Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
"Don't care what they said," he's saying into the phone. "Price is the price. Border's hot right now... Yeah, well, that's not my fucking problem, is it?" He glances up, sees me, and gestures for me to sit. "Look, I gotta go. Have it there by Friday or the deal's off." He hangs up without waiting for a response.
I take the offered seat, trying not to look too obvious as I look around and take stock of the place. Filing cabinets against the wall, safe bolted to the floor, stack of burner phones on the corner of the desk. This room holds the secrets that sent me to prison. The secrets I kept.
"How's the brand?" Brick asks, lighting a cigar.
"Hurts."
He nods, approving. "Good. Should hurt. Means something that way." He studies me, eyes giving nothing away. "The kid can't stay here."
It's not what I expected him to say. I tense. "Mercy? She's not—"
"Relax." He raises a hand. "Not saying she can't be around. Just can't live here. The clubhouse isn’t a place for a kid. Especially not a girl."
He reaches into a drawer, pulls out a manila envelope, and slides it across the desk. "Open it."
I do. Inside is cash—a lot of it. Twenty grand, maybe more. And papers. Legal papers. I spread them out, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. Title deed. Insurance forms. Utility particulars.
"What is this?" I ask, though I'm starting to understand.
"Your place," Brick says simply. "Double-wide. Three bedrooms."
I stare at him, then back at the papers. "I don't understand."
"Brotherhood means something here," Brick says, leaning forward. "It's not just ink and patches, Legion. You should know that by now. And if you didn't, well, now you do. You took the fall. Did the time. Kept your mouth shut when the Feds offered deals."
He taps the envelope. "Three years, every member put in what they could. Some more than others." He doesn't need to say who contributed the most. I can guess. "House is yours. Paid for. No strings. We had the old trailer hauled away two days ago. Tried to clean up the shitty yard a bit when the new one dropped but…" He shrugs. Winces. "It's still a shitty yard."
I don't know what to say. Words stick in my throat. "I was… I was gonna burn it. That same night I got home."
Brick laughs, comes around the desk, and pulls me to my feet. His hand grips my shoulder, tight enough to anchor me to the moment. "Well, that would've sucked. An arson investigation would've really fucked up the timeline, so—" He claps me on the back hard enough to make me choke. "I'm glad ya didn't." Then he points at me. Flashes that smile that's been a winner with the women for five decades. "You're family now, Demon. And family means something. You take care of us, we take care of you."
He pulls me into an embrace, careful of the brand on my chest. It's brief but fierce. When he steps back, his eyes are suspiciously bright.
"Thank you," I manage, the words inadequate.
He nods, already turning away, uncomfortable with the moment. "Get the kid settled in. Take a day or two. Then… come find me. We'll talk business."
I gather the papers, the cash, my new life wrapped in manila. As I reach the door, Brick speaks again. "Legion."
I turn.
"Good to have you home."
I nod, not trusting my voice, and step out into the hallway.
Standing there, papers in hand, I feel something I haven't felt… well… ever.
Hope.
It's dangerous, that feeling. Hope is a luxury I can't afford. Not yet. Not with Destiny still missing, pregnant and alone. Not with Mercy still jumping at shadows. Not with Savannah wearing another man's ring.
But it's there all the same. Small. Fragile. Real.
One step at a time. One bullet at a time. One breath at a time. That's how I survive.
I tuck the envelope under my arm and go to find my sister.
Time to go home.
Mercy is still at the shootin’ range. Her finger slides to the trigger. She breathes in. Holds. Exhales slow. The shot cracks across the yard. Fifty yards out, once again, a sign jerks and pings
"Fuck me," Diesel says, his voice low with admiration. "Think she's ready for her own Glock?" Diesel asks, pride warming his rough voice. He glances at me, grinning. "Been teaching her all week. Girl's got an eye."
I watch him watching her, this six-foot-five sergeant at arms with his scarred knuckles and dead-eye stare, looking at my little sister like she's the second coming. It hits me that she could do worse than having a mean motherfucker like Diesel on her side.
"Not today," I say, as Mercy pings another sign with a clean shot.
Diesel shrugs. "Your call. But she's got talent." He claps a heavy hand on Mercy's shoulder as she lowers the rifle. "Good shooting, Sis. You come back anytime you want."