Madeline Sheehan - Unbeloved

It shouldn’t hurt this badly.

It just shouldn’t. Not after all this time.

But even after all this time, he’d stupidly held out hope, hadn’t he? He’d clung to the memories of their time together like a fucking child clings to its baby blanket, unable to give it up even after that blanket had been chewed on, bled on, tattered, and finally shredded to pieces.

Even after that blanket was no longer a blanket but just a memory.

That was all he and Dorothy were now. Just a fucking memory.

As the door closed behind her, Jase staggered sideways, collapsing backward onto his bed. He needed a drink, but more than that he needed to ride. Seeing as there were several feet of snow on the ground, he wouldn’t be riding anywhere except into a snowbank.

Jesus Christ, he couldn’t stay here in this clubhouse with Dorothy, and he couldn’t go home to that empty house. So now what? What did he do? Where the fuck did he go?

For years now he’d been doing absolutely fucking nothing, just wallowing through life—eating, drinking, sleeping, but barely existing.

So now what?

WHAT THE FUCK NOW?

He sat upright, pushing himself up off the bed. His gaze landed on his leather jacket slung across his dresser top, and the keys to his truck that lay beside it.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. He might not be able to ride, but that didn’t mean he had to sit around this fucking place, feeling sorry for himself, for one second longer.

Grabbing his jacket and cut, he pocketed his keys and then crossed his room, flung open the door, and stalked down the hall.

“Jase?”

Ignoring Cage, he picked up the pace and kept walking.

“JASE!”

“Fuck!” he shouted as he stopped and spun around. “What?”

Jogging down the hall, Cage quickly closed the gap between them. “Where you headed?” he asked.

Cage’s face, a younger but otherwise exact replica of Deuce’s, was filled with concern. And didn’t that just make him feel like an even bigger piece of shit.

“Out.”

“We’re in the middle of some big shit, dude. You sure that’s a good idea?”

“You aren’t president yet,” he shot back.

Cage’s expression didn’t change. “No, but I’m your friend. Your brother.”

His shoulders slumping, Jase closed his eyes. “I just need to get outta here, get some air, get some road time in.”

A jingling sound had him opening his eyes and he found Cage holding out his own keys in offering.

“Take my truck, dude, it handles better than yours.”

“My truck is vintage,” Jase protested.

“Yeah, whatever. Vintage, a piece of shit on wheels . . . same difference.”

Snatching the keys from Cage’s hand, Jase resumed storming down the hall.

“Call if you need somethin’,” Cage yelled after him. “And don’t drink and drive!”

“Fuck off!” Jase yelled, even as he cracked a smile.

No one could ever replace Deuce, at least not in Jase’s opinion, but if the man was eventually going to pass the gavel, Cage was . . .

Well, even if he was married to one of the most feral bitches in the history of bitches, Cage was a good guy and dedicated to the club. Which was more than Jase could say for himself.

It was early when the caravan reached Willard Bay Reservoir. The sun was just barely cresting on the horizon, and most of the boys were still sound asleep in the back of the vans.

Deuce pulled off the road and into a snow-covered parking lot. Leaving the engine running, he exited the vehicle. As he slammed closed the driver’s side door, a rush of cold, frost-bitten air smacked into him, sending a chill straight through him.

Beneath his cut, he pulled his leather jacket closed and began fumbling with the zipper, until he realized that would only impede him if shit went south and he needed ready access to the twin pistols he kept holstered under his arms. Pulling the guns free, he tucked one into the back of his leathers, the other into the holster inside his cut, and proceeded to zip up his jacket.

With a large exhale of air, his breath appearing before him in a large white puff, Deuce slipped his bare hands underneath his armpits and leaned back against the van. They’d driven all night to make it to the meeting with the Russians, and they’d chosen Utah for two reasons. One, because it was halfway to Vegas, and two, because it was neutral ground. Neither party, under these circumstances, would risk a meeting like this one in compromised territory. Still, as he looked out across the quiet water to the left of him and the empty plot of land surrounding him, he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d walked into a trap.

Despite the fact that they’d had countless friendly dealings with the Russians in the past, they were coldhearted motherfuckers who didn’t care who kicked it, as long as the end game resulted in their favor. Finding out it was in fact Yenny who was running things, who had been running things this entire time since betraying his own blood, only furthered Deuce’s disgust for them.

Deuce might live outside the law, but he and many others like him had a set of rules they followed. Because if they didn’t keep some sort of system in place, a chain of command and honesty among thieves, it would be absolute anarchy.

Even criminals should have a code; if not, then it was a free-for-all. If you couldn’t trust your own damn brother, then what was the fucking point?

And all this time he’d thought it was that Russian moron, Valentin, running the show when really, that fat fuck had just been the figurehead. Yenny had been the man behind the curtain, hiding much the same as Hawk had been doing all these years.

The Russians’ lack of honor was one of the reasons Deuce had done his damnedest to steer the club away from dealings with them. Since working side by side with Preacher and the Silver Demons, he’d grown accustomed to buying from and distributing for the Chinese. It had been a deliberately slow transition, since he didn’t want to cut ties with the Russians all at once in case he needed their backing at some point, but his dwindling dealings with them had apparently been noticed and they obviously weren’t too happy about it. Now they were using Hawk to blackmail Deuce back into exclusivity, and using Deuce to blackmail Preacher into expanded distribution, all to their benefit. Greedy fuckers.

Preacher, his hands stuffed inside his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward, came to stand beside him. “What happens if your boy has already kicked it?” Then pulling his cigarettes from inside his coat, he lit one up and blew a long stream of smoke into the wind.

Deuce closed his eyes, wishing he could do the same. Since his heart attack, Eva had been a goddamn vigilante, hell-bent on denying him even the simplest of pleasures. Like a motherfucking cigarette. Or salt. Yeah, Jesus fucking Christ, he missed salt.

“They wouldn’t risk it,” Deuce said. “They want your business and they ain’t gonna get it if they kill my boy. They’re smart enough to know that. But if they did kill ’im, then they’re goin’ to ground.” He turned his gaze back to the water. “Every last one of ’em.”

“That means war. With the fuckin’ cartel.”

A burst of anger caused the muscles in Deuce’s arms to tighten over his chest. “Yeah.”

“That means you’re puttin’ me in the position to be goin’ to war.”

Deuce cut his eyes toward Preacher. “It wasn’t fuckin’ me who pulled you into this shit. It was them.”

“Wouldn’t have been able to pull either of us into this shit if you hadn’t been harboring a fugitive, one who just so happened to be one of their own.”

He didn’t respond. What could he say? Preacher was right, as usual. The dumbass motherfucker. But Deuce didn’t regret taking Hawk in. Not for one second. That boy had proved to be one of his club’s best assets.

“You let your boys in on the real plan yet?”

Deuce grimaced. No, he fucking hadn’t. Other than Preacher, only Mick knew the endgame, and only because he didn’t need his VP crying and whining at him again anytime soon. As for the rest of them, he couldn’t tell them, not yet. He needed everyone to appear on board with taking on more merchandise from the Russians. One slipup, one goddamn wrong look could cost Hawk his life or worse, all their lives. The fallout from this motherfucking dangerous game they were all playing was going to be bad enough. No need to add fuel to the fire just yet.

“The Aces are gonna be on board with pickin’ up the slack, yeah?” Deuce asked, purposely changing the subject. “If we don’t have this shit in place with Slider before the Russians pick up on what we’re doin’, it’s all gonna go bad for everyone.”

Preacher’s head bobbed up and down. “Hellions too. Roundman’s pretty excited about the whole fuckin’ deal.”

Deuce let out a heavy sign. “It ain’t the East Coast, but it’s somethin’, and somethin’ is better than nothin’. Worse comes to worst and they don’t take the bait, we at least got two more clubs backin’ us.”

Preacher nodded again. “Good men, both of them, with strong clubs. It’ll be a bloody fuckin’ war, but I ain’t worried about losin’ it. But, Deuce, you’re gonna have to tell your boys.”

“Not yet,” Deuce growled. “They’re already pissed at me for not tellin’ them about Hawk. Can’t figure out why, though, seein’ as ZZ was one of ’em and he shot my boy. You think you got a loyal man when really all you got is a fuckin’ shit stain who loses his balls over runaway pussy.”

Pussy that had belonged to his daughter, Deuce thought, cringing. His daughter and Dorothy’s daughter.