Page 37 of The Heart We Guard
“Get in.” Babyface jumps out to open the passenger door.
“This isn’t a fucking date,” I grumble.
“Always respect my elders, sir,” he says in that neutral tone he always has. Like, he could be joking or utterly serious.
“Isn’t that just about everybody? You’re like, twelve.”
“Funny, sir.”
The seatbelt irritates me in the first five minutes, but the way Babyface pulls out of the parking lot tells me I might need it.
Watching Denver disappear in the wing mirror of Babyface’s car is hard. Harder than I imagined. And I’ll probably think of Greer every time I come back into the city.
When we make it to the clubhouse in half the time it should legally take us, I wanna make like the pope and kiss the fucking asphalt.
“Thanks, Babyface,” I say.
“Not a problem, sir.”
I glance over at the kid. “Ditch the ‘sir.’ Call meButcher. OrPrez, yeah?”
“I’ll try to remember that,” he says with a grin.
Then, he burns a donut on the way out of the lot.
Grudge walks towards me. “Why the fuck is he prospecting? Looks like he loves cars more than bikes.”
“Yeah, but that violent streak…”
I nod as we watch him likely wreck his shock absorbers racing down the dirt trail.
“You look like the walking dead, Prez,” Grudge says finally. “We missed you. I missed you.”
I look at the man who saved my life when our stays in prison overlapped. They deserved better from me than letting them worry.
I turn to face the clubhouse, but somehow, I feel like a different man to the one who left here a week ago. “This week’s been a journey.”
“You want me to run you home? You shouldn’t be here.”
The best thing for me physically would be to do exactly as he says. Go home. Rest in my own bed. Get Ember to bring me some healthy food like Greer would have done. In fact, she’d be furious I’m on my feet and at the clubhouse. Which is why I put one foot in front of the other.
“Easier to get from my room here to church.”
“If you say so,” Grudge says. “But you better lie your ass down before we meet, or else I’ll knock you down.”
“Not gonna argue with that.”
And I’m as good as my word. Five hours later, I steadily make my way from my room to church. I’m the first one there and sit in my seat at the head of the table. There are cigarettes in my desk drawer behind me, but I resist.
Greer’s right. Maybe cold turkey was the way to quit.
It’s shy of three decades since I set foot in this clubhouse with the intent to prospect. I’d been in here plenty before, on family days, but my mom, a strong woman, knew I was born to be a biker. She’d firmly told my father she’d skin him in his sleep if he brought me in as a prospect before I was sixteen.
He snuck me in at fifteen.
“Butcher,” Catfish says with a broad smile. “Good to see you back. Looks like it’s been a rough ride.”
“Something like that.”
