Wasp

 

I WAS DONE chasing after Carly. For three months, I’d been trying to get her number and all she ever gave me was grief. I’d put more work into reaching out to that sexy little bartender than I’d put into any woman. Ever. I’d even attempted to give her my phone number. What the fuck had I been thinking? I didn’t give my number away to broads, they gave me theirs. And I always blocked my number before calling them.

But I’d left that napkin with my digits on the break room table of the Copper Penny, where anyone could find it, hoping she’d pick it up.

What the fuck was my malfunction? Carly had made it abundantly clear she didn’t want shit to do with me. So, why the fuck was I lying in bed, staring at my ceiling at six a.m. on Father’s Day, worrying about her kid and unable to get her fine ass off my mind?

It was that goddamn look she gave me when she’d let down her guard in the break room. So fucking vulnerable, so wounded, I wanted to wrap my arms around her and protect her from whatever demons were chasing her. Then I got her to laugh, and that beautiful, rich sound had awoken something deep within me.

When was the last time she laughed?

Was it before she and Trent tangled with this mysterious “bad man” who made Carly clam up and made Trent want to protect her? Who the fuck was the bad man? How much danger were they in from him?

I’d tried to get information out of Flint, but the bar manager wouldn’t tell me shit, insisting that Carly’s personal life was none of my business. But, he did look a little worried when I told him she might be in trouble, so hopefully the hardass would do some digging and get back to me.

If he would just give me her birthdate and social security number, I could have Tap do a full background check on her. Maybe then I could get some goddamn sleep.

I was done chasing her, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to keep her and Trent safe.

Holy fuck, I needed to get her off my mind.

No such luck. Giving up on the idea of sleeping in on my day off, I grabbed my tablet and checked my newsfeed to see what new bike customizations were coming down the lines, trying to divert my thoughts. After reading the depressing news on new tariffs and the possibility of Harley Davidson having to move its manufacturing overseas, I decided I’d had about enough of that shit and dragged my ass out of bed.

When Link had first offered me the job of managing Formation Auto Shop, I made plans to stay in Seattle for a while and put down roots. Using some of Gramps’ inheritance, I purchased a little thirteen-hundred square foot, three-bedroom, two-bath home in Tukwila. Fifteen minutes south of Seattle, my place was right off I5, with wood and tile downstairs, carpet upstairs, a garage big enough to park my Jeep and bike in, and a small backyard with enough room for a bar-b-que. It wasn’t perfect, but the price was right, and it was mine.

The kitchen was too damn small for a table—I didn’t own one anyway—so I poured myself a cup of coffee, took it to the little bar separating kitchen from living room, and glanced at the clock. It was after seven, which put Minnesota time past nine. Knowing my dad would be home from his Sunday morning golf game, I bit the bullet and made my obligatory call.

“Andrew,” he said by way of greeting, sounding happy and relaxed. His golf foursome must have done well. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“Hey Dad, happy Father’s Day. Did you get the bar-b-que set I sent?”

“Sure did. It’s a nice one, too. Good quality. Sturdy utensils. Not like that cheap set your mom picked up on sale last year. The brush on that one fell off not even a month after I got it. They just don’t make things like they used to. This one looks like it will hold up, though. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dad and I were about as different as two people could be. He wasn’t interested in bikes or the club, and I wasn’t interested in banking or golf, which meant we didn’t have much to talk about. Our conversation quickly went from his awkward rambling about bar-b-que sets to uncomfortable silence as I tried to think about other viable topics.

“You do any fishing lately?”

“Yep. Your brothers took me out on Pelican Lake yesterday. Duane brought his boat and we caught our limit of northern pike, crappie, and bluegill. Your mom’s frying them up for dinner tonight. Speaking of your mom, she wants to talk to you.”

I loved my mother, but she was a talker who used guilt and obligation like she’d invented them. I had no intention of spending my entire day on the phone, being made to feel bad about shit I had no desire to change. “Wait, I gotta—”

“Hello Andrew,” Mom said, cutting off my objection. “Are you ready to come home yet?”

Damn.

This was how she had begun every single conversation we’d had since I’d joined the Navy right out of high school. After my time in the service, I was supposed to go home, but with Gramps dead, going home meant facing his house and shop and deciding what to do with them. Did I sell them? Did I move in and live next door to my parents for the rest of my life?

Fresh off the boat, I was looking for any excuse not to go home when a friend invited me to check out his hometown in Washington. It seemed as good a place as any to hang my hat for a while, so I camped out on his sofa and started searching for a job. Link had a help wanted ad in the Times, seeking a mechanic who knew how to repair and customize Harleys. I made the call and as soon as Link explained the purpose of the Dead Presidents, I knew I’d found what I was looking for. Seattle was home now, and I couldn’t think of a single reason to return to my small hometown of Virginia, Minnesota.

“Hi, Mom. Nope. I’m still good. I like the Pacific Northwest. It fits me.”

She let out a sigh. “A mother can dream.”

“I’ve got a great job and a purpose here. This is where I’m supposed to be.” Something inside me was still hoping she’d understand, that she’d see I was where I needed to be.

She clicked her tongue but didn’t argue. Thank God for small favors. “I’m surprised to hear from you. You haven’t called since Mother’s Day, so I figured you must have lost our phone numbers.”

Guilt already. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been busy.”

“You’re never too busy to call your mother, but if you’ve been busy with a girlfriend, all will be forgiven.”

Throwing my head back, I stared at the ceiling and shook my head. How many times had we had this discussion? Fifty? A hundred? And she still wondered why I didn’t like to call home. “Nope. Still single. Focusing on my career. Being a responsible adult and all that.”

“Andrew, you’re thirty now. You need to find a nice, sweet girl to settle down with so the two of you can move back home and give me grandchildren. That reminds me, Leslie Wright’s daughter is single again. Didn’t you go to prom with her?”

“Yep.” Maryann Wright was a sexy blonde with big tits and a nice ass, and I’d only asked her to the senior prom because she’d just found out Brandon Michaels was cheating on her and was working her way through the rest of the football team as retaliation. She was a guaranteed score, and I was a horny little bastard. The next day, she’d tried to stake her claim on me like we were going steady or some shit, but even back then I knew better than to do repeats. Especially with clingers.

“I don’t know what happened with her and that man she was dating, but Leslie said he was no good. Maryann’s been asking after you, wanting to know when you’ll be returning.”

Never. Especially not for that thirsty broad. I kept in touch with enough of my old high school buddies to know that although Maryann was no longer out for revenge, she was still a guaranteed score.

“Maryann Wright is not the type of woman you’d want grandchildren from, Mom. With the way that girl gets around, I couldn’t promise they’d be mine.”

“Andrew! That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“Just callin’ it as I see it.”

Another deep sigh. “You’re not here to see it, so how could you call it? People around here talk. Always have, always will. Only about half of what they say is true, so you can’t believe every rumor you hear. I see that girl at mass every Sunday, so she can’t be all that bad.”

“She’s there confessing something. Besides, you already have grandchildren. Lots of them.” All four of my brothers had done their duty. Each had between two and three kids, at least one dog, a house, and lived within miles of our parents. I was the only disappointment.

“Never enough. Grandchildren are like jewels in my crown. Don’t deny me my jewels.”

“Your crown’s getting heavy. That can’t be good for you.”

“I have a strong neck. I’ll be fine. This is about more than grandchildren, though, I’d love to see you happily married.”

“I don’t need a ring on my finger to be happy, Mom. I have my shop and the club, and—”

“The club? You mean that motorcycle gang?”

Another conversation we’d had a hundred times or so. “It’s not a gang, it’s a club, like the Lyons or the Elks, only we ride bikes. We also do a lot of good for the community and help military vets.”

“Well, Martha Welch said she watched a documentary on motorcycle gangs and they treat women awful, passing them around like some sort of sex cult or orgy. Sharing diseases and god only knows what.”

No way in hell was I about to discuss club whores with my mother. “Please don’t ever say orgy again, Mom. And I can’t believe you’ll give Maryann Wright the benefit of the doubt, but not the Dead Presidents.”

“Don’t be like that, Andrew. I worry about you. If you were a little closer to home, I’d worry less.”

If I was closer to home, I’d probably have to put a gun to my temple and end it all. “I gotta go. The sun’s out, so we’re backed up at work right now.”

Another deep sigh. “Okay. But please don’t wait until the next holiday to call. Oh, and don’t forget that your father and I will be in Seattle on the twenty-second through the twenty-forth. Make sure you carve some time out of that busy schedule to have dinner with us. Maybe you’ll even have a girlfriend by then to introduce us to.”

Not likely, but I had to hand it to her, the woman never stopped trying. Shaking my head, I said goodbye. I put my coffee cup in the sink and headed to the bathroom to shower.

By the time I was dressed and ready for work, I had a missed call and a text from Link, the text asking me to swing by the club as soon as I could. I texted him back to let him know I was on the way and hurried into the garage.

The rest of my inheritance from Gramps had been spent between a blue 2005 Jeep Wrangler and a black 2010 Harley Street Glide. I’d done a decent job fixing up and customizing the Street Glide, but every time I started it up, I felt like I was cheating on Bertha. She was waiting in Gramps’s garage, collecting rust as I tried to work up the desire to go get her. A bike like that wasn’t meant to be garaged somewhere, she was meant to be ridden. Daily. I needed to bring her home to Seattle, but until I went back to Minnesota, my Street Glide would have to do.

Since the weather was nice, I’d normally take her to work, but I needed to go grocery shopping and pick up some weed-n-feed and more rocks for my back yard, so I climbed into the Jeep instead.

The Sunday morning traffic was light, and I made it to the renovated fire station that served as the Dead Presidents headquarters in no time. Link met me in the parking lot with a cup of coffee in hand, looking worried as a mother hen. Concerned about the newlywed, I hurried to get out of the Jeep and join him.

“Hey brother, what’s up?” I asked.

“There’s a man here asking for you by your real name. Says he knows you from the service.”

“Who is it?” I asked, confused why one of my old Navy buddies would have him acting weird.

“Introduced himself as Carson Rucker. Said you used to call him Hound.”

“Hound’s here?” I asked, taking a step toward the fire station. Hound and I had lost contact years ago and I was looking forward to seeing him again.

“Wait, Wasp.” Link moved to cut me off. “He’s… he smells like he’s coming off a bender, and he’s high as a fuckin’ kite. You know how I feel about that shit.”

“Hound?” I looked from Link to the building, trying to reconcile the Hound I remembered with Link’s description. I couldn’t imagine it. “Are you sure?”

Link gave me a flat stare. “What the fuck do you think?”

Right. Link was always sure. “Look, Prez, I don’t know what he’s been up to, but I gave Hound that nickname because he helped servicemen fight for benefits they were denied. He was like a goddamn bloodhound, sniffing out the decisionmakers and making sure our men got what they needed. He didn’t rest until they were taken care of. He’s good people.”

Link’s frown only deepened. “Well, you might want to get your ass in there and see if you can remind him of that, because junkies aren’t allowed in this club.”

Wondering what the fuck had happened to Hound, I hurried inside.