30. Rae
30
RAE
I fist the sleeves of my hooded sweatshirt tight, burying my fingernails into the thick fabric, and focus on the gentle hum of voices as a dozen or so members go about their business in the common area while they wait on their president and remaining officers to get back. Digger chats with Turnip beside me, his warm body a comfort against my side. His fingers idly play with the lengths of my hair, arm stretched across the back of the seat behind me. I lean into his touch, legs tucked on the seat, and close my eyes.
I can't shake the feeling that everything will come to a head tonight, that when the sun comes up, the future will be a little clearer, our road more defined.
The men meet tonight to discuss how to end this shit with Terry. How to remove his influence over Red River and the surrounding areas.
I'm a fool if I believe closure won't come without a healthy dose of bloodshed.
Whether from Terry or the Reapers, too, is yet to be shown.
My throat bulges as I swallow my apprehension and then open my eyes. Fuck this shit. I’ve entertained the idea long enough. Mulled over it as I drifted off behind Maddie.
I’m done with everything happening around me, yet because of me.
I want to solve my problems myself. I want to take back control.
From the people who’ve hurt me. From the people who feel obligated to me.
This is my mess, and I'll clean it up the best way I know—with the only weapon in my arsenal: my words.
"Jackson will go ahead," Turnip states, referring to the rally the men are due to ride out to in two days. "It needs to. Tyke’s got to have a presence if he expects clubs to heed our call to arms.”
“I get that,” Digger argues. “But this shit only affects the Devil’s Enforcers and, hell, maybe the Fallen Aces. Askin’ anyone else to raise arms is askin’ them to invite trouble into their home. We can’t do that. Not yet, anyway."
"He can," Turnip stresses, loud enough to garner Rigs' attention on the opposite side of the fire. "And he will. Maybe these clubs have no beef with Terry right now, but they do it to help a sister club on the understandin' that when they need the favor returned, we'll be there to pay in kind."
“I guess.” Digger raises his eyebrows, tipping his chin to one side. “But we’ve gotta have a Plan B in case they all choose to take care of their own first.”
“You think that’d happen?” Rigs steps before the two men, hands hooked in the front pockets of his jeans.
Turnip’s gaze flicks past me before he answers the suave trickster. “We can discuss this more when Tyke gets in. Plenty of innocent ears out here.”
I sigh and roll my head toward the fire, focusing on the dancing flames that lick across a charred log.
I can't blame the guy. There are rules in place for a reason, and I only know as much as I do because, up until this point, it's involved me. I get what Digger says about bringing me into the discussion because it pertains to Terry, but shit, this isn't just about me anymore. It's about them. About what they need to do for their club.
Not what they need to do for me.
As though on cue, the building growl of motorbikes as they engine brake cuts through the wall. My chest buzzes with the realization that Tyke's back, the sound of a motorbike fast becoming my guilty pleasure. I rise from the seat a split second before Digger does, then freeze as it dawns on me that I might be doing something against their usual protocols or traditions by bolting out to greet him.
“It’s okay, baby,” Digger says with a grin. “You go welcome him back for us, yeah?”
I catch Turnip's eye as I move for the door. The older man tucks his chin in a polite nod as though giving me his blessing as well. Rigs' chuckle follows me out of the room, the cold night air a slap to my warmed skin when I step out into the dimly lit yard.
The glow of taillights illuminates the ground in broken hues of red as the men position their rides in the garage. I hug myself, warding off the chill that threatens to leave me a shivering mess, and shift impatiently from foot to foot as the lights all cut out with the engines.
Silence falls over the yard, disturbed by the scratch of boots on concrete and dirt as the guys head toward the clubhouse one by one. The poignancy of the moment dulls my excitement, a reminder that they rode out with a serious fucking goal in mind. One that's left scars and perhaps even a dead body somewhere.
Holy shit. It seems surreal to think that, to entertain the idea. But it’s a truth.
Tyke may have killed someone tonight.
And I’m okay with that. At least, I understand the choice.
Who have I become?
Joy morphs to panic as the men get closer—close enough to pick Kane in the lead, Harvey beside him, and Minion a few feet behind. I scan the yard, eyes squinted against the dark, and make out the shapes of what must be Hammer and Tyke against the garage as they shut the roller doors.
How do I do this? What could I say to Tyke that would erase the memory of what he might have done? What he faced tonight? It should be so simple to support someone through grief. But he doesn't grieve a life taken too soon, an unfair accident, or an illness with no cure. He grieves what he did.
He grieves his actions.
The realization snaps me back to my senses as Kane climbs the steps onto the landing, Harvey close behind.
If anyone knows how to deal with the consequences of their actions and the effects of their choices, then it's me.
"You've got your work cut out," Kane says, shaking his head. “Hope you're up for it."
“What does that mean?” I twist my head as he walks away, but Tyke’s eldest ignores my question.
"It means," Harvey says with none of the usual cheer to his tone, "that the old man has some shit to work out of his system." He grins, yet it doesn't reach his eyes. "You might be up half the night helpin' him with that."
He follows his brother inside as Minion crests the steps behind him.
“Is he okay?” I nod toward where Tyke crosses the yard with Hammer.
"He will be." The big guy runs a hand over his shaven head. "How you feeling?" His dark eyes narrow as he scans me head to toe as though looking for signs of physical injury.
The memories of the day rush in as though, with one simple question, he's uncorked the bottle I'd assigned them. I shudder at the rush of adrenalin and shrug. "I don't think it's fully set in. You know?”
Minion glances behind him at his president. “Same with Tyke.” He rests a palm on my shoulder. “You’ll help each other through this, Rae.”
I want to say I know, that I understand what he means, yet my throat thickens at the gentleness of his words.
At first glance, you'd peg him as trouble. As a man not worthy of respect. Yet all I've received from Minion is kindness and care. It touches me fucking deep to have that from him, to know this intimidating man values me highly enough to give it.
“Thank you.”
He nods and then moves inside to join the others.
I look left, and lock gazes with the man I appreciate most in this confusing new world.
Tyke falters at the top of the steps. Hammer passes by and gives me a tight nod as he disappears into the clubhouse with the rest of the crew.
I don't know what to say or what he needs to hear. How do you reassure someone that the vengeance they dealt was justified when meted out against a family member?
Tyke opens his mouth as though to speak, yet his words fail him. His gaze drops first, then his chin, as though he's ashamed—it kills me to see the pride ripped from him. To recognize the regret painted clear as day in the curl of his shoulders.
Nothing I say will negate the shit in his head. No reassurances will tear the pain from his heart.
So, I do the only thing I can and wrap my arms around him, poised on that top step. He sighs, breath shuddering at the tail end, and drops his head to my shoulder. One hand after the other, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me toward him, crushing me in his embrace.
I cling to the damn man as though the slightest ease of pressure means he’ll fly away from me. Fuck—maybe he will? I don’t give us a chance to find out, determined that if nothing else, I can reassure Tyke he’s still worth loving, no matter what he’s had to do.
"I'm so glad you're back," I murmur against his chest, throat tightening with the reminder that there was a very real chance he could have never returned.
“Me too, baby girl.” His words vibrate against my shoulder. “Me too.”
His broad hand coasts down my back, a grumble vibrating in his throat as he grabs a handful of my ass and hitches me tight against him. Warm lips find the column of my neck, dotting a path behind my ear. Tyke finishes with his face nuzzled against me, nose buried in my hair, and I fight the tear that threatens to fall at the absolute perfection of the moment.
All I’ve ever wanted was to give people comfort. To offer the hope that few have for me.
All I want is to know when I'm old and done with this world that I was someone's reason to heal, to grow, and to be the person they deserved to be.
And in the arms of a motorcycle club president, I find that hope.
My reason to stay.
My reason to keep trying, no matter how hard the days ahead promise to be.
Hand traveling to the lengths of hair at Tyke’s nape, I grip him to me and utter the words I spoke earlier. “I love you. As you are, as you have been, and as everything you promise to be. I love every version of you, Tyke.”
"Fuck, baby." His fingers tighten against my body, face pressed hard against my hair. He takes two short breaths as though to compose himself and utters the words that cleave my heart in two, "I rode back here with one truth in my mind, Rae. That I need you. Like I need fuckin' air to breathe. And I don't ever want that feelin' to stop." He pulls back, a hand gripped in my hair, to study my face. "I got business I need to deal with, but after that, it's you and me, baby girl. It's you and me and nothin' else in this world until the fuckin' sun comes up, and I get another twenty-four hours to show you why I’m fuckin’ grateful to call you mine.”