Page 11 of Kane

“What do you take me for, an idiot?” If the man could talk, it meant the woman was finished swallowing his tongue.

He chanced a look up from the screen and caught sight of her tight jeans as she sashayed back into the clubhouse. “You asking a trick question?”

Cursing under his breath, Cue Ball dropped the turkeys on the folding table next to the propane tank. Then, he pulled a wicked-looking knife from the scabbard on his belt. “Help me cut the packaging off, ya prick.”

They kept up their good-natured ribbing as they cleaned and dried the birds. He was trying to attach the hooks inside his turkey’s chest cavity when his senses recognized the unmistakable combination of secondhand smoke, Aqua Net hairspray, and a knock-off version of Chanel No. 5.

Mama.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned.” Her pack-a-day habit gave her voice a hint of rasp that never went away. “Desiree said you were out here cooking, but I thought she was full of shit.”

“You come out to help us, Mama V?” Cue Ball couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

She only had two natural born sons, but almost every man in the crew called her Mama, never Vivian. Even Malcolm did it sometimes, though it made Kane shudder if he let himself think about it. Sadly, it wasn’t even close to the most disturbing thing about their dysfunctional relationship.

She chuckled. “You know damn good and well—”

He finished along with her, Cue echoing too. “Mama don’t cook.”

Never had. Never will.

He and Scott grew up on an assortment of fast food and any kind of meat they could throw on the rusted old charcoal grill cemented to the ground near the back door.

His mother smiled. Her boys knew her well.

Cue Ball squatted at the base of the fryer and lit the propane. “We’re more than happy to cook for you.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Right, K?”

“Assuming we don’t burn down the carport, sure.”

The turkeys were ready to go in, just as soon as the oil got hot enough. Unfortunately, there was no sign of a thermometer, which meant they would have to wing it.

Mama V pulled a Kool Menthol from its green and white pack and lit the end. She took a deep drag, and the smoke escaped on an exhale as she spoke. “Charlene was in the clubhouse looking for you, KC.”

KC. Short for Kane Charles. His mother called both her sons by their initials. Kane’s brother was SP. Scott Paul. She thought it was cute, but it didn’t feel genuine. It never caught on with the rest of the men.

“You plan on making her your old lady?” His mother smoothed the top of her bleached hair, where a hundred broken pieces stuck out before her ponytail holder. Her long red lacquered nails were a sharp contrast to the washed-out color.

He shook his head. “Nah. I think Charlene and I have run our course. There wasn’t much there, even in the beginning.”

His mother smiled with satisfaction. She was one of only two old ladies in the MC, a privilege she was in no hurry to share with anyone else. Even if it didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot. “Well, I’ll just tell her to go on then, shall I?”

A sigh escaped him. “No. She should hear it from me.” He’d put it off too long already. As many times as he warned women it was only sex, they always thought they would be the exception to his rules.

No commitments. No feelings. Just fucking.

He wasn’t cut out for anything else. More to the point, he’d never put himself through loving somebody again. It hurt too much when it went away. He’d rather invest his heart in the bonds of friendship. Something he could rely on. His brothers would never abandon him, and no matter how crazy their world was sometimes, he’d never leave them either.

Allegiance was the least he could give those guys for the loyalty they’d shown him over the years.

Leaving Cue Ball to figure out when to drop the turkeys in the fryer, he strode past his mother into the clubhouse. The back door led to the kitchen, and beyond there, a common room featuring a scarred pool table in the center with green felt so worn, it was almost completely smooth. A Budweiser lamp they rescued from a dive bar hung over it, spilling yellow light onto the table.

Scott played against a prospect, while Charlene leaned against the wall, watching and nursing a longneck.

He stopped and studied her. Like his mother, her blond hair was out of a bottle. Even if the brittleness didn’t give it away, he knew firsthand the carpet didn’t match the drapes.

Her red dress was flimsy, revealing, and too tight, showing off the bony hips and hard lines of her thin frame. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, but she wore a thick mask of makeup. Even though he’d surveyed every inch of her skin, Kane had never seen her without her foundation and false eyelashes. It was simply another barrier between them, though to be fair, it was the only one she’d built. The rest were his.

He tried to imagine her with a clean, fresh face, brown hair, and an extra ten pounds on her frame. She’d probably be a knockout.

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