Cautious (Sequel to Disastrous) (32 page)

“Eva,” he said softly, smiling down at me as I climbed into an
uncomfortable plastic chair. My sneaker-clad feet didn’t reach the floor, and
my chin barely cleared the table. Uncle Joe slid into the chair beside me and
put his arm around me, pulling my chair close to his.

“Daddy,” I whispered, trying so hard not to cry. “I want to hug
you. Uncle Joe says I can’t. Why can’t I?”

My father blinked. Then he blinked again. I didn’t know at the
time, but my big, strong, rough, and tough father was trying not to cry.

Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder. “Baby girl,” he said gruffly,
“tell Daddy ’bout the spellin’ bee.”

Excitement battled my tears and won. “I won the spelling bee,
Daddy! My teacher, Mrs. Fredericks, says even through I’m only in kindergarten,
I can spell as good as a third grader!”

My father grinned.

Seeing this grin and not wanting to lose it, I kept going.

“Do you know how old third graders are, Daddy?”

“How old baby?” My father asked, laughing.

“They are eight,” I whispered excitedly. “Or sometimes nine!”

“Proud of you baby girl,” my father said, his eyes shining.

I beamed. When you are young, your parents are your entire world.
My father was my world. If he was happy, I was happy.

Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder again. “Eva, honey, why don’t you
go get somethin’ from the snack machines so Daddy and I can have a word.”

This was typical. At the club everyone was always “having a
word”—words I wasn’t allowed to hear. Most times, I didn’t really care since
all the boys loved me, gave me lots of hugs, let me ride on their shoulders,
and bought me presents all the time. To a five-year-old biker brat, an MC full
of surrogate big brothers and daddies is the equivalent to a normal child being
able to celebrate Christmas every day.

I took my Uncle Joe’s money and skipped off to the snack
machines. Two people were in line ahead of me, so I did what I always did when
I was bored—I started singing. Unlike most children my age who were listening
to New Kids on the Block or Debbie Gibson, I was listening to the music played
around the club. A particular favorite of mine was “Summertime” by Janis
Joplin. So there I was shaking my butt and singing “Summertime” way, way out of
tune, waiting in line for stale potato chips in the Rikers Island family
visiting room, when I heard, “You like Hendrix, too, kid?”

I swiveled around and met with a pair of denim-clad legs with the
knees worn clean through. I looked up, and my eyes widened in delight. He was
tall and tan. His arms and legs were thickly muscled, and his waist was trim.
His forehead was wide, and his jaw was strong and square. His head was shaved,
only a fuzz of blond hair showing, and his forearms were heavily tattooed with
different depictions of elaborate dragons. I’d never seen a more beautiful man.

There are three different types of men in this world: There are
weak men—men who run and hide when life slaps them in the ass. Then there are
men—men who have a backbone, yet occasionally, when life slaps them in the ass,
will rely on others. And then there are real men—men who don’t cry or complain,
who don’t just have a backbone, they are the backbone. Men who make their own
decisions and live with the consequences and who accept responsibility for
their actions or words. Men who, when life slaps them in the ass, slap back and
move on. Men who live hard and die even harder.

Men like my father and my uncles. Men I loved with all my heart.

Men like Deuce.

“I like Hendrix,” I said. “But Janis rules. I listen to ‘Rose’
almost every single day!”

He grinned down at me and dimples popped out all over the place.

“I like you, kid,” he said, still grinning. “You got good taste
in tunes, and you’ve got a pair of Chucks on instead of those stupid fuckin’
high tops everyone’s wearin’.”

He liked me. This was hands down the best day ever.

“I hate high tops,” I said, wrinkling up my nose.

He winked. “Me, too.”

I was so throwing out all my high tops when I got home.

When it was my turn in line, I stood on my tiptoes and popped
change into the machine. I took my time studying the selections, deciding on a
small bag of salted peanuts. Moving out of the way, I watched as the man bought
two bags of potato chips, three candy bars, and a big chocolate chip cookie.

“Wow,” I said. “You’re really hungry.”

He laughed. “Not for me.” He pointed across the room. “My old
man.”

I spared a quick glance at my father and Uncle Joe. Their heads
were bowed over the table still “having a word.”

“Can I meet him?” I asked.

His eyebrows popped. “Uh, he’s kinda cranky.”

I laughed. All the men I knew were kinda cranky.

I slipped my hand in his and looked up, ready to go meet his
father. His hand was warm and comfortable, like my bed was after I’d slept in
it all night.

He stared down at our joined hands, his expression confused.

“Ready,” I told him, tugging on his hand. Shrugging, he led me to
a nearby table where an older man with a long, gray beard and a shaved head
sat, cuffed the same way my father was. He released my hand to take his seat,
and I climbed into the seat next to him.

“Hi,” I said cheerfully.

“You got somethin’ to tell me?” The old man asked his son.

“She likes Janis,” he replied.

The old man studied me. “You like Janis, kid?”

I nodded. “And Steppenwolf and Three Dog Night and The Rolling
Stones and Billie Holiday—”

“Billie Holiday?” He interrupted, sounding surprised.

I popped some peanuts in my mouth and nodded. “She rules.”

The old man grinned, and his entire face changed. I knew
immediately; a long time ago, this cranky old man had been as beautiful as his
son.

“I like Billy Holiday,” he said gruffly.

“I like you,” I said spontaneously because I always said stuff
spontaneously. “Do you want some peanuts?”

“Sure, kid,” he said, smiling. “I’d love some.”

I poured the rest of my peanuts into his hand, and he popped them
all into his mouth at the same time.

“Eva!”

I jumped at the sound of my Uncle Joe’s voice. He was walking
briskly across the room toward me. Once he reached the table, not only did
Uncle Joe looked pissed off but so did my two new friends.

“You got a death wish?” Uncle Joe whispered to the old man.
“Horsemen are in good with the Demons. Let’s fuckin’ keep it that way.”

“Ah,” the old man said, looking back at me. “You must be
Preacher’s little girl. He’s talked ’bout you. Proud as fuck, he is.”

I nodded proudly. “I am Preacher’s little girl. And I’m gonna be
just like him when I grow up. I’m gonna have a Fatboy, but I want mine to be
sparkly, and I want a pink helmet with skulls on it. And instead of being the
club President, I’m gonna be the club Queen ’cause I’m gonna marry the biggest,
scariest biker in the whole world, and he’s gonna let me do whatever I want
because he’s gonna love me like crazy.”

My Uncle Joe burst out laughing, and the old man shook his head,
smiling. The beautiful man turned to face me and leaned forward.

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” he whispered.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I was captivated by the intensity I
saw in his bright blue-and-white-flecked eyes. They reminded me of a frosted
over lake. He had beautiful icy blue eyes that sucked me in to a warm safe
place that I wanted to stay inside of forever.

He stuck out his hand, breaking the spell. “Name’s Deuce,
sweetheart. My old man here is Reaper. It was nice talkin’ with ya.”

I put my hand in his, and his big fingers closed around mine.
“Eva,” I whispered. “That’s my name, and it was so, so great to meet you, too.”

He smiled. And his eyes smiled, too. And I got lost again in his
pretty eyes.

Then Uncle Joe picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.
“Isn’t that fuckin’ expensive as hell private school teachin’ you ’bout talkin’
to strangers?” he said. “Gonna have a talk with those prissy fuckers. Gonna
have a talk with my fist.”

“Bye,” I yelled, waving frantically, as I was marched away.

Reaper gave me a two-handed handcuffed wave and a big smile.

Deuce got to his feet grinning and gave me a two-finger salute.
“Bye, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

It was official. I was head over heels in love.

******

Deuce watched One-Eyed Joe, Silver Demon Lifer, stalk
off with Preacher’s kid hanging over his shoulder, grinning and waving like a
lunatic. He shook his head and smiled. When he could no longer see her, he lost
his smile and turned back to his old man.

His old man had lost his smile, too.

“Cute kid,” Reaper grumbled. “Shoulda had a girl instead of you
two fucks.”

He stared at his old man. He had a moment of longing watching him
smile at that kid and talk to her the way he should have talked to his own kids
but never had. He’d been too busy beating on him and his brother.

Good times.

“Preacher’s on the move,” Reaper growled. “Takin’ that fuckin’
deal with the Russians right out from under you. Why the mother fuck didn’t you
snap that shit down when you had the chance?”

And there it was. He was VP, and that’s all he was to his old
man. Someone to pass the fucking gavel to when he finally—and it couldn’t come
fast enough—kicked it.

“Preacher’s Road Chief beat me to it. Snagged that shit ’fore I
even heard about it.”

Reaper’s expression went glacial. “You’re such a fuckin’ fuck up.
Shoulda made Cas VP. Shoulda had that fuckin’ cunt of whore get ridda ya.”

His mother had been a whore—not a streetwalker but a club whore.
She was sixteen when his father knocked her up, his old man nearly thirty.
After he was born, his old man kicked her to the curb with nothing but the
clothes on her back. All he’d ever had of his mother was a gritty picture of a
very young girl sitting on his old man’s Harley; Olivia Martin was written on
the back. He liked to think that she started a new life somewhere else with
someone who was nothing like his old man. Found some peace and a family who
loved her.

His younger brother, Cas, was the product of another knocked-up
whore. Same story, different day.

For twenty-three years, he’d been putting up with his shit. He
had enough. Pushing out of his chair he stood up, placed his palms on the
table, and leaned forward.

“Nobody—and when I say nobody, I mean fuckin’ everybody—gives two
fucks about what happens to you, you miserable shit. The club respects their
Prez, but not one of your boys gives a fuck whether you live or die. You got
life, old man, and I been runnin’ shit in your absence. And seein’ as I been
runnin’ shit a fuck of a lot better than you, I don’t have to come here. But I
do outta fuckin’ respect, and I just lost the last shred of respect I had
left.”

“You little shit,” Reaper hissed. “You’re gonna pay—”

“No. You’re gonna pay. Puttin’ the cash up for bids the minute I
walk outta here.”

Fear flashed through his old man’s eyes. He’d never seen anything
sweeter.

“Remember, you piece-of-shit fuck, when you’re bleedin’ out that
it was me who fuckin’ ordered it.”

He turned away before his old man could say another word and
strode through Rikers visiting room breathing hard, his heart pounding in his
chest, determined to end that man.

“Deuce!” A little voice squealed. He turned.

Eva was gunning for him. Just before she reached him, she came
skidding to a stop, breathing heavy, and thrust her hand out. “Didn’t get to
share with you,” she said breathlessly.

He bent down and closed his hand around a small bag of peanuts.

His throat closed up.

This kid, this little fucking kid who didn’t know him at all, had
just given him his first gift with nothing expected in return, no favors, no
stipulations, no nothing. He’d been wrong. There was something sweeter than
seeing fear in his old man’s eyes. Eva was far sweeter. If he ever had a kid,
he wanted a kid like this one.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he said hoarsely.

“Will I ever see you again?” She cocked her head to the side,
wide-eyed, waiting for his response. He stared into her eyes, her phenomenal eyes
that were too big for her face. Big and smoky gray like a thunderstorm. Fucking
beautiful.

He smiled. “Hope so, sweetheart.”

She gave him a killer cute grin and bounced back to her old man
and uncle—who were staring daggers at him—shakin’ those pigtails.

After shoving the peanuts in his pocket, he left. First street
payphone he saw, he posted the hit. It took all of an hour, and he had a buyer.
Three days later, his old man bled out in the showers.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emmy Montes was born in Puerto Rico but was raised in
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She currently resides in Philadelphia with her
husband, Alex, and their English bulldog. She has a Bachelor of Science degree
in Legal Studies. She works full time as a paralegal for a mid-sized law firm.
Although she loves the legal field, writing was always her passion.

Her love for books began with the Goosebumps series as a
child. After that, she read anything and everything from poetry to short
stories. She was passionate about the fictional world and intrigued by the way
an author could pull you into a story with just simple words. As a hobby, she
started writing her own poetry, daily journal entries, and short stories.

She actually dreamed of being a journalist and even went as
far as researching colleges to earn a degree in Journalism. At the time, major
newspaper companies and magazines were having budgets cut, and after careful
thought, she settled on another major. When she finished her degree, she felt as
if something were missing. She continued to write for several years, working on
different story ideas, but never finished.
Disastrous
was her first
completed novel.