So Deb was good with him coming over for dinner. Going to the girls’ recitals and sitting with her. Picking them up and having them at the Compound or taking them out for pizza or ice cream when it wasn’t his time to have them.
He didn’t get to see them every day, which didn’t suck.
It totally blew.
But he needed to give them what they needed.
And when they needed their dad, when he had a place, when they felt safe there, when they got in a zone (or close to it) where they would become women and they’d have their mom right there when they did, a time Deb and he agreed would be when Cleo was fourteen and Zadie was twelve, they’d have their dad. So after two years that he knew would be two long years, they’d do half custody.
It was all in the agreement.
He just needed to find a fucking house and he didn’t want to wait two years to do it.
His RV was the shit. Even Deb, who didn’t agree with hardly anything he did the last thirteen years, dug that RV and she did this even knowing how much that fucker cost.
But he’d been living in it off Boz’s house for nine months.
He needed to find a fucking house.
He got to the side door, unlocked it, went in, and powered her up.
He turned on one of the TVs (the thing had four, including one built into the outside) and sat to pull off his boots.
He didn’t get the first one off before something caught his eye and he tensed.
Then instead of taking off his boot, he pulled the knife out of the side.
Slowly, he got up and moved to the cupboard, alert while opening it, reaching high, pushing aside the bag of flour that was there just to hide what was behind it. He reached in, grabbed his gun, and moved carefully down the hall, stopping in front of the bathroom.
Standing outside, cautiously, he curled his hand around the door and flipped on the light. Even more cautiously, he looked in.
And saw nothing.
He proceeded until he hit the bedroom.
He did the same thing as with the bathroom.
But no one was there.
Chaos didn’t have many problems these days, not like back in the day when they had their allies... but they also had their enemies.
They did still have one problem, though. A big one. A psychopath with power called Benito Valenzuela who wanted to undo all the work Chaos had done to get clean and get their turf clean, work they’d kept strong now for years.
Things with Valenzuela had been quiet. But things had been coasting too long, the men were getting antsy and players in Denver weren’t taking the Club seriously, so Chaos recently stepped up their maneuvers to warn him off, which meant all the brothers were on edge.
And these days with Millie back, High was on edge about a variety of things, not just Valenzuela.
He clenched his teeth and stared at the big blue plastic crate on his bed with its white top.
Then he made an annoyed noise in his throat when he saw a folded piece of paper on top with High written on it in Cherry’s handwriting.
He’d loaned Tack and her the RV more than once for them to take the boys to stay at state parks and do other shit.
She had a key.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
Shoving his gun in his back waistband, tossing the knife to the bed, he reached to the paper.
He unfolded it and read:
High,
Millie gave Lanie, Elvira, and me this crate. She said she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of what’s in it so she asked us to do it for her. When we saw what it was, we couldn’t bring ourselves to do it either. I’m guessing, from our conversation today, that you can.
So go for it.
I’m really sorry I stepped into it with you and Millie. I upset you and Millie was in a really bad way. Clearly, she also just wants to move on. I should have left it alone.
Now I’ll leave it alone and I’ll talk to Lanie and Elvira so they will too.
Sorry again, High.
xCherryx
Not wanting to but not able to stop himself, he flipped the latches, tossed back the lid, and sucked in breath at what he saw.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “That fuckin’ bitch.”
He didn’t waste time reaching beyond the crate, nabbing the lid to put it back on, and refastening it.
Then he stared at the crate.
Jesus, but she knew how to play the game. What was in that crate would have Cherry and her crew panting to dig in, do it deep and not quit until the job they wanted done got done.
He just did not get what she wanted. He didn’t put it past her to come after him just because she was rabid for his cock. The lie they’d lived didn’t include sex being fucking spectacular.
It was.
Every time.
And she’d panted for it.
Every time.
Maybe she’d hit a dry patch.
Maybe she was just bored.
He didn’t give a fuck.
Whatever it was, he had to shut it down.
Why she kept those pictures, he had no clue, except she kept everything. Concert stubs. Half-ripped movie tickets. Ribbons from gifts. Plastic cups with their names written on them from parties. Strings of Christmas lights that didn’t work that she was sure she could fix if she could find the blown bulb (then she never found the blown bulb, but the woman tried, sitting on the floor pulling out one and sticking in another for fucking hours).
And every picture taken of them together, even if it was out of focus or one of their faces was cut off or half the shot was obscured by a finger.
Those didn’t make her albums but she didn’t get rid of them.
She kept them.