Page 3 of When It Reins
Stetson, my youngest and most forgiving brother, is easier. We meet up at least once a week for a beer and to chat. He was a ball of energy these last six months since his girl was finally able to be home and work with Jax at the rodeo school they had started together, instead of being a traveling journalist like she was when they had met.
Seems the mayor, who was withholding the funds necessary, found enough happiness to allow it to happen.
My feet scuff along the floor as I find a place to wait for church to start. I would go to my room here and lie down, hoping that somehow sleep would finally find me, but I couldn’t. I never found myself able to relax in this place. The constant stream of people coming in and out, the music blaring, and the smell of weed that drifted into my room made it impossible to rest here.
Plus, I like my privacy. I don’t like the thought of being in a house with twenty-plus other people sleeping just feet from me. I lived that life when I was on the rodeo circuit, sharing trailer tack rooms and shitty motels. I never want to deal with that again.
The clearing of a throat has me turning from where I am leaning against the wall, my eyes drooping without my permission.
That is what happens when sleep eludes you every night.
“Hey, Hero.” I turn and see Mick, the new club president, smirking at me. Tucked under his arm is a girl who’s looking up at him with stars in her eyes. “You’re early.”
“I wouldn’t be late,” is my gruff reply. Tucking my hands into my jeans’ pockets, I look from him to the girl. “Fun night?”
Mick smirks. “Can’t complain.” He turns and gives the girl next to him a tap on the ass, telling her to get lost. No doubt she would find a spot on a couch or floor to curl up on and sleep. I can’t say I fully understand the allure, going from person to person and not finding more than a warm body.
But that is probably why I keep to myself.
“Let’s head into the war room,” Mick says, tilting his head to the room that was sealed shut, only open for officers of the club or members during meetings, a.k.a. church.
I follow him in, wondering if this is one of those times my favors are about to be cashed in. It’s been a little over a year since I asked my last favor of him, and I am sure that I am due for it.
“Have a seat.” He nods to the chair on his right, and I hesitate. It is the vice president’s chair, the one that belongs to a guy who would probably roll my head off my shoulders if he knew I sat in it.
“Go on. Loki won’t care.” I think about the hulking blond guy who got his nickname for being unpredictable and take my seat.
“I wanted to talk with you about a few upcoming runs.”
My blood hums in my veins, a thread of excitement I rarely allow myself to feel coursing right under the surface. “Okay.”
“You don’t mind them, do you? Being gone for a few weeks at a time doesn’t bother you?” Mick leans back in his seat and watches me for my answer.
“Nothing keeps me here permanently.” A brief flash of Juniper’s face hits me, and I bat that thought away.
Not even her.
Mick hums. “You got a lot of family. They don’t wonder where you go?”
“They know they wouldn’t like the answer even if I gave them one,” I say, thinking how comical it would be really if my family asked for specifics.
“Good to know.” He nods and launches into the plan for the next two months. It is a lot of riding, some over the border and some staying in the state. But the amount is hefty, meaning I would be gone for the most part of two months, coming back to fill back up and then leaving again.
“Your other job at the bar won’t be a problem?” he asks after filing away the papers he showed me, the ones that would get burned as soon as I left the room.
“Nah, they’ll be okay,” I say, feigning more nonchalance than I should. Annmarie is a chill girl who doesn’t really give a shit that I’m a part of the Iron Horses, though she does give me shit about other things. She would hold my job for me until I came back.
“Just have her reach out if they need help again,” he says, covering my back as always when it comes to my life. He is a good president.
When I came back from the road, he offered me an out on a deal I made as a stupid eighteen-year-old kid, one I can’t bring myself to regret, but stupid nonetheless. But I made the deal, and I wanted to keep my word.
So far, they let me get by with a lot, skipping a lot of activities, so I can’t say that I hate being part of it.
“How’s it going with your brothers these days?” Mick asks as I’m about to stand. He is probably one of the few who knows I am struggling to get my feet back under me again after being gone so long. He is strangely understanding about it.
“Heading over there after church,” I say, thinking about the big Sunday lunch they always hold. Typically, after their own church, though I’m pretty sure the topics are wildly different.
“Good. Keep working at it.” Mick knows my brothers, knows how stubborn some of them can be, and I feel a weird tug in my chest at how much he seems to give a shit.
