Page 1 of Butcher's Honor

Chapter 1 - Butcher

The familiar rumble of my Harley dies as I kill the engine in front of Mom's small yellow house.

The tupperware container of homemade soup sits securely in my saddlebag, still warm despite the October chill trying its best to cool it down.

At forty-five, I'm too old to be playing delivery boy, but she's all I've got left. Dad's been gone for thirty years now, and the club keeps me busy enough not to need much else in life. The leather of my cut creaks as I dismount, my boots crunching on the fallen leaves that blanket her front yard.

"Useless bitch! You can't do anything right!"

The angry male voice cuts through the peaceful suburban afternoon like a chainsaw. I freeze, my hand still on the saddlebag. The shout came from the house next door, a shabby rental that's seen better days.

"I'm sorry! Please, Tommy's sleeping—"

"I don't give a fuck about your kid!"

My jaw clenches. Mom's neighborhood used to be quiet and peaceful. The kind of place where old ladies could tend their gardens without worry. Now this.

I grab the soup container and head for Mom's front door, which opens before I can reach it. She stands there in her floral housecoat, her silver hair in a messy bun, and her right arm in a cast.

"Joey," she says, trying to smile, but I can see the worry in her eyes. "Come in."

The shouting continues next door as I follow her inside. The living room smells like her lavender air freshener and arthritis cream. Some game show plays on the TV at low volume.

"How long has this been going on?" I ask, setting the soup container on her coffee table.

Mom sinks into her favorite armchair with a sigh.

"She moved in two weeks ago. The woman seems nice enough—always apologizing for the noise. She has a little boy, maybe four or five. But that man..." She shakes her head. "He showed up days later and this has been going on almost every day now."

Something crashes next door, followed by more yelling. My hands curl into fists.

"And nobody's called the cops?"

"Mrs. Henderson did, once," Mom says, referring to the nosy widow who lives across the street. "But by the time they came, everything was quiet. The woman said she'd just dropped some pots while cooking."

Classic. I've seen it enough times—women protecting their abusers, trapped in a cycle they can't break. Usually, I mind my own business. The club has enough problems without looking for more. But this is different. This is happening next to my mother's house.

"I'm worried about the little boy," Mom continues, her good hand fidgeting with her housecoat. "Sometimes I see them in the yard. He's such a quiet thing, always clinging to his mother's leg. And she... she always wears long sleeves. I know what that means."

Another crash, another scream. This time, I hear a child crying.

"Stay here," I tell Mom, already heading for the door. "Heat up your soup. I'll handle this."

"Joey, please don't—"

But I'm already out the door, crossing the patch of dead grass between the houses. The shouting gets louder as I approach. Through a dirty window, I can see shadows moving inside.

I don't bother knocking. The door's cheap wood gives way easily under my boot, swinging open with a satisfying crack. The noise inside stops abruptly.

The living room is a mess of cheap furniture and scattered toys. A man stands in the middle, red-faced and wearing a wife-beater that shows off arms that have never seen the inside of a gym. Behind him, pressed against the wall, is a woman holding a crying kid.

She's young, maybe in her late twenties, with curves that her oversized sweater can't hide. Her dark hair falls in waves around a face that would be way prettier if it wasn't twisted in fear. The kid in her arms can't be older than five, his face buried in her neck as he sobs.

"Who the fuck are you?" the man demands, puffing up like a rooster.

I take two steps forward, enjoying how he shrinks with each one. At six-two and built like a brick wall, I tend to have that effect on people. The skull patch on my cut and the scars on my knuckles usually drive the point home.

"New neighbor welcoming committee," I say, my voice low and steady. "Couldn't help but notice you're being a bit loud."

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