Unbreakable: Unrequited Part Two (Fallen Aces MC Book 2) (27 page)

The realization of who that could be smacks me square in the face. I turn heel toward the door and rip it open on a mission to track down Abbey. The girl’s been here long enough, and seen enough to know what she’s doing. She needs an excuse to keep the property girls off her back. Who better to fill the role than her?

As I circle the common room without finding her and then head for the stairs, a niggling thought in the back of my mind grows to a dull ache, demanding attention. As much as I’d hate to break this temporary sense of calm, of
purpose
, I can’t help but acknowledge what I’m doing for what it is.

Yet again, I’m deflecting, distracting, and drawing my thoughts away from the one thing I
should
be trying to sort and file as completed.

Elena.

Yet again, I’m putting the club first.

Elena

Six years later

“Can we go out for dinner tonight, Mama?”

I flick my gaze to the rearview and smile at Dante. “Not tonight, sweetheart.”

“Aww, why?”

“Because Mama doesn’t have enough money.”

Living is frugal, but the thing I’ve come to accept about the way Dante and I survive on my measly wage is that the important part of it all is just that—we’re
living.
Four shifts a week on the front counter at an auto-repair shop would never be enough to take us anywhere, but we have food. We’re alive, we have a life, and we have each other.

I pull my old car up out front of our house and sigh when I spot the gray sedan parked two doors down.

“What’s the matter?” Dante asks from the back.

“Nothing, baby. You go on and get out. Make sure you grab your bag.”

I step out into the mild spring air and lean a hand on the roof of the car while I watch our lurker watch me. We enter the same Mexican stand-off we have each and every Friday when he comes past to check in on us. The moron isn’t even subtle about what he’s doing. He lifts a long lens camera and snaps a few pictures of us.

I flip him my middle finger and follow Dante up the path to the front door.

His lens is positioned outside the driver’s door, resting atop the wing mirror as he takes another snap.
Enough.
The guy’s been tailing us for months, and I can only guess one person who’d hire such a fucking novice to get the job done.

“Take your things to your room, baby, and then start on your homework. Okay?”

“Yes, Mom!” Dante runs off down the hall as I shut the door behind me and leap off the two front steps to head for our stalker.

He pulls his camera in and depresses the button on his car door with a concerned furrow to his brow. It doesn’t matter how hard he holds his finger on that thing
—
the window isn’t going any faster than usual. The jerk starts the car as I reach the sidewalk of the next house over from where he’s parked. I catch the clunk of the gearbox as he slots it into drive, and sidestep out into his path.

He bangs both palms on the steering wheel with a frustrated scowl as I stare him down, my hands on my hips.

The window whines back down. “Are you crazy?”

I nod. “Apparently.”

“Move, lady.”

“How much he paying you?” I ask, moving closer, yet not giving away my position as a human roadblock.

The guy snickers and ducks his head back in the car. “As if I’d tell you that.” He revs the engine for effect.

I lift an eyebrow.

He makes a shooing motion with his hands and gives the gas another pep.

“Help! He’s stealing my car!”

The man’s jaw drops and he looks frantically around to see if I’ve drawn any attention.

“Please! It has all my baby’s things in it!” I smile sweetly at the asshole.

The door flies open and he steps out, rushing around the hood to reach me. “Shh. Just shut the fuck up, okay?”

“Tell me who hired you to follow me.” I case him out, looking for any telltale signs that he’s packing. Nothing obvious.

“A biker, okay? That’s all I’m going to say. The guy’s part of a club, and I’m not keen on fucking them off.” He sighs, running a hand over his balding head. “I’m just trying to do my job, lady.”

“You’re terrible at it. Whatever he’s paying you, halve it.”

He snickers and leans back on the front of the still running car to fold his arms high on his chest. “Yeah? And how you gonna know if I do or not?”

“Ask him.” I’m bluffing—I wouldn’t, but he doesn’t know that.

The wiry man looks me up and down, and then slowly nods. “Yeah, you strike me as the type who’d do that.”

“You picked the wrong woman to tail, buddy.”

He shrugs, pushing off the car to walk back around to his door. “I work for whoever’s paying. And your man, honey? He pays.”

My man.
The P.I.’s unknowingly given me the lowest jab he can.
My man.
Every damn day I have to tell myself it’s over. They say time heals all wounds, but after six years of wondering what King’s doing, how he is, and who he shares his nights with now, I beg to differ. The time apart has only served to filter out the petty arguments we had, the little things that used to annoy me about him, and strengthened the memories of what I love and miss.

“Tell him we’re doing just fine,” I snap and storm back toward the house.

The car passes me by as I turn up the path, and when I head inside Dante is doing exactly as I asked, his homework spread out before him on the small table.
How did I luck out with this child?
He’s never given me trouble, never questioned why it is he doesn’t get to see his father. He helps me cook, cleans up after himself without being asked, and on Sundays brings me breakfast in bed as it’s my “day off”. He’s selfless—a lot more than I can say for the man he resembles in almost every way.

“Can you help me with this sum, Mom?”

His brow furrows as he concentrates on the set of equations set out on his sheet of paper. A look I’ve seen on King when he’s determined to find a solution to the problem himself.

I never hid from Dante who his father is. I waited for him to ask, and when he did a little over a year ago, I sat down with him and told him the truth—a story about a man and a woman who, despite their love for each other, were never supposed to be together.

“What’s got you stuck?” I take the other seat and drag it around to sit beside him.

Dante points out what he’s already done to try and work out the multiplication, explaining each number he’s written down on the worksheet in great detail. Sharp green eyes follow the tip of his pen as he works through the problem aloud, telling me how he came to the answer he has.

A heavy weight settles in my chest, the feeling as familiar as an old pair of sweats. Every time I see him like this
—
so studious, so focused, and so determined to get it right
—
I see King. The child’s more like his father than he’ll ever know, and I can’t help but marvel that all of this comes through even though the two of them haven’t spent more than the brief hour together when Dante was a newborn. With the way King and I left things, the visits we’d bartered over never came to fruition. Perhaps he was ashamed of the way he reacted? Perhaps he finally let me have it my way? I’m not sure, although I’m guessing it was more a case of stubborn pride getting in the way—a lot like myself. Admitting fault has never been a strong point for either King or me.

Dante flicks his head, throwing the longer strands of his hair out of his face when he looks up to see why I’m not answering. “Mom?”

“Sorry, baby.” I offer him a smile and squint at the page, willing my thoughts to focus on the task at hand. “What was that last bit?”

I’ve told myself a hundred different ways that this right here, seeing Dante settled, safe, and happy is all that matters. I’ve lectured myself a thousand times while lying in bed, seated on the sofa, or with my hands wrist-deep in dishwater that I made the right choice—for our son.

Yet every time my thoughts drift to the only man I’ve loved, the last man to have had his lips on mine, I can’t deny the ache of regret that buries another thorn deep in the chambers of my heart. Each glimpse of King, each whisper of the man who gave me this precious child that I see in the simple gestures and habits Dante exhibits, I slip a little further toward the thought that maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late to say sorry and make our trio a family somehow, even if what I had with King is beyond repair.

Maybe . . .

King

Am I okay to drive? Looking down at my hands, I carefully trace the outline of my fingers, checking for any blurriness, any shakiness.
All good here.
The call came in that I needed to get across to Apex’s residence before it was too late.

The years of drinking, smoking, and stressing over a life lived on borrowed time has taken its toll on him. The man is going to be lucky to survive the night.

I shoulder between a group of brothers drinking and having fun with their women, to get to the garage. The clubhouse is in full swing, the members celebrating the end of another working week. They’re happy and that’s all I can ask for.

I’d join in, but I know what it costs for us to put on an evening of alcohol and food to keep their bellies full. I also know that our options to keep the bank account fat are growing thin. The club is in debt, and bad.

I throw a leg over my bike and flick the key. My phone buzzes in my chest pocket, and I stop short of firing the engine to life to answer it. “Go ahead.”

“It’s too late, King.” Apex’s old lady sniffs down the line. “He’s gone.”

I lean over the tank and rest my forearm on the handlebars. “I’m sorry.”

“We knew it was coming,” she says shakily. “Beefy made it here before he went, and Apex told him what he wanted you to know. He’ll come back and see you now.” She pauses, drawing in a deep breath. “I only wanted to call to save you the ride.”

Fuck me.
“Thanks, darl. I’ll come around tomorrow, okay?”

“That would be lovely.” She sighs and then disconnects the call.

Fuck.
I slide the phone back in my pocket and get off my bike grudgingly.
Can my job get any fuckin’ worse?
The walk to the common room is long, held up by how slow my feet move toward my duty as the VP.

Members sing badly to the music blaring over the speakers as I re-enter the chaos. One of our more recent acquisitions, a six-foot goliath of a man called Vince, stands facing me with his beer in his hand. He frowns when he takes in the look on my face and steps through the groups of people to come up beside me.

“You good, King?”

“Got bad news, brother.” I look around at the people filling every corner of the room and long for the seclusion of my bed.
I’m too tired for this shit.

“Want me to get everyone’s attention?”

I nod. The guy’s been invaluable as a new member. I’ll never forget the day we picked him up, not all that long ago, trying to kill himself in a bar fight . . . with me.

Vince heads off across the room and within seconds the music is shut off and the main overhead lights flick on with a buzz and a hum. I give Vince a nod of thanks and take center stage.

Cries of “What’s goin’ on?” and “Where’d the fuckin’ music go?” carry across the room.

I hoist myself up on to the bar and stand, towering over the crowd. Curious eyes train on me, and my skin sears under the pressure. Until now, I’ve managed to get by without any need to be the center of attention like this. The horde of eyes watching my every move sends my anxiety into overdrive. I like my space, my privacy, and to blend into the background when not in times of crisis.
I guess this could be a time of crisis, though.

“What’s the story, King?” one of the more recent members calls out.

I lift a palm to the curious brother down front and clear my throat. “I’ve got some sad news.”

A hum ripples through the room and I raise my hand again, bringing peace to what was mere seconds ago a hive of activity.

“Apex has passed away, peacefully, at home. I’ll give you news on the funeral and that when I have it, but for now lets all give thought to his family and what we can do to help them in this tough time.”

A roar of disbelief and sadness fills the void as I climb down and make my way through the chatting groups to find solace in the sanctuary of the office. I turn to shut the door behind me and find Vince in the way.

“I just need a moment alone, brother.” I keep my hand on the door to push my point across.

He stares at me for a beat before he nods and turns away, melting back into the crowd as somebody turns the music back on, albeit to something a little slower and quieter. The club will celebrate for an entirely different reason now, and most likely for a lot longer. Stories will be shared, respect given, and men will sit in companionable silence as they lift their bottles to their lips in toast to a man they only half knew.

I close the door and take a seat at the clear desk. Months after I was put in charge at the clubhouse, I finally made heads and tails of the mess. Abbey’s a huge help, picking up the mail and sorting it before I get my hands on what comes in. She’s the only person other than myself who knows what financial shit the club is in—and I intend to keep it that way. Nobody out there needs to know that we’re struggling to meet the bills. Nobody out there needs to be worried about a thing.

The club is a place for members to unwind, to let go of their stresses and find solace with people of like minds. That safe haven slipped when Carlos came knocking on our door six years ago, and I’m never letting it happen again. We lost a lot of young blood, and we lost something worse along the way—the respect of the older members.

I’ve strived to bring it back. I’ve pushed and tugged Apex in all the right ways to get him to agree to necessary repairs, to get the old bastard to give the people what they deserve.

And now he’s gone, and here I am with a huge fucking problem to try and sort out.

A swift rap at the door pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts. I straighten up in my seat and call for them to come in.