Devil on Your Back (5 page)

“Fucking a piece of trash will make you forget this?” Her glassy eyes turn to a rainstorm, anger sending the droplets over her cheeks. “Is that really how you’re going to play this?”

A moment of silence passes between us.

“He’s your son,” she whispers.

“What else do you think I should fuckin’ do?” I holler at her.

She takes a step back, stamping her hands on her hips, her beautiful face contorting with disbelief. “You assholes are so fucking unbelievable!”

“What the hell, woman?” I step toward her and lean down so our noses are level. “Who the fuck are you to me to think you can tell me what I should be doing?”

“A friend,” she utters.

“I don’t need friends,” I growl.

“Just like you don’t need to do a thing about your son?” she asks. “You’re just going to step back, fuck a whore, and ignore the fact Carlos has an order on your kid?”

“The
kid
hasn’t spoken to me in eighteen years—why would he need me now?”

“Every child needs their parent,” she mumbles.

I laugh bitterly, crossing my arms over my chest as I pace into the parking lot. Her small footsteps near, and I spin around, only to receive the full force of her swinging palm. My cheek stings, and the rage inside me reaches a dangerous crescendo.

“I don’t believe in laying a hand on a woman, but if you so much as fucking touch me again . . .”

“You’ll what? Hit me? Push me around for telling you the truth?”

“How would you know what the truth is?” I roar. “You. Don’t. Fucking. Know. Me.”

“Who. Fucking. Does?” The muscles in her neck stand out like ropes on a ship straining in the storm. Her fists are balled tight at her side, the knuckles white—so much rage contained in such a tiny package. “Do you have a single fucking person who gives a shit about you? Anybody who cares? I bet not, and you know why? Because you’re a selfish fucking asshole who would rather ignore the facts than lose face trying to do something about it.” She shakes her head, grasping those golden locks of hair in her hands. “Fucking man up, Vince. Man up and do something about it before you fucking regret it.”

“He’s better off without me fucking the situation he’s in further,” I argue. “I’ve tried to help him before.” I tried to ‘man up’, as she put it, and that got me nowhere but further from him than when I started.

“Why would he be better off?” she presses.

“Because I ruin things, okay? I couldn’t help Julia, and all I did after she left us was get so lost in my own selfish misery that I ruined his life too. All I’ll do if I try to help now is squash any chance he might have at getting out of this by complicating things.”

“Who’s Julia?” she asks, confused.

“My dead wife,” I drop, flinching as her face softens.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“Don’t be,” I snap. “She’s none of your concern.”

Sonya takes a step back, and her arms cross over her body. She drops her gaze to the ground, and a part of me wants to hold her and apologize. I’ve dreamt of getting close to her since the day my sorry ass was dragged in here, and this is how it finally plays out? Life really has a thing against me.

“How the hell do you expect him to have a fighting chance if he doesn’t even know they’re coming for him?” she asks, cocking her head to the side and lifting an eyebrow. “Huh?”

She has a point; the boys probably don’t even know what’s going on, from what King told me. Hell, they’re probably blindly oblivious that a crazed kid is on the way to start what his father will probably finish. Maybe I can’t stop the carnage by calling off Sawyer, but I can sure as fuck give Alice a heads up.

If he’ll listen.

“Shit, you’re right. He might not want a thing to do with me, but I can at least warn him.”

Sonya slaps a palm to her head and sighs. “Now he gets it.”

“Woman, you’re a blessing in one angry whirlwind of a disguise.”

“I’ve been called worse.” She giggles.

“I’m sorry for being such an ass.” I take a moment to simply stand and take her in: the crinkle at the corner of her eyes, the curl of her lips, and the way her hair naturally frames her face.
Why the hell haven’t I tried harder to have her before now?

Because I’m chicken shit. I’m scared of being rejected, or hurt.

“You should smile more,” I tell her, stepping into her space.

Her hands find my chest, and she ducks her head to the side as she gives me a small tap with her fingers. “I don’t often have a reason to.”

“I bet I could fix that.” I grasp her face in my hands and lean in so my lips brush over hers. “Thank you.”

Before I can pull back, she pushes up on her toes, pressing her lips to mine. I can’t say what possesses me to choose that moment to finally kiss her, but it feels so right, so
expected
. She drops back on her heels, and I lean forward to keep the connection. How could I have waited so long to do this? She has such velvety, full lips—more distracting than anything I would normally be doing on a Saturday night, and more satisfying than a quick fuck with any or all of the club whores. A man could get addicted. Maybe that’s why I kept my distance for so long?

Tension strains in my jeans and I shift on my feet, trying to nudge the fella into a more comfortable position under the large buckle on my belt. Sonya breaks our kiss with a satisfied hum, and steps back. Her eyes flick to the source of my problem.

“Oh . . .”

“Yeah. Question is, what are you going to do about that?”

She giggles, and then lets out a guttural moan, which has my cock even harder than I’d thought possible.

“The things I could do,” she teases, stepping backwards towards the clubhouse. “But I guess you’ll have to prove it’s worth me showing you,” she calls over her shoulder, jogging up to the access door, and quickly disappearing inside.

Hands on my hips, I stand in the middle of the abandoned lot, staring down the problem in my jeans.

Damn it
. At least she managed to keep me distracted, if only for a second.

Alice.
The shit he’s facing has my heart racing for all the wrong reasons.

The bulge in my pants lessens, and my mood sours quickly. I feel ill—nauseous and weak. I want to deny what I know and crawl into bed with the slim hope that when I wake this will all be some strange dream.

I resume my position leaning against the outside of the clubhouse and listen to the traffic hum once more, only this time it doesn’t ease the ill feeling permeating deep in my bones.

What sickens me most is I’ve felt this way before.

Right before they showed me Julia’s body.

“BABY, HAVE
you seen my keys?”

My wife flies through the house in a blur of color, excited to head out for her first girl’s night in months. Lord knows, the woman deserves it. She works tirelessly to care for us, her family, and often at the expense of her sanity. Whatever we need, she’s all ready thought of it, and she never asks for anything in return.

Ever.

Two of her old work buddies wait on our front step, having a smoke as Julia sifts behind the taupe cushions on our sofa, looking for her key ring. Candy phoned a week ago, excited about some new movie that’s out. After two nights of discussing it over dinner, and two nights of me giving Julia the gentle nudge she needed, she finally agreed to have a night off. It’s not that Julia has ever doubted my abilities to look after our son . . . but I get it. Alice is her life, her true love, even over me.

And I’m fine with that, because some days I feel the same way.

Just seeing her with him makes my heart melt every single day. The sight of her playing in the yard with him, building garages out of blocks for his toy cars, making ‘tunnels’ for his train track out of the dining room chairs—that never gets old. She adores that boy with every ounce of her being, and the sheer thought of not being around if he needed help nags at her like a worn blister. I see it in Julia’s eyes when he comes to her with a scrape before finding me—that gentle understanding that sometimes only Mom can make it better. And in all honesty, I don’t think it will ever go away, no matter how old he gets.

Sometimes a boy, or a man, just needs this mother.

But I make her go. Julia needs this—everybody needs release from time to time. That break from everyday routine is what keeps us sane, and feeling alive.

“What do you even need your keys for, sugar?” I ask as she zips by towards the bedroom again.

“What if you two go out?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Honey, where would I take a six-year-old at this time of night?”

“You have a point there.” She stops halfway down the hall, heads back to me, and presses a chaste kiss to my lips. “I love you.”

My hands find their way to her hips. “I love you, too. Now go and have some fun.” I smack her ass, and she squeals like a schoolgirl.

“We’re going to hit a bar after,” Julia shouts on her way out the door. “I’ll be back by two at the latest.”

A chorus of giggles erupts on our front porch as she joins her friends. I draw the curtain aside and watch as they clatter down our path in a mess of too-high heels before piling into a waiting taxi-van. The familiar unease sets in, watching her go. What if something happens? What if some drunken guy harasses her when they hit the clubs after? What if she trips on her heels and hurts herself?
How can I help and protect her when I’m on the other side of town?

Still, that’s the very problem, isn’t it? If I’m there, I crowd her freedom to let loose. Julia will have the time of her life
without
me—without restriction. I can’t be there to watch over her every second of the day, and as much I hate to admit it, she doesn’t need me to. She needs space to be herself—Julia, not ‘Mommy’, or ‘Vince’s wife’.

Still, I can’t help the fact that I love her so strongly. That I need to know she’ll always be with me, even if that means treating her with kid gloves.

The woman makes me smile even on the toughest of days. She’s a breath of fresh air when I’m choking on anxiety. The very reason I start each day on a high, no matter how low the night before ended.

I can’t imagine a life without her.

CLUTCHING MY
favorite photograph of Mike, I sit on the edge of my bed and let the tears fall. Five years of staying true to him, to his memory, and to the man he was for me, and I’ve done it—I’ve betrayed his love by allowing myself to be swept under the spell of another man.

I know Mike would want me to move on. He’d be up there sharing a beer with whomever in the great beyond, telling me to pull my head out of my ass and give the world ‘your little rays of sunshine’. He used to tell me most every day how much my smiles lit up his life, and how my sunshine brightened his dull days working for the club.

That’s mostly why I stopped smiling—they were his.

And now I gave them to someone else. I showed Vince my true smile. Not the one I paint on for the world, but the one that used to make Mike’s eyes shine when he saw me at the end of the day.

I gave Vince something that belonged to Mike, and I feel as though I’m about to pass out from disgust.

Placing the picture on the bed beside me, I trace our outlines. It’s a photo snapped by another tourist, which we had taken while on holiday in Hawaii. One of the few times he got me in a two-piece bikini.

I snort a laugh, and look down at myself. This body is
not
fit for a bikini anymore. Five years of neglect, and hiding away in my room here at the clubhouse will do that. Once upon a time, I’d go to the gym five times a week; lift some weights and box with Mike. But when he died, that habit died too. It was
our
thing, something
we
did together.

Now, my body holds a few more curves and soft spots than it ever had. I’m
comfortable
—a word which makes me sick to my stomach. Comfortable is bland; comfortable is saying ‘I’ll settle for mediocre with a side of complacent’. I don’t want to be comfortable—I want to be happy, proud, fucking ecstatic about who I am . . . anything but comfortable.

I rise from the bed and take Mike’s picture across to my dresser, placing it on top next to the wooden box which houses my wedding band, engagement ring, and a few silly notes Mike scrawled for me on the back of a napkin when we were dating. Oh, to be that young again. So carefree and oblivious to the hurt the world could cause.

The plush rug I splurged on last week feels heaven beneath my tired feet as I make my way to the window. All the glass in this place is barred up, steel plates covering the bottom two inches on the first floor. Apex went a bit crazy in his final months and we were told the additions were for security. I’m not sure if that’s security from rivals or ourselves, some days.

Peering out between the bars that are set two inches apart, I scan the parking lot for the telltale shimmer of blue-flecked, black paint. I’m well aware what Vince’s bike looks like. It stood out from the day he bought it, and not just because of its unusual make. The Triumph was hard not to notice when he had a custom tank made for it. The bike is a stand-out, and intriguing—just like the man.

I’m on my second sweep when I spot it tucked behind one of many Harleys, in the far left corner.
He hasn’t left.
A sigh escapes my lips, and I lean a hip into the window frame as I ponder the predicament. Is he worth the hassle? A spitfire of a man who flips his moods as fast as, well, me? Two hotheads going up against each other—it can’t end well.

I turn my head away, ready to make tracks to the bathroom for my evening shower when a glimmer of orange catches my peripheral. Hesitating, I look back and wait it out, my heart racing when the two figures turn enough for me to see who it is. King talks with Vince, the cigarette in his hand weaving through the night air as he gestures wildly. Vince seems agitated, pacing before him.
Are they talking about Vince’s son? Talking about how to warn him?
At times like this I wish I’d fulfilled my childhood dream of becoming an international spy—at least then I’d have some cool equipment that would allow me to hear what they were discussing. I could inch the window open, but the music that thumps from downstairs would drown out anything which may have caught the breeze anyway.

I watch their interaction as it unfolds. King finishes his smoke and stubs it out under his boot. Vince has his head thrown back, arms folded over his wide chest, which had felt so good under my hands. The men nod at each other and part ways, King disappearing under the eaves of the building, and Vince straddling his bike.

I wait and watch him go, my heart slowing when he finally disappears from view. Guess he’s not staying here after all. A fact which disappoints me more than I’d like.

Probably for the best then . . . for both of us.

• • • • •

THERE’S SOMETHING
magical about how crisp the cool night air can be. A fresh breeze in the daytime? No comparison. I’ve always loved the night—the mystique of it, the eerie unease that inhabits every dark corner and blackened street.

On nights like tonight, I love it most for the way it can transport me to another place, another time, anywhere but my current life. I feel as if I’m riding through a dream, a surreal world, blurring invisible lines between fantasy and reality.

I’d told Sonya I wouldn’t ride home, and at the time I’d meant it. Damn it, I’d even tried to stay at the fuckin’ clubhouse. But walking past people rooting on the stairs, hearing the moans of satisfied girlfriends and old ladies, I lost it. I lost the plot for two reasons: because people shouldn’t be happy and enjoying themselves when my boy is in trouble, and because it wasn’t me having that fun . . . with Sonya.

The realization left my head aching from the mess I have going on up there; I’m sickened by the fact my kid is in trouble, yet I’m giddy over a woman who has no right affecting me like this. Julia was my wife, and Julia is the only woman I intend to ever love. I don’t want to replace her, I don’t want to better her, and I don’t want to lose her memory by substituting it with someone else. I don’t even want to risk such a thing happening, so my mind’s made up. No more talking to, looking at, or even thinking of Sonya. I just can’t go there.

Not yet. Not ever.

Because if I did, I’m afraid of how intense these feelings for her could get.

Besides, I need to keep my focus trained on how the hell I’m going to get Alice to listen long enough to know what’s headed his way.

I spent the remainder of the night talking with King after Sonya left me hanging, trying to come up with a plan to get me on the road after Sawyer with enough resources to ensure this is settled once and for all. Small problem: I’ve never been the guy to get involved in the political side of club business. There’s a reason why King has me constantly out on the road, and that’s because I tie up the loose ends for the Fallen Saints. I track down the people who owe the club, the people who have betrayed their brothers, and sort the issue out. I ride a Triumph, and it’s not because I couldn’t get the finance for a Harley—it’s because the machine is agile, quick, and fast around the streets.

They try and run? I’ll be there right behind them, every turn they make.

The fox coursing the rabbit.

I always get my prey.

And now, I’m about to make the most important run of my life.

Yet, before I can pack my saddlebags, I need to be able to come up with a legitimate reason for the run, one which won’t raise suspicion if Sawyer gets wind of it. Easy enough if we have a contract or two in the area, but we don’t. Nobody who I’d need to see, anyway. I can’t even use the lame excuse of a family emergency, because if I do that I risk people linking me with Alice.

I need a solid reason why I’d be doing that run, and the only one I can think of involves drugs. Green stuff, to be exact—the very thing that could get me near the boys and give me a reason to make the run. King has a healthy stash, enough for us to pinch forty ounces or so, the right amount to link us up with a decent buyer. For this run only, I’ll be changing my M.O.

Now, I need to find a willing dealer, which means it’s time to make a few calls and get this show on the road.

All I can ask is that we get there in time.