The Possibility of Trey (A Hellion MC Novel) Page 3

  Where Drake had come from a lack of a home life, Trey's had been the result of too much home life. At fifteen, he'd felt like he'd had most of his family up his ass in one way or another. Telling him what to do, what to wear, how to think. So, he'd fucking rebelled. And gotten caught each and every time, just like Sheridan's brother.

  Oh to be that age with what he knew now. God, he'd rule the fucking world!

  Trey dipped his head back to his glass, lost in memories of a youth misspent and people long since gone. People who guided him still.

  "Yo' Prez," he heard and glanced to the bar stool next to him.

  "Bishop."

  "Heard we have a turk on lock down in six." News traveled fast within the club so Trey wasn't surprised.

  "Sheridan's sibling. Hey, did you know she was a girl?" Trey challenged.

  "No, duh. Where've you been, bro'?" Bishop asked, signaling to Dee who was working the bar for his usual two fingers of Van Gogh vodka. "She's only been around for five years. You just cottoning on to the fact you've got pussy doing better work than most of the dicks you employ?"

  Trey snorted as he finished off his drink. "Guess so."

  "So, we're gonna straighten his punk ass out?" Bishop said after a long, deep drink of his poison of choice.

  "Damn right. Who better? And our successes speak for themselves." But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Trey remembered their one failure. The one link in the chain which had come apart so quick and in such a final way.

  Bishop didn't speak, seemingly picking up on Trey's thoughts. The younger man signaled to Dee for refills. After she left, he hefted his glass and murmured, "to Ben."

  "Ben," Bishop repeated and chugged his vodka which provided both their throats with the burn their hearts still held even after so many years.

  "I've got first shift, so what do I need to know?" Bishop was one of the most conscientious of his council, and Trey filled him in on what both Sheridan had said and what he had gleamed from that afternoon's meeting.

  "Shit. The song remains the same…" Bishop breathed. He too, had been an 'at risk' teenager only he'd been a junkie by the time his grandpop, one of the founding members of HMC, had dragged his ass into the compound. But Bishop, who had been known as Stanley back then, had broken on his ninth day with almost nary a stray step since.

  "Okay, you work the judge and as soon as you get approval, we'll get him set up with the online classes. I'd be willing to bet that even though he's seventeen his schooling will be at about a freshman level."

  Too true. Once a kid considered himself 'better than', inevitably bad grades due to inattention followed. Add to that missed classes, bullying other kids and terrorizing teachers all were part and parcel of the future jailbird's life. It was a cycle, a sick spiral, that didn't seem to skip any town in America.

  It was almost like some kind of virus in Trey's opinion.

  He didn't know and couldn't have cared less why although a lot of people had opinions. The rise of violent video games, the music, the lax morals since the sixties. All he knew was it was a sickness and needed to be eradicated one kid at a time.

  "Mel and family are set to arrive tomorrow," Trey offered, changing the direction of their conversation.

  "Cool. Where're you putting them?"

  "The three bed on Eleventh. The Honeys spent the day getting it ready." Dee honed in on the conversation, letting Trey know she'd been listening in on what they'd been saying.

  "It's all ready for them and I gotta say, the girl's room is too cute for words!" There had been few reasons for Dee to smile in the last few months so when Trey and Bishop caught sight of her pearly whites they couldn't help but grin in return.

  "I'll be going by in the afternoon if you want to join me," Trey offered his second in command. Both he and Bishop were getting used to their new relationship and new responsibilities. Maybe because it was so new, it felt like each of them were waiting for the other to yell, 'fuck off'.

  "What time? I'm available after three, Trey."

  "Four or thereabouts?"

  "Will do," came the reply even though it was offered from the bottom of a glass.

  So far, he and his crew were working their new roles, the club's new direction.

  Just the way Trey had planned.

  *.*.*.*.*

  Actually telling my folks Drake was getting help was a non-event. After fixing dinner and setting the table, both mom and dad took the news that Drake would be away for six months with nothing but nods.

  My dad's had been of the sage variety as if I'd made a decision of import even though the choice had been completely and utterly out of my hands. A fact that still pissed me off even a couple of hours after the fact. My mom's nod was more in the 'that's nice dear now what's for dinner' arena which told me she was tired, stressed and couldn't take much more. I wondered for the thousandth time what my parent's days were actually like, a one-armed, blind man caring for a pitifully weak woman.

  Or vice versa as the case may have been.

  "I need my sheets changed before bed," dad advised as I cleared our plates. I saw a bronze color hit his cheeks and realized what he was saying. It had been happening more and more of late.

  My father was seemed to have trouble waking up to go to the bathroom or because of something else a daughter shouldn't be privy to.

  "Can do," I murmured as I moved between the sink and the table. "You need anything before bed, Mom?"

  "You'll help me with my bath?" I closed my eyes, back to the room, to try and gain some patience. I'd helped my mother with her bath every night since she'd come home from the hospital after her heart attack and the multiple surgeries to try to repair her heart's damage. And every night she needed assurance that I would continue to help her.

  "Sure, Mom," I said, working to keep my voice gentle. "I have Apple Brown Betty for dessert if anyone's interested." The offer seemed to bring peace to our worn kitchen.

  "Maybe some decaf?" dad suggested.

  "Already on." Our conversation was almost a daily script in its routine. And I was so freaking tired of having a routine life. Just as I was of the 70's styled kitchen with its lack of modern appliances. There had been a time when washing dishes by hand had given me a measure of escape but now it was simply another drudge, a time-waster in all that I had to accomplish during a day before I could lay my tired ass down and lose myself in sleep.

  There was a knock at the front door and all three of us froze.

  We never had visitors.

  Never.

  So to receive a knock on the front door after dark in our used-to-be-cool subdivision was more than shocking. It almost heralded some sort of cataclysmic event.

  I stepped into the front room and turned on both the porch light and the hall light, trying to see who it was through the peephole. But just like our kitchen, it was so old, so flipping antiquated that a clear view was impossible.

  Keeping the chain on, I opened the door.

  "Miss Sheridan?" I blinked, unable to comprehend what my eyes were seeing.

  "Uh…Mr. Jackson?" I didn't like how my voice seemed to squeak on the second syllable of his name. Or how my heart had gone into overdrive whether it was from being freaked we had a biker on our porch or because of my body's reaction to just how good-looking the big man really was.

  "Dallas? Who is it, girl?" I heard my dad call from the kitchen.

  "My big boss, Dad," I yelled back, never taking my eyes off Mr. Jackson's face.

  "Where are your manners, Lally? Invite him in. He's just in time for dessert!" my mom offered cheerfully.

  Aw shit. I glanced back at the large gorgeous hunk of male on my porch, my eyes lingering on the grin his mouth held. I knew there would be hell to pay if I didn't do as instructed.

  "Would you like to come in and join us for dessert?" I stammered, my mind screaming 'please say no, please say no'.

  "Love to, Miss Sheridan," came the soft but deeply rumbled reply.

  I closed the door
to release the chain and before unlocking the screen door. He had to go through the door sideways, his shoulders were so wide and I found myself trying to take a deep breath as I relocked the doors and turned out the lights.

  "This way," I instructed when I saw him lingering a couple of steps behind me. God, it had been so long I could barely remember how to treat a guest. "Mr. Jackson, this is my father, Colonel Sheridan and my mother, Mrs. Sheridan."

  Mr. Jackson seemed to have no problem connecting with my father's wavering hand and did the manly one-pump of acknowledgment. "Nice to meet you, sir."

  I found the sentence my big boss offered funny since he'd gotten so testy about me using the 'sir' with him.

  "Ma'am," he offered with a nod to my mother.

  "Won't you please sit down," she replied with one of her sweet smiles. For that alone, for bringing the color back into my mother's cheeks, I was willing to forgive Mr. Jackson almost anything. "Dallas has made an Apple Brown Betty and I'm sure we have some vanilla ice cream to go with it. Won't you join us?"

  "I'd be honored," Mr. Jackson replied with a winsome grin that seemed to keep my mother at ease.

  "So where are you on the chain of command down at the construction company?" my dad barked. It seemed the time for niceties and social graces were over.

  "I'm the end of the line, sir. Where the buck stops," Mr. Jackson detailed with a smile in both word and expression. I put my face back towards the square pan and used the spatula as if it was a samurai sword in order to release each piece. I moved to the old icebox to grab the quart of ice cream.

  "No ice cream for me, thanks," Mr. Jackson advised as his eyes watched me scoop and cover the different slices. "I like things in their purest state."

  I turned back to the dessert plates but felt my forehead tighten as my eyebrows tried to move up beyond their normal range. He had to be kidding, right?

  Actually, it was more in the area of why the hell is he here and what kind of game is he playing?

  You have trust issues, my brain advised.

  Bite me, my heart replied.

  It was the longest, most uncomfortable ten minutes of my life and when the last fork hit the last bit of crumble, I was up and out of my chair clearing the table in record time.

  "Don't want to be rude, Mr. Jackson, but why are you here?" my dad asked. Sure my dad had been the big bad-ass of his company way back when and could still summon that strength back for a few minutes at a time. But it was late and I could tell my dad was too tired.

  "I came to help explain where Drake is and why he needs to be there, sir," I heard my boss respond in a gentle voice. "Thought I'd pick up his clothes and personal items while I'm at it."

  Oh, god.

  I shot a look at Mr. Jackson before eying my parents. I didn't think my folks knew even the half of what Drake had been up to even though I'd tried to keep them up to date, and I hated to have a stranger really lay it out for them at this late juncture.

  But our guest didn't do that.

  He simply explained Drake's latest troubles and how his 'place' would help sort him out, given a six-month window of opportunity. I saw as each of my parents, both separately and then together, nod at the man's words, his strategy for getting my brother back on track and on the road to civilized behavior and decent grades. "I believe I have your daughter's trust in righting this situation, sir. I hope to have yours and your wife's as well."

  I didn't know if I would've called what I'd agreed to in his office as giving my 'trust'. Resignation was a better word for what happened in my opinion.

  "Without a doubt." My father's chin was firm as he again stuck out his hand towards where Mr. Jackson's voice originated, offering a handshake as consent. My boss grabbed it and shook it in the old-fashioned way.

  "We're sorry you had to be involved but we're glad you are," my mother's soft voice said with a nod. "Our Lally is handling too much on her own."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Jackson, but I need to help these two to bed," I said but my voice was almost a reverent whisper. Who was this guy and what control did he have over my parents? "I'll pack up Drake's stuff if you can give me a couple of minutes."

  "I'll help." Mr. Jackson stood when I did and I again was shocked by the sheer size of him. Our kitchen wasn't small but with him in it, it felt tiny.

  I led him down the hall where our four bedrooms fed off from and past the only full bath in our house. Nervously, I wondered about the condition of Drake's room. I'd given up the fight with him last year and only rode Drake's ass if his shit started dribbling into the hall.

  I stopped with my hand on the knob and spoke over my shoulder. "I'm gonna apologize in advance…"

  His hand was only a light weight as it landed on my shoulder. "A boy's room sometimes tells more of the story than he can in words. I'm not gonna lie about my motives or what I'll be looking for. We need to rule out drugs or stolen goods so I'll be digging around while you fill a bag."

  Shit! A bag. We didn't have any luggage or anything. Why would we? We never went anywhere except out for groceries or numerous doctor appointments. Not to mention my trips to the police station or the courthouse.

  I tried to turn the handle but it wouldn't give. I glanced down and stilled. Drake's room had a standard front door kind of knob, the kind you need a key to open. When had the little shit installed it?

  "I got it," Mr. Jackson said and removed a credit card from his wallet. "They get pretty cagey but usually don't have the green to buy the good kind of locks." With a couple of slides and a quick turn of his wrist, the door opened. He stepped back and allowed me to enter first.

  Although after throwing the switch for the overhead light, I wish he hadn't. The room wasn't just messy, it was trashed! Clothes everywhere but in the closet, fast food bags and candy wrappers along with cans of both soda and beer covered every horizontal surface up to and including the bed. But it was the smell, the gagacious reek of unwashed boy, old food and something else I couldn't quite identify that sent me over the edge.

  "Typical." The word was growled and I glanced over at the big man who stood next to me. His hands were on his hips as his eyes swept the room. "Expensive goddamn toys that aren't being taken care of, no fucking concern for his clothes or hygiene, a bong in pride of place next to the bed…"

  My eyes had gone to the mess while my boss's had captured the other stuff. My brother had a flat screen TV and some kind of deck for his sound system. There was a video game console and the boxes of games were strewn around the room. But, he was right. The electronics were covered in dust and dirty fingerprints. And he'd hadn't received any of it as gifts from the family.

  Then there was the bong, which was almost as tall as the lamp it sat next to.

  "I had no idea…"

  "Dallas! Your mom's having trouble with the smell," I heard dad yell.

  "Sorry!" I quickly closed the door to my brother's room and glanced back to Mr. Jackson to see him running his hands between the mattress and box springs of the twin bed.

  "How much should I pack?" Uncomfortable didn't even begin to describe what I was feeling and I was hoping talk would help dispel my feelings.

  "Two complete changes of threads, an extra pair of kicks, shower and bathroom shit." I saw him go down to hands and knees as he looked under the bed. "Cram them in that unused backpack in the corner, which I'm guessing he carried to school back when he gave a rat's ass."

  I raced to do his bidding as he continued search the room going through every drawer and cupboard, opening up the games and DVDs cases. He only stopped once when he saw me bringing up clothes to my nose to do a sniff test.

  "The shit doesn't have to be clean, Ms. Sheridan." God, those eyes and that grin alone could do serious damage to a girl's insides.

  I shoved the required clothes, the first ones that met my hand, into the backpack and zipped to the bathroom for the rest of the Drake's stuff. I was moving at speed of light, thinking the faster I did what Mr. Jackson said, the sooner he'd leave. A
fact I both wanted and didn't want at the same time.

  He was working on the doorknob when I came back to the room.

  "Disabled the lock. He won't be needing it when he comes home," Mr. Jackson advised. "You got everything?"

  "Yeah. I think so," I murmured and tried to zip the bag shut. He grabbed the backpack from my shaking hands and finished it before sliding it over one massive shoulder, shutting off the light and stepping out of the room.

  "Did you find anything?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from reaching my parents.

  "Some. Nothing to show he was dealing or holding stolen shit."

  I didn't realize how close we were standing or how my face was pointed up to his until I saw his eyes soften as they shifted down to my mouth.

  Uh-oh.

  "I'll see you out," I said quietly in an effort to break the tension, the keen awareness of each other.

  He followed me down the hall, only poking his head back into the kitchen to offer my folks a quick goodnight before joining me at the front door.

  "Your folks eat Chinese?" he asked before I had a chance to fully twist the infrequently used deadbolt open.

  "Sorry?" I stilled all movement. There was no way he'd just asked me about my parent's dietary concerns.

  "Can your folks have Chinese food?"

  "Yeah, if it's mostly vegetables and no soy sauce." This was by far the strangest conversation I think I'd ever had with anyone, and the fact that it was with my big boss put it even further into the you're-fucking-kidding-me category.

  "I'll be by on Friday at six with food and a movie."

  "A movie?"

  He was grinning at me again and standing entirely too close for comfort. "I'll have an update on your brother by then. The food and entertainment will help soften the sting if I have bad shit to say."

  "Oh…" His flipping eyes were like laser beams and I couldn't seem to look away. I felt his warm fingers cover mine on the deadbolt as he twisted it easily. The heat of him was like syrup dripping down my side as he leaned closer. I dragged my hand from beneath his and stepped back, shoving my hands into my back pockets. "Yeah. That'd be okay, Mr. Jackson."