If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel (23 page)

No, I didn’t see it. But hell, I wasn’t seeing past the front of my face, I was just going through the motions of waking up. “No, what is it?” I motion at him. “Give it to me, Ty.”

When the cool silver hits my palm, I yank the letter from his hand with my other. “Shit, I’m giving it, ain’t I? Don’t snatch, you’ll tear it,” he scolds me.

But I’m beyond scolding. I’m beyond even hearing whatever it is he’s rambling about as my eyes scan my name in Jacques’ handwriting scrawled across my grocery list.

He was here. I’m not insane. My body does hurt. And he was fucking here.

“You went by there.” It’s a statement, not a question. And it’s the first thing I hear as I stretch out my tired muscles from the fifteen-hour drive.

After fully stepping into my office in the loft overlooking the steeple, I nod at where Dreads sits sulking in the dark before answering his question, only
somewhat
vaguely. “I went by a lotta fucking places, brother. From here to Daytona, though, that’s gotta happen. What the fuck can I do for ya, Dreads? I’m tired. I need to put this shit away and take a shower then I’m hitting the hay. And I don’t want to be fucked with until the meeting with ‘King’ and DDDs tomorrow morning. Say what you need to say and then get the fuck out, brother.”

I toss my cut over the back of the office chair before my holster. Then after unbuttoning the flannel shirt I wear over the white muscle shirt under, I start with the buttons on both wrists. And when both are also unbuttoned, I toss that shit over the back of the chair too, leaving myself in a white wife-beater, with worn out jeans sagging low from around my hips before fraying over my black worn out riding boots.

When we’re both toe to toe, I square off with the motherfucker who has all the questions. Narrowing my eyes on his, I’m as still as a predator while I wait for the only brother I trust to speak.

His chuckle is the first thing that raises my alarms, warning me that there’s something else here going on. This isn’t just him being pissed about Eve. I mean, while he is pissed, this is something else also. And I know it in the matter of my core when he speaks and it’s in a tone I’ve never heard from Dreads—not once in all these years. This shit isn’t going to be good.

“Toxic. She’s fucking toxic, yeah?” He sighs before rubbing his hands through his hair and down his face. Then after linking his fingers behind his head, he glances towards the ceiling. “Roxy’s pissed you're late. That you were so far behind the head of the group. When I came in, I came in with Clutch and Slim in the middle of the group riding in—she was already fit to be tied. And that was…” He pulls his phone from his back pocket. “…At two this afternoon.” He glances up at me while tucking his iPhone back into his pocket and narrows his eyes back on mine. “You go back by there?”

I nod. “And why’s she so pissed? What’s got her feathers all ruffled?” I ask, trying to avoid his original question.

“You know why. She likes keeping tabs on you. How’s she supposed to mother you if she doesn’t know where you’re at, brother? You know how it’s been...since Ben and all that shit. She doesn’t like to share, you just aren’t aware of it. What? You think she’s stupid?” His chuckle turns from dark to downright sinister. “She knows, dude. Anyone who sleeps with you or around you knows what’s in your head when shit’s getting real. She knows. You talk in your damn sleep too much. Hell, she’s gotta know. And I’m not surprised she’s pissed that you’re coming home late from where your little ‘vagabond’ fucking lives. And look—all of that’s beside the point.” His hands are going back to his hair, and his fingers loosely sift through the dreadlocks at the nape of his neck before he twists the shit and anchors his hands over the mass at the back of his head. Leaning back and looking at me, he finishes, “Dozer, Slim and Lynette’s boy, called—they talked to Clutch. He and the rest of the guys are downstairs.” Dreads nods towards the church area of the steeple. “Finish doing what you need to do, but the brothers need to talk. Something’s happened, and I need you fresh and your mind straight when you hear it, okay, brother?”

The tone in his voice remained the same during his spiel. But the tone in his look, the tone in his eyes—it did change. It went from aggravation to seriousness to pleading. And because I trust Dreads, more than any other motherfucker than myself at this point in my life, I nod.

“Tell ‘em to give six me hours. Make sure the meeting with DDDs and 'King' is kept under wraps, at least until we find out how far Pops and Unc’s hands were in this shit. I knew it had something to do with women, but still. Even this shit’s too far-fetched,” I say, referring to the intel’s information we received when we were in Daytona. “And yes, as wildly as I like to live, and as many women as I’ve been through, even for me, I can’t rightly wrap my fucking head around it right now, Dreads. Especially the part about Eve. I didn’t even know she fit into this, and now she’s seeming to fit in everywhere. I’ll talk to Clutch. After this Roxy shit has settled down. First I gotta iron that shit out.”

I think back to Eve. The note I scribbled on the first piece of paper I could find before I left. And then I fucking sigh, feeling the weight of my current circumstances weigh heavier than they ever have.
Well, before I stopped by a little beach house on my way home from Daytona.

I glance out over the boneyard towards the main compound. “I went by there. I had some shit I needed to give her, that’s all. Something of hers I had. I didn’t think about it until after I’d checked out of the hotel. I just swung by, dropped it off. That’s all,” I smoothly somewhat lie to my brother.

“Just do us motherfuckers in the club a favor, and keep your head outta Eve’s ass. Shove it up Roxy’s. Hers is nice.”

When I shake my head, he mimics me, then sighs before continuing. “Fine. Shove it up Chelsey’s; she’s new in town. Cute as a button. I’d like to unbutton, too. There are too many other asses around here, man. Don’t do what your fucking pops did. Notice the toxic ones, and heed that notice—’cause it probably means they’ll have the power to hurt you,
then
you….” His pointer finger taps my chest. “…stay the fuck away from them. Find ya one that doesn’t make your cock weep
and
your heart sing; that shit’s for the birds. Take my word for it, brother. Take my word.” He does a sorta salute. “I’ll let the other brothers know. We’ll meet you back here at midnight, get all the brothers caught up on what the intel said.” Dreads stops when he gets to the exit of my office, but he doesn’t turn around. “You gonna let them know? About Eve being O’Malley’s kid? I mean the ones that already don’t?” He doesn’t even turn around in search of my answer, but I still respond.

“I don’t rightly know yet, brother.”

His blonde dreadlock-covered head nods. “Get ya some rest, Jacques.” Then he heads around the corner and a beat of time later, I hear his feet on the stairs on their way down.

***

I didn’t mean to leave a note before leaving Eve O’Malley’s. I was gonna just set my mom’s necklace down on the counter beside her keys and bag so she’d see it. I don’t know, maybe I wanted it to make her smile. Maybe I hoped she’d wear it and remember me when she did. I can’t really explain that part of the story, either—I just thought it’d be a nice fucking gesture, okay?

Now how there was a note left beside the necklace on the formica countertop? I don’t know. Okay, I know—and you can shut the fuck up. It’s not my fault I didn’t know sleeping with her would strengthen the itch, not scratch it.
Fuck. Ing. Bad. Terrible idea on my part.

I should be ashamed, and I would...but I fucking can’t be. Are you kidding me? Jesus, you were there…

After adjusting myself, I turn the light on in the bathroom. Then I shudder thinking about the way her skin felt against mine, the way
she
felt against me. My thoughts take me back to last night when I see the marks she left on my skin around my tattoos in the mirror. Bite marks. Little scratches here and there. I remember the sheen of sweat that coated our skin, heightening everything. And then when she came the fuck to life? Right there in my arms, as her dark brown eyes dipped in a fear I didn’t—couldn’t—understand searched for something, anything in mine.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

It was like watching something fucking religious. Like she was scripture, her flesh was the word. And I was just a merely, lowly worshipper, being granted a moment to pray at the altar of fucking Eve Of’May O’Malley.

I didn’t ask any fucking questions, and fuck you for judging me for it. A man’s not supposed to do a lot of fucking things in life…

Take two to the chest and one to the gut—and walk away. Alive. And sink ten inches into Eve’s heaven, and forget about it. Lie like it doesn’t matter. Like it didn’t happen. Like I’ve never been balls deep inside something
that
fucking spiritual? Be still, silly one. That shit’s not supposed to happen.

Jesus, and the note...that’s what I’m fucking really kicking myself in the ass for… and it wasn’t much. It didn’t reveal much—I made sure of it. It was really just meant to be a heads up. I think I even said those words, verbatim, actually.

I think back to the shit I jotted down, like an idiot, leaving breadcrumbs and fucking hope where they don’t belong. But I couldn’t help it. After something like that—after experiencing something that goddamn earth shattering, you don’t walk away from it and the person you experience it with without leaving some sort of a goodbye. And she is, after all, my goodbye girl. I chuckle at the fire I saw light behind her eyes when I called her that. Just before she devoured me with her mouth.

I divert my attention, and fuck you—yes, it’s purposefully, I go back over the letter again, word for word in my head.

Vagabond, I shouldn’t have even come here the first time, much less take you and then return. And honestly, even if I did have an excuse, I doubt I’d tell you. You fuck with my head too much. It’s funny, I think I remember telling you once that I was too scared to touch you. Something along the lines of touching you too much might drive me crazy...well congrats, Pipsqueak. You’ve straight got me mindfucked. Not that any of it matters, unfortunately. Not anymore.

I’m sorry. I do want you to know that. I wish things were different. I wish, I don’t know—something. I wish it could be easier. I wish I could tell you everything you need to know, everything you want to know. But I can’t, it’s not my battle. Do you understand? It’s not my battle, Vagabond. But there is a battle. And this is your heads up. Now start asking the right questions, and start asking the right people. The ones a little closer to home, specifically. Not me. Don’t ask me and mine. We can’t help you. Not anymore. Not with Pops gone.

I’m leaving you with my ma’s crucifix, and in case you try to get it twisted, and make it into something it’s not, I’ll stop you with this: It’s not because of any other reason than I feel sorry for you. And I honestly think you need some Jesus in your life. Maybe if you pray...you can hold it then. Hold onto it, Pipsqueak—I have a feeling you’re gonna need it. And I want you to remember something my ma once told me—when I was sixteen, just before she died. ‘Steady and straight—stay that way. It doesn’t matter what they say, it doesn’t change what’s in your heart. What’s in your blood. You just stay steady and straight.’

Keep that shit, Eve. Keep it. Like I said, I got a feeling you’re gonna need it.

                         —Jacques

I know, okay? I know it was an asshole move on my part, being so cryptic. But my fucking hands are tied. You don’t understand. Her pops is Renee ‘King’ O’Malley. We didn’t know that. Fuck, nobody knew that. Renee doesn’t even know it. Not yet. But he’s asking questions. Dammit, is he asking questions. And all of his questions seemed to focus on and around Ilsa and what’s she been up to since. And that’s when it fucking clicked too.