“Oh . . .” Wow. Hadn’t seen that coming. “Well, uh . . . I guess I can go back to work? I mean, I’m okay. He didn’t hurt me.”
“Great,” she said. “Get yourself a shot to smooth out the rough edges and then back at it. And don’t worry about that shithead bothering you again. Darcy will take care of it.”
“Why . . . ?” I closed my mouth, cutting off the question, realizing I didn’t need or want to know the answer. Nope. Best to let it go, so I left her office and got my shot.
Then I started waiting my tables again.
Darcy and Boonie were still there, and Darcy offered me a concerned look. I decided to pretend nothing had happened. Danielle came over to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I replied. “No big deal. I think I like this place, though.”
Danielle smiled, nudging me with her shoulder.
“Me, too.”
Thankfully, we were only a few minutes from last call, and the rest of the night had slipped by without any more drama. I dragged into my apartment at three in the morning, exhausted but satisfied. I put on some music, grabbed a glass of water, and sat down at my table to count my tips. It wasn’t a fortune, but I’d be able to pay the power bill and eat for another week if I was careful.
Working at the Moose might be okay after all.
I glanced over at my Singer, feeling hopeful for the first time that day. The sleek, black machine with its gold filigree and etching called to me, and I laughed. Maybe tomorrow I’d start that quilt I’d been thinking about. I knew just the pattern, too. Jacob’s Ladder.
So what if Puck hated me? I’d fucked up but I’d done my best to fix it. I had no idea what might happen with my mom, but if she pulled herself together and left Teeny, I’d be ready for her. If she didn’t, at least I’d proven I could take care of myself.
SUNDAY
PUCK
“You should’ve fucking called me,” I told Boonie, wishing I could hit him. We’d gathered at the clubhouse for the club’s weekly meeting. Darcy had been cooking pancakes, eggs, and bacon for us when we’d pulled up, so I’d offered her a hand because I’m a giver like that.
Also wanted to know if Becca had mentioned me after I left last night.
Not that I’d cop to it. Hell no . . . yet there I found myself in the kitchen, helping cook breakfast on the off chance that Darcy might take pity on me, throw me some information. That’s when she told me about Becca, the prick in the hallway, and Roarke Malloy’s response.
Thirty seconds later I was in Boonie’s face, demanding some answers.
“Why would I call you?” he asked, his voice taunting. “You’ve said more than once that you’re not claiming her. She handled the situation just fine on her own—tough little thing.”
“We’ve always protected her,” I protested. “We need to send a fucking message.”
Boonie’s eyes hardened.
“We’ve kept an eye on her, sure,” he said. “But she’s not club property. You want us to treat her like an old lady, claim her. Shit or get off the pot.”
I wanted to protest. Punch him, or argue, or even just tell him to fuck off. My president stared at me blandly, because he was right and we both knew it. She wasn’t mine. Would the club still protect Becca? Absolutely. We’d protect anyone in Callup if we had to . . . But she’d protected herself last night and there’d been no direct insult to the Bastards.
“Claim her or let her go,” Boonie added, his voice deadly serious. “This halfway shit doesn’t cut it. We all heard her at the Moose. Either what she said works for you or it doesn’t. Ball’s in your court.”
I glared at him, because he was right. I was still frustrated with her, though. She fucked with my head, something I’d had ample time to consider while savoring my scrounged cigarette last night before pulling out of the parking lot.
Yeah. That’s how pathetic things had gotten. I’d actually sat alone in the darkness lusting after a girl like some fucking Robert Pattinson wannabe.
At least I smoked instead of sparkled.
Boonie shrugged.
“It’s time for church. C’mon.”
—
I took my place around the battered old table we’d set up in the back room. Twelve of the brothers joined us, while five more hadn’t been able to come. Two were retired, although they still held their colors. Another had to work, and the final two were in Montana visiting another chapter.
I’d never actually planned to stay in Callup. I was a Montana boy, born and bred . . . But somehow I never got around to leaving after I got back from prison. Becca was part of it. The Reapers were an element, too—Painter and I were tight, usually got together at least once a week. Less lately, since shit went down with him and Melanie, but that’s the way of the world.
“So we’re here to discuss the Shane McDonogh situation,” Boonie announced. “There are new developments. Puck, you want to share?”
“So I talked to Rourke Malloy last night, outside the Moose,” I said, forcing myself to focus. “It was an eye-opening conversation. We know that McDonogh has been in some sort of power struggle with his stepdad, Jamie Callaghan. We didn’t have the details but I learned a lot last night. Seriously fucked-up shit. Malloy told me that they’re determined to keep McDonogh from claiming his inheritance—he’s supposed to take control of the Laughing Tess next year, when he turns twenty-one. Malloy says the local union supports him.”