Page 93 of Lick

I ease myself out of bed and head downstairs to get his bottle ready. By the time I get back, he’s just starting to cry, his little legs kicking about wildly. “Hey, little man, are you hungry?” I slide my hands under him and lay him against my chest, jigging him a little to settle him before I head downstairs with him so Emma can rest.

The bottle is ready when I collect it from the warmer, so I snag it along with a cloth to lay over my shoulder, ready to catch any puke. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way, unfortunately. Nothing indoctrinates you into fatherhood quite as much as having warm baby sick run down your bare back.

“Alright, it’s here now,” I tell him softly when his cries get louder. I ease the teat into his mouth and take a seat on the sofa, arranging him so he’s comfortable in my arms.

Grabbing the remote from the arm of the sofa, I put the TV on to help keep me awake and flick until I get to the news channel. I don’t pay much attention to it after that, pulling my eyes from my son is as difficult as pulling them away from my woman. Sometimes I wonder if any of it is real or if I’m still in a coma somewhere, trapped in a body that won’t respond. During the day, I’m able to push through it. But at night, I’ve woken up more than once in a cold sweat, convinced it was all a dream.

See, the problem with having everything you ever wanted is knowing you have everything to lose. And that’s far more terrifying than anything else I’ve faced. I’m hoping as time moves on, the fear of losing them will ebb, or I’m going to be a nervous wreck by the time Kendrick graduates from high school.

He finishes his bottle like a champ, so I change him and wind him, as the news covers some up-and-coming celebrity wedding everyone is bizarrely excited about. All I care about is that I’m not part of the news anymore.

When I found out that both Emma and Kendrick had pulled through, I swore nothing would ever hurt them again. In a bid to make that true, I had to take out the last of the men who might pose a threat to them. So, when the hospital kicked me out, I went back to the clubhouse to lay my demons to rest.

“You don’t have to do this now.” My father tells me as he follows me down the creaky steps to the cellar.

“Yeah, I do. This shit needs to be dealt with now, so I can focus on the future.”

“I hear ya, son. And I’m so fucking glad Emma and my grandson are fighters. I knew they’d pull through. I felt it in these old bones of mine.”

I snort, but don’t contradict him. Too many times, he’s had a weird feeling that turned out to be prophetic. When we get to the bottom, a couple of brothers are there waiting. Each of them congratulates me and sends Emma their love.

I turn to look at the fucker who put everything in motion. “Was it worth it? Knowing you’ll die tonight without ever even getting your patch?”

“Fuck you,” Stuart spits. He looks like shit, strapped to a chair in the middle of the room, covered in bruises and dried blood.

I pull out a switchblade from my cut. Before I can do anything else, Dot stomps over. “That’s not a knife. This is a knife.” He pulls out a huge hunting knife, making my grin turn feral.

“Did he just quote Crocodile Dundee?” Hauler laughs.

I’m too busy grabbing Stuart by his hair and yanking his head back. “I wanted to make this last–wanted to inflict every inch of pain on you that you caused me and mine, but I’m not wasting another second of my time on a pussy like you.” I look at my dad. “You get what you need from him?”

He nods. “Didn’t have much to⁠—”

His words cut off as I drag the blade across Stuart’s throat, the skin parting with ease as blood spurts everywhere. I take the knife and shove it into his eye, relishing the fact that he can’t even scream. He’s dead in minutes. I feel zero remorse about it as I step up beside my father and watch Mavis step up with a pickaxe to the other prisoner.

“Do we know who this other guy is yet?”

“Victor Jones, otherwise known as Vicious. He was the VP for the recently departed chapter of Bloody Scorpions, which I guess makes him the current president and the last surviving member.”

“Can you be a president of something dead?” Dot asks, making me laugh.

“Only if he’s dead himself,” Mavis says with a wink before he swings the axe at the last surviving member’s face.

Kendrick lets out the loudest fart I’ve ever heard a baby make in my life, snapping me out of my daydream.

“Jesus kid, what’s in this milk?”

I hear laughter and tip my head back. Emma is standing in the doorway watching us with a grin on her face.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough. I like watching you with him.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Come sit with us, though you might want to sit on the left so you’re not in the danger zone.” I thought projectile vomiting was something you only saw in movies or stag weekends in Benidorm, but apparently not.