Chapter 2 #2
I barely hear her. My forearm is pressed hard across Smoke’s chest, the rough brick biting into his back. His eyes go wide, then narrow as his hands come up, instinctive, to push me off. I lean in harder, pinning him.
“You don’t get to do this,” I growl, my face inches from his. I can smell stale cigarettes and cheap cologne, that sour edge of adrenaline coming off him. “You don’t get to walk in here, look at my little girl, and talk about how she looks like some piece of ass you miss. She’s no fuckin’ barfly.”
“I didn’t—” He wheezes, trying to suck in air. “Fuck, Stud—”
“You heard me,” I snarl. “You don’t get to keep playing this little back-and-forth game with her. With those kids. You don’t get to stroll in and out like this is some drive-through family you can hit up when you’re bored.”
His eyes flash. “She’s not a kid. She can make her own damn choices.”
“I know exactly how old she is,” I hiss.
“I was there when she was born, remember? I held her first. I was there for everything I could be. And when the demands of the military life took me away physically, I was still with her mentally. I provided for everything she needed, her momma needed, and her brother needed. I was there when she took her first steps, when she got her first busted lip, when she graduated high school. I was there when she pulled herself together after the first time and last time you broke her damn heart. I’ll keep being there every time you’re fucking gone. ”
My arm muscles strain. I’m aware, distantly, that my back is going to hate me for this later, that my shoulder is already making its displeasure known, but I don’t give a shit.
“If you want to self-destruct, you go right ahead,” I say.
“You want to piss your life away on dope or cards or whatever stupid bullshit calls your name this week, that’s your prerogative.
But you don’t get to drag my daughter down with you.
You don’t get to yank my grandkids around because you’re chasing a high. ”
His nostrils flare. “I’ve been clean.”
“Good for you,” I bite out. “You want a medal, or—”
“Dad, let him go.” Honey’s hand lands on my arm. Her fingers are shaking. “Please.”
I breathe hard, trying to get a grip. Smoke stares back at me, defiant and scared all at once.
“You’re only breathing,” I say, voice dropping low, lethal, “because you’re Bray and Key’s father. Don’t you ever forget that. If it weren’t for those kids, you’d have been a stain on this concrete a long time ago.”
The words come out colder than I expected. They hang in the air like frost.
For a second, none of us move.
Honey’s grip tightens. “Pops.”
In my peripheral vision, I see her pale face, the fear in her eyes—not of Smoke, but of me. Of what I might do.
That cuts deeper than anything.
I let out a long breath through my nose, unclenching my fingers from his jacket. I step back, my arm dropping to my side. Smoke coughs, dragging air into his lungs, one hand rubbing at his chest where my forearm just was.
“You ever make my granddaughter sit on that porch and wait for you,” I say quietly, “and I swear to God, the club won’t have to lift a finger. There will be no divide between you and I. Know this, I’ll handle it myself. And only one of us will be on this side of the dirt when I’m done.”
His eyes flicker at the mention of the club. He knows what that means. He’s seen what I’ve done when my brothers were threatened. He knows his place and mine. He’s seen the aftermath.
For all his bullshit bravado, he’s not stupid.
“I get it,” he mutters, eyes down. “Message received.”
Honey steps between us like a small, furious shield. “Both of you, stop,” she screams, voice shaking. “This isn’t helping anyone.”
Smoke’s gaze slides to her. “I just came to talk, babe. You look… damn.” His lips curl into a smile that might’ve charmed me once when I was younger and dumber. “I miss how it was.”
My hands curl into fists again, but Honey shoots me a look that says don’t even think about it.
She takes a breath and turns to Smoke. “Go next door,” she commands, nodding toward the side door that leads to the gravel lot and the little house beside the shop.
“You can see your kids. I’ll be there in a minute we can talk, but this I miss you shit, it is done.
You wanna see the kids, I won’t stop you, but you don’t get to keep coming in and out of my life. ”
He glances between us. “Honey—”
“Now, Smoke!” There’s steel in her tone that makes even me straighten up a little. “Go to the house. Wait on the porch if the door’s locked. I’ll send Bray out to let you in.”
That softens his expression. The mention of the kids always does. “All right,” he says. He gives me one last wary look, like he’s not entirely sure I won’t tackle him from behind, then shoulders past and heads for the side door.
It bangs shut behind him. Cold air briefly slices through the warmth of the shop, then is gone.
The silence that follows is heavy. She is upset with me.
I don’t like the sour feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I once thought I was a tough guy that could have life without my family.
Then Tammy got sick. I lived through the cancer taking my best friend away piece by piece.
I watched my kids lose their very rock right in front of them.
And I swore to my dying wife, I would never let our kids hurt or feel loss like this ever again.
Right now, my daughter is hurting.
I scrub a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. My heart’s still pounding, adrenaline buzzing under my skin like static. My knuckles ache from slamming him into the wall.
Honey doesn’t say anything for a long moment. I can feel her eyes on me, hot and accusing.
“Want to yell?” I ask roughly. “Go ahead. Get it out.”
She exhales, and I hear it catch at the end. “What the hell was that, Pops?”
“I was just—”
“You pinned him to the wall in your shop.” Her voice sharpens. “You threatened him. You put hands on him.”
“He deserved it.” The words are out before I can stop them.
“Maybe.” She steps closer, eyes flashing. “But that’s not you. Not like that. You’re not… you don’t lose your temper like this. Not with me here.”
She’s right. I’ve hurt men before. I’ve put them down hard, done worse than I care to remember when the club needed it. But I’ve always kept a clean line between that part of me and my family. Kept the worst of myself away from my kids.
Lately, though, that line’s been blurring. I feel it in the way my fuse burns faster, in the way everything irritates me—traffic, the news, the way the coffee machine takes forever. It’s like there’s something coiled up inside my chest that won’t unwind.
“He walked in here looking for another chance to break your heart,” I say, anger not quite cooled. “Forgive me if that got my hackles up.”
“I’m not asking you to like him,” she states. “I’m not asking you to invite him to poker night or trust him with the keys to the shop. I’m asking you to let me handle my own life.”
“You got two other lives tied up in that one,” I shoot back. “That makes it my business.”
Her mouth tightens. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t stay up at night worrying about them, about what they see, what they feel? I’m their mother. I worry about everything.”
“Then why the hell are you letting him back in?” I demand. “After everything—”
“Because he’s their father,” she snaps. “Because they love him. Because when he gets it right, he’s good with them, and they light up when he walks in the room. Because people can change, Dad.”
I snort. “Some can. Some say they will until the day they die and never do.”
“And maybe he’s one of those,” she mutters quietly. “But it has to be me who learns that. It has to be me who draws the line with him. Not you.”
I look at her, at the stubborn set of her jaw. She’s always been this way—independent, hard-headed, determined to do things her own way even if it kills her. Just like her old man. God help us both.
“You think I like this?” she goes on. “You think I enjoy wondering if he’s going to show up, if he’s going to stay clean, if he’s going to keep his promises? I don’t. But I’m also not ready to give up on him yet. That’s my choice.”
I let out a slow breath. “Even if it wrecks you again?”
Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t look away. “If it does, I’ll pick myself up. I always do.”
Yeah. She does. And it kills me every damn time.
“I get that you want to protect me,” she says.
“You always have. You and the club both. I’m grateful for it, more than you know.
But I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m thirty-five.
I’ve got two kids and a mortgage and a budget spreadsheet that would make you cry.
I’m not some little girl you can scare the bad boy away from.
I chose him. I chose to have kids with him.
So if he’s going to be in their lives or not, that’s on me.
And I’m tied to that for life because no matter how old they get they are my babies and he is their father. ”
The words land like iron in my gut, because she’s right. She’s not a little girl anymore. She hasn’t been for a long time. I’ve spent the last twenty years seeing her as my kid, my responsibility, the one who still needed my hands on the wheel.
Maybe that’s part of the problem. Maybe I don’t know how to be anything but her protector.
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” I mutter.
“No,” she says softly. “You don’t. You can think he’s the biggest screw-up on earth.
You can refuse to let him near the shop, you can tell him he’s not welcome at the clubhouse, you can roll your eyes when I talk about him.
But you don’t get to lay your hands on him like that in front of me again.
Not unless he’s hurting me or the kids. Are we clear? ”
I drag a hand through my hair, the buzzed strands scraping on callused fingers. My head throbs. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “We’re clear.”