Chapter Forty
Dixon
“You OK, Smokey?”
Ghost’s voice is almost tentative, and it’s the most caring I’ve ever heard him sound. If I wasn’t so wrapped up in my head, burning with heartache over losing Alexandra and an all-consuming desire to track down and murder the men responsible for ruining my life — Alexandra’s father and her childhood friend, Mateo — I might answer him.
But I can’t.
Though, if I could, the first thing I might do is not answer his damn question, but ask him one of my own: what the fuck is The Darkest Confession?
“Smokey?”
I blink as Ghost’s hand hits my shoulder. Hits being the more apt word because, though I’m sure he’s attempting to comfort me, he’s so damn inexperienced at it — not to mention the fact that he is literally dripping gore and has half-dried blood caked all over his hands — that it comes across as an awkward punch.
“What, Ghost?”
“Are you OK? Do you want to go after her? There might be a chance to—”
Yes, I want to go after her; I want to hold her by the shoulders; I want to look her in the eyes; I want to convince her to trust me; I want to wake up next to her in bed tomorrow morning, and the next morning, and all the mornings of my life; I want to make her breakfast and watch her pretend to enjoy my terrible cooking; I want to finish a long day with a beer at her bar and stare down anyone who looks at her the wrong way; I want to end the night beside her in bed and wake up next to her; I want to tell her it was her love that saved my life.
I want the throbbing ache in my chest to go away.
I want her.
Instead, I’m left with that other thing that I’m supposed to want: revenge. I’m going to kill her father.
“I don’t want to go after her, Ghost. You know who I want to go after? Rafael Reyes. I want to track that motherfucker down, dig him out of whatever fucking hole he’s hiding in, and then rip his throat out for ruining my life.”
“You should go to her. Love can still win,” he says in a voice so low I’m not even sure it’s for my ears. Then he coughs, shakes his head like he’s coming back to his senses, and says, “Sounds like you want to go to war with the Crimson Fury again.”
“Like I want to? No, there’s no wanting about it. I am going to war.”
“We need to call the club and have a vote. I know you’re going to go tearing off after this Rafael guy on your own, but give us the chance to vote and have your back, Dixon. Can you wait long enough to give us that?”
It’s so disconcerting hearing the concern in his voice that all I can do is nod in response. Who the fuck even is he? I thought I knew him, yet here is this strange side of him that seems full of things like human emotions and kindness and empathy. I don’t know what’s more troubling — what just happened with Alexandra or the new things I’m learning about the man who is my friend.
After I nod, Ghost makes the phone calls. He also sits me down in the corner, makes me a cup of coffee — to which he adds a decent pour of whiskey, and tells me to just relax and think calm thoughts while he organizes the vote. It’s bizarre. And even more bizarre is that, to everyone else he talks to on the phone, he sounds exactly like the Ghost that I’ve always known — cool, collected, capable of pulling someone’s teeth out with a smile on his face.
I’ve hardly finished my whiskey-coffee when Rook arrives.
“Clean this fucking shit up,” he says as soon as he catches sight of me. His eyes drift to the back room in which Erik Marquez’s body still lies. “And I don’t even want to know what the fuck happened back there. All I want to know is that it’ll be cleaned up within the next half hour. If you have a problem with that, well, you can go fuck yourself. We may all be your brothers, Smokey, but none of us is your fucking mother.”
In a daze, I set to work. The club keeps a pressure washer in a closet, and the floor drain makes cleanup a pretty simple process — just blast it all with water and let it go down the drain. Erik Marquez’s body, I wrap up in a bunch of plastic sheeting and toss it in the back of the truck that Reid’s Repairs uses for hauling cargo and making deliveries. Ghost helps, and he’s back to his old, usual self, now that others are around. Except for one strange moment when we’re carrying Marquez’s body to the truck around back behind the shop and he says to me, “I know you’re hurting right now, brother, but time heals all wounds and a good man like you won’t be down, or lonely, for long.”
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” I say.
“I said you need to keep your mind on the game. We have killing to do, but we can’t be sloppy about this. Rafael Reyes has been in this life for a long fucking time. He’s a cunning bastard.”
“I’m not going to just run at him like an angry child. I know better than that, Ghost.”
“Just making sure, brother.”
By the time we get back to the shop after cleaning up and moving Marquez’s body, the rest of the club is in attendance. There’s a circle of metal folding chairs, with two open ones for Ghost and me.
“Sounds like there’s a party in the works,” Bullet says. “A real fucking strange party that I’m not sure I want to be invited to.”
Bullet’s wearing a freshly stitched VP patch on his cut; he would’ve made a good president — his dedication to us all and his fearlessness when things came to a head with the Covington crime family proved that, but he isn’t Rook. No one else is that much of a grumpy bastard.
“Smokey, brother, you’re covered in blood and this place has that ‘fresh dead body’ smell. You doing all right?” Striker says. Concern sounds natural coming from him, especially considering the history I have with his sister.
“Can a dead body even have a ‘fresh’ smell? They all shit themselves as soon as they die. Can’t really call that fresh,” Thunder says. “Unless you’re used to grading the age of shit by smell. Something you need to tell us, Striker?”
“I’ve gotten pretty used to judging the age of shit by hanging out around you, Thunder,” Striker says, sniffing conspicuously. “When’s the last time that Amelia made you take a shower?”
Thunder checks his pits. “It’s been a minute, I’ll admit. You want to check? See if that sophisticated snout of yours can tell by the smell when my last shower was?”
“Stop sniffing each other,” Rook snaps. “Fucking ludicrous, I have to tell you that. Do you think you’re a bunch of fucking dogs? Because even dogs have more sense.”
“Sorry, Prez,” Thunder and Striker both mutter like two chastened children.
“But, to be fair, if we were dogs, we’d be smelling each others’ assess. You want to get in on this, Striker? Do me doggy-style?” Thunder says.
Rook raises a fist and Thunder, who’s mouth clacks shut and then Rook surveys the room. “Ghost, Smokey, you two called us here. From the looks of things, you’re about to bring up something fucking serious. Get to it.”
“You want me to handle this one for you, brother?” Ghost whispers, so low that I’m the only one who can hear it. I’m sure it’s intentional. Maybe it’s one of his mind games, something they taught him to torture people with. What else could explain him being empathetic and considerate while helping me clean up one murder? Either that, or all his work has finally broken his brain. Maybe his Darkest Confession is that he’s lost his mind. “You can take a beat, center yourself. Your heart must be really hurting right now, but we all got your back.”
“I’ve got this,” I say. I clear my throat and allow a moment for everyone’s eyes to turn to me. “I’m going to kill Alexandra’s father, Rafael Reyes. He’s the head of the Crimson Fury MC. I’ll go it alone if I have to, but I want you all to back me up.”
Words never have been my strong suit. You don’t need them when you’re in the military. But when everyone keeps looking at me for further information, I realize maybe they need more of an explanation; not all of them are former Jarheads who just need to be told when and who to shoot — these guys need a ‘why.’
“Are you just that determined not to have in-laws?” Thunder says.
“He wouldn’t be the first to go that route. I may have had a thought or two like that about Madison’s parents early on. Not now, though. We’ve sorted that shit out,” Bullet adds, hastily. “Though sometimes her dad… never mind.”
“Bro, you know I’d help you bury that body,” Thunder says.
Hawk clears his throat. “I’m in, you know that, Smokey. But that man’s a fucking MC president, and you’ve got history with the Crimson Fury. Before we dig open that old wound and spill a bunch more blood — which, again, let me add I am fucking behind you completely, and absolutely ready to slit their throats and make my hands look like, well, yours do right now — tell us why we’re killing your lady’s daddy?”
“She ain’t my lady anymore,” I say. Admitting that sends a surge of pain through me, enough that I feel how Marquez must’ve felt in his last moments. There are a few sympathetic nods, and an eye-roll from Rook, but I force on without acknowledging them. “You all know about the shit that happened in Sacramento when I rode with the Road Kings MC, before that club fell apart because of the war with the Crimson Fury. I carried that pain with me a long time, nearly killed myself because of it, and now, thanks to Erik Marquez, I know what really happened: it was a fucking setup. Rafael Reyes orchestrated it. He’s a drug-dealing, son-murdering piece of shit.”
“He murdered his own kid?” Rook says. His voice is a feral growl, like he might actually give a damn about something. Might.
“He did. His son found out he was behind all the drugs being sold in their neighborhoods and was going to shut it down. That soulless motherfucker murdered his own son just to save his drug-dealing ass.” I pause, let the words hang in the air for a moment. “I’m going there to kill him. For all he did to me and for everything he did to fuck up his own fucking community, I’m going to take justice on him and everyone else who helped him.”
Rook stands immediately. “I see nothing to vote on here.”
“Excuse me? Did you not just hear Smokey?” Bullet says. “We need to vote on backing him up. He’s family.”
“Exactly. He’s fucking family,” Rook says. “But, in my mind, there’s no fucking need to vote on it. Murdering your own son? Selling drugs? Fuck, he deserves worse than death. If any of you have any fucking doubts, speak up, so we can hold the real vote — on kicking your damn asses out of the MC. Smokey, you’re my brother and you’ve been through hell. We have your back. Do I hear any fucking objections?”
Every single man in attendance stands and raises their voice in agreement, and Ghost awkwardly hits my shoulder again to show support. Someone really needs to teach him how to do human things. I look over at my brothers and feel a swelling of pride that overwhelms the pain in my chest; I may not have the woman I love, but I still have a family. Even if I can’t patch things up with Alexandra, I can still get justice for her Lucas and clear my conscience.
“Thank you, brothers. It’s time to go to war.”