Chapter Three
Bekkett stretched his arms over his head. The sun coming in through the window disoriented him, making him blink until he remembered he wasn’t down in Santa Clarita.
The fresh smell of coffee and bacon made him sit up faster than usual.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, scrubbing his hand down his face as he stared out the floor-to-ceiling window from the upstairs loft bedroom.
Memories tried to break through the barriers he’d erected as he looked out at the winter landscape surrounding the outdoors.
“Beck, breakfast is done,” his mother hollered up the stairs.
Bekkett cracked his neck. His eyes watched fat flakes fall outside the thick glass, wondering who else was up.
More than likely, everyone but him, since they hadn’t been out past midnight.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to put off facing his family forever, he got to his feet.
A cold breeze brought chills to his bare skin.
“Fuck, it gets colder every year,” he muttered.
A brief knock on the door interrupted his swearing.
“Yo, baby bro. Mom isn’t letting us mere regular people eat until the prodigal son comes down...damn, put some clothes on before you blind me with your junk,” Samson muttered, waving his hand toward Bekkett’s naked body.
Bekkett grinned. “Boy, you’re the one who barged in here without waiting for an invitation. It’s not my fault you get to see all of me in my glory.”
He loved fucking with his brother, knowing it made him squirm.
Although Samson was older than him by three years, he was smaller in every way.
While Bekkett stood at six feet four and weighed close to two hundred and fifty pounds, his brother barely topped six feet, and if he weighed two hundred pounds, it was thanks to the belly overlapping his belt.
His big brother needed to cut down on beer and chips and hit the gym more often.
“Glory, my ass. You look like you’ve been taking a bunch of roids or some shit.” Samson turned his back, holding onto the door handle with a tight grip.
“If I’d been taking roids, my dick would’ve shrunk.
As you clearly see, I ain’t lacking in that area, boy.
Don’t spout shit you can’t back. I don’t go around slamming beers and eating my weight in junk like some people.
I don’t need to take any sort of drugs to get through the day,” he gritted out through his teeth.
Of all the things to accuse him of, taking anything that would fuck with his mind or body appalled him.
Samson dropped his head. The dejected look made him appear sincere, yet Bekkett didn’t trust Samson as far as he could throw him.
“Boys, get a move on it,” their mother yelled.
“I’ll be down in ten minutes. I need to take a quick shower,” Bekkett replied.
He turned his back on Samson, strolling into the attached bathroom without another word. He’d make sure to lock the fucking door from here on out.
Ten minutes later, he walked into the massive kitchen that opened onto the great room. His mother stood next to the large horseshoe-shaped island with her long hair in a French braid down her slim back. She turned as he moved in beside her, opening her arms with a wide smile.
“I’m so happy you’re home, Beck. You look even more handsome than the last time I saw you. California seems to suit you. Although I wish you’d move back here, I can see you’re obviously happy down there. Sit, let me make you a plate.”
His mother spoke fast, not giving him a chance to speak. He held up his hand as she picked up a plate.
“Ma, I can make my own plate,” he insisted.
She shook her head. “Of course you can, but so can I. Now sit down by your father.”
His father, almost as large as he was, sat with a little smirk on his face. “You know she’s the boss. Best do as she instructed. Could you grab the coffee pot for us?”
Bekkett bent and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Is it okay if I pour him some fresh coffee, Ma?”
His mother pinched both his cheeks. “Don’t sass me, son. Get the coffee. There’s cream in the fridge.” She released his face, waving toward the large stainless steel refrigerator.
“No need to get any for me,” his father called.
Bekkett looked toward the table, meeting the stares of his brother and sister, waiting to see if they wanted cream.
“I’m not a savage. Please bring the sweet cream for me, brother dear.” Solange batted her lashes at him.
Samson flipped him the bird, which he took to mean he didn’t want any. The fridge, thanks to his mother and her overabundant shopping, appeared as though she’d stocked it for an apocalypse. “Damn, Ma, you have enough food in here to feed a family of fifty for a month.”
His mother tried to swat him with a dish towel. “Bekkett Alan, don’t give me any crap about the amount of food there is. Especially when you know as well as the rest of the Larsen clan, just how much gets eaten around the holidays here.”
“Brie, I’m gonna wilt away to nothing if you don’t let us start eating,” his father bellowed.
Bekkett stared at his father’s half-full plate, then at his brother’s and sister’s plates. While his dad hadn’t been forced to wait, his siblings obviously weren’t allowed to dig in.
Moments later, his mother plopped a huge platter of waffles in the center of the large table.
Next came the eggs and enough bacon to put a hog farm out of business, followed by hashbrowns.
The syrup and everything they needed to top their hearty breakfast off sat at either end of the table.
Yet nobody moved to touch a thing until Brie took her seat.
Finally, their mother sat down and nodded.
“Honey, will you say grace?” she asked his father.
“Yubba dub, dub. Thanks for this grub. Yay, Lord. Amen,” his father said, smiling widely.
“Samson,” Brie growled.
The rest of his family yelled "Amen" before she could make him say a proper prayer, hands shooting out to grab waffles and spoons filled with eggs and hash browns, while he reached for a stack of bacon and toast. He missed the Tunisian bread he’d only found when he was up North, so before his grabby-handed brother could take half the stack, he took four slices for himself.
They ate in relative silence, if one could call his family silent, as they filled their mouths with food. Bekkett didn’t look up until he’d cleared his plate twice.
“That was delicious, Ma. If I lived here, I’d be as big as a house.” He sat back with a sigh, patting his abdomen.
His dad laughed. “From the looks of it, you haven’t skipped the gym, son. Still riding your bike with the MC?”
He’d never kept his life choices from his family. They were aware he’d become part of the Royal MC. Whether his family understood what that meant, he wasn’t sure. The brothers he’d gained through the club were more than friends. No, they were much more. They were his chosen family.
“Yep. My job also keeps me busy, so I don’t have time to fuck off and get lazy.” He needed to keep moving, keep his mind and body engaged, so he didn’t have time to think.
“That’s good, son. But sometimes you need to slow down so you don’t let life pass you by. One day, you’ll wake up and find yourself an old man all alone with nothing but yourself and a bike to keep you warm. Trust me, you’ll need more than tha—”
Bekkett stood from the table, stopping his father’s words.
“I think we all know I’ve had what you’re suggesting I look for, Dad.
That ship has passed for me.” He held up a hand, pushing in the chair with the other.
“Leave it alone,” he growled, not wanting to get into a discussion or argument about his love life. Or rather his lack thereof.”
He turned from the table, touching his mother’s arm as he passed her.
“Bekkett, don’t go,” his mother murmured.
“I’ll be back after a while. I have a few errands to run today,” Bekkett promised, forcing his voice to sound softer than the growl from moments ago.
He walked out through the mud room and into the heated garage.
His truck sat next to his father’s equally jacked-up one.
The large four-car garage with its heated floor usually brought him a sense of calm.
Now he couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there.
“Son, wait a minute. I didn’t mean to upset you. Hell, you know I only want the best for you.” Samson Sr. moved with a grace that belied his sixty years.
The man could be mistaken for someone twenty years younger with his fit frame and knowing eyes.
Too bad he didn’t make his other son go to the gym or exercise in some way other than lifting a can of beer at the local pub.
If Samson Jr. didn’t get his shit together, Bekkett figured he’d be the poster child for an early heart attack.
Bekkett let out a frustrated breath before turning to look at his father, pushing thoughts of his brother out of his mind.
“I know and appreciate your worry, Dad. I’m actually happy most of the time.
It’s the holidays that are hard for me.” He shrugged, trying to feign a casualness he didn’t feel.
“One day, maybe things will be different, but forcing shit never works. Besides, I think you have one son who needs more of a shake-up than I do.”
His father chuckled. “Oh, believe me. Your brother Samson and I have gone round and round about his bullshit. He has a plan about his future, which I will be on him to see through. We good?”
“Of course, we’re good. You know I can’t hold a grudge against you for long. You happen to hold the keys to ma’s kitchen.” Bekkett winked, trying to show he was truly over it.
“Get your ass out of here then. Are we gonna see you for dinner tonight?” his father asked, narrowing his bright blue eyes as if he calculated the next question depending on Bekkett’s response.
“Probably. If not, I’ll shoot you a text to let you know. Give Samson a punch in the arm for me.” He gave his father a nod, then went around the hood of his truck. He needed to see his baby girl since he’d only stayed there a short time. Bekkett would
“Sounds good, son. You know your ma worries when you’re home, and she loses contact for too long.” His dad turned back toward the door leading into the house.
Bekkett kept the snort to himself, having heard that line too many times to count.
His father never liked to admit he worried as much as their mother, but he’d seen his old man pacing the floor many times back when he’d been a kid, and Samson broke curfew.
The lecture always included the phrase ‘their mother worried.’ Their father strode around the living room to the front door, back to the mudroom, cursing a blue streak until his idiot brother stumbled in the door.
The drive outside of town took forever, yet not long enough.
He turned onto the familiar road. His fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard as he drove through the iron gates, their intricate details making them look almost gothic.
Luckily, they weren’t locked, so he didn’t need to call anyone to let him in.
Snow and ice crunched beneath his tires like a low cacophony of music he’d heard dozens of times.
The sun hit the white blanket of fluff on the ground, making it almost blinding to see, but he knew the twists and turns to his destination.
After about ten minutes of knuckle-gripping driving, he brought his Duramax to a stop, unable to bring himself to get out just yet.
Over the steering column, he looked out at the view.
Row upon row of headstones in a myriad of shapes met his eyes.
Oh, sure, some are made of different materials, but they're all similar.
Bekkett released the death grip on the steering wheel, pushed the button to turn his truck off, and got out.
He reached into the passenger seat and grabbed the presents he’d brought before shutting the door.
Snow crunched under his boots as he walked over to the bench facing a set of tombstones.
He sat down before he fell. Fuck, he wondered when it would get easier to visit a place that he’d been to more times than he could count.
“Merry Christmas, Sugar Plum. I sure miss your sweet face. You’d probably love playing in the snow like I did when I was a kid.
Hell, who am I kidding?” Bekkett sniffed, remembering how he and his siblings used to spend hours outside seeing who could build the biggest snow forts.
Well, he and Samson would make them while Solange, their baby sister, sort of dictated what she wanted hers to look like.
Bekkett stared at the cold stone with his daughter’s name engraved into it, then over at the one placed beside it of his ex-wife’s. Bitterness filled his heart at what she’d taken from him. He tamped the anger and feelings of resentment down, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good.
The crinkling sound of paper interrupted the silence of the morning, making him look down at his hands. He released the grip on the presents he held, hating the knowledge his child would never get to open and play with a doll, a game, or play dress up.
“I’m so sorry,” he cried, tears falling freely down his cheeks.
Bekkett ignored the howling wind, dismissing the way his tears sounded as they landed on the foil paper. For the next few hours, he cried and talked to the little girl who owned his heart. Her sweet little face was ingrained in his mind, forever a baby.
How long he sat there, Bekkett didn’t know. His body no longer registered the cold. His elbows rested on his knees as he hung his head, staring down at his boots. The ground blurred. A shiver shook his frame. When he looked up, the sky had gone dark.
“Fuck,” he muttered and picked up the presents that fell onto the snow-covered earth.