Fallon by Jessica Gadziala

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

Danny

 

 

 

 

My contacts in North Carolina didn't have their phones connected anymore.

Maybe they'd changed numbers. Maybe they'd died. I had no idea. It didn't really matter to me that much either way. It wasn't like we were good friends or anything. But it left me with nothing to give to Fallon. Which also meant I had no reason to contact him again as the days stretched on.

The members of his club rolled back into town in shifts, driven in bullet-resistant SUVs and flanked not only by the Hailstorm guards, but local allies as well.

And then, nothing.

Absolutely fucking nothing.

Days slowly turned into weeks.

And eventually, life had to start going back to normal.

My club had their parties which I'd only ever briefly shown my faces at, just to show I wasn't a complete buzzkill, even if that was how I felt.

I often found myself going back to that goddamn laundromat, climbing up onto the roof, and watching the Henchmen club.

Not like a rival watches their enemies.

Oh, no.

Like a desperate woman just wanting to catch a single glimpse at a man.

I watched as their people were tentatively released from the clubhouse, going back to their own lives, but with guards keeping them company.

I watched the wives come and go from the clubhouse, spending time with their husbands when they were on long guard shifts.

But I hardly ever caught sight of Fallon.

That wasn't to say he wasn't moving around, but rather I was only letting myself be somewhat creepy and pathetic.

A girl's got to have a little bit of self-respect.

So I only went to the roof for a half an hour or so when I could sneak away. Not a full-on stalker, but damn sure stalkerish, which wasn't a good look either, but I couldn't seem to stop myself.

The thing is, I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to see him.

And I had no way to do that.

So I tried to fill that surprisingly desperate urge with something, anything that might help me stop obsessing for two fucking minutes put together.

I would love to claim it was just pure, undiluted, all-consuming lust. That would be easy. I could wrap my head around that. Because the sex was good. Great. Fucking amazing, if I were being honest. It was natural that I would want more of that.

I did.

Absolutely.

But as much as I tried to convince myself that there was nothing more to it, I knew that wasn't true.

There was more to what I was feeling with Fallon than just attraction.

If all I wanted was an orgasm, I could easily get it by opening the box under my bed and installing some new batteries.

It was more than that.

I wanted to see him. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to be near him.

I didn't understand any of those urges, I just knew they were there. And that the longer we went without any contact, the more intense the need seemed to grow.

So I let myself watch.

Just a little bit.

Which was how I saw him on the day he closed on his house—a little bungalow-style place that I wouldn't have thought he'd pick, but I found oddly charming.

It was how I saw some of the guys help him move some of his shit from the clubhouse in.

It was also how I knew he'd just bought a big sectional for his living room and a king-sized bed.

"Enough," I grumbled to myself, slamming my head back against the brick wall after coming down the stairs of the laundromat.

It had stopped being acceptable weeks before.

I was the kind of pathetic that I would have made fun of before. The woman trailing after a man with puppy-dog eyes like she had no fucking self-control, like she didn't realize how laughable she was making herself.

I never trailed after a man.

I never gave a shit about what they did with their lives.

Men had always been a prop in my life. Glorified sex toys, even. That was it. That was all they could ever be.

So it made no sense why I was letting myself become creepy over Fallon.

So what if we'd had some great sex?

So what if we'd both shared some things?

It didn't mean anything.

Clearly, it didn't mean jack-shit to Fallon who didn't seem like he was giving me even a passing thought as he got his life and his club back on track.

Hell, he wasn't even reaching out with any information he might have found about potential threats.

He didn't give a shit about me.

So I needed to get myself together.

On that thought, I got on my bike, making my way back toward my part of town, stopping to order at the pizza place to surprise the guys with, deciding I was going to spend the night in with them for a change.

It had been a long time since I'd shared more than a drink or two with them.

I needed to focus on what mattered, on what I worked my whole life for.

My club.

My men.

My legacy.

That was what was important.

Not some biker president who smelled like leather and woods and fucked like a porn star.

"Munch," I called, getting off of my bike in the back lot, seeing the giant man in question bent over the red picnic table we'd put out there for smoking because I couldn't stand walking into a cloud of smoke inside, and having my hair and clothes reek of it hours later. "Do you really think this is the best place for that?" I added as he completely ignored me, burying his face in the woman's snatch, and going to town while she writhed and grabbed his head.

You'd think the sight would be shocking.

But Munch went down on women anytime and anywhere he could. Which meant I'd seen him doing so at least fifty times since I'd known him.

He'd ignored me. Which was pretty much what I expected. The man had one focus only when a woman was spread-legged in front of him.

"Don't blame me if you get picked off out here," I added as I passed.

I hadn't expected a response, but he'd lifted his head for just a moment, shooting me a smirk. "Oh, but what a way to go," he said before burying his face again.

"Alright. Well, pizza is on the way if you don't get your fill with her," I said, moving inside to the sound of Creedence coming from the speakers. It was a familiar sound, one that I'd been hearing my whole life. I felt some of the stress shrugging from my shoulders as I moved inside, hearing the familiar chords and lyrics enveloping me like a warm hug.

"Beer or vodka, boss?" Dutch called from behind the bar, swaying a bit from side to side, and inexplicably wearing his black t-shirt as a giant headband. Clearly, they'd been partying for a while already. I must have been gone longer than I'd realized.

"Let's start with a beer until the pizza comes to lay down some padding," I said, taking one from his hand when he offered it.

"Hey, Danny ordered pizza!" Dutch called to the others, most of whom were too preoccupied or too close to the speakers to hear, but I appreciated his enthusiasm nonetheless.

"You're so fucked up," I said with a smile, my first one in weeks, it seemed. "How long have you been drinking?" I asked, looking at his glassy eyes and flushed cheeks.

"Let's see," Dutch said, attempting to pull himself up onto the bar, but sliding right off again. "I'm good. I'm good," he insisted. "Didn't even spill my drink," he added, holding up his large glass of what smelled like whiskey.

"Of course you didn't," I agreed, even though the liquid was all over his hand and down the front of his shirt. "So, the answer is, for several hours," I concluded, reaching down to drag him back onto his feet.

"We're celebrating," he insisted, wobbling.

"What are we celebrating?" I asked, worrying I'd missed someone's birthday. I mean, we didn't make huge deals about those types of things, but I always made sure there was cake at least. Store-bought, but cake nonetheless.

"Hm?" Dutch asked, slow-blinking up at me.

"What are we celebrating, Dutch?" I asked, a little surprised by how fucked up he was. I'd drank with this man a dozen or more times, and he usually stopped himself before he got the stupid sort of drunk.

"Oh, ah, liquor delivery," he said, shooting me a glassy-eyed smile.

"Alright then," I said, shaking my head. "Maybe you should have a cup of coffee after this drink, yeah?"

"Coffee is for quitters," he declared, toasting me with his glass, then taking a long swig.

"Okay, well, at least some pizza then," I compromised.

"Pizza's good," he told me, taking a deep breath.

"It is," I agreed, patting his arm. "You sure you're alright?" I asked. "Want me to help you get upstairs for some sleep?"

"Sleep!" he exclaimed as if it was the craziest suggestion in the world.

"Alright, but don't blame me when you wake up with a crick in your neck from falling asleep on the floor."

"Can't sleep on the floor," Dutch said, words slow. "It's moving," he added. "Or am I moving?" he asked, looking at me for an answer.

"Here," I offered, grabbing his arm, and putting it against the wall. "See? Nothing is spinning. But I have a feeling you're about to puke," I informed him, putting an arm around his waist. "Let's get you to the men's room, so it will be less of a mess when it happens," I said, half pulling him along.

"Floor is cold," Dutch mumbled, crawling across it. "Cold is good," he added, lowering himself down on the cold tile.

I would be disgusted if I didn't know I hadn't forced one of the hangabouts to clean it with a toothbrush the afternoon before. If he wanted to prospect, I figured he needed to know what he was going to get himself into. Like cleaning up after twenty-something grown-ass men. It still reeked of bleach in there.

"You alright, man?" I asked, pressing a hand to his clammy forehead.

"Tell the world to stop spinning."

"Stop spinning, world," I said.

"It's not listening," he groaned. "Uh oh," he said in a panicked voice, pushing up, and crawling the rest of the way to the toilet.

I could take a lot of gross crap when it came to all the men I shared my life with. Puke? Puke was not one of those things. So I went ahead and made my way out, tapping someone else in to keep an eye on Dutch to make sure he didn't aspirate.

I made my way back into the bar, reminding myself to check on Dutch later. Probably bring him some much-needed water and pain medicine.

I looked around for Grandpa and Pops, but didn't see them around. Grandpa was likely asleep in his room, not big on late-night parties, and also seemingly more into trying to find a woman of substance to settle down with than a clubwhore to suck him off. Pops was probably getting lucky. So was Junior, judging by the number of clubwhores that had been hanging around when I'd come in.

I finished my beer, had some pizza when it was delivered, and was just going for my second round when all of a sudden, Creedence cut off.

There was a chorus of objections before everyone turned to find Chewy standing next to the speaker, face grim.

My stomach dropped as I looked at my vice president. I'd known him for a long time. He didn't need to say anything for me to know something was horribly wrong.

My gaze shot around the club, noticing Grandpa, Pops, Junior, Munch, and Dutch still weren't present at the party.

Had Grandpa not been upstairs like I'd thought? Were Pops, Junior, and Munch not getting busy like I'd assumed? Had Dutch stumbled out, shit-faced, and found himself in some sort of trouble?

My stomach twisted as my heart tripped into overdrive as I stood, moving forward across the room toward Chewy.

"I'm afraid we have to cut the celebration short tonight," Chewy said. "I have a very serious issue to bring to your attention," he added as his gaze cut to me.

Something in his eyes sent a chill through my body, made me stop mid-stride.

Very little scared me in life.

But something about the look he gave me fucking terrified me.

It was a strange, foreign sensation that had a cold sweat breaking out over every inch of skin, making a chill course through me.

"What's going on?" I asked, my voice sounding small, choked.

"That's the question we have for you, I'm afraid," Chewy said, nodding to someone behind me.

A second later, two of my men moved around my sides to stand by Chewy, each unfolding poster boards that they'd folded in thirds like some fucking school science project.

And I knew.

I knew right that moment what was happening.

Before I even saw what was on those boards.

I felt like my stomach dropped out of my body as I watched men flanking Chewy glare at me as the others started to get up, going to get closer looks at the pictures on those boards.

Pictures of me.

There were several of me on the roof of the laundromat, looking at the Henchmen compound.

I could excuse that when I had a chance to talk. Explain that I was watching the club to see if someone else was watching the club, seeing if I could catch a glimpse of the wolf that was at both our gates whenever we weren't looking out.

But then there were a few of me checking out Fallon's new home.

That, well, that would not be easy to explain. Maybe in the past, I could have. Before I'd buried a body with the man, back when I could say that I was keeping an eye on the enemy.

Then, somehow, there was one of me at the diner that night I'd happened in after a movie. It was a picture from outside of me in the giant window, my head rested on my hand, staring after Fallon in a way that could only be called longingly. Even the densest of my men would see that.

Chewy had just come into town then.

How had he even found me?

Had he somehow gotten some of my men to watch me while he was gone?

That had to have been the case.

My men had been spying on me, working behind my back with my VP.

The betrayal stung more than it probably should have. It was a piercing, hot sensation. Like being stabbed. Like someone sank in a knife in my gut and yanked upward until all my innards fell out at my feet.

Time felt like it slowed down at that moment. I watched my men move in slow motion, looking at the boards. Their bodies stiffened as they came to conclusions based on a one-sided argument, then turning back to face me.

The betrayal in their eyes matched the sensation I was feeling inside.

Gone were all the years I'd busted my ass to work twice as hard as them to prove I was even half as good as they were. Gone were all the times I'd stroked their egos and proved myself to be a loyal club member. And the time I'd spent building this club and providing for them was damn sure gone too.

All that pain, uncertainty, and sacrifice.

I might as well never have done it at all.

"Now, I'm sure Danny is going to try to deny having a connection to the Henchmen's new president," Chewy said, voice raised like he was giving his valedictorian speech.

The rat bastard.

He was enjoying every second of this.

"I won't deny it," I said, feeling a current of rage flowing through me. "I've been in contact with Fallon since the shooting on the street that night," I said, hoping I could shut this shit down before it got out of control. "Tensions being as high as they've been between our clubs, we decided not to share that information with you. As is our right as presidents, I will add," I said, voice raising. "We decided to share information if we came across it."

"Information about what?" someone in the group of men shot out, lost in the crowd, so I wasn't sure who it was.

"About this threat that is coming for both of our clubs," I told the group at large, since I didn't know who'd asked.

"Does this look like a woman who is watching an informant drive off?" Chewy asked, stabbing a beefy finger into the picture from the diner. "And how come Danny and Fallon disappeared at the same time at that diner for a suspiciously long time?" he added.

Had someone been watching the time?

Jesus Christ.

They'd actually clocked how long I'd been in the bathroom.

"Doesn't seem copacetic to me," Dodge said, shooting me an accusatory gaze.

"Always thought it was weird she buried the body with him instead of coming to get us," another of my men said.

I knew what was going to happen.

This was what always happened.

This was what a gang mentality could do.

It could make individually rational men become increasingly enraged and irrational, egging each other along, coming to larger than life conclusions.

And, of course, it was worse because it was me.

I very much doubted my father's men would have the balls to step to him like this, no matter what he might have done to threaten or betray the club.

As much as I wanted to believe I'd started to level the playing field where sex and gender roles came into play, I knew that was more wishful thinking than fact.

"I don't think you—" I started.

"We don't think we want to hear what you think," Chewy cut me off, voice loud, echoing off the walls. No one contradicted him. He spoke for the club now. "You disgrace this club. You betrayed the men who trusted you to lead them with integrity."

"You bastard, this is my—"

"Not anymore," Chewy cut me off. "Not anymore it isn't your club. I believe if we check the bylaws, this sort of betrayal is reason enough for me to take over until we can contact the mother chapter to figure out our next steps."

My gaze slid around at my men again, trying to find a friendly face, someone who wasn't completely swayed by Chewy, by the outrage he'd stirred up in the others.

But all I saw was anger and disgust.

There were a few whose gazes were lowered, like they couldn't even stand to look at me.

When I found not a single friendly face, I finally understood a few things.

The absence of the men I would consider most loyal to me.

Grandpa, Pops, and Junior.

Who I'd fought to be able to take with me.

It was why Munch was likely encouraged to take his woman out back.

Munch was one of the few men of the club who'd never doubted my capability based on my gender, seeing as he was a man who valued women as much as he did. He would have, at the very least, made sure the rest of them had given me a chance to defend myself, to explain.

This was also why Dutch was so shit-faced that he could hardly move. He never drank to such excess that he couldn't take care of himself. Someone had forced him into it, had kept pushing drinks into his hand, and kept over-pouring. Hell, I wouldn't even put it past Chewy at this point to drop something into Dutch's drink.

See, it was those five men who would have been the most likely to stand up for me, to be a voice of reason. They'd attempt to calm everyone down, help them use their better judgment.

That was why they weren't around.

Because Chewy had planned this.

This wasn't a spur of the moment confrontation.

Oh, no.

This was a coup.

This was a selfish, self-serving bastard taking what he thought should have rightfully been his from the beginning.

It was why he'd always been such a kiss-ass to my father. Because he wanted what he knew I was working my ass off for. Instead of doing the same, making his bones the old-fashioned way, he hitched a ride to my club with the sole intention of kicking me out of it.

I knew it like I knew the sun was going to rise in the morning, no matter how much it felt like the world was ending for me.

He'd never been a loyal club member. He'd just been biding his time. He'd been watching me. He'd been waiting for me to fuck up.

It must have killed him that it took this long. He probably figured I would have screwed up right out of the gate. Or I would have struggled to keep revenue coming in. Because if the men weren't happy, he could have much more easily convinced them that I wasn't looking out for their best interest.

He never saw me as someone who dragged herself through hell to get a chapter. He never cared about the sacrifices I'd made, about my empty stomach while he gorged himself, about the late nights I'd spent awake, worrying myself to ulcers about keeping the clients we'd taken from the Henchmen.

All he saw was what he could take from me at my first sign of weakness.

He'd just bided his time.

And then pounced when it arrived.

The look of triumph on his face when my gaze slid back to him made bile rise up in my throat.

I'd had a rotten apple inside my club from the beginning.

Now he was spoiling the bunch.

He was taking everything from me.

With all but five of my men standing against me, there was nothing I could do.

I would have to go.

And I very much doubted Chewy or the men I'd looked at as brothers would be gracious enough even to let me pack a bag. I'd be out with absolutely nothing but the clothes on my back and my bike. And the target on my head for the assholes who were still out to take the gun trade from the MCs in Navesink Bank.

"Your father would be so proud," Chewy said, the final nail in my coffin.

That was my sore spot. And while no one said it, everyone knew it. My father's approval meant more to me than I cared to admit. And this? This would take it away from me permanently.

"Don't," I snapped, teeth gritted because I felt a sting at the back of my eyes that felt a hell of a lot like the beginning of tears.

"He always knew you would shame the club name. Look at you now, proving him right."

I had no reason not to believe him, not to think my father had his ear for years behind my back. It was no secret that my father was my toughest critic, that he'd always doubted me, always told me I didn't have what it would take to run a club.

I could just hear my father's voice telling Chewy that I would bring shame to the club, that I would disgrace not only my chapter, but the entire Vulture organization as a whole.

The insecurity that flooded my system right then was an old, familiar foe, one I'd lived with my entire life. It immediately dragged me under the surface, had me choking for air, flailing for land.

But there was nothing to hold onto this time.

In the past, I could convince myself that all the work would pay off eventually. I would get my club. I would prove everyone—most especially my father—wrong.

There was none of that comfort this time, though.

Because I'd gotten my club.

And now it was gone.

There was nothing to cling to, nothing to aspire to.

It was all over.

Everything I'd worked for and sacrificed for.

It was all over.

There was nothing to grab hold of to keep me from being swept up in the tide of my insecurity.

"You know what? Fuck you, Chewy. You lazy-ass, entitled, back-stabbing piece of shit," I snapped, watching his eyes harden. "And the rest of you," I added, looking around, making sure I made eye-contact with each of them briefly. "A bunch of blindly following sheep. I hope your disloyalty gets you the kind of lives you deserve," I said, turning, and walking toward the door, not trusting myself to say anything else without breaking down in tears.

"That cut and that bike are club property too," Chewy called, wanting the last word, driving home one final humiliation.

"Take it," I said, shrugging out of my cut, dropping it in the garbage as I passed. Along with my keys. "I don't want anything to do with you traitorous fucks ever again," I added, not even bothering to look as I moved outside, letting the door close behind me.

I gave myself three seconds.

Long enough to take a slow, deep breath, then let it go.

Then I was on my way out of the lot, around the front of the building, and down the street.

I still had my gun.

It was tucked into my ankle holster, safe and sound.

I had my wallet in my back pocket with a few bucks in it.

But that was it.

Well, not entirely, I remembered, reaching upward to grab the key that hung like a necklace between my breasts.

I had that.

The key to a safe deposit box where I had club money stashed. I wouldn't be able to access it until the next day. It was stupid, as a rule, to keep cash in a safe deposit box, since the bank won't insure cash. But since it was illegally obtained money anyway, I wasn't overly worried about the couple rolls of hundreds I kept in mine along with some documentation. It was just back-up money, in-case-shit-happens money.

Well, shit happened.

And I needed the back-up since I had fuck-all clue what to do with my life.

But I couldn't get that money until the bank opened in the morning.

Which left me with what?

Fifty or so bucks to my name?

I couldn't even get a hotel room for that.

But I had to get off the street.

Whoever was out for the Henchmen and Vultures clubs wouldn't know that I'd just been stripped of my title.

I had to get somewhere somewhat safe.

But I had nowhere to go.

I had no friends.

I had no family anymore either, it seemed.

Nothing.

I had absolutely nothing and no one.

The feeling of loss was so acute it damn near brought me to my knees in the middle of the street as I walked blindly through town, unsure what to do, where to go, what to do with my life.

It wasn't until I was all of fifty feet away that I realized where my misery had taken me.

Right to Fallon's new house.

In my darkest moment, that was where I wanted to turn.

To him.

Did that make sense on a rational level?

Nope, not at all.

But that was where I found myself, standing at the corner-most back of his neighbor's yard, trying to avoid detection by whichever guard was stationed out on the front porch, puffing on something that smelled like blueberries.

Taking a slow, deep breath, I crept my way across the back lawn, making my way up toward the back door, peeking inside to find Fallon sitting on the couch watching a fight on his TV, a beer sitting casually on his thigh.

Taking another steadying breath, I raised my hand and knocked as lightly as I could.

I knew he heard because his body tensed, and his hand went for the remote, turning down the volume.

I did another soft tap.

That time, he got up, put down his beer, reached for his gun, and came around the corner toward the kitchen in the back of the house.

The tension slipped to confusion as his gaze landed on me.

Not a couple seconds later, he was pulling open the door.

"Danny?" he asked, voice soft.

It was that softness that did me in.

Because it had been a hard night.

It had been a hard fucking life.

That softness stripped away what was left of my defenses.

"I had nowhere else to go," I choked out before the tears started to pour, before I felt a pain so acute in my gut that I folded forward into it.

"Danny... babe..." Fallon said, voice getting softer, more concerned. "Okay, alright," he went on as his arms moved out, wrapped around me, pulled me back upward, then against his chest as he moved backward, guiding me inside. "What's wrong?" he asked, one arm anchoring around my center, the other holding the back of my head against his chest.

"Everything."