Page 9 of Blackout: Book Two

“No, you’re right,” I say, drawing in a deep breath. “I need to snap out of it.”

If only it were that simple. If being diagnosed a manic depressive has taught me anything, it’s taught me those suffering have no control. It doesn’t matter how much they want to be well they can’t just snap their fingers and be okay. They can take the steps but finding the courage to lift the phone and call your therapist or swallow the pills, well, it's like climbing a mountain. The first step is always the scariest and we all don’t make it to the top. Not everyone is lucky enough to see the beautiful. Sometimes, they stumble. They slip. They get knocked off the mountain and the thought of climbing it again is exhausting.

I guess when you think about it, it’s kind of like an addiction.

Isn’t that ironic?

Nico’s phone rings and he quickly removes his arm from my shoulders, digging into his kutte to retrieve it. I watch as he rolls his eyes and mutters a curse.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he says, lifting off the couch. Sliding his finger across the screen, he lifts the phone to his ear. “What is it, Frankie?”

If memory serves me correctly, Frankie is Nico’s youngest brother out of the two. If I had to guess, he is in his late teens now. Maybe even legal. The three of them are all fairly close in age considering they all have different mothers and are a product of Wolf’s three marriages.

Nico grits his teeth and balls his fist.

“What do you mean it broke?” he snaps. “Where are you?”

Giving him as much privacy as I can without leaving the room, I divert my eyes away from him as he paces the room. My eyes drift to the leather kutte draped over the back of the couch. Leaning forward, my fingers touch the worn leather and the sobriety patch that’s stitched to the bottom. Realizing its Blackie’s kutte, I pull it off the couch and drape it across my lap. The last time I saw it on him was right before he was arrested. He didn’t have it on in court.

“I’m sorry about that,” Nico says. “I’ve gotta go.”

Turning around, he pockets his phone and stops in his tracks as he spots the vest in my lap.

“Shit,” he mutters. “I came here thinking you’d want that, but after seeing all this I was going to take it back with me.”

“How do you have Blackie’s kutte?”

He rakes his hands through his hair and cups the back of his neck as he lifts his gaze from the leather.

“I was at the gym this morning and I saw it hanging in Anthony’s office,” he reveals. “I snatched it, figuring you’d want it.”

My eyes narrow with confusion as I mindlessly twist my fingers around the leather.

“Blackie’s kutte was in Anthony’s gym?”

“Yeah,” he says, scratching his jaw. “I thought it was strange too, but if I asked any questions, then I wouldn’t have been able to take it. So instead, I shoved it in my gym bag.”

“Why would Anthony have this?”

“Beats me,” he replies. “I don’t think my old man knew he had it either. Apparently, whatever shit went down with Blackie is a mystery to the club.”

“I don’t believe that,” I mutter, glancing down at the kutte. “Blackie only likes to keep me in the dark.”

“I’m telling you, Lace, everyone is scrambling to figure him out. They think your father knows, that the two of them have concocted some fucking plan and are going after the cartel… shit,” he winces. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”

Another woman might be surprised to hear her husband and father have possibly devised a plan that puts their lives, as well as the lives of the people they love, in turmoil, but nothing they do surprises me anymore. My father may not have taught Blackie how to be a husband or a father but he sure as hell schooled him on how to be the devil incarnate.

Nico bends and begins to pick up the broken pieces of glass and discarded picture frames.

“Do you have a dustpan or something?”

“Just leave it,” I tell him, smoothing a hand over the leather. “I’ll clean it once you leave.”

He moves to the other end of the living room and his boots crunch over the glass.

“It’s like a field of landmines in here,” he mumbles. “Dustpan, Lacey, where the fuck is it?”

Sighing, I lift my eyes to his. It’s obvious he’s not going to leave until he cleans my mess and as embarrassing as that is, I just want him gone.

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