Page 44 of Devil's Own: Roughneck

Dusty has Betty calling patients to cancel and reschedule appointments. She’s contacted a local doctor, a man she works with when she has to take time off. He takes her more pressing non-emergency patients, and she does the same for him. I know. I asked.

So this isn’t just big. It’s huge if they won’t let Dusty go to the office with a guard. Day two and Rough, my brother, and the other men have maintained radio silence since they left—zero contact with wives or children.

It’s close to dinner time and although I don’t think I could eat with the ball of worry filling up the space the food is supposed to go, cooking for the others might take my mind off things for a while.

I walk down the hallway into the common room, where instead of pacing the floor, scared about what all this means, everyone in the mass of bodies tries to find a place to sit, and the din of conversation echoes through the space. People laugh, and some scroll on their phones. At least with all these children here, there are no public sex acts taking place. Bikers don’t tend to mind that—the public sex acts. It happens quite frequently when the women—not old ladies—attached to the club make their way up here for a party.

Since so many people are here, I decide on a casserole to feed them. Casseroles simply go the furthest both with feeding people and use of ingredients. Plus, I’m not about standing at the stove cooking for fifty to seventy-five people. Looking under the cupboard, I find pouches of tuna and pouches of cooked chicken. With all these people here, someone may have a fish allergy, so I grab two chicken pouches.

They have a big bag of egg noodles and they have rice. I decide to make a pan of each—two different yet similar casseroles. The first gets prepared quickly. Rice, chicken broth, a pouch of chicken, vegetables, and seasoning. Shredded cheese sprinkled on the top for that extra bit of deliciousness. The second takes a little more prep time because I have to make a cream sauce first. I cook the noodles while I make the cream sauce. Then that casserole is cooked noodles, a pouch of chicken, vegetables, cream sauce, and seasonings, with crushed Ritz crackers on top for a crunchy element.

After getting them in the oven to bake, I feel accomplished. Productive. I walk to the refrigerator to grab the pitcher of iced tea that someone had the forethought to make yesterday and grab a glass. As I pour, my son enters the kitchen with his friends Damien and Horace.

“Hey, Mom,” Waite says. “What smells good?”

“Struggle meals,” I reply, smiling.

“That doesn’t smell like a struggle,” Damien says.

“Because my mom has never made a struggle meal in her life. Even when she had rice, an orange peel, and pencil shavings to work with, she has this way of making something delicious out of nothing.”

“Wish I’d grown up in your house,” Horace says. “We were lucky if we got a peanut butter sandwich with strawberry jam rather than grape jelly because grape was the cheapest. Gourmet for us was a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle rather than the store brand, and Townhouse crackers rather than saltines.”

“If you’d have known Waite then,” I say, “I’d have had you over as often as you wanted. Every kid deserves a good meal.”

Horace stares at me in a way that makes me feel strange. I don’t get what it means, only that it means something to him. I like that. He might be an adult, but we all need to know there are people who are looking out for us.

He clears his throat, the moment over. “You hear anything from Rough?”

“No. Nothing. It’s been radio silence since they left and to tell the truth, I’m worried. I know my job as an old lady is to suck it up and pretend like everything is peaches and cream, but I haven’t been an old lady long enough to have reached that point.”

“‘Peaches and cream’?” Damien teases.

“Shut it,” I warn, laughing.

“Maybe you should call,” Horace offers. “If the brothers need me, I need to go to them. You’ve got plenty of protection here.”

“Wouldn’t they call you if they needed you?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I’m new. A brother is more likely to answer the call of the woman they’re fucking than putting a call to a new brother.”

That makes sense—kind of.

“I don’t know. What if his phone rings at precisely the wrong time? I watched a movie the other day where the husband was in a life-and-death situation and the wife called. The phone totally gave away his location.”

“No offense,” Horace says, “but that’s a movie. This is real life.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it. Let me get dinner out for everybody first. That way, I don’t get distracted and burn everything.”

Horace doesn’t look pleased with my answer, given the death glare he shoots me, but it’s the best I have for him. And I get it. He’s worried about his brothers, but that’s something he needs to work out with them.

My son kisses my cheek right before snatching my glass of iced tea, laughing as he walks out sipping on it. Damien and Horace leave right behind him.

I pour myself another glass and when my timer goes off, I pull the bubbling creamy chicken and the scrumptious chicken and rice from the oven. Nic strolls into the kitchen stopping short when she sees me.

“You cooked?”

“Yeah. I figured it would make things easier than having a free-for-all.”

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