Page 92 of Parrish

“For fucks sake, Lacey—”

“You’re missing the point,” she interrupts. “I don’t want Blackie in jail. I really don’t but I won’t welcome him home with open arms if he’s using. He needs to get himself right and he can do that on your fucking couch.”

“Whoa… don’t you think you’re jumping the gun here?”

“No, I don’t think I am,” she snaps. “Not even a little and before you think about blaming this on my lack of medication, I’m very much lucid. Unlike you, I keep my therapist on speed dial. I don’t wait until I feel like I’m drowning before I call for help. You should try it sometime. You might save yourself and the people who love you a lot of heartache.”

“Jesus, why don’t you tell me how you really feel?” I growl, combing my fingers roughly through my hair.

“You’ve got a thick skin,” she retorts. “You can handle it. I’m going to get Danny,” she adds before she steps around me and disappears out of the kitchen.

Curling my fist, I slam it against the counter.

Once the baffled king, always the baffled king.

It’s a cold and broken hallelujah.

My phone rings pulling me away from my thoughts. Pushing off the sink, I reach into my kutte and pull it out. At the sight of Scout’s name, I shake my head. On my way here, I was on a high. Things with Reina were starting to look up and so, I finally decided to call the man back. He didn’t answer, and I started to think he was fucking with me.

Now, he’s returning the call and fuck if I’m going to continue this game of phone tag.

“Parrish,” I growl, lifting the offensive gadget to my ear.

“Hey, Parrish. Scout from the Charon MC down in Texas,” he drawls.

I bite back the urge to tell him he could’ve fooled me. The poor bastard doesn’t deserve my anger. He’s just caught me at a bad time but then again, it’s never a good time is it? I’m fucked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

“How’s things?” he continues.

How’s things?

How’s fucking things?

“They’re completely fucked,” I hiss, glancing around my daughter’s kitchen. I got a wife that don’t remember me, a son who thinks I’m the Devil and a daughter on the brink of a fucking breakdown. Let’s not forget a possible war with the cartel and an addict for a son-in-law who is doing a bid for god knows why.

“Sorry to hear that,” Scout replies.

“It is what it is,” I grunt. “Seems like you’ve been doing your damnedest to get in touch with me. While I appreciate the gesture, I gotta wonder why,” I add, bypassing any pleasantries because honestly, who the fuck has the time for that shit?

“Ten days ago, my old lady’s café was attacked,” he reveals as I glance at the clock. We might be here a while if we’re going to trade war stories. “Her and two of the club’s women were working when two enforcers from a club up in Boston came storming in. Two of our fucking kids were in there too, not that the fuckers cared much. They came in, guns blazing, ready for fucking war.”

Listening to him replay the events that darkened his club’s doorstep sends me spiraling. Yeah, I got my own shit going on, but I don’t like hearing the Charon women being used as target fucking practice. I got a wife. I got a daughter too and a shit ton of women who I consider my responsibility. I don’t have any tolerance for that shit.

“Our kids are good. Snuck out the back and got to safety. The women are fine now too. Zara got a few cuts and bruises and Mercedes went into shock. My woman was thirty-three weeks pregnant at the time and ended up going into early labor. They managed to stop it but it didn’t hold and our son was born last Wednesday. He’s doing okay, still in the hospital, but he’s looking good.”

As sympathetic as I am to his situation, I’m not really sure why the fuck he’s calling me. I’m probably the last person he should bounce this shit off. I have a reputation that proceeds me. I’m known for going buck wild on spineless cunts like this but he’s in the Lonestar state and I’m here in the seventh layer of hell.

“Sorry to hear that, brother, but I gotta be straight with you, I don’t get why you’re calling me with this. I’m not exactly your neighbor.”

“Ever hear of the Ice Riders MC? They got a charter up in Boston.”

I’ve heard of them.

To be frank, I heard they’re a bunch of twats.

“Name rings a bell,” I reply. “Never had any dealings with them though. You telling me they’re the ones that came after your women?”

Opening the cabinet, I retrieve a glass and turn on the tap. It’s not a bottle of bourbon but beggars can’t be fucking choosey I suppose, and I fill it to the rim with water.

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