Page 15 of Being Lost

I wonder if that’s true. What if Dan had been involved in something that would implicate him in a serious crime? He might not have come clean about that.

Her face looks tight. “Dan gave the feds Alder’s name as the man behind the influx of drugs. Because of Dan, they know who they’re looking for. He was forced to go underground. If, or when he surfaces, Dan will have to testify.”

“Whether Dan’s there to testify won’t make any difference to Alder being convicted.” Again, I’m thinking aloud. “He was a bystander and not involved. His information pointed the feds in the right direction. A whistleblower if you like. A conviction would have to be based on proving Alder’s involvement, and Dan’s word alone wouldn’t be good enough for that.”

“So Alder wants revenge on the man who destroyed his business. He’s a spiteful man who holds a grudge.”

I consider her offered explanation for a moment. Something doesn’t sit right with me. “Alder’s a businessman. I’d have thought his concentration would be on rebuilding what he lost, getting his revenue stream flowing again. From what I hear, Dan probably threw a wrench in the works, but didn’t halt it.”

Sure, a man like Alder would want revenge, but would he put that much effort into getting it? Of course I don’t know the man, but it doesn’t seem likely. What purpose would it serve unless Dan hadn’t done all the damage he could have? If Dan has told the feds everything, what would killing him achieve, other than giving Alder a good night’s sleep? He’d be wasting time and resources tracking Dan, when surely, he’s got higher priorities? A lot of this doesn’t make sense and needs more consideration.

Of course, there’s one person who might be able to shed more light on this. “When’s Dan back?”

“Ten o’clock,” she tells me.

Taking out my phone, I see that’s just an hour’s time. “I’d like to wait and speak to him, if that’s okay with you?”

“You’re going to tell him, aren’t you?” Her mouth twists as though she’s just tasted something unpleasant. “You’re going to tell him how I messed up.”

“He has to know.” I close the gap between us and turn her to face me. “Hate having to tell you this, but the net may be closing in. Do you want him forewarned, or just to go on oblivious to any danger he might be in? He’s a grown man, not a kid. He needs to be part of any discussion about whether you stay or go, or whether that’s together or alone. It’s his life on the line, Patsy. It’s got to be down to him.”

She stares up at me, then looks away. “I suppose you’re right.”

“There could be other options we could discuss.”

“Such as?”

I don’t want to let her in on a half-baked idea. “We’ll know more once I’ve talked to Dan, babe.”

The first time I’d called her babe she’d bristled, the second she’d gone red. Since then, she softens, and half smiles each time I say it. During our serious discussion I’d avoided using it, but now we’ve talked that to death, I want to lighten the atmosphere again. To test out my theory, I repeat the endearment. “So, babe, is it okay if I wait?”

Yup. I was not wrong.She likes it.In fact, so much so, it’s flustered her, and she hasn’t answered my question.

“Have you got a beer?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Dan’s got some in the fridge. I’m more a wine girl myself.” Words now tumble out one after the other. I grin. She’s acting like a gauche teenager, not the middle-aged woman she is. I find I like it.

As she goes off in the direction of what I assume is the kitchen but doesn’t quickly return, I think she’s probably taking a moment to pull herself together.

I take the opportunity to do the same myself. I’m here on a mission, not to have my interest sparked in a woman who means nothing at all to me. But damn it, while the subject hadn’t been pleasant, a discussion about a man who’d nearly succeeded in a previous attempt to kill her son, part of me had enjoyed the debate.

I’m the prez of an MC. I might be older than most of my members, but my cut and my bike still attract attention. I’ve kept myself in shape over the years. My hair might be grey, but I haven’t let myself go. When I ride with my men, it may be because I wear the patch that denotes me as the highest-ranking member, but woman flock to me just like they do the younger men.

I can get laid anytime I want to.

I fucked around when I first got my patch, but soon found what I liked best was having a woman to come home to and not just for sex. It was the holding each other, talking to each other, sharing our days, our successes and tribulations, all the trappings which make a relationship work. There’s more to marriage than athletics in the bedroom, much more. What attracts in the beginning becomes just a small part of what matrimony offers.

I’d always thought I’d had a good-enough marriage, until my failures became too great, too much of a burden to be shared.

Truth be told, I don’t meet many women my own age. I don’t have kids so I don’t meet single parents. I don’t have hobbies outside of my club, so I rarely meet civilians. Nice women my age tend to shy away from motorcycle riding, leather-clad, tattooed men.

Just for once it’s nice to meet someone in the same age group who gives me a second glance.

Still waiting for her to return with my beer, I sigh. I like her, but even if she liked me in that way, there’s no way I could go there. Somehow I manage to fool an MC that I’m capable of leading it, and that takes all my time and energy trying to do that right. I can’t split my loyalties and take on responsibility for somebody else, someone who’ll demand my commitment to her. That I can’t fully give, not when I’m married to my club.

“Sorry. I, er…” Whatever excuse she’s about to use for her tardiness dies on her lips as she clearly has difficulty uttering a lie.

Taking pity on her, I take the opened beer from her hand. “How do you like living in San Diego?”

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