The Biker and the Loner (Oil and Water #3)- S. Ann Cole Page 0,9
one in the past two months.
I lean over and take the glass from her before she can spill wine all over the white rug.
Once I have it safely out of her calamitous hands, she uses the opportunity to grab my face and pull it close to hers. Her thumbs caress the soft spot under my ears—she knows my body responds to that.
“Tell me what I can do,” she pleads. “Tell me what I can do to make you happier.”
There’s nothing. Because the truth is, even if she does tell me to go, I’ll never leave. Not when she’s this messed up. Who’ll be there for her? She would only stay here and waste away on pills and booze.
Papà asked me to take care of her with his last breath, and I promised him that I would. There’s no one on this earth whom I love more than that man.
Kathy is a detriment to my happiness, a hazard to my mental health, and a violator of my sexuality, but I’ll never break my promise to Juan Oliveros.
“Be stronger,” I whisper in return. “Just open your eyes and see that I’m not him.”
Tears brim her eyes as she shakes her head. “I cannot.” Tears fall. “I love you. I love him. I love you. I love him. I love you…”
Then, she kisses me.
And because I never deny her, I kiss her back.
Chapter 3
Scratch, Age 31
"Bet you're glad to be back, huh?" Onyx, one of my closest brothers, slings his arm around my shoulders and shakes me. "We missed you 'round here."
I grunt in response. No, it doesn't feel good to be back; it feels unfair. I'm not supposed to be back. I'm supposed to be dead. The soldiers who went down with me in that copter should’ve been the ones to make it back alive. They had families they cared about—kids, wives, dreams, goals.
Who do I have? Why do I deserve to live, and they don't?
The music gets louder and louder as Onyx and I stride through the Den of Heathens compound to the open, tree-lined, patchy-grassed land where all the parties are thrown. The compound. The place that used to be my home—a home of sin and lawlessness.
It’s just as I remember it. Motorbikes everywhere, oil-stained earth and pavement, acres of land, biker bar at the front, communion dome on the left, trailer homes, and a studio apartment building free for the brothers to either live or bang Club Cats in... Not much has changed.
I'd expected the feeling of “home” to hit me when I rode in, but it never did. All’s familiar. All’s the same. But it just doesn’t feel...right. I don’t belong here.
The club’s throwing me a "Welcome Home" hog-roast shindig. Revelry is the last thing I’m in the mood for right now, but this is my club. I’m still a part of the brotherhood. And although I’d grown detached from this life even since before I left—one of the main reasons I left—these men have had my back for as long as I’ve known them. Might not be as worthy as the troops I lost back in Afghanistan, but they’re still my troop.
A large banner hung between two tall trees reads “Welcome Home, Scratch!” Someone shoves a cold beer into my hand, then I'm swarmed. Abounded with backslaps and shoulder-punches. Lots of "thank you for your service" and "we missed you, man" and "great to have you back in one piece." Roughly an hour of obligatory chit-chat before I'm finally left alone.
As Onyx and I retreat to a picnic bench, Judge, the president of the MC and Onyx’s dad, strides out, searching the crowd until those world-weary eyes fall on me. He pushes through the throngs, crossing the land space to get to me. When he does, he hauls me up off the bench and pulls me into a real hug. Not a backslap or a fist pump. A genuine hug. The kind a father gives to a son. The kind that says, I give a shit about you.
Judge, with his tattooed bald head and graying red beard, has been a father figure since I was a twelve-year-old pissant selling pot on the corner to make cash to take care of my foster siblings. He's not the best guy in the world; he's involved in some serious shit, but he gives a fuck about me. He took me under his wing and has been constant and solid my whole life. Fed me, mentored me in mechanics, hired me