32. Myla
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Islather some Manuka honey onto my still-open shoulder wound. It’s nearly healed, thanks to this magical honey. Who knew? Well, I guess Bones did because he’s the one who brought it to me and told me to use it.
Cracking the bathroom door open to let out some of the steam after my shower, I slather my body with almond-scented lotion and pull on a pair of ripped jean shorts and a band tee. Today, it’s the Pixies, one of my all-time favorites. I make my way to the kitchen and startle when I see Cyrus on my sofa, not Tigger. Looking around, I don’t see Tigger anywhere, yet he was here when I got in the shower.
He stands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
With my hand over my racing heart, I say, “Where’s the kid?”
“I told him to take a walk.”
“Oh.” I rock back on my heels, looking at anything but him. This is the point in the conversation when he should be telling me why he’s here, yet the silence drags on. I can feel his scrutinizing gaze on me, but he makes me too nervous to say anything.
I know Cy wouldn’t hurt me, but the anxious feeling in my gut tells me that might not be true. No, that’s stupid. Someone would’ve told me if he was a creep. I’ve heard all about his wife, who’s more than half his age and how stupidly in love they are, so surely, I would’ve heard if he wasn’t a good guy. So then why is he studying me?
“I wanted to discuss something with you.” His deep, gruff voice catches my attention, and he motions for me to join him on the sofa.
“Oh yeah?” Not wanting to piss off the president of an MC, I do join him, but not on the sofa. I sit in the chair facing him, needing more space between us. “What is it?”
“Before I get to that, I have some questions for you.” He’s being cryptic, which doesn’t help with my anxiety.
“Okay. Shoot.” I keep my legs parted and my posture relaxed, hoping I convey confidence. Body language is more important than people realize. The people around you notice and pick up on it without even noticing; it’s instinctual.
“Tell me about this list of yours.”
“What do you want to know?”
“All of it.”
I don’t mind telling him—I have nothing to hide—but first, I have my own question. “Why?”
“Because I have a proposition for you, but I need to know how your mind works and where your head’s at. I’ve heard it all from everyone else, but I need to hear it from you.”
“Okay.” I interlock my fingers on my lap, and for the next five minutes, I let it all out. I tell him about how I got the list, how I bought a bike and got Rigger to teach me to ride, how I gained access to the armory and stole weapons, and all the planning I did for each kill. Then, I tell him all about the men I stabbed and how it felt to wear their blood. I even tell him about the adrenaline crash afterward, and that Judge helped me through it, though I left out his methods. Judging by the look on his face, I think he can read between the lines.
“Quite the little badass, aren’t you?”
“I just want to be able to live with myself.”
“And once you’re done with the list?” One salt-and-pepper eyebrow lifts, and I get why his wife must’ve fallen for him. It’s not just the commanding presence and stoic persona; the man is a zaddy. Char must keep him in check because that eyebrow has been trimmed, his beard lines are sharp, and that haircut isn’t from the Dollar Cuts.
I sigh. “I’ve been so hyper-focused on the list, I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thick thighs. His weathered and calloused fingers weave together as he studies me once again. I remain impassive, not allowing him to intimidate me. It’s good practice for when I’m healed enough to pick things back up. His head tilts to the side, as if he’s trying to envision something.
“I want to sponsor you,” he finally says, though I hear the hesitation.
“For what?”
“The club.”
My brows lift, and I turn my head slightly, as if putting my ear closer to his words will clear things up. “I’m sorry?”
His lips twitch. “I want you to prospect for the Sons.”
I hear what he’s saying, but it’s not computing. Women aren’t allowed in the Sons. They have this whole bullshit patriarchy thing going on. “Are you starting like a powderpuff group?”
“No,” he says simply, as if he can’t tell if I need more explanation, because he can’t mean what I think he means. It’s impossible. There’s a big ass poster in the clubhouse that has all the rules, and “No Women” is one of them. Unless he’s changing that? For me? Why would he do that?
“You want me to prospect for the Sons of Erebus. As in, be in the club the same way Rigger and Lucky are?”
“No.” The hope that was beginning to bloom in my chest instantly deflates. “You have to prospect first, so I’m asking you to be in the club the way Tigger is.”
I grin, shocked as hell but also excited by the opportunity. “What about the rules?”
“Fuck ’em. They were written when my dad started the chapter. Times change; the rules should too.”
“Don’t you have to, like, vote on it or something?” I ask, waiting for the catch because there’s always a catch.
“Already did.” When he stands, he’s holding something that must’ve been tucked between his leg and my sofa. It’s shiny and black. It’s can’t be what I think it— “Welcome to the Sons, Myla.”
He tosses it to me. I hold it up, and sure as shit, the Sons of Erebus colors are on the back. Flipping it over, I don’t see any patches on the lapel. “Isn’t there supposed to be a patch with my name on it or something?”
“Patches are in the pocket. No one sews that shit on but the person they belong to. It’s an honor to put your rank and name on there, so treat it as such.” He walks toward the door.
I reach into the pocket and find two embroidered patches, one with my name on it and one that says “Prospect.” “Wait. I have so many questions.”
He folds his arms over his chest impatiently. “Like what?”
“Like, what do I do now?”
“You keep your fuckin’ phone on, and if someone calls you to do something, you fuckin’ do it with a smile on your face. Just because you’re a chick don’t mean we’ll go easy on you. If anything, we’ll be harder on you to see if you’ll break.”
I squeal. The high-pitched sound is so girly and inappropriate for this moment that I slap a hand over my mouth. “Sorry.”
This time, he does smile. At least, I think it’s a smile. It’s hard to tell because it’s a barely there upwards tilt at each corner of his mouth. “We know you’re a chick; you don’t need to hide it. And if we’ve learned one thing from Judge, it’s that you shouldn’t hide anything from us. We asked you because we want you. Speaking of, there’s a stipulation I forgot to add.”
I tuned out the second I heard Judge’s name because I was in such shock. I wasn’t even thinking about how this would affect him or even how hard it’d be to see him all the time. All my excitement dies because I don’t think I can do it. It would hurt too much. Plus, the club is all about trust, and Judge walked out when I needed him the most. How can I possibly trust him to be there for me?
“He’s leaving the club,” Cy says, as if reading my mind.
“What? Why?” For the second time in as many minutes, my entire world is rocked off its axis.
“He’s going nomad so he has some freedom. He’s got some shit to work out, but he’ll still be around.”
Something about the implication behind the word “nomad” hurts my heart. That’s the opposite of what Judge wants. He keeps hand-crocheted blankets around his house because he likes to pretend his grandma made them for him, for fuck’s sake. What about that sounds like he wants to be on his own? He wants family, he wants intimacy, he wants community. No, he doesn’t want all that; he needs it. Going nomad will break him.
I hold out my cut. “If me joining means he leaves, I don’t want it.”
“He chose that before this was considered. Actually, he’s the one who put the idea in my head.”
“He recommended me to join the club? Why would he do that?” Then it becomes so crystal clear, and isn’t it just like him to pull a stunt like this? “He wants me to have backup when I finish my list, huh?”
“That was the stipulation I mentioned earlier. You can’t finish that list alone. You’re just a prospect, but you’re a Son unless you prove you can’t hack it, and one of the rules we won’t be changing is that you never go into a fight alone.”
“That infuriating, controlling, smothering, genius, beautiful man,” I whisper, holding the leather to my chest and breathing in the scent. It’s not the same as how Judge’s smells, like the life it’s lived—fresh air, blood, sweat, tears, and that artificial pine from his soap. This one smells new, unsullied, just like this fresh start he’s giving me.
“Sounds like you have some stuff to work out that I don’t need to be here for.”
I roll my eyes before thinking better of it because he’s now in charge of me. “Sorry.”
“I hope I don’t regret this.”
“Can I ask one more thing? Do you know where Judge is right now?”
“I imagine he’s packing.”
“Packing for what?” My heart, which had just been skipping a beat, now stutters.
“He’s taking a solo ride. Letting the road take him where it wants him to go for a while.”
“Oh.” I give him a sad smile.
“All right, I guess we’re doing this,” Cy says to himself, sitting back down. Wrinkles form mountains on his forehead as he scrubs a hand down his face. “Judge, well, I think he’s feeling a bit lost right now. I’m not real good with words or emotions, but I think that’s the best way to describe it. He’s hurtin’, and when a man who’s supposed to be the person who helps others with their hurt is now the one sufferin’, his pride takes a hit, you know? Then, whatever happened between you two. . .” His face contorts awkwardly as he searches for the right word. “Well, whatever happened, happened, and I think that fucked with his head too. So, yeah. He’s lost.”
My chest squeezes painfully, and my throat constricts. Despite trying to hold my emotions in, my voice hitches when I ask, “Will he be okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. He knows he always has a home here with us.” He clears his throat. as if he’s struggling too. “On a more personal note, I’ve always thought of Judge like a little brother?—”
“He said you felt like his dad,” I say with a small smile.
“I’m not that fuckin’ old,” he scoffs. “I’ve always thought of Judge like a little brother. The day I met him in that church, hand to God, I thought he was sent to me. I was kind of in the same place as Judge is now: lost. . . and confused.” His forehead smooths, and his eyes nearly twinkle. “Then he came and sat by me, listened to me even when he had no fuckin’ clue what the hell I was talkin’ about. The advice he gave me was from some book he’d read. He told me I need to do what’s right, not what’s easy.”
“That sounds like him.”
“That quote has helped me get to where I am right now. It’s helped get the club to where it’s at too. Judge”—it’s quiet as he searches for the right word—“doesn’t understand his gift, doesn’t understand his power. He’s like a sponge, soaking up information from everywhere and everyone he can. Then, when dumbasses like me need help figuring their shit out, he finds exactly what you need to hear from that wealth of knowledge, helping us in ways he’ll never understand. I don’t know if that made any fuckin’ sense.”
“It did. I know what you mean. It’s one of the things I love about him.”
He peers at me through his periphery. “He loves you too, darlin’. You know that?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Slapping his hands on his thighs and pushing to stand, he says, “Well, that’s enough mushy shit to last me a month. Char’ll be pissed I used it all up on Judge.”
“Thanks, Prez.” I test it out, chucking him on the shoulder. He glares down at where my fist landed, and I wince. “Yeah, it didn’t feel right for me either.”
“I’ll send Tigger back in,” he says, walking out the door.
Once he’s gone, I hold my cut—MY CUT—back up and smile, though the honor has been tainted with the news about Judge. My anger faded with each word Cy spoke, and now I’m just really sad. Really fucking sad. I don’t want him to leave, not even for a day, let alone indefinitely. I just wish he could find his place. It’s like Cy said, he has so much to offer.
There’s no doubt being the club’s priest wasn’t good for him. Their sins were too big, too hard on his soft soul. He needs to be in a place where the worst people do to each other is cheat or steal. Judge is so used to murder and violence that those offenses won’t even be a blip on his radar.
“Oh my god. I know what he needs to do,” I say out loud.
“What?” Tigger asks, walking inside at just the right minute to hear me talking to myself.
“Oh good. I’m going to need your help.”
“Are you gonna get me in trouble?” He notices what’s in my hand. “Is that a cut?”
I beam at him, putting the leather vest on and raising my hands into the air while holding my patches. “I’m your new sister!”