yet, Ziggy’s waiting at the open door where he was standing guard. Despite being sponsored for membership by Merlin, Ziggy hasn’t stormed out. Guess he wants that patch more than he wants to be loyal.
Pity he won’t ever wear it.
Stopping in the doorway, I stand eye to eye with the prospect. He blinks nervously under my scrutiny. From the pocket of my cut, I pull out the St. Columbanus medallion that’s normally around his neck. I hold it up between two fingers as if asking a question. “Found this next to a spike strip.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he struggles for words. “Merlin ordered me to do it! What was I supposed to do, not obey a patched member?”
“And you didn’t go to the Sergeant-at-Arms to report it either,” I point out.
He opens his mouth to argue, his mind trying to calculate any way out of this.
“Anyone else in on this?” I demand.
A sliver of hope crosses his face, “No, just Merlin. He didn’t tell me your ol’ lady was going to be here. Christ if I’d known…”
I give him an incredulous glare. “Take that cut off. You don’t deserve it.”
Couyon and Folgers have him in their hands already, stripping him of his cut. “Put Ziggy in the bunkhouse and keep him under watch,” I order. I may need him later.
As Ziggy struggles, I don’t second guess my choice.
He knew if asked to do something against the club rules, he should report it. But he didn’t. He put Darcy and Owen at risk, an even bigger offense. He’s proven himself an ally to Merlin, and an enemy to the club as a whole.
Merlin wouldn’t have been able to pull that stunt unless he had help. I’d love for both of them to be on an airboat right about now, on their way to meet Couyon’s pet alligator, Sally.
“I have what I need. Have the prospects close the gates and bring Merlin back. I want him stashed in the outbuilding until the crowds leave.”
Then, once everyone is asleep we can deal with him. This little blip on an otherwise perfect day isn’t going to ruin it for me. Walking through the clubhouse, I make my way to the rec room. Dad follows behind, but he stops to say hello to a friend from another chapter. I’m not that polite. I want to see Darcy and my son.
Darcy and Sutton don’t hear me approach, their backs to me. I can’t see Owen, but with the way Darcy’s holding her hands, I guess he’s in her lap.
My grandmother stands for a hug of congratulations. Inspecting the patch that had been adhered to the old one she says something, but the words are lost to me as a big tan head pops up from Darcy’s lap. A black ear flops to the side when he cocks his head. “Are you supposed to be on the furniture?” I ask.
Sutton laughs without looking up from her phone, always finding my tussles with the dog entertaining. “You aren’t helping,” I reprimand.
With a long pained breath, I pace over to the other side of the couch. Owen’s laying on Darcy’s legs, her palm supporting his head. Gris-Gris is stretched across the couch, his big ole snout resting on Darcy’s arm. His focus isn’t on my reprimand. No, of course not. That would be a first when he’s in one of his moods. Instead, this highly trained dog is creeping in on my son. Tail wagging a mile a minute, he inches in to sniff Owen.
“Aww, what a sweet boy,” Darcy praises. “You’re so nice to Owen.” A lotta words have been used to describe Gris-Gris, and “nice” isn’t one anybody would ever use.
He was sick his first winter with us, so I kept him with me while he recovered. After living with humans for months, it felt unkind to send him back to the kennels, so we allowed him to live in the clubhouse. If I’m around, he invites himself to the cabin. Couyon may be the official handler of the dogs, but Gris-Gris and I still have that shared connection from that first winter. It’s like Couyon is his work friend but I’m his person.
At first, Gris-Gris loved the thrill of working, his tantrums infrequent. Until last year that is. He partially tore a ligament in his knee chasing someone through the woods. As much as he loves working, it takes him a day or two to recover if he overdoes it. He started to grow bored, and became a royal pain in my ass.
His full bottom begins to wiggle as he moves faster and he rests his snout on Owen’s leg at Darcy’s praise. He purposely avoids eye contact with me, burying his muzzle in Darcy’s arm.
Reaching down, I press my lips to Darcy in greeting. Our first “hello” kiss. She makes a low humming noise. “Hello, Mr. President,” she says with a large grin.
I kiss her forehead. “Hello, Sugar. You look settled in.”
“I am. Made a new friend, too.”
“I can see,” I remark unhappily. Wanting to sit with my family, and finally, properly meet Owen, I command the dog, “Down.”
Does he listen? No. Instead, he makes a disgruntled sound and nuzzles in further. “Gris-Gris!”
His eyes look side to side, but he leans over, licking the bare skin of Owen’s leg. Well, we don’t need to worry about the dog around Owen. “Go lay down on your bed,” I command, pointing to one of the many cozy beds strewn around the compound for him and Chloe.
The Rottweiler responds by laying his chin against Owen’s body, his stubborn face frowning in my direction, the message clear. Mine.
I haven’t even held Owen yet, and this fucker thinks he’s claiming him? Abso-fuckinglutely not.
“Gris-Gris!” I say sharply, crossing my arms across my body. He doesn’t budge, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Instead, he takes a deep satisfying breath of contentment.
Pulling the ace out of my pocket I promise, “Kennel!”
The dog’s head pops up, a full pout on his face at the threat. Nothing is worse to Gris-Gris than having to go to the outbuildings where we keep the other dogs. He whimpers, begging. “I mean it,” I grit out with a glare.
“Aww, c’mon,” Darcy encourages. “Go lay down right here.” She points to the space next to her feet.
Looking devastated Gris-Gris jumps down with a huff, freeing the spot on the couch. He doesn’t go far, settling on top of her shoes.
Moving Owen to one hand, Darcy leans down and pets the top of his human-sized head. “Aww it’s okay,” she comforts, making my right eye twitch.
From the exterior door, Meadow comes tearing in, several paper plates of food wrapped in foil stacked in one hand. “Oh my gosh, y’all have got to come save me from Mom. She’s on a tear again.”
Placing the food on the coffee table, she removes the foil, leaving two appetizers for us to pick on.
She takes the recliner next to Sutton and looks at her roommate with a pout. “You were supposed to be a buffer!”
“She ran me off! Said I was in the way,” Sutton says defensively.
“That’s so she could get me alone again,” Meadow says bitterly. “We ended up in such a big fight she sent me inside with snacks.”
Turning to Darcy, Meadow takes in a long breath, “Sorry, nothing sets me off quite like her. I moved to the compound to give us breathing room and it’s only gotten worse. I’m Meadow by the way.”
“I’m Darcy and I understand,” she says with a laugh.
“Seriously though, I was sent inside with all that food just for you. My mother said a nursing mother is always starving.”
“Isn’t the party starting? Everyone was just here for church.”
“They have to pick up their old ladies,” I point out.
“Oh,” she says as if mentally remembering only a few people who aren’t members know the way.
Presh moves to stand. “Why don’t I go help and you stay inside until things calm down?” she says to Meadow.
“Sounds good to me. We’re almost done anyway. While you’re out there, would you please tell Mama that I do not need a college degree to feed myself?”
Her smart-ass comment is ignored as Presh goes out the same door Meadow just walked in, likely to listen to Bobbi Jo’s side of things.
“Try the wings!” Meadow insists. “Mom has to hide them from Dad to keep him out of them.”
“Oh, I can't really…” Darcy says gesturing down to a contented Owen.
Seeing my opening, I ask, “Why don’t you hand me Owen so you can eat?” As I lean in I add, “You’ll need the calories later.”
Her body freezes, eyes growing wide, clearly thinking “ Did you just say that?”
“So how does he like to be held?” I ask, gesturing toward Owen with my chin.
“It depends on his mood.” She moves to hand Owen to me in the same position she had him in, one hand under his bottom, the other supporting his head. As my son slips into my arms, I can feel my heart beating rapidly in my chest.
Gris-Gris lifts his tired head from Darcy’s foot and growls low, annoyed.
“It’s okay, I’m just handing him to Dane!” Darcy comforts.
He’s dressed warm in a waffle-knit one-piece outfit. It’s soft to the touch with a hat in the same shade of light green. His eyes are open wide as he kicks his feet making contented little noises.
“Hey little buddy,” I say low, “Whatcha think of the clubhouse?”
I’m not surprised when Gris-Gris takes two steps over and plops his large body down next to my boots, not wanting Owen any further away than he has to be. Ridiculous.
As I move to fix the tiniest little sock he’s managed to work off, I scold, “What are you doing? Those socks have to stay on or your mom is gonna fuss at us. You don’t want us to be in trouble, do you?”
Out of nowhere, the sides of Owen's lips tip up, until he shoots me a big gummy smile. He coos in delight, highly entertained. “Oh you think it’s funny getting into mischief, do you?”
Owen gurgles loudly as if to agree. While the ladies get deeper and deeper into conversation, I do the same with Owen. I’m rewarded with squeals of agreement and happy flailing arms.
There’s so much hope in my hands, so many dreams. I keep talking to Owen, keeping him occupied, eventually getting up so he can look around the room when he starts to fuss. Placing Owen over my shoulder, I rub circles on his back, trying to soothe whatever belly ache or gas bubble is bothering him.
“It’s not time for him to eat yet,” Darcy says. “Oh, you know what, let me give you this just in case…” She climbs off the couch to hand me a cotton cloth, but before she can reach me, Owen lets out a burp worthy of a grown man. Baby spit-up covers my hair, and starts to drip down the back of my cut.
Darcy gasps, “Oh my gosh I’m so sorry. He doesn’t do that very often…” She starts to help me clean up Owen and myself, flustered.
From the door, a chorus of laughter demands my attention. Yogi, Linc, and my father are having the best laugh of their life watching me covered in spit-up. “Well son, it looks like you and Owen got acquainted alright,” Dad says with a full belly chuckle.
I smile down at Owen, the pride of a father making my chest swell. I make eye contact with my own Dad. “Come meet Owen,” I invite.
There’s a shared look between us and my father’s laugh turns into a soft smile. Dad leans down, his lips upturned in contentment, “Hey there little fella. I’m your Paw Paw.”
Despite only raising one baby, my father’s hands don’t waver one bit as he takes Owen from me, sitting him up in the cradle of his arms like I did. “Look at this strong boy. A looker too.”
Linc and Yogi lean in, the latter sliding his glasses down his nose. As different as the members are in the club, the one thing we all have in common is our love for children.
Dad stands with Owen not saying anything as he looks down at his first grandchild’s face. As my dad runs his hand across Owen’s tiny hand, the baby grasps hold of it, as if he’s saying hello.
“Nobody’s asking questions?” Dad asks, a hint of nervousness in his tone.
I check on Darcy, sitting a few feet away talking to Sutton. “Nope, not yet. Everyone thinks Darcy left here and moved to the New Orleans chapter and we met and made Owen there.”
At one point or another, Seth has fucked everybody over. Owen deserves better than to live under the shadow of Seth’s well earned reputation. A few lies here and there for the small town gossips, and Owen has the protection of my name and the club. DNA doesn’t matter anyway when you know a child was meant to be yours.