Page 825 of The Tempted

“Mission accomplished,” he says solemnly. Two words. Two words that declared victory for our club but they were lack luster coming from Pipe. “The insurance adjusters will assess the compound this week, if there isn’t enough to cover the rebuild you have plenty of equity in my garage—pull it out and rise up.”

“You talkin’ like you’re going somewhere,” I accuse, crossing my arms against my chest as I continue to stare at him, dreading the words he’s about to say.

“I’m done,” he declares, shrugging off his cut. “Riggs would be good in my position; the kid is a whiz.”

“Pipe, brother, I know—” he cuts my words with a glare.

“You don’t know,” he spits. “Like I don’t know what it’s like to watch my kid die you don’t know what it’s like to find your wife with her neck slit.”

I snap my mouth shut and grind my teeth. Another man would’ve been dead for bringing up my boy but I know Pipe’s just hurting. He was there for me when I buried Jack, stood by my side and reeled me in every time I tried to join my boy in eternity. He gets a pass.

He turns his cut over and picks up the knife, inching the blade under his patch and cuts stitch after stitch.

“You're right, I don’t know what you’re feeling but I know whatever it is it’s made you raw and you need to heal.”

My words are ignored, and he continues to pull the stitches out until his patch is free. I watch on as he shrugs his cut back onto his shoulders, pockets the knife and hands me the patch.

“That patch is who you are,” I argue.

“That’s not who I want to be anymore,” he sneers. “Take the fucking patch, Parrish,” he seethes, extending his arm. “TAKE IT!”

I snatch the worn patch from his hand and grab his cut with the other, stepping to him as I set my eyes on his.

“I’m taking the fucking patch, Pipe, but you’re coming back for it. Clear your head, get your shit figured out but you get back on that bike and you come home. Your patch and your chair will be waiting for you. I will be waiting for you.”

Without another word he pulls out of my grasp and glares at me before charging out of the kitchen like hell was on his tail—maybe it was.

Reina steps into the kitchen as I throw Pipe’s patch on the counter and fight the urge to throw something.

“Jack,” she shouts, demanding my attention. Turning my narrowed eyes on her I see the phone she’s holding against her chest. “It’s Bianci.”

Of course it is.

“Victor passed away,” she says solemnly.

I heard the three words.

Read them off her lips too.

And wished I did neither

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