Page 15 of Rome
Almost four hours later, I’d pulled into our driveway, taking note of the six bikes parked off to one side. Jagger had called in the big guns, not only Trick and Lucky were there, but also King, Pop, and Cowboy.
I’d walked into the house, finding a somber group of leather-clad men surrounding a grim-faced Caleb, who’d looked like he’d been to hell and back while I’d been gone. He was pale and shaky, with dark circles and bags under his eyes, and I was sure he’d had a hangover that would have incapacitated a lesser man. He’d been sitting at the kitchen table, gripping a cup of coffee with both hands, so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. He’d kept his gaze focused on the table as the others shifted to let me by. No one said a word, and then…
“I’m sorry, baby girl. I’m so goddamned sorry.” I’d started crying at the sound of his voice, so broken. Desolate, as if he’d lost all hope. He had slowly raised his gaze to meet mine, and I’d been shocked to see tears brimming in those beautiful brown eyes that had captivated me since I was fourteen years old. I’d taken a step forward, almost within touching distance, and Caleb had looked down at the table again, then released his hold on the cup in front of him. He’d looked back up at me and slowly extended his hand toward me, palm up, the way he’d done so many times before. I had hesitated, and his jaw clenched, his eyes pleading with me to take his hand. To give him another chance. To forgive him.
I’d taken a deep breath to center myself, then reached out to lay my palm over his. He’d closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath, and I had vaguely noticed Jagger and the other men quietly leaving the room. I’d heard the back door open, then it closed a moment later. A glance out the kitchen window had shown them all settling into the chairs on the back patio. I wasn’t surprised that they hadn’t gone far, but I had appreciated that they were trying to give us a little bit of privacy to work this out.
It hadn’t been easy. I’d talked. I’d yelled. I’d cried. I’d pleaded. And Caleb had listened. He’d held me. He’d dried my tears. He’d tried to explain.
“I’m not an alcoholic, Abby. Yes, I drink too much sometimes, but I don’t think I actually have a drinking problem. I just get carried away, baby girl, and don’t realize how much I’ve had until it’s too late. But I don’t have to drink, so I won’t. I know last night and this morning, well it was a complete clusterfuck, and I’m so damned ashamed that our little boy saw me like that.”
He’d cupped his hands on either side of my face, running his thumb over my cheekbones as he wiped yet another tear that had fallen from my eyes.
“I won’t get drunk again. I’ll make sure of it, and those men out there” – he’d nodded out the window toward the patio – “those men will help keep me accountable. I won’t fuck up again, baby girl. I promise you.”
He’d kept his word. He’d had a few drinks since then, but had managed to stop after one or two, usually because I was with him. Jagger, Trick, and Lucky kept an eye on him if I wasn’t around. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it worked.
The night we’d hung out with Jagger and Molly at the clubhouse, Caleb had three beers, the most he’d had at one time in almost a year at that point. They’d hit him harder than usual, and he’d been pretty buzzed when he’d caught my look of concern. The next time he and Jagger had gone up to the bar for refills, Caleb had come back to the table with a soda. He’d apologized to me on the way home, feeling guilty for drinking more than he’d intended to. He hadn’t had a drink since, mostly to prove to himself that he didn’t have a problem, I think.
Everly chose that moment to try to kick a winning field goal, apparently, and I winced at the sudden pain.
“Oooph, sweet pea, let’s settle down in there, OK? Mommy needs some sleep.” I rubbed my swollen abdomen, and Everly kicked a couple more times before deciding she was comfortable. I yawned and flipped my pillow over to the cool side. Closing my eyes, I was asleep within moments.
Chapter 5
Rome/Caleb
I pulled my bike to a stop in front of the tattoo studio, taking in the almost empty parking lot. Saint’s and Pic’s bikes were the only vehicles there. Saint had informed me that he was going to close up early and send Dax and Lacey home. I was glad he’d taken the initiative, otherwise I would have told him to do it. This was club business, and they didn’t need to be involved in this shit.
Saint had obviously heard me pulling in and met me at the door. He unlocked it and held it open for me, then locked it again behind me once I’d stepped inside. He had turned off the main lights in the lobby, so that only the security light over the reception desk was on in this area. As he turned to look at me, the security light glinted off the St. Christopher medallion that he wore constantly. His mother had given it to him when they’d left the Dominican Republic. He was only eleven at the time, and said he’d been scared shitless about moving to America. His mom thought that the patron saint of travelers might help relieve his anxiety about the move. I wasn’t sure if it had helped, but that medallion was responsible for his road name, when Rafael Perez was patched into the MC ten years ago.
“Where is he?” I asked grimly, and he tipped his head toward the back of the shop.
“He’s back there sitting in his suite with an ice pack on his head. I got him bandaged up, and the bleeding’s stopped, I think.” He hesitated a second before adding, “He’s probably gonna need some stitches though.”
I nodded. “I called Prez on the way here. He and Trick should be here any minute. He was going to call Bull’s brother to see if he was available to come check him out.” Our club secretary for the past several years, Bull had been a patched member of the Guardians for close to twenty years now. His blood brother, Chris, was a former Navy medic who now worked as a paramedic for the local fire department. He also moonlighted as the medic on duty during the underground fight nights we hosted in conjunction with La Famiglia Rossi at our MMA gym.
“You’re sure Bingo didn’t hang around?”
“Nah, as soon as I cocked the shotgun, he took off like a bat outta hell.”
I smirked, seeing the 12-guage propped up in the corner by the door. Almost all the brothers, including me, carried knives at all times. Some carried handguns, too. I rarely did unless I was expecting trouble. Luckily, that was rare. I did keep a gun secured in a lockbox in our bedroom, which I’d grabbed when I’d gone upstairs to change tonight, and another in a drawer here in my workstation. We also kept a shotgun out here in the lobby, under the counter. It made a much bigger impression on any punks who had an itch to cause trouble. We’d had to wave it around for show a few times over the years.
“And the bitch?”
Saint shook his head. “She hauled ass outta here even before Bingo did. I got the feeling she don’t wanna be found anytime soon.”
I laughed at that, but there was no humor behind it. “I’m sure she doesn’t.”
I heard a pained groan from the back and rolled my eyes. “I’d better go check on the dipshit. I’d hate for him to die before Prez has a chance to kill him. You stay here and watch the front just in case Bingo decides to circle back and finish what he started.”
“Roger that,” Saint replied, walking over to stand next to the door.
I strode down the hall, rolling my head from side to side to try to relieve the tension in my neck. A quick glance around Pic’s workstation showed the aftermath of one hell of a fight. Shit had been knocked over, ink was spilled everywhere, and as I spotted Pic’s tattoo gun on the floor, I was fairly certain it was broken beyond repair.
Pic was sprawled in his tattoo chair, shirtless, and with his pants unbuttoned and half-unzipped. He had an ice-filled baggie wrapped in a paper towel laying over his left eye. His lip was busted and based on the amount of blood still running down his chin, I suspected he might have lost a tooth or two. He also had a large, blood-soaked bandage on his left side, along his ribcage.
“You look like shit,” I greeted him, “but you’re damned lucky Bingo didn’t kill your sorry ass. What the fuck were you thinking, man?”
