Page 94 of American Hellhound
“So which one’s the brother?” Ghost asked, flicking a glance to the boys.
“He’s not here now,” Roman said. “He…” he trailed off and made a face.
“He’s got issues,” Boomer said.
Roman snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”
“So who are you, then?” Ghost asked Boomer.
The kid’s gaze shifted away.
Roman said, “He’s my son.”
Ghost felt the surprise hit him like a physical shove. “Your what now?”
~*~
The story went like this.
When a member was excommunicated, he wasn’t allowed to put roots down within reach of any of the club’s chapters. So Roman set off with his bike, and his saddlebags, and his misery, and ended up in Boulder. He tended bar for a while – he was young, and strong, and his cocky grin drew the female customers. When his shift ended, he went home with said customers most nights. One was a tall, voluptuous, dark-haired hellcat whose name he never could seem to remember.
“Cynthia,” Boomer provided in an undertone.
Roman spent a wild week with her, and then didn’t see her again for a long time. Not for nine months, to be exact. She showed up at the bar one night, face a thunderhead, placed a baby carrier on the bar, and said, “The adoption fell through and I’ve got a job interview in Tulsa. Congrats, Daddy.”
Roman, dumbfounded, had asked only one thing: “What’s his name?”
“Doesn’t have one.”
Roman’s name was on the birth certificate, though. And the baby, well, he couldn’t be No-Name. Deciding to carry on the family tradition of ridiculousness – his own father was a Jethro – he christened the roly-poly, blue-eyed boy Boomer.
“That’s your legal name?” Ghost asked.
“Yours is Kenny, so shut up,” Roman said.
Eventually, when Boomer was twelve, and the worry of Family Services became real, Roman paid for a paternity test. Whatever else Cynthia was, she hadn’t lied about this: Boomer was his. Not that he’d doubted it at that point.
The other boys had come along soon after that. Runaways, misfits, rebels in need of food in their bellies and a guiding hand at their backs. They’d become their own club of sorts: the unwanted ones.
“But I was shit-broke,” Roman said, eyes on the tabletop. “And the Dark Saints were recruiting in Denver.”
“So y’all became hangarounds.”
“No. Just me. I didn’t want the boys caught up in that.”
“How noble,” Ghost said with a snort.
“Hey.” Roman’s head lifted, eyes flashing, his first real show of defiance. “You were a king here. You never had to scrape like I did. You don’t get to pass judgement on what I had to do.”
Mercy, lounging against the counter, looking huge and lethal, said, “And you weren’t here to know whatthe kinghad to do. Tell your story and don’t talk shit about us.”
Roman took a deep breath, gathered himself. “The Saints were running a rich operation – still are. I woulda made more with them than anywhere else. And we both know I ain’t got some moral compass to get in the way.” Sharp, self-deprecating grin. “So I got my prospect patch. And then–” He swallowed.
“Kristin,” Boomer said, voice gentle. “Do you wanna go sit on the porch for a bit?”
“No.” She still looked petrified, but there was something stubborn about the set of her jaw.
Roman sighed and reached to palm her shoulder, a familiar, lingering touch. “Badger.” He spat the name. “You gotta understand. Ghost, he’s amonster. And I don’t mean like him.” Nod toward Mercy. “He’s…Kristin and her brother were kidnapped when they were just babies. Held by this guy. Badger bought ‘em from him, and he…” He had trouble getting the words out, expression pained.
