Page 8 of King of Clubs
“I won’t make it mandatory,” Leon had told King as the other man had sat in his seat at the head of the table, his fingertips rapping out the tune to AC/DC’sHighway to Hell.His silver rings glinted in the light from the chandelier above, allegedly made from the bones of his enemies. King has never confirmed or denied the rumour, but it would be a dumbass move to have the evidence of multiple murders literally hanging over you and Leon knows that King is a hell of a lot smarter than that. “They can take the job if they want to, but it has to be their decision.”
“That’s the way I work with my guys,” King had rumbled from deep within his barrelled chest. At 5’9” he may not be tallest member of the MC, but he’s certainly the most formidable. With three tours in Iraq under his belt as a Marine, he has an intimidating and imposing presence that commands complete obedience, and a reputation of ruthlessness that long precedes him.
“It seems like we’re on the same page,” Leon had said before shaking King’s hand and the deal was struck.
It’s after the meeting that Leon sits down at Duke’s table with a cup of coffee in the clubhouse. The Vice President’s boxer’s frame is situated in front of a newspaper, his nose crinkling as he studies the article in front of him.
Leon clears his throat before he leans forward, his elbows coming to rest upon the table.
“I need to talk to you about something and it’s kind of awkward.” Leon bites his lower lip before he meets Duke’s gaze. “I’m seeing Sara. It’s getting serious and I didn’t want you to hear it over the grapevine, I wanted to be respectful and come to you man to man.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Duke tells him, shrugging his shoulders. “Me and Sara were over a long time ago.” Duke gestures between the two of them. “We don’t have beef over this. If you make each other happy, that’s the best that anyone can hope for, and I don’t begrudge that.”
Leon’s fingers rap out a pattern on the surface of the table before he opens his mouth to speak.
“When I took over the club after Concho was killed, we were in a bad way. I’m not just talking about the money situation; morale was low, and we were in a fucked-up place. I had to carry all of that. I had to be strong for my club and to do that I had to shut down every other part of me so I could focus on getting us through a really dark time.”
Leon shakes his head, his lips pursed together grimly. He doesn’t recognise the man he became back then, the one that had to fight for his club because Concho had disgraced them.
“The problem is when you do something like that, you can’t just let it go. You become that person and it eats you up inside. There’s no joy, no light, there’s just this weight and you have to carry it day after day.”
When he looks to Duke, he knows the other man understands what he’s saying. Sunridge isn’t the only club that’s been through hell, Pinehurst had their own troubles a few years back.
“When I met Sara, it felt like I could breathe again. All the parts of me that shut down, they started coming back to life.” He trails off, because he can’t quite find the words to explain it. “She saved me, and I don’t think she realises just how much.”
Duke bows his head, and Leon knows it’s because he knows what it’s like to live in that darkness, to have someone reach in and pull you out without them even realising that they’re rescuing you.
“I’m happy you’ve found that,” Duke tells Leon, meeting his gaze. “I’m glad that you’ve found someone who makes you happy.”
Chapter Eleven
Another postcard, another country, another city.
It’s Italy this time, Verona.
In the past few weeks, Leon’s received one from both Milan and Pisa.
He looks at his fridge, inundated with the evidence of Sara’s adventures and he wonders what he’ll do when he runs out of space, where he’ll put them all then. It occurs to him that he’s thinking in the long term, not months but years down the line. Her out there exploring the world, him here managing his club. It shouldn’t work but somehow it does. He’s the stable presence in her life, the grounding force and she’s his wildness, the part of him that reminds him how to live.
“Put them in a scrapbook,” his daughter Melina suggests as she perches at the kitchen table, carefully cutting out a picture of an elephant from a National Geographic magazine he’d picked up.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Sara says from the phone propped against the saltshaker on the table. “You’re going to have to help him choose one though because his taste is a little…”
Leon knows she’s pulling a face; it’s in the way Melina laughs.
The three of them have been video chatting regularly since the initial introduction. Sara has become as integral to their routine as breathing. Leon looks up from chopping peppers before handing off a slice to Melina; she crunches it between her teeth.
“Orange is his favourite colour,” Melina says with a sigh, picking up one of her colouring pens to show Sara the exact shade he favours. “He thinks it goes with everything.”
“It does,” Leon argues, rolling his eyes before he washes his hands in the sink. “It’s bright, it’s uplifting, who doesn’t want that in a color? It’s you two that are wrong, who likes the color blue? It’s dour, depressing.”
“Relaxing, soothing,” Sara corrects him, shaking her head. “What will we do with him Melina?”
“Alright, alright,” Leon says, picking up a hand towel and drying his hands as he steps around the breakfast island. “If you’re done judging my color choices, we still need to get Melina’s homework finished. The two of you were talking about India and the elephant sanctuary.”
“That’s right,” Sara agrees, straightening her shoulders. “Ok kid, what other questions do you have?”
He cooks dinner while they talk. They’re having pasta tonight because Melina’s decided she wants a taste of the Mediterranean, thanks to a conversation they had yesterday about how much Sara loves Italian food. He’d tried to bargain it down to pizza, but she’d given him that look and reminded him he’d already promised that as their Saturday treat, so pasta it is.
