Page 8 of Riding the Edge

Chapter Two

I thought watching my son’s back as he stood with his head hung low and his wrists bound together by a pair of silver handcuffs was the worse moment of my life. That there was no greater pain a mother could ever endure. The sound of his shackled feet shuffling across the floor as they dragged him to the bus that would take him to prison, haunted me for years. It was far worse than being a frightened fifteen-year-old girl and finding out I was pregnant by my father’s bookie. A man who later became my husband and the bastard who walked out on me and our two children. Knowing Anthony was losing three years of his life for a crime he didn’t commit, trumped all the hardships life dealt me.

Until the day I learned my pregnant daughter had been shot.

If I close my eyes, I can remember standing perfectly still inside the emergency room as I stared at the man my daughter loved. Covered in her blood, Riggs’ eyes pleaded with mine for forgiveness as he revealed Lauren was not only shot but her and their unborn baby were in critical condition. Again, I was forced to play the role of the helpless mother, something I was never very good at.

If you’re a parent, then you know there is no greater misery than knowing your child is suffering and there isn’t a thing in the world you can do to change it. Feeling out of control and knowing my daughter’s life was in God’s hands, I needed to cast the blame on someone. I needed to project every emotion, all the anger, and fear, I needed to unleash it and I did so on Riggs. Hell, I even pointed a finger at my son.

In hindsight I knew they both feared for Lauren and the baby as much as I did but if it wasn’t for their lifestyles and the choices they made to ride on the wrong side of the law, my innocent daughter wouldn’t have been a victim caught in the crosshairs of a gang war and her baby wouldn’t have been born prematurely.

The days that followed Eric’s birth were just as grueling. My daughter was in a coma and my grandson was in an incubator with a breathing tube. Riggs, being the father, was the only one allowed in the NICU so he spent most of the time with the baby while I stayed with Lauren. Neither of us left the hospital. Not for a shower or to change our clothes. Not for anything. Yet we each had clean clothes and three-square meals every day. We also had coffee, magazines, and toiletries. We had everything we needed at our disposal because we had Riggs’ motorcycle club banding behind us.

Make no mistake about it, I am not a fan of the Satan’s Knights. I will never forget their dealings are what nearly cost my daughter and grandson their lives, but I will also never forget the generosity they showed me. In times of despair, those men and their woman have rallied around both my children and I can’t turn my cheek to that.

And I certainly can’t turn my back on a man who sat next to me and held my hand as I cried.

There aren’t many people in this world who have seen me cry but Wolf is one of the few.

God, that is such a ridiculous name.

Almost as fucking ridiculous as Tiger but I won’t go there.

Anyway, it was the day after the shooting. Lauren was still unconscious, and I was sitting next to her, holding her hand as I stared at the machines keeping her alive. I remember the sound of the air pumping into her body and the insistent beeping of the heart monitor. If I try really hard, I bet I can still recall the sterile scent that filled the room.

I had spent hours talking to Lauren, willing her to open her eyes and telling her all about her little boy. I begged, and I pleaded for her not to leave him…for her not to leave me. When I couldn’t stand the sound of my own voice any longer, I sat there quietly. Then I noticed the stack of magazines one of the fellas had dropped off. I thought back to the days she was a teenager and she and I would lay on the couch taking those silly quizzes Cosmo always published. Taking one from the pile, I coincidentally flipped it open to a quiz.

I barely made it through the first question before the tears started to fall from my eyes. Soon I was sobbing uncontrollably, tearing out the glossy pages of the magazine.

“Lady,” a gruff voice called.

Ignoring the man, I continued to thrash, tossing the discarded pages around like confetti. When the cover of the magazine was all that was left, I grabbed the side rail of the hospital bed and leaned close to my little girl.

“Open your eyes, Lauren. Open your damn eyes so you can meet your son.”

“Lady,” the man growled, touching a hand to my shoulder.

Snapping, I turned and glared at him.

“Get your hands off me,” I sneered, taking him in.

The sight of his club’s insignia only fueled my anger, and I shoved his chest. He didn’t move. Not even an inch. Instead, he held his hands up in mock surrender and kept his worn boots firmly planted to the floor.

“Not lookin’ to ruffle your feathers, lady,” he said, tipping his chin to the plastic bag dangling from his wrist. “I brought you something to eat.”

“I don’t want anything,” I argued, stepping away from him.

That wasn’t true.

I wanted to look into my daughter’s blue eyes.

I wanted to snap pictures of her as she cradled her boy in her arms.

I wanted to watch her be a mother.

I wanted her to wake up.

Dropping his hands, he opened the bag and pulled out a twelve-inch sub.

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