Vengeance Duet: Truth Part 8

"Mom was right. You do look like h.e.l.l," Dad reminds me as we stand in his garage, sorting through some of his tools. Before leaving the apartment, I had thought it was a good idea to stop by before heading into work to talk to Luke, but now I'm realizing it may not have been such a great idea.

"I've been in fights before," I casually defend. "You used to tell me it was part of being a man."

I hear Dad mumble something about me never growing up, but choose to ignore it.

"Are you and Em comin' to dinner next Sunday? Mom wants to make something Mexican. Thinkin' if anything, it'd be good weekend entertainment."

As his back turns to me, I smile without him seeing it and answer, "I'll talk to Em."

Dad dumps a box of old parts onto his bench then takes a few seconds to pillage through them. When he's done, he wipes his forehead before turning back around in place. "Em's been talking to your mother about Casey."

"Yeah?" I ask, then wait for his response. It doesn't come right away; he's thinking. As of this moment, it's safe to a.s.sume my mom briefed him on as much as Em had told her.

"Yeah. You ready to play house once Em gets custody?" he asks with half a smile.

Judging by his reaction of my mom's excitement, it's fair to say Dad's accepted what's happening. Even if I don't give him the details of Creed, it's good to know he's not against what Em and I are working for.

"House, Dad? Yeah, I guess I am."

Dad walks to his garage refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of c.o.ke. "Before I forget," he casually states, but the dim look on his face tells me he's anything but casual. "I saw Dee Dee at the gas station while I was fillin' up the truck this morning."

"You did what?"

"Yeah," he answers while shaking his head. "Have you seen the likes of that woman lately? Jesus Christ, son, if the dead could walk and talk."

"f.u.c.k, Dad. Tell me you didn't run your mouth about anything Mom told you."

"h.e.l.l no, I didn't. She'd hardly speak to me unless it was to ask about you. She wanted to know how you and Em were doin', how long you'd been back, s.h.i.+t like that."

"Jesus."

He takes a drink, wipes his mouth with his hand then lowers his voice. "She wanted to know how my boy was fittin' in with the boys at Creed."

Releasing a breath, I feel my cheeks puff the air out as my head instantly begins to pound.

"Tell me my son isn't gettin' caught up with those boys," he demands.

"Dad, it's complicated."

"Tell me my son isn't doin' somethin' he knows he shouldn't be," he demands further.

"Dad," I start, but can't finish.

"I lost a child, Max," he starts with a pained whisper. "Marie's been gone a lotta years. You don't know what that does to a parent because you aren't one yet. And if you ever want to be one, you'll get your neck outta the way of a place like that and live right."

"You know why I'm doin' what I'm doin'," I try to explain.

"Dee Dee looks real bad."

"I haven't seen her yet," I inform him, my focus going to the keys in my hand and sensing it's time to go.

"You don't wanna see her, Max. She's not the same pretty girl she used to be. I wouldn't have recognized her if she hadn't told me who she was."

Dad's face is pensive. His disgust for the woman he's known most of her life is obvious.

Before delving into a conversation I'm not ready to have, I inform, "I gotta go check in at work."

As always, though, Dad isn't swayed. "For me, Max, please help those you can, but don't lose yourself in doin' it."

I nod, then look down the drive and rea.s.sure him. "I won't, but it's complicated."

"All things are complicated," he says.

He's right about this.

"Go on now," he dismisses. "Tell Em I'm looking forward to seein' her pretty face soon."

"Will do. Take care, Pop."

Chapter Fourteen.

When I arrive at the MC, I'm greeted by a familiar face. Not a friendly one, but a familiar one.

Cilas is back and he looks every bit as p.i.s.sed off and bitter as he always had before. Only now, apparently after finding out I've been working his rounds and doing it alone, he's more p.i.s.sed and even more bitter. Although no way to know verbally, I can feel the drill of his stare into me each time his eyes pa.s.s over mine.

After being away for so long, then spending the afternoon at Dad's, my nerves are frayed. Even with all that, though, it's time to put on my mask of indifference when handling the members here.

"Hey, Cilas." I keep my greeting casual, although I feel anything but. Although part of me loathes having to be back here, the other part is relieved at the time I'll have with Casey.

I don't get a smile, a nod, or a small wave of Cilas's rather large hand. Instead, his nostrils flare, so I keep walking.

The next person I regretfully run into is Hangar, who sits at the bar with a redhead I've seen here before, but she's usually on Wick's lap.

"Max," he greets. I'm almost shocked, as it's unusual to get an acknowledgement at all, let alone one this welcoming.

I'm sensing something's up.

As I did with Cilas, I do for him-I go for casual. "Hangar. What's happenin'?"

"Same ol' s.h.i.+t. Wanna beer?"

Mentally taking a breath and sitting on the stool next to him, I reply, "Sure, if you've got an extra."

"Callie!" Hangar's voice bellows without delay. It's not until now, with his focus elsewhere, that I get a good look at him.

On the first pa.s.s, his hair looks wet. It's not. Instead, it looks chock-full of dirt and grime, as does his body. His fingernails, which sit on top of the club wh.o.r.e's thighs, are penetrated with deep grooves of dirt underneath each. The smell of him, even from where I'm sitting, takes up the s.p.a.ce around the bar. He also looks completely s.h.i.+t-faced.

Pulling my attention away from him, I watch a woman, looking worn from wear and not from consensual s.e.x, walking timidly toward us at the bar. She says nothing but looks directly at Hangar, as if waiting for instruction.

"Get my friend Max a beer," he demands. She nods and starts to turn away, but he stops her before she can. "And how about you do it naked."

Son of a b.i.t.c.h.

The woman doesn't hesitate at all. Doing as she's told, she unhooks her dress from the straps at the top around her shoulders, which hold it together, and then the black material pools at her feet. The redhead sitting on Hangar's lap inhales deeply when she eyes the scars, faded and new, sticking out in vibrant shades of pale pink to deep red. The woman's chest and stomach are full of them. Some look angry and swollen, and others seem to be thick with scar tissue heavily surrounding them.

"That's better." Hangar smiles wickedly. "Now get him a f.u.c.kin' beer, b.i.t.c.h."

My teeth grind and I feel my jaw tense. The woman, showing no emotion, moves robotically to do exactly as he's ordered. She places the bottle of beer in front of me on top of a yellow napkin. Her eyes briefly capture mine and she doesn't budge. She's waiting for something further, but I don't know what.

"Need anything else?" Hangar asks.

Leaving my eyes on her, I shake my head and move my hand to signal I'm done.

Jesus Christ, I've just dismissed her.

"Hold up, Callie," Hangar calls to her again.

Using the same meek and slow motions as before, she stops and turns in his direction. No reactions cross her face. This isn't a standard club wh.o.r.e, and I don't recognize her place.

"Come here, c.u.n.t," Hangar calls out.

Once she makes it around the bar and to him, he reaches his hand up from his seated position and pulls at her hair. Then he pushes her head toward the face of the redhead still on his lap. Callie winces in pain; it's the first emotion she's displayed since I've seen her.

"Kiss her," Hangar orders. "And make it f.u.c.king interesting."

The redhead giggles while leaning forward. My stomach turns realizing the club wh.o.r.e has authority over the poor woman Hangar is treating worse than I've ever seen a woman here treated-those locked in cement cages included.

In any club I've been in, including the f.u.c.ked-up one I was part of before, the club wh.o.r.es were the lowest of the low. They would loiter and wait for any attention they could find from a member; it didn't matter his rank or the time he had served in the club, either. This is something different.

As she stands in front of me, I take a quick look down at her ankles. Neither holds a strap of color of any kind. This isn't one of the girls who are considered property. This is a whole new brand of f.u.c.king crazy.

"If this is for my entertainment, don't bother. I like 'em clean," I say in reference to what's about to happen. I don't want to see it.

"Ain't for you, f.u.c.khead," Hangar returns, sitting back in his chair and grabbing the redhead's chest with both hands from behind her. His hips thrust slightly upon contact.

His eyes move to Callie. His hand comes up and slaps her hard in the back of the head to get her moving in on the redhead again.

"f.u.c.k yeah, that's it," he oozes as they start to aggressively kiss in front of us.

He grabs Callie's hair tightly in his fist again, forcing her against the redhead, not allowing her to move-not that I think she would if given the chance.

"Callie here is earning her place, so to speak," he starts to explain in front of the two women who continue going at each other. "Callie thinks being an old lady is all fun and games. We're showin' her it's not."

"She's someone's old lady?"

"Not yet; gotta break her in first. Who knows, she may end up with Cilas."

Cilas may be a lot of things, such as angry, intimidating, and quiet, but abusing women hasn't been something I've seen him even attempt to do. I've also not seem him partake in club wh.o.r.es of any variety, either. At least not when I've been around.

I take a pull of my beer, turning around and looking ahead rather than what's happening in front of me. I sneer in disgust. "She looks like she's having a good time."

"She's not here to have a good time. She's here to entertain," he sneers.

After what feels like a few long, drawn-out seconds, I hear the slam of something heavy behind us. Turning around in my seat, I get a clear view of Cilas holding what's left of a broken chair in his hand. The remnants surround him and he looks enraged. His jaw is clenching, his chest is moving up and down, and even his forearms are tense, as he clutches the leftover wood in his hands.

I was right, Cilas doesn't hurt women.

Hangar laughs at him, though, finally pulling Callie off the redhead as his wh.o.r.e wipes her mouth.

"Get outta here, s.l.u.t," he says to Callie. "You've got s.h.i.+t to do."

Hangar grins as Cilas drops what he's holding and steps back, but he doesn't take his eyes off Hangar. And he doesn't leave the room. Instead, he stands guard at the door, positioned back in his usual stance. Now with his hands held clutched together in front of him while his large body, s.h.i.+rtless under his cut, stands watch around the room.

Callie disappears in the back before I'm able to turn around to see if she's okay.

"Max!" I hear Hoss greet me before patting my back with a hard slap; hard enough to tell he's still p.i.s.sed, and the act is sending me an unsaid message that he is. "See you made it and you're already having a drink without me."

"I am. It's been a long f.u.c.king day," I answer, not that he'd have a f.u.c.king clue or care about the stress I'm feeling.

Hoss' p.i.s.sed-off mood regarding my altercation last night and bringing attention to his club appears to have calmed, only slightly. I had expected an immediate a.s.s-chew, but it doesn't appear there's one coming at least not yet.

Instead, Hoss observes, "Nice f.u.c.kin' s.h.i.+ner, brother."

Tilting my beer and taking a drink, I reply, "Thank you. I hadn't noticed."

Hoss takes in the sight of Hangar and his wh.o.r.e then lifts his thumb in the air over his shoulder. "Get out. You've got work that needs done."

"Jesus Christ, Hoss," Hangar spits out. He must realize he's being dismissed just as he dismissed Callie. "We're havin' a drink, for f.u.c.k's sake."

"Hang, I'm about one more word outta your mouth from putting you down for good. Do as I say and move your f.u.c.kin' a.s.s!"

Hangar slaps the wh.o.r.e's leg with an audible force, signaling her to stand, so she does. She prances off half-naked into the other room.

Before Hangar is able to pa.s.s Cilas on his way out, I watch as the palm of Ci's hand hits him square in the middle of his chest. Hangar is nothing comparable in size to the tall and dark giant holding him still, so he's stopped dead in his tracks.

Cilas gives him a deathly stare and Hangar's reaction is to lift his hand and tap Cilas' cheek as if life's a big joke, because he a.s.sumes Hoss will protect him.

"Watch yourself, Conan. Anything happens to me and they'll know you did it," Hangar chastises while smiling.

Then for the first time ever, I see something I've never expected to see. Cilas smiles. And it's wicked.