Page 83 of Judge's Mercy

“In the back bay.”

I find Cy working on one of his project bikes. He has it on a lift with at least two dozen parts scattered around. The bike is old and beat to hell, exactly the kind of challenge Cy looks for. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”

“It’s my old man’s bike, a ’59 Sportster XLH. I’ve been begging him to let me bring her back to life, but you know how us bikers are with our bikes. I’d rather cut off my own hand than have someone else touch my ride.”

I nod, even though I can’t relate. My knowledge of how my bike works is limited, and if it broke down, I’d let someone more qualified work on it. It’s just another difference between me and my club.

“Listen, Prez. I’m sorry?—”

A clatter echoes through the bay as he tosses his wrench onto the lift platform. “Let me cut you off right there because I don’t want to hear your bullshit excuses. Fact of the matter is, you don’t trust me. ’Cause if you did, you would’ve explained why you thought it best for you to go into that house alone, and I would’ve fuckin’ listened. This wasn’t a club problem. It was a Judge problem and probably a Tinleigh problem, so I would’ve let you take the lead.” His dark eyes drill holes in me with their intensity. “Only time I would’ve stepped in is if I thought you’d be leading us into a death trap.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight. The secrets I’ve been keeping put me on the outside?—”

“That’s the other damn thing. Why the hell would you let her endanger herself like that? You were supposed to be keepin’ an eye on her and make sure she didn’t do anything stupid.” I say nothing because I have no defense. He folds his arms over his barrel chest, and I fidget under his scrutinizing glare, picking at my fingernails. I feel like a child being scolded by a parent. “What does she have on you?”

A lump forms in the pit of my stomach. “Nothing.”

“Don’t bullshit me. I know you love the girl, but that should’ve had you wanting to keep her safe, not staying silent while she’s out there risking her life. That means she had something on you.”

This is my chance to be honest, to allow myself to be my authentic self. Something John F. Kennedy said pops into my head: “In any given moment, we have two options: to step forward into growth or step back into safety.” This feels like one of those moments.

Blowing out a breath and running a hand through my hair, I point to the customer waiting area, where there are dirty folding chairs, a water cooler, and twenty-year-old magazines on a piece of plywood held up by a milk crate. “Can we sit?”

“Sure, son.” As if he knows I need support, he gives my shoulder a squeeze, and maybe it’s because I’m about to tell him how I cope with the club’s repentance, or maybe it’s just because I’m too exhausted to care, but his touch doesn’t bother me.

For the next hour, I tell Cy everything, from birth until now. Never once did he give a look of judgment, but there were a lot of grimaces, teeth grinding, and clenching fists. None of it was directed at me, but at the man who made me mentally unwell.

A silence falls over us as I finish by telling him what Myla had over me. Cy rests his forearms on his thighs, rubbing his calloused and dry hands together, making a sound like sandpaper on wood. Although I’m anxious to see how he reacts, I feel much lighter after getting that all off my chest.

“Can I see?” Cy asks, turning to look at me, the hardness in his expression gone.

“See what?”

He nods at me. “I need to see what I allowed the club to do to you all these years.”

“Cy—”

“There were signs. I’d see you grimace when someone clapped your back. And I noticed how you locked yourself up in that cabin for hours after allowing one of the brothers to dump on you, and I didn’t even ask why.”

“I would’ve lied. This isn’t something that started when I joined the club.”

“The problem is, I didn’t even give you the chance to lie, and that’s my burden to carry. You can’t call yourself a man if you don’t admit when you’re wrong and suffer the consequences. You trusted me with the truth today, but I need to see it with my own eyes so I can suffer the entirety of my mistake.”

Chewing on my lip, I stand and shrug off my cut, setting it on the back of a chair before turning my back to him and pulling off my T-shirt. When I left the cabin earlier, I wasn’t thinking about what I was wearing, so I set off on my ride in sweatpants, a T-shirt, my cut, and a pair of boots.

Cy hisses as he takes in my marred flesh. Each second I’m exposed has my heart racing and sweat beading on my brow. When I can’t take it for even a second longer, I pull the shirt back on and slip on my cut before turning to face him. I wasn’t prepared for his look of devastation or his glassy eyes.

“Fuck, son.” The words are choppy, Cy sounding out of breath as he collapses back onto the chair. “What does Myla think about all this?”

That’s one secret I won’t feel guilty keeping, since Myla has a right to privacy. “She’s been helping me with it.”

“So if the club stops fuckin’ trauma dumping on you, will this stop?”

I tuck my hands in the pockets of my sweats. “I don’t know.”

He slumps back in the chair, not looking like the strong, confident leader I’ve always known him to be. The last time I saw him look so despondent was the day I met him at the church. “I’ll be honest here; I don’t know how to handle this.”

“You don’t need to handle anything. It’s just who I am.”

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