Karma's come to collect her debt, and it's him. He's gone. You're going to do this alone, whether you see him alive again or not.
My thoughts pulled knots in my intestines. Or maybe it was just the changes in my body, the shadow left in my flesh by too many unforgettable nights with a bad boy.
“Here you go,” Blackjack said, sticking his hand through my car's open window. I felt so tiny in my own crappy rust bucket after driving Uncle Ralph's truck most days. “Write him anytime. I'm sure he'll answer you. Remember, the boys who run that place read everything before it gets to him. My number's there too. You really ought to call it if you need anything, rather than coming to the clubhouse. It's a bad time for too many outsiders.”
I blinked. Blackjack put both hands on the window's frame and leaned in. “There's things going on in this club right now. That's why our boy's in jail. We're not interested in babysitting civilians, or receiving them at all unless it's absolutely necessary. You look like a smart girl, and I know he wouldn't want you fucked over by any bad business that isn't yours. Stay away from this patch for awhile, Sally. If you care about him at all, you'll listen.”
I didn't say another word. Neither did he.
A crater blew open in my heart. Two years. No contact. No way to reach him at all except a note by pigeon that would be intercepted and poured over by the guards before it ever made it through.
No privacy. No help. No more loving – if I could call whatever we had that without being totally delusional.
As soon as Blackjack walked back into the garage, I turned my car around and waved to the prospects manning the gate. I couldn't wait for it to slide all the way open before I gunned it out of there, fighting the fiery tears in my eyes.
I was alone. The sooner I learned to accept it, the better.
I didn't send a single letter the entire time. I couldn't bring myself to pick up the pen, couldn't put my hands on the keyboard. It would've written the lamest note in the world, and also the one guaranteed to stop my heart when I thought about how he'd react.
Two long years passed in a painful haze. I tried to forget, at least until he got out. IF he got out...
We never spoke once. Not until last week, when I finally mustered up the courage to walk into the clubhouse and try to tell him everything I'd been terrified to say by letter.
He'd only been free for a few weeks. His twenty-two months in prison were a lifetime to me.
I'd heard the rumors around town. The Grizzlies were fighting for their lives the past few years. They'd been warring with everybody across the wild west, rival MCs like the Prairie Devils up in Montana, and bigger worries closer to home. Nothing hit them harder than the Mexican cartels coming north, muscling in on the territory they'd held for decades.
Every other week, there was a new gruesome headline. Missing people on both sides of the border, bombings and gunfights in every major city, especially Sacramento and LA. Thankfully, the war zone hadn't really hit Redding yet.
Oh, except for the club's infighting. Their old President, the notorious old thug named Fang, was deposed. Blackjack took over the entire national organization, and he'd made Redding the MC's permanent headquarters.
Change was in the air, and nobody on the outside knew what it meant. Not yet.
Now shops funded by the Grizzlies MC sprang up all over, gun shops and strip clubs and biker bars. They cleaned up other dirty clubhouses as far as Klamath Falls and San Diego, and even ran a few charity events.
No one was going to roll over and call these guy heroes. Honestly, it didn't take a perfect vision to see through the PR stunts, and some of the new businesses they'd helped set up were likely fronts for money laundering.
Other things stayed the same.
Their cartel wars weren't over. New violence somewhere in the state cropped up every week, except now it sounded like the Grizzlies were beginning to gain the upper hand.
Me? I stayed out of it.
There was plenty to keep busy. I'd never grown beyond the ranch, and now I was managing a lot more of it since a stroke took Uncle Ralph's life last year. Cousin Norman and I shared the farm, managing the machines and the family's old employees, including a few younger guys who'd become hangarounds with the Grizzlies MC.
They were my source for most of the rumors. I never contacted Blackjack or anyone close to Roman, deciding to keep my distance until I was good and ready, and Roman was free.
Days passed. I heard he was back in town, and apparently the club's Enforcer now.
It took an entire summer week to gather my courage. I let Norman know I was going into town for a few things, but really, I was heading for the clubhouse.
The fresh paint on the place instantly looked brighter when I pulled up. Two prospects were guarding the gate, and I struggled to explain who I was while they gave me cold, skeptical stares.