Checkmate With Bishop: A Hellions MC Novel Page 6

  “Thought you could use a break.” I took the chair on the other side and promptly propped my heels on the railing. And in the ensuing silence, my mind went back to the arguments that had plagued me from the moment I’d opened my eyes.

  Of why I’d told Stan we’d come to Montana.

  In all truth, I had no need to hear him apologize or to even say goodbye. If he truly needed to accomplish those things, we could do it over the phone without any required face-to-face meeting. In fact, in my opinion, it was a bullshit excuse and was a cover for something else even if he wouldn’t admit to it.

  But I wanted J.R. to see where I grew up, to share the stories and the scenery of when I was a girl. I also needed to go through the storage locker and finally resolve it.

  And maybe, just maybe, introduce my boy to the man who’d help create him.

  I opened my mouth to tell J.R. about the trip I had alternately been planning and deciding against. But none of those types of sentences came out. “You never ask about your dad anymore.” I think I shocked him as much as I did myself with the statement because the look his face held when I finally turned my head to glance at him was just shy of stunned.

  “You’d get upset when I did,” he muttered over the rim of his glass, his hazel eyes dead on mine. “Upset or sad. So I just stopped.” The accompanying shrug seemed to indicate his lack of interest in the subject.

  I thought I’d done a pretty good job at sidestepping his questions, giving short answers but in hindsight I could understand how J.R. had read my responses differently. And it was true that his inquiries had unsettled me whenever he’d broached the subject of his father.

  “After a while, I just thought it was stupid to keep asking when you wouldn’t answer or anything,” he continued, setting his glass to the side as he stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles before anchoring his hands behind his head. “Besides, with him dead and all…”

  I felt my heart stop and my eyes widen at his summation. “I never said your father was dead, J.R.”

  He frowned and shifted his butt in the chair. “Sure you did. You told me…”

  “That he was gone and wasn’t a part of our lives.” Dear god! All this time, I thought I’d explained it well without going into detail and my poor kid thought his father was dead and buried? How old had he been the last time he’d brought the subject up? Six? No, seven. The same year he’d fallen out of the Bailey’s tree house and broken his arm.

  “He’s alive?” My boy’s question wasn’t as shocking as the tone he used to ask it, marked as it was by disbelief and a sharp note of betrayal. “Are you trying to say that my dad is alive?”

  I swallowed deeply and turned away, unable to deal with the look in his eyes. “Yes, J.R. Your father is alive and lives in Montana.”

  The tension between us was almost an invisible but physical wall that seemed to thicken with every second that passed.

  “Montana? But that’s just up the freeway!” I could tell he was struggling and it made my heart hurt to think that I’d caused it just by trying to avoid a subject that still hurt in the deepest places inside. “So he’s close but never tried to see me? To get to know me?”

  “He…ah.” Damn! I didn’t know how to explain, to justify my decision of not exposing my past to my son. To tell him that his father was a biker, a Hellion because then I’d have to tell of myself as a Hellion Honey and of the lifestyle that went along with being in a motorcycle club.

  My mind was racing on how much to say and what to keep hidden.

  “Jesus!” I’d been so lost in my own thoughts, in scheming of a way to talk about it without giving J.R. too much info, I’d not seen him jump to his feet. “He didn’t want me! That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “He…erm.” Shit! The devastation on J.R.’s face broke my heart, and the fact that I couldn’t squeeze the words out to tell him Stan didn’t know of his existence was almost too much to handle.

  Fists clenched and muscles strung so tight in distress gave a good indication to what J.R. was feeling. Emotions that I didn’t know how to deal with because any explanation from me would only add to it.

  “Jesus!” he said again although this time it was said almost on a yell. “You freaking lied to me, Mom.”

  “No, I didn’t. You just assumed…”

  J.R.’s palms came up to press against his eyes and with the movement, I saw the twin blotches of red stain his cheeks, coat the outside edge of his ears. “Yes, you did.” His voice was cracking, sounding broken as he corrected me. “All my life, you told me that we don’t lie to each other. But you’ve been lying to me for years!”

  “I didn’t lie, J.R.,” I yelled back, levering myself out of my seat, intent on taking my hurt child in my arms to give him comfort as I always had. But he was having none of it and let me know by stepping back away from me. I tried again on a softer note. “I didn’t lie, baby. I just didn’t think that it was important.”

  He dropped his hands and I watched the tears as they overflowed to run down his cheeks. “Not important?” J.R.’s eyes stabbed at mine in confusion and outright pain. “That knowing my father was alive wasn’t important?”

  I didn’t respond, couldn’t when all was said and done. Not in a way that wouldn’t cast me as the bad guy in the whole of it. “We’ve done okay, haven’t we? I mean, you had a good childhood in spite of not having your dad involved, right?”

  “You don’t freaking get it, Mom,” J.R. intoned, his voice almost weary as he turned his face away.

  But that wasn’t true. I understood even if I didn’t want to. I just didn’t have the words to talk it through.

  He was halfway down the stairs before I found my voice. “Where are you going?” I asked when he didn’t go back to where the lawnmower sat but aimed towards the side of the house.

  “Out!” he yelled over his shoulder, every line in his stance an accusation aimed my direction. “I don’t know when I’ll be home. I just can’t stand to be around you at the moment.”

  I watched as he appeared in the driveway on his bike and took off down the street, my movements held in place by the raw emotions the last few minutes had exposed. Ones of panic and of a guilt that ran muscle deep. As well as fear. Fear that my time with the Hellions as one of the Honeys would be exposed to my little boy.

  And that the knowledge would change his opinion of me, skew it somehow.

  It was more than a while before I could move, could make my way to the mower in order to complete the job even as I tried to come up with a way to salvage my relationship with my kid.

  *.*.*.*.*

  J.R. let himself into the house as quietly as he could, using the kitchen entrance after stowing his bike in the garage. His legs ached from the amount of riding he’d done as he’d pedaled through the town, trying to make sense of everything.

  But he couldn’t. There was too much he didn’t know, didn’t understand. And it was the lack of knowledge, the shortage of truth that had his head and stomach tied in knots.

  After shooting the deadbolt, he turned to go to his room, only spying the note propped against the top of the stove. ‘Went to bed early with sick headache,’ it read. ‘Your dinner is in the oven. Be sure to turn it off before you go to bed. Love, Mom.’

  “Not even a ‘sorry’,” he mumbled to himself, crumpling the paper in his fist. That was the rub, that his mom never once said she was sorry for allowing him to believe that his father was dead. Pulling open the oven door, J.R. used a dishtowel to protect his fingers from the hot plate before reaching into a drawer for some silverware. The meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn were soon just a memory as he shoveled the food down in his haste to fill his belly even as his mind rebelled at eating anything she’d made.

  It was when he was rinsing his plate to put it in the dishwasher that he spied her cell sitting on the window ledge over the sink. Usually, his mother went to bed with it resting in its holder on her nightstand but for whatever reason, that night she’d not take
n it with her.

  Maybe there was a way to get to the truth after all, he thought, picking up the dark rectangle and going to recent calls. That man on the phone had said his name was Bastian too. Perhaps that guy knew about his father and could provide some answers, ones his mother didn’t think were important enough to share with her own son.

  Transferring the Montana number into his own phone, J.R. decided that it was at least a place to start, to begin to find the facts regarding his parentage.

  After locking himself in his room, the young man took a deep breath and pressed the icon to place the call, hoping he’d find the answers to all the questions he had bubbling inside. At least it couldn’t hurt, since any info was better than none.

  *.*.*.*.*

  Christ, he hurt! And had been in pain all goddamn day.

  A full-blown, motherfucking eight on the pain-o-meter for a good fourteen hours which had found him swallowing duo Percocet with pipe-bowls of weed as chasers. But nothing had touched the hurt, the fires of the hell in his belly. Pain so deep, he couldn’t think, couldn’t fucking function except to shuffle from the couch to the toilet, from his bed to the kitchen almost mindless in the agony that lived in his gut.

  He bent over the double bowl sink in his kitchen as another wave of nausea hit, sure that there wasn’t anything left in his stomach to empty. The ringing of his cell at that particular moment was almost welcome, taking his foggy awareness from what was doing in his body onto who would be calling him after ten on a Sunday night.

  “Yeah,” he croaked into the phone, not even checking the display to see who it might be.

  “Er…hello. I’d like to speak with Bishop Bastian please.” The voice was young, immature and Bish idly wondered about it even as he reached for another pair of pills trying to remember when he’d taken the last dose.

  “You got him,” he growled, trying to work the cap off the container. Christ! He hated child-proof caps that stymied adults but were ones children could probably remove in their sleep. “What’s doing, kid?”

  “My name is J.R. and I’m hoping you can help me, sir.” The last bit was offered as a throw-away, almost as a remembrance to be respectful.

  With the cap between his molars as his hand twisted the container, Bishop tried to talk. “Hall ya haw?”

  “Sorry? I didn’t understand you,” came the reply down the line.

  The lid released abruptly as the remaining tablets flew out of the plastic canister, pinging as they fell on the countertop, dropping to the floor in a flurry. Bishop sighed, knowing he’d soon be on his knees trying to pick up each and every valued piece that then dotted the floor. “Help you how?”

  The kid cleared his throat on a deep rumble but his voice, when he finally spoke, squeaked more than a bit. “I’m looking for my father.”

  “And who might he be?” It might have been his fucked up state or even the residual ache that was screaming from his stomach, but Bishop had a hard time keeping up with the convo. “What’s his name, son?”

  “I don’t…I don’t know his name, sir.” Bishop caught the almost imperceptible hitch in the kid’s voice at the admission. “But my mother is Adora Leone. Or Dory. She goes by Dory.”

  Bishop felt ice begin to fill his veins and he found himself straightening to his full height, the scattering of the small disks of the pain med forgotten. ‘Dory’s kid’, his mind screamed. ‘I’m on the phone with Dory’s kid.’

  “Maybe you need to be talking to her about this instead of me,” Bishop replied as the ice within him spread.

  “I tried to.” The young man’s voice spoke of frustration, but Bishop didn’t have the stamina to explore it. “She won’t tell me shit. I was hoping you could.”

  Leaning an arm on the counter, Bishop let his head drop while pressing the phone tightly against his ear. He recognized how J.R. felt. Once Dory made up her mind not to talk about something, that subject was closed in such a way it was non-negotiable. “I don’t know anything, J.R. I knew your mom a long time ago but don’t know shit about your dad.”

  “Oh.” The disappointment absolutely dripped off the kid’s one word response and Bishop found himself pitying the poor guy. “Is there anyone else who might know, someone in Montana that my mom might’ve told?”

  “Sorry, kid. Not that I know of. But hey, your mom said that she was coming back to town so maybe when you guys get here…”

  “What? What do you mean? She said we were going to Montana? When?”

  Bishop realized his gaff just by the excitement in the kid’s voice. One that told him Dory hadn’t shared that bit with her son. The young man’s voice, just like his mother’s, gave away secrets Bishop was sure the boy didn’t want revealed. “I don’t know but said she’d give me all the particulars in a couple of days.”

  Bishop thought for a minute, trying to find a way to cover his ass at blurting out shit that Dory had obviously not communicated to her son. “Listen. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you so you gotta keep that shit on the down-low, dig?”

  There was a heavy sigh before he heard J.R.’s response, offered in a simple, “yeah.”

  And which was followed by a couple of beats of silence. A kind of quiet that the older man hastened to fill.

  “I’m sorry, J.R. Sorry I couldn’t help.” Those words, of any that Bishop had spoken during the conversation, were of the real and true kind. “But, since you have my number and everything, maybe you could look me up when you’re in town.”

  “Sure.” The youngster’s voice sounded like someone had kicked his puppy but Bishop had no idea on how to make it better. “Thank you, sir. For, you know, talking to me and everything.”

  “Wish I knew more, kid. I really do.” Bishop searched for a way to end the uncomfortable call. “I’ll look forward to meeting you. If you’re anything like your mom…”

  “Thank you again and well, goodbye, Mr. Bastian.” And with that, the line disconnected, finding Bishop almost dizzy with how fast their convo was completed.

  And as he sunk to his knees, down onto the worn linoleum of the kitchen floor to start picking up the pills, he again wondered at what kind of life Dory had been living if she hadn’t even told her kid about his father.

  Chapter Seven

  I pulled into the parking lot of the Rosemont, my tires crunching under the bits and pieces of the driveway, the dust puffing behind the car. It wasn’t the best hotel in Missoula but it wasn’t the worst. Yet it was the one Stan had recommended J.R. and I stay in.

  It had been a long day, leaving Casper at six in the morning before the sun arose. But even with the various stops we’d made for potty breaks and to refuel on convenience store junk food, we’d gotten to Missoula in twelve hours. Twelve long hours that found me stiff and aching from sitting in one position for so long.

  “J.R.?” I called, unhitching my seatbelt while turning to look at the boy-man seated next to me, sleeping with his face propped in the taunt length of the strap that held him captive. “We’re here, little man.”

  “I asked you not to call me that,” he mumbled without opening his eyes but removing the earphones of his iPod.

  “You want to come in with me as I register?”

  I saw his eyes roll beneath his lowered lids, which I took as a ‘no’. Opening the car door, and with unused joints creaking as I twisted, I found my feet, taking my purse with me. The hotel, even after so long a time away, was much as I remembered it. They’d updated the outside color from deep mustard to a grayish-blue and replaced the old wooden railing with a more modern metal but on the whole not much had really changed.

  “Hi, I’m Dory Leone. I have a reservation,” I told the stout, heavily made-up platinum-haired woman behind the desk.

  “Hey, Dory! Long time, no see!” And I watched as the lady lifted a portion of the counter, quick in her haste to get to me. “We’ve all been so excited for you to get here!”

  Her hands went around my back in a fierce embrace, pinning my arms to my sides. “It’s
been too long, girlfriend!”

  As soon as was gracefully possible, I pulled back and glanced at the nametag affixed to her large, overflowing bosom before my eyes went back to her face, mentally taking away all the makeup. “Ally?”

  “That’s me, sugar! Gosh, how long has it been?” she gushed on a twittering giggle. It was her giggle that brought forth the memory of her.

  Oh my god. The portly woman I still held in a loose embrace was Alexandra Haas who had been one of my friends in high school. But without the name tag I wouldn’t have recognized her since the additional fifty to seventy-five pounds she was carrying, as well as all the makeup she now wore had changed her appearance.

  “Fifteen years, I guess,” I muttered, dropping my arms instead of dropping my jaw at how she looked. God! Back in the day, she’d been a stunner, one of the girls all the guys noticed and wanted to get with. “Man, Ally Haas. Wow!”

  “Ally Manning now, sugar,” she crooned, holding up her fourth finger on her left hand that was lined with rings.

  “So you married Mike?” Mike Manning had been a year ahead of us and one of the guys that Ally had set her sights on. I’d lost track of their romance, lost track of a lot of things after I’d starting dating Bishop in my sophomore year.

  “Twelve years now, can you believe it? And we have five little Manning’s as a result,” she giggled as she went back behind the counter. “What about you?”

  Damn! I’d forgotten how Missoula operated, at how everyone wanted to be in the know about your life especially if they’d claimed you as one of their own. Since I’d grown up there, I was still considered a part of them even though I’d extricated myself years before. “No, not married. I co-own a hair salon in Casper.”

  Ally’s carefully crafted and heavily penciled-in eyebrows rose and her smile got bigger. “A business owner, huh? And you do hair? Which probably accounts as to why your hair is so short, right?”