Page 7 of Stone

I closed my eyes, trying to contain the ache in my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“For her,” Elise replied softly. “To keep her safe. I know you believe everything’s black and white, John, but grey areas exist, too. It’s not as easy as truth or betrayal; sometimes you have to lie to do the right thing.”

“Why didn’t you trust me?” I murmured imploringly.

“Because you didn’t trust me,” she whispered. “He made it that way.”

“Henderson?” I scraped out.

She gave a single nod.

“Tell me,” I ordered. “I need to know the truth.”

At last, her eyes flew open, and she barked out a humorless laugh. “Forgive the cliché, John, but you can’t handle the truth.”

“Try me,” I retorted. “Stop playing all these stupid fucking mind games and tell me what happened.”

Her gaze rested on me. “I’ll tell you everything, but we have to go back in time, back to the beginning.” Slowly, she pulled herself up to a sitting position and rested her hands on the soft comforter. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yeah, Leesy,” I stated, sitting back in the chair.

Her eyes glazed over as her mind went back in time. “Good.” She smiled softly. “Then let’s begin...”

Chapter Two

John ? Twenty-One Years Old

A loud bang splintered the air. My dad whooped and hollered before another gunshot exploded, making my ears ring.

Letting out a curse, I turned and hurried toward the kitchen.

If Pop were having a conniption, we’d need Mom to deal. God only knew there was nobody else on this Earth he’d listen to.

“Ma,” I called out, bursting into the kitchen. “Dad’s out there firin’ shots off. I think he’s havin’ one of his turns.”

She looked up at me from the counter, where she sat with Abe’s new wife, Iris, and laughed.

I took in her curled, dark hair, reminiscent of a fifties pin-up girl, and white dress with red polka dots, thinking how she looked like a beautiful ray of sunshine.

“He’s fine,” Ma assured me. “They just got a new shipment in from Texas. The boys are only testing the hardware. Your dad’s excited, is all.”

“Abe’s with him.” Iris’s turquoise eyes twinkled with mirth as she tucked a lock of her long black hair behind her ear. “He won’t let Bandit shoot anyone again.”

Mom stood and approached me. “Happy twenty-first, John.”

I lowered my head and pecked her cheek. “Thanks,” I murmured before pointing toward the bar. “Last time you told me Pop was fine, he filled a prospect’s ass with buckshot.”

Her lips twitched. “The little shit had been talking club business in Lorcan O’Shea’s bar. You know what your dad’s like; to him, buckshot in the ass is akin to a love tap.”

“Abe was tempted to shoot the little asshole, too,” Iris added. “The kid shouldn’t have been running his mouth.”

Footsteps sounded from the corridor as a deep, tuneless voice floated through the kitchen, barking the words from ‘Candy’ by Cameo.

“Your dad’s coming,” Mom muttered, rolling her eyes. “He’s driving me loopy with that damned song.”

I stared at her wide-eyed. “It’s fuckin’ embarrassing, Ma. A six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound, long-haired brute of a biker wanderin’ around the compound singin’ ‘Candy’ at the top of his lungs. You couldn’t make it up.” My voice lowered into an almost wounded tone. “I wouldn’t mind, but he puts on a weird computer voice like the singer and does that hip thrust motion like he’s fuckin’ someone. It’s embarrassing.”

“What can I say, Son.” Mom shrugged. “He loves that damned song, and at least it keeps him in a good mood.”

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