Calm & Storm (The Night Horde SoCal Book 6) Read online

  He finished his scotch and set the glass down. Then he dropped his hands to his lap and looked down at the island, at her hands, for a long, silent moment. Lorraine was afraid to move again, because she knew what would happen next, and she didn’t want to hurry it along.

  “I don’t know, either.”

  “So what do we do?” She had to force sound into the question.

  “I don’t know that, either.” He sighed and stood. “I’m gonna go.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Will I hear from you again?”

  “I hope so. I love you, Rainy.” He leaned over the island and squeezed her hand, and then he walked out the patio door.

  Lorraine stood where she was, leaden with sorrow and regret, until she heard his bike roar up and then fade away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “You got it?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Cameron studied his hands; Ronin could see his mental wheels turning as he remembered what his hands and feet were supposed to do. Driving that ‘Vette the way he did, he had an advantage over a lot of novice riders. He knew his way around a manual transmission. Once you had the controls, there really wasn’t much to riding a motorcycle except getting used to where the power was coming from.

  “Alright, then go for it.”

  Cameron gave him a grin and turned the throttle. He came off the line smoothly right away, and Ronin watched him ride down the street. They were just outside his house; he lived on a circle lane, so there was never much traffic. Ronin smiled as Cameron got to the end of the lane and turned back. He thought this wasn’t unlike teaching a kid to ride a bicycle, except that he wasn’t running alongside, holding on and then letting go. But it was about as close as he could come, seeing as he was just getting to be a father when his son was grown.

  But this was a memory they were making, and that was something he could hold onto.

  He hadn’t seen Rainy in two weeks. Part of that had been the club; they were putting heavy coverage on all the runs now, because Zapata had obviously regrouped after the Horde cleaned the States of his band of Immortal Sinners, and since the ambush that had killed Diaz, they’d taken fire twice more. No further losses—yet.

  Nothing they were doing right now felt right. Despite the heat, La Zorra wasn’t backing off her traffic, and she didn’t even want to reroute the runs. Things had felt wrong for a while—they were doing too much, moving too much. The money was insane, but Ronin knew it wasn’t sustainable. She wasn’t trafficking meth, which was all synthetic and probably had something like a limitless potential. She was trafficking agricultural product: heroin and cocaine. She had grown weed, but widespread legalization had recently made that nothing more than a regular-market crop, with futures traded on Wall Street.

  Her focus on agricultural product meant that things had to be grown, and she depended on the health of the soil and on the vagaries of the climate. Ronin wasn’t a farmer, but he knew a little bit about how things grew. You had to respect the earth and give it time to recover, or it would stop yielding to your demands.

  She had other businesses, but they all seemed to be feeder interests to support the drugs. From what Ronin could see at his position on the edge, she was running herself—and everybody who worked for her—into the ground. And she didn’t give a moment’s thought to the men she had running her front—the Horde in particular.

  He didn’t understand it, but it wasn’t his place to do the understanding. He trusted his officers, and he followed them. But even that had him uneasy lately. There was something icy going on between Hoosier and Connor, father and son, and Ronin had never seen anything like it between the those two. More than the fire they were taking protecting the shipments, more than his confusion regarding the master plan, it was the tension between his President and SAA that had Ronin deeply uncomfortable.

  Things were crumbling. At the table and beyond it, something was shaking the foundation of his club. He couldn’t see what, but it had him on edge.

  That he was needed more frequently for club work was only part of the reason he hadn’t called Rainy, however. In fact, what was going on with the Horde had him wanting to go to her—that house of hers, tucked up in the hills, surrounded by woods, was a sanctuary to rival his own, and it had her as a bonus. Holding her, smelling her, loving her—now that he’d had a renewed taste of what it was to love her, he missed her painfully all the time. He needed the calm of her love.

  But when he thought of his son, a black spike shoved its way through his memory and longing. No amount of focus could make the loss of his son recede to the past where it belonged. What he wanted was the future, but the past—a new past, one he’d never known about—was in his way.

  When Cameron had called him a few days ago and asked if the offer for riding lessons was still open, Ronin had been shocked. He had assumed that Cameron, demonstrably protective of his mother, would pull back when he’d pulled back from Rainy. But he hadn’t. He’d said he hoped they’d work things out, but in the meantime, he wanted to get to know his father.

  So a ’65 Stingray was parked in his driveway, and his grown son was riding around the street on his old Kawasaki Versys 650.

  Cameron had made a couple of circuits of the street, and when he passed Ronin on the circle this time, he leaned into the turn with a grin. Ronin smiled back and put up his hand. His son made the circle again and then stopped neatly at his side.

  He killed the engine, with that exuberant grin still stretching his face. “Okay, that’s awesome. Can we go someplace where I can get some speed?”

  “Can’t go on the freeway with a learner’s permit.”

  Cameron smirked at him. “I thought you were an outlaw.”

  “You get snagged, they’ll pull your permit. Up to you,” Ronin chuckled.

  “Fine. There anyplace else?”

  “We can go up into the mountains a ways—just to Lake Gregory. I don’t know about speed, but some good turns. If you think you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Ronin agreed; his son had taken to the bike like riding was in his DNA. Maybe it was. He nodded and went for his bike.

  ~oOo~

  They rode up to Lake Gregory, Cameron handling the mountain roads well—only a few wobbles, at the harder turns, but he’d kept his seat. It was well into the afternoon by the time they’d made the lake, so they found a rustic, Old West-themed bar and grill in Crestline and stopped in for a bite.

  It was the first time since Cameron had arrived late that morning that they didn’t have something specific to talk about. After a few minutes spent singing the praises of riding a motorcycle, at about the same time their order arrived, Cameron got a new, more serious look in his eyes, and Ronin knew he was going to want to talk about his mom.

  And he was right. As Cameron picked up his burger, he said, “She really misses you.”

  Ronin set his own sandwich back in its basket, feeling his appetite ebb at once. “Your mom and me—I want that separate from us.”

  Chewing his bite, Cameron kept his eyes steady on Ronin’s until he could swallow and say, “It’s not, though. She’s my mom. You’re my…”

  He loathed that pause. “Your what?”

  “I’m figuring that out. You’re my father. But I don’t know what that means. I just know I can’t think of you and not think of Mom.”

  That was Ronin’s problem, too, wasn’t it? He couldn’t think of Rainy without thinking of Cameron and what he’d lost. And he couldn’t think of Cameron without missing Rainy. They were all embedded in each other.

  “I have things to figure out, too, Cam.”

  “I know. I understand why you’re angry, and if you can’t make it work, I’ll understand that, too. I’m not going to choose between you.” He laughed and picked at his sandwich bun. “It’s so strange to be thinking like this again. When Mom and Dad split, and Dad was such an asshole about it, I felt pulled in two directions. I was twenty-two, so it didn’t matter much to my daily life, but I felt disloyal
to Mom if I talked to Dad. They both kept saying that it wasn’t about me, and my relationships with them shouldn’t change, but it changed everything. My dad and I are okay, but it’s different now. And I feel different about Mom—like I need to take care of her, and I never felt that before. Now here you are, and we don’t have a relationship. But I’d like to try to have one. But Mom is depressed that you left, and I feel like I need to be on her side. But I know she screwed you over. So I feel like a rubber band getting stretched.”

  Ronin had no response to that speech. He knew he’d hated hearing the word ‘dad’ so many times in it, each one a poking reminder that he’d lost the chance to be that to his own son.

  Sighing with the effort to push away that black thought, he put his elbows on the table and folded his hands together.

  Cameron laughed. “You don’t say much. I don’t know you well enough to read your body language. It’s hard.”

  “Sorry. I’m not good with words.”

  “Do you love my mom?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s not that simple, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s the reason you don’t call me Dad.”

  Cameron sat back at that and regarded Ronin quietly for several seconds. “I thought you said it was just a word.”

  “I was wrong. The more I know you, the more those years I lost hurt.”

  “If you love her, aren’t you just losing more time staying away, though?”

  That was the paradox Ronin had been caught in since the night he’d found out he had a son. He wanted the future that Rainy wanted—and that Cameron seemed to want, too—but he couldn’t go to her with resentment. Until and unless he could work through this black vise on his thoughts and feelings, he needed to stay away.

  “It’s still not that simple.”

  After a few more seconds of quiet staring, Cameron lifted his shoulder in a disappointed shrug and resumed his dinner.

  Ronin stared at his basket of food, his appetite dead. He reached instead for his beer and drank it down.

  ~oOo~

  “Aye,” Hoosier said. “It’s unanimous. Bring the kid in.”

  Fargo stood and went to the Keep doors, and Bart stood and went to the big cabinet in the far corner of the room. When he came back to the table, he had a large manila envelope, in which he’d slid a Flaming Mane patch, rockers, and SoCal flash. They’d just voted to patch Big Nate Jackson into the club.

  The kid came in, standing there like a giant, all six-foot-four, three hundred pounds of him. He was the second African American patch in the whole club, after J.R. At twenty, he was also very young to earn his patch. Too young, in fact—they were out of compliance with their own bylaws. They’d had several arguments at the table about patching in a man too young to drink legally at their bar. But they had lost more men than they could spare over the last few years, in inverse correlation to the intensity of their work. So they were patching him in a few months ahead of his twenty-first birthday.

  Ronin hoped like hell the kid would see that birthday.

  After the usual rituals—making Big Nate think he’d fucked up, then handing him the envelope like it was evidence of his failure, then the laughter and jesting as he worked out what was really going on—Hoosier closed the meeting, sending everybody off to toast the new member. They’d party for him the next week, when the women had a chance to do it right.

  “Officers, stay back a minute,” Hoosier said as everybody else got up. Ronin, paying close attention these days to the dynamics between father and son, noticed a look of dark surprise on Connor’s face.

  The rest of the Horde were lined up at the bar, on their third toast, when the Keep doors flew open and Connor stormed out. Everybody turned, and Connor drew up short. Ronin, standing at the end of the bar, saw him trying to compose himself.

  Saw him try and fail. Trick, Connor’s best friend, standing next to Ronin, saw the same thing and took a step toward Connor.

  “Back off, T.,” Connor snarled.

  “Let’s talk, brother.”

  “I said back off!” He picked up the nearest table and threw it; it crashed into the corner leading into the dorm corridor and cracked in two.

  Connor wasn’t in a state for talking. He needed to fight. And Trick wasn’t the man for that. He was a good fighter and strong, but he had a naturally gentle temperament. He wasn’t a recreational fighter, and he wasn’t as strong as Connor, certainly not Connor in his current state. Trick would hold back, and Connor wouldn’t; Connor could hurt his friend badly without even realizing it.

  Ronin was more than fifteen years Connor’s senior, but of all the Horde, he was the best match for the SAA in the ring. Demon was close, but he didn’t have the control, and somebody in the ring right now would need to be in control.

  He threw back his shot and set his empty glass on the bar. Connor had leaned against the wall near the Keep doors, while Stuff cleaned up the broken table, and Trick was still trying to talk to him. The rest of the Horde watched and waited. Bart had walked out of the Keep, through the Hall, and out the door without a pause. Hoosier leaned against the door jamb of the Keep and watched calmly but intently.

  Crossing to Connor, Ronin laid his hand on his shoulder, resisting when the younger man tried to shrug him off.

  “You need the ring.”

  He relaxed enough to laugh drily at that. “Don’t think so, old man.”

  Ronin didn’t react. He kept his hand on Connor’s shoulder and waited, his eyes holding fast to Connor’s.

  “Fine,” Connor eventually sighed. “Your funeral.”

  ~oOo~

  It had been a long time since Ronin had gotten into the ring for a spar like this, but he kept his skills sharp, and lately he’d had plenty of opportunity to use them aggressively. The two men stripped to their waists and shed their boots and socks. They pulled off their rings.

  “You want to tape up?” Connor asked.

  Ronin shrugged. He didn’t intend to use his fists much.

  “Fuck it, then. And no rounds. Let’s just fight this shit out.” Connor climbed between the ropes. Trick had taken up his customary position as his corner man. Fargo offered to keep Ronin’s corner. He smiled and nodded. He didn’t need a corner man, but there were conventions to uphold.

  Ronin wasn’t surprised that Connor didn’t want rounds. Connor hated fighting rounds. He wanted to get in the zone and stay there. Breaks were for pussies, he maintained.

  Usually a spar like this would have the club rowdy, loudly making bets and throwing out insults or encouragements, but tonight the men were quiet, not even a low rumble of conversation. That sense of unease Ronin had been feeling for weeks—longer than that—deepened every day. Now the whole club was feeling it.

  Welcome to the Horde, Big Nate, Ronin thought to himself and scanned the group for the new patch. When they made eye contact, he gave the kid a sympathetic smile. Nate had been around long enough to know that things were messy, but he still wanted in, and he was puffed up with pride tonight, even with the derailment of his celebration.

  J.R. started the fight, and Connor came right in, as Ronin expected him to. Connor used his fists like mallets; he was big and powerful and didn’t bother with finesse. But Ronin had more than two decades of martial arts experience and snap-sharp reflexes—in addition to another decade of regular bare-knuckle fighting experience. His goal in taking Connor on was to let him burn his angry energy off. That meant staying in the ring as long as possible, not taking damage, and only doing enough damage to keep Connor focused.

  They danced around the canvas for a long time, Ronin evading most contact, letting Connor in enough to bring him close and knock him back.

  “Fuck, I hate that Crouching Tiger bullshit. Just fucking fight me, Roe,” Connor growled after they’d been sparring for several minutes and were both soaked in sweat.

  Ronin obliged, spinning and driving his elbow into Connor’s chest, then spiraling back out of range. He’d aime
d intentionally to wind him but not hurt him.

  Then he stopped and put his hands down, opening himself up. Connor swung a right hook and caught Ronin on the jaw, then leapt in for another. Ronin drove a palm strike into Connor’s chest, hitting the place his elbow had hit moments before.

  His intent had been to make Connor falter, but instead the SAA exploded. He leapt forward again, before Ronin, who was getting tired, could evade him, and they grappled as Connor tried to drive jabs into Ronin’s head.

  This was no friendly spar, and Ronin had known it wouldn’t be. Connor had some demons to work out. But Ronin wanted to be able to walk out of the ring. So he focused on locking down, keeping Connor’s powerful arms from gaining the range and leverage to make a strong punch.