UNDERTAKER Page 2

  He’d thought about letting things between them go further, but he knew if he crossed that line with her, he’d eventually hurt her, and she was too closely connected to the club. Her sister was Blood’s ol’ lady now. So, fucking around with Holly was out of the question. It would have too many ramifications, and she would always be around.

  Undertaker had been with a lot of women over the years, but there had only been one who’d meant anything to him, and she was dead and buried. No one since his Angie had ever come close, and he’d accepted that. When he did find solace with a woman, they both went into it with their eyes wide open. That would never work with Holly.

  So there was the rub of it.

  When he’d rescued her from Black Jack, Blood’s derelict old man and New Orleans’ biggest crime boss, he’d never expected any of this. The poor girl had been used as a pawn between Blood and his father.

  That was over now, but the trauma of it all had left its mark on the girl. Undertaker had promised her she’d be safe at the club and she could stay as long as she needed.

  But it had been weeks now, and the situation wasn’t working out so well for the club. They were tired of walking around on eggshells in their own clubhouse, and Undertaker couldn’t demand it of them much longer. Something had to be done.

  Cat had promised to get her sister counseling, but Holly wouldn’t leave the property, and he knew Cat was finding it hard to get someone to make a house call, especially to the clubhouse of an MC.

  Doc Sanders, the club’s doctor, had tried to talk with Holly, but she’d clammed up on him, and besides, he was a medical doctor; counseling wasn’t his specialty.

  Holly’s thumb brushed over his bottom lip, washing every thought from his head. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, and he knew he was slipping out onto thin ice.

  A moment later their mouths were pressed together, and he wasn’t quite sure who had been the one to close the distance. Her lips were soft under his, and as her mouth opened for his tongue, he really didn’t give a damn who’d been the one to give in first.

  His hands drifted up to cup her face as he took control of the kiss, promising himself he’d stop at just one. Cursing himself when breaking free of those sweet honeyed lips proved to be so much harder than he’d expected. He went back again and again until they were both breathing hard.

  The soft bed was right there. It would be so easy to just push her down onto her back, to settle his body onto her soft curves, to sweep his hands all over her. And for a moment he was bowled over by the power of that temptation, almost swept along with it.

  But he was nothing if not a man with an iron will, and he knew if he went further, he might never get her out of his clubhouse.

  And so, he finally broke off, dragging in a deep breath.

  She stared up at him, confused, her lips swollen from his kisses. “What is it? Why did you stop?”

  He shook his head and stood.

  She grabbed his hand, pulling him back as he turned to move to the door. “Please.”

  Her soft plea gutted him, and he twisted to stare down at her. “We can’t, babe. Not you and me. I’m the last thing you need.”

  “That’s not true. You’re exactly what I need.”

  “I’m old enough to be your father. It could never work out between us.” He lifted his chin to the bed. “We do this, you’d come to hate me. And I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Please don’t go.”

  He cupped her face, then dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Get some sleep. Maybe later I’ll take you for a ride. Would you like that?”

  She nodded, willing to accept whatever crumbs he threw her. It wasn’t right, but he took it, giving her a smile before heading to the door.

  As he walked down the hall back toward the bar, he realized his hands were shaking. Yeah, he wasn’t as in control as he liked to kid himself. Fuck, he needed another drink.

  When he got back to the bar, Blood, Mooch, Easy, and So Cal were all there. He sat at the corner, liking to have a clear view of the entrance. It was an old habit that had saved his life more than once. Not that there was any chance of danger coming through the door of his own damn clubhouse, but it was a hard habit to break.

  Blood picked up his drink and took the stool next to Undertaker. “Heard from Cat.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “She finally talked one of the therapists she works with at the hospital to come out here. A Dr. AJ Carter.”

  “Thank Christ. Guess it pays to have a nurse around.”

  “You know she’s just as anxious to get her sister out of here as you are.”

  “Then why doesn’t Holly move in with the two of you?”

  Blood gave him a murderous look.

  Undertaker chuckled. “Right. It would put a damper on your sex life.”

  “Wouldn’t stop me in the least, but I don’t think Cat would feel the same.”

  “Nope, probably not. So when’s this guy coming by?”

  “They’re on their way, but there was one request.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Cat thought it would be better if there weren’t a lot of guys around or a parking lot filled with bikes. No sense terrifying the good doctor before he gets in the building.”

  “Right. Then why don’t you take the guys to your place? Isn’t there a Saints game on tonight?”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  The corner of Undertaker’s mouth pulled up. “Come on, take one for the team.”

  Blood rolled his eyes, but walked off. “Come on, men. ESPN at my place. President’s orders.”

  “I’m in,” Bam-Bam said, getting up from his barstool. “Hope you got plenty of beer.”

  Blood gave Undertaker a death glare, to which he just chuckled.

  Mooch took the empty stool.

  “You’re not goin’?” Undertaker asked.

  “Nah. I’m heading home in a few minutes.”

  Undertaker jerked his chin at the prospect behind the bar who wasted no time coming over. “Take those keys,” he ordered, nodding to a set on a hook behind the bar. “Move the van from behind the building to out front so you can’t see our bikes on the other side of it.”

  The kid left to do his bidding.

  Once he was out the door, Mooch took a hit off his beer and asked, “She all settled down?”

  Undertaker moved behind the bar and reached into the cooler. He put the long neck to the bottle opener under the bar and popped the cap. “She’s fine.”

  Mooch grinned. “All these years and I had no idea that one of your special skills was babysitting.”

  Undertaker gave him a look. “The cracks about her age are wearing thin, Brother.”

  “Okay, okay. Seriously, you have a way with her. I’m glad she’s fine now.”

  “Hopefully she’ll be better after Cat brings this doctor to see her.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah. They’re supposed to be on their way. I hope he’s worth a shit and can help her.”

  “You and me, both.”

  “You don’t like our house guest?”

  “I like the kid well enough. I know she’s been through a lot—”

  “She’s been through hell. Lost her innocence, lost her naiveté, lost her trust…”

  Mooch nodded. “We all have loss we have to deal with—for some of us, it takes years.”

  Undertaker lowered his bottle, his eyes narrowing. “You talking about me, old man?”

  Mooch huffed out a laugh. “You forget. I was there at the beginning.”

  The beginning, Undertaker mused. It seemed like a thousand years ago and just yesterday all rolled into one.

  Fifteen years ago—

  Walking out of Louisiana State Penitentiary that hot humid afternoon, Undertaker remembered the blazing sun more than anything. That and the way the smell of bike exhaust reached his nostrils. It was a scent he hadn’t smelled in eleven long years. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with it. />
  Squinting against the bright sun, he swept his gaze over the line of shining chrome and metal of ten bikes, a pickup, and a bunch of dirty leather-clad men he called his brothers. The mangy bunch had never looked so sweet.

  A broad grin split Mooch’s face as he pulled Undertaker in for a bear hug. A moment later, he was enfolded in the group, his back slapped a dozen times.

  Bam-Bam took him by the cheeks and laid a big smacking kiss on his face.

  He shoved him off as the bunch guffawed with laughter. His eyes moved over the crew again, counting faces, new and old. One in particular stood out missing.

  “Where’s Skeeter?”

  A couple of his brothers exchanged glances, no one in a hurry to tell him.

  “What?”

  “He’s not doin’ so good, Undertaker.”

  He nodded. The old man was getting on in years, but he hadn’t heard he was in poor health.

  “Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Undertaker nodded again. He couldn’t argue with that. The sooner he put a hundred miles between himself and this stinking prison that had been his living hell for so many years, the better.

  “Let’s roll, Brother,” Mooch said, nodding toward Undertaker’s old bike that sat shining in the sun.

  Undertaker moved to it, running his palm over the seat lovingly, his eyes sweeping over the motorcycle he’d missed so much. “Looks like you boys took good care of it.”

  “Damn straight. The girls gave it a wash yesterday, and the new prospect polished it up for you.”

  “Thank you, boys.” At the mention of girls, Undertaker met Mooch’s eyes, only one girl on his mind. “You find her?”

  He shook his head slowly, sadness written on his face. “Sorry, man. Can’t find a trace of her.”

  Undertaker lifted his gaze to the horizon, nodding. She was out there somewhere—Angie and his daughter. He’d find them. Somehow.

  He swung his leg over the seat, his hands enfolding the grips, taking in the feel of his bike under him at last. He fired it up and listened to that sweet rumble.

  Mooch tossed him his cut with a grin. “Lead us out, VP.”

  He shrugged it on and felt its weight on his back. Goddamn, it felt good.

  With a twist of the throttle, he roared out of the crushed gravel lot and onto the pavement, blasting down Highway 66 as fast as his bike would carry him.

  He glanced back once in his side mirror. He couldn’t see much of the vast prison except the entrance gate, the guard tower, and rows and rows of looped razor wire fencing. But he remembered his last impressions of the place as he’d stared out the window of the van as the guards had driven him up to the facilities near the gate for processing out.

  His eyes swung to the left. Far in the distance, he caught a glimpse of a work gang, inmates in their prison garb out working the fields, the guards on horseback with their rifles at the ready. It passed by him in a blur, fields of crops they’d been forced to work day in and day out in the endless thousands of acres under the blazing hot sun. And lastly, the sad little cemetery where they buried the lifers who lived out their last days on earth and would never leave this place.

  His hand tightened on the grips, and he looked forward, vowing never to think of that hell on earth again.

  Three hours later—and one stop for a steak dinner on the way—they arrived back at the clubhouse.

  The parking lot was packed with bikes, and as they walked inside, Undertaker saw all the decorations and the Welcome Home banner on the wall. People he’d loved and missed soon surrounded him, all except for one—the chapter President.

  “Where’s Skeeter?” he asked Mooch as someone pressed a bottle of Jack in his hand, and he took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  The man lifted his chin toward the staircase that led to the second floor of the cavernous building.

  “He comin’ down?” Undertaker asked. Mooch shook his head, and a weird feeling skated down Undertaker’s spine. Something was up, something they weren’t telling him. His voice dropped to a low growl. “What’s going on? Mooch, you better fucking tell me.”

  “Come on. Let’s go see him together.” Mooch put an arm around his shoulders.

  They moved through the crowd, the bottle still in his hand as they headed to the stairs. The long hallway at the top led to Skeeter’s office at the far end, and that’s where Undertaker assumed they were going until Mooch paused just short of it and turned to the door on the left of it—the one that led into the rooms Skeeter used for himself.

  Mooch tapped on the door and then opened it.

  There was a big bed on the left and a TV on the wall, one bigger than any he’d ever seen in prison, and again he was reminded of how much things had changed while he’d been locked up. The big screen only held his attention for a split second, because he was drawn to the big man lying in the bed.

  Skeeter didn’t look good. He looked like he was on death’s door, and now it all made sense. This was what no one had wanted to tell him. Their President was dying.

  Fuck.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Undertaker tried to put on a brave face as he approached Skeeter. He gently took his hand and leaned over the bed. “Old man, it’s good to see you.”

  An oxygen tube ran from a tank that sat next to his bed; the cannula looped over his ears and down to his nostrils. Even with the oxygen, his voice came out wheezing and gasping.

  “Glad to… have you… home, Son.”

  The man had lost weight, his face sunken and his skin sallow. His eyes were a watery gray, but the happiness on his face was genuine.

  “Good to be home,” Undertaker replied.

  “Sit.” Skeeter released his grip and patted the bed next to him weakly then waved his hand in a dismissive motion to Mooch who exited, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Undertaker watched him go before turning back to his President. “I didn’t know. No one told me.”

  Skeeter nodded, his eyes sliding closed as he struggled for breath. “I didn’t… want them… to tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “No use… you… worrying.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Cancer.”

  “How long have you been sick?”

  “Been fighting… it for… a year now.” He paused, smiling at Undertaker. “Been waiting… for you. They thought… I couldn’t… hold out.” He tried to laugh and ended up in a coughing fit.

  Undertaker reached for a glass of water on the bedside table and lifted his head to help him drink.

  When Skeeter got his breath back, he whispered, “Fooled them… didn’t… I?”

  Undertaker tried to smile and nod, but he felt his throat closing up and his eyes starting to sting. This man had meant more to him than his own father. He’d been his sponsor seventeen years ago when he’d first prospected with the club. He’d guided him like a father, and Undertaker couldn’t have loved him more.

  “Some things… we need… to talk about.”

  “Maybe you should rest. We can talk later.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “Now.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want… you to… take the gavel.”

  Undertaker frowned. “What?”

  “Already… talked to… the boys.”

  Undertaker pulled back, and his head swiveled slowly toward the door. “Skeeter, I’ve been out of the life for eleven long years. The club’s changed… all the new faces down there… Hell, the world has changed. I don’t know if—” He broke off shaking his head.

  Skeeter grabbed his hand in his frail but suddenly strong grasp. “It’s… done. You… understand me? They… already voted. It’s… you. It’s… what I want.”

  Undertaker watched him fall back in exhaustion, his eyes closing. How could this be happening? Today was supposed to be a happy day! He wasn’t supposed to come home to find this; he wasn’t supposed to have the whole weight of the club dropped
on his shoulders right out of the gate. Hell, he had a year of parole to get through. Had any of them thought of that?

  Skeeter tightened his grip on his hand again and shook it. “I taught… you well. It’s… got to… be you.” His watery, gray eyes opened and focused on Undertaker. “You’re the… only one… who can lead… them… the way… I want.”

  “I don’t know if I’ve got it in me.”

  “Damn it, you do.” He gave a weak punch to Undertaker’s chest. “You got… the heart… for it. It’s in you. I know… cause I… put it there. Taught you… everything I know.”

  “Skeeter—”

  “Tell me… you’ll do it.”

  What choice did he have but to nod his head? “If it’s what you want, and the club agrees to it, I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Skeeter nodded, a small smile on his face. “Make them… remember your name. Do right by… this club. When you feel like… giving up, don’t.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  He patted Undertaker’s hand. “Promise me… one more thing.”

  “Anything. You know that.”

  “Take care of… my boy. You… watch after… him.”

  “Boy? What boy?”

  “Johnnie Ray. He… was born while you… were inside. He’s… seven. Living with… his mother… in Hattiesburg.”

  It was another thing that Undertaker hadn’t known about, but he nodded. “All right.”

  “She doesn’t… want him… to have… anything to do… with the club. But if he… ever comes around… wanting to be… a part of it…” He paused to punch his gnarled finger into Undertaker’s chest. “You… sponsor him. You!”

  “All right, Prez. I promise. He ever wants the life I’ll take him under my wing.”

  That seemed to ease Skeeter’s worries, and he slumped back again. He was quiet so long Undertaker thought he’d fallen asleep, so he stood to leave. When he did, the old man’s eyes popped open. He lifted his arm and clasped Undertaker’s hand one last time. “We had some… good times… didn’t we?”

  Undertaker nodded, barely able to get the words out. “We did, Brother. We sure did.”

  Skeeter nodded, then drifted off to sleep.