Page 3 of Domino
“You know what? Fine,” I spit. “Fuck this. I’ve given you guys everything for the last year. I’ve done my best to carve out my niche with this club. But if it ain’t good enough for you—if I’m not good enough for you—fine. Fuck it.”
I yank my kutte off and toss it on the table, the prospect rocker across the bottom staring back at me. As if it’s mocking me. And then, everybody around the table erupts into laughter. It’s a howling, side-splitting, funniest-thing-they’ve-ever-heard kind of laughter. Monk nudges me, and when I turn to him, he’s smiling wide and holding a new kutte in his hands.
“You gonna take your new kutte, or you gonna stand there looking like an idiot?” Monk says and laughs.
Waiting for the punchline to drop, I reach out and take it from him, expecting him to yank it away. The leather is black and new. It’s soft and pliable. On the left breast is a white patch bearing the words, “NorCal Original”, in black lettering, with a white diamond-shaped patch with a “20”—the year I’m being patched in—just below that. And on the right breast is my club name, “Domino”. It’s a nod to the white patches in my black beard, one above my top lip, and one below the bottom.
Trying to control my smile, I turn the kutte around and admire the club patch in the middle. Above it is the rocker with the club name, and below it is the bottom rocker bearing the “NorCal” inscription. It’s a work of art, and as I stare at it, I realize I haven’t drawn a breath in a moment. Letting it out slowly, I turn back to the guys. Their laughter had faded at some point, but they’re all still smiling at me.
“You’ve done good, kid,” Prophet says. “We’re proud to call you our brother. Now, put that thing on.”
As I slip the kutte on, the guys stand and embrace me one at a time, each of them thumping me on the back and offering their congratulations. The pride I feel as I look down at my new kutte can’t be measured. Being a part of this club, part of this brotherhood… fills me with as much joy as being a part of my old unit back in the Corps. I would give my life for any one of these men, and I know they would give theirs for me.
“Let’s go,” Prophet says, throwing his arm around my shoulders. “Time to party. Let’s not keep your new brothers waiting, huh?”
They walk me out of the clubhouse and into the yard of the compound. There are several barbecues going, the smell of ribs and steak filling the air. The music is blaring, and when we step onto the porch, the yard erupts in cheers and whistles. In that moment, I feel like a goddamn rock star.
A beer is thrust into my hand, and I’m passed around to the rest of the guys, everybody congratulating me and welcoming me to the club.
As a friend.
As a brother.
Chapter Two
Ashley
“Go on and fetch me a beer,” he says.
He shakes an oxycodone pill out of the prescription bottle and into his hand. Ryan sees me watching him and sneers as he slips the bottle back into his pocket. Never taking his eyes from mine, he pops the pill and washes it down with the last of his beer, setting the bottle back down on the table harder than was necessary.
“Is that a new prescription?” I ask.
“What’s it to you? You’re not the one in pain.”
“Is it bad today?”
Ryan scowls at me. “Would I be taking a pill if it wasn’t?”
I open my mouth to tell him that yes, yes, he would, because I’ve been watching him do it for years. This long after his surgery, he shouldn’t need them, but Dr. Perkins is a friend of his and continues to fill his prescriptions, anyway. “Chronic pain management” is what the doctor calls it, but I’m highly skeptical about the level of his “chronic pain”, I close my mouth and end up not saying anything, though, not wanting to have a fight with him. Again. It’s far wiser to pick my battles, and this is not a hill I’m willing to die on. Not tonight.
“Go get me a beer, Ash,” he snaps.
I glare at him for a long moment, my resentment reaching a tipping point. Cole, our four-year-old son, sits at his place at the table. He wriggles in his booster and puts a carrot into his mouth, his dark eyes falling onto me. It’s as if he picked up on the sudden tension that’s gripping me and looks concerned. Cole’s always been a sensitive boy like that.
“Did you hear me? Go get me a beer,” Ryan repeats.
“How about saying please?” I finally shoot back. “I’m trying to teach our son some manners.”
Ryan’s dark eyes narrow as his face darkens. It’s the telltale sign of an impending explosion. And though I would rather not do this in front of Cole, I don’t want him to think his father’s behavior is normal. More than that, I don’t want him to think it’s acceptable. This is not how you treat a woman, and I won’t have Cole thinking it is.
“How about you shut the fuck up and go get me a beer like I told you to,” Ryan snaps.
The tension in our small dining room is thick. Ryan had a bad day at work, and as usual, he’s taking it out on me. It seems to be the way of things anymore. It wasn’t like this when we first met and got together. Back then, in high school, he was funny. Charming. He was kind and treated me really well. He treated me like a princess, to be honest. Ryan was a football star, and he was going places. Back then, I looked forward to my future with him.
But then, he got injured and everything changed. When they fused the vertebrae in his neck, his dreams of NFL stardom ended, and he grew colder. Bitter. He grew angry, and that kind, carefree boy I once knew vanished. I kept hoping he would change, that the bitterness would fade, and that he would become the man I fell in love with again. I put up with his insults and harsh words, believing that once some time had passed and he saw I wasn’t going anywhere, and that I loved him whether he was playing football or not, that his rage would dissipate.
As it turned out, though, my hopes and beliefs were all in vain. Time passed and he only seemed to get more and more angry. He drank more. His words grew harder than his heart, and the love between us seemed to wither and die on the vine and all the hopes I had for a loving and bright future along with it.
