Chapter 32
thirty-two
JUDE
I drive slowly so Greer can process her surroundings. We’re in the middle of the woods, on a narrow road surrounded by Cypress trees. It’s not until we round a curve that the clubhouse comes into view.
The murky waters of the bayou wrap around the raised dwelling. Only the array of motorcycles parked underneath gives it away as our clubhouse.
Live oaks dripping with Spanish moss are strategically left to grow, blocking the full view of the compound from the waterways. Not that anybody would ever make it downstream this far.
After I lower my kickstand, Greer pulls off her helmet and looks around in an overwhelmed daze.
For the first time, I’m grateful for the sanction on sweetbutts.
They aren’t allowed on the premises because it’s considered disrespectful to the old ladies.
With the drama I’ve seen at other clubs, I’m in complete agreement.
Two brothers are by the bikes, shooting the breeze.
Their conversation stops as I help Greer down.
After introductions, Odin’s father, Solomon, shoots Greer a mustached grin and stage whispers, “Good thing you claimed this one before anybody else caught sight of her. She sure is a pretty little thing.”
I grit my molars. He’s teasing, but the older biker is still looking at my property, even if it is with a paternal eye.
“It doesn’t matter because if another man had seen Greer first, I’d still have made her my old lady.”
He chuckles knowingly. “Smart man. Lock it down when you find the right woman.”
Eager to find a bed and privacy, I throw my arm over Greer’s shoulder, “We'd better go find Hank before he eats something he shouldn’t.”
Greer’s uncharacteristically quiet, her mind likely working a mile a minute.
It’s a lot to take in. The compound looks more like the estate of a high ranking politician than a one-percenter motorcycle club.
The extensive security isn’t in the least bit hidden.
There are more cameras here than at a Vegas casino, and a part of a high barbed wire fence can be seen in the distance.
On the other side is the wide open bayou.
To preserve the view, sensors and cameras lie downstream.
Nobody ever comes this far out, though, except for Couyon’s family.
They own a camp on the other bank. Anyone else attempting to travel down the waterway toward the clubhouse is met by an airboat and sent in the opposite direction.
The main building is nothing short of massive.
Downstairs are all the shared spaces— the bar, kitchen, and a rec room bigger than most apartments.
The second story is the patch holders' residence. A long line of gabled windows notate each private space. I search through the windows until I spot my own. I haven’t even checked it out yet, but it’s ready with clean linens.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“It’s so beautiful here. I wasn’t expecting it.”
“What did you think it would be?”
“Kinda like The Gator Pit. Cement building, no grass growing in the yard.”
My body starts to stiffen when she mentions the club’s hangout. I don’t like her even knowing about the dive bar.
My eyes scan over the direction Greer is staring. Cypress trees sprout from the bayou, their limbs curtained in Spanish moss. A blue heron swoops down, plucking a fish from the shallow waters before disappearing towards the other bank. “I get so busy while I’m here, I forget to appreciate it.”
“How? I could stare for hours.”
“You’re going to love it here in the morning. Turtles live on the log over there.” I point to where a tree fell during the last hurricane, left surrendered to the elements.
“Are we staying here tonight?” she prompts.
“Maybe. I was assigned a private room upstairs today, so we have a bed.”
“Oh, so you’re moving to the clubhouse,” she concludes.
Oh, sweet girl, that is so very wrong. “I’m moving out of the prospect house,” I offer. The rest can be decided later. Right now, I want to enjoy the night together.
With most people presumably setting up outside, we’re able to make it to the common room uninterrupted.
Even though the Bayou Dogs are a family oriented organization, the scene that greets me is nothing short of jolting.
A pink playpen is set up next to the foosball table.
In the center of the room, a baby seat plays a frantic rendition of “round and round the mulberry bush.”
You can barely hear it over the ear splintering tandem screams of two infants.
In Meadows' arms is Sully’s six month old daughter, Vivienne, having herself a world class meltdown.
Her back is bowed, face red from screaming.
She kicks her socked feet in protest, a bowed headband falling lopsided on her bald head.
Any attempts Meadow makes at comforting the baby are ignored.
Darcy’s not faring any better with Owen. He’s over her shoulder, head propped up, wailing like his life is on the line.
This is when I remember that twins run in Greer’s family. It’s a relief when Vivienne decides to finally take the offered binki, and her bellows turn to sniffles. She rubs red eyes with the back of her hand, then nuzzles into Meadow.
Odin wouldn’t be at all recognizable as the president of an MC if not for the cut on his chest. With a blue fluffy blanket draped across one shoulder, he’s digging through an overflowing diaper bag while holding a pacifier in his mouth by the clip-on tether.
Under his booted feet, Gris-Gris is watching intently with a concerned expression.
The rottweiler glances over at the red-faced infant screeching with all his might, then joins the chaos by barking at Odin, a command for him to hurry.
Odin looks down at the dog, annoyance on his face, “Kennel,” he threatens. Gris-Gris makes a dissatisfied grumble in his throat but lies down on the floor, maintaining the most intense of glares.
After fiddling with some powdered formula in a canister, Odin screws on the bottle nipple and hands it to his fiancée.
The room goes suddenly quiet as he latches onto the bottle, Darcy taking a seat in a recliner.
Gris-Gris moves directly under her feet, his gaze directly on the infant.
She doesn’t try to push him away, as if it’s part of their routine.
“I don’t understand why we can’t set the babies up in the cabin,” Darcy asks.
“Flinch is using it for now. He’s got some family stuff going on.”
Darcy shoots him a confused look, “But I thought they didn’t like the club?”
“He asked to use the cabin, and I let him.”
Maybe that’s why he’s being such a cold bastard. He’s got shit going on.
“Speaking of babies, where’s Hank?” Greer interjects.
As if just remembering, Darcy says, “Couyon and Brittany liberated him from the carrier. They brought him into the kitchen because he started to tell off Gris-Gris.”
“That's a Frenchie for you. Fearless.”
“If you’ll excuse us, I’m going to show Greer around.”
Nobody stops us as I make our escape before we’re dragged into a conversation.
I have plans with my woman.
Determination in my every step, I reach for Greer’s hand and start to drag her up the stairs. “Wait, I’ve got to settle the dog somewhere.”
“He’s in the kitchen being spoiled. They won’t feed him anything. Consider it free babysitting.”
She plants her feet, “I feel like I’m sticking them with the dog.”
“Brittany’s asked Couyon about a dozen times for a French Bulldog. She’d take him home if you’d allow it. He’s fine. Now upstairs.” I swat her ass to get her going, then grasp her around the hip.
It’s not that I don’t love our son, but he’s going to command most of Greer’s attention while he settles in.
Sorry, little man, Daddy wants all of Mama’s attention.