Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
I spent hours in a tattoo chair getting my back piece done. It gave me a lot of time to think about shit. What I wanted, how I was going to get it, and what I’d do when I had it.
I hired an electrician the club knew to wire in my house, and as soon as that was finished I started hanging sheetrock. The house was starting to take shape, and it looked fucking fantastic. My dad and Will had come by on a few different weekends and we’d worked easily together getting shit done. Will had no idea what he was doing, but my dad had experience and he’d stepped right in like he’d been remodeling houses his entire life.
Lincoln had been right when he’d said the DA’s office would drop the charges against me. I got word the night after Heather left. It was a relief, but I’d known from the beginning they hadn’t had enough to nail me for it. Mark Phillips was gone without a trace. With no body, their entire case had been pretty much fucked.
It was good I didn’t have to worry about it, though, because within a couple weeks I’d started leaving the state for meet ups in California, Idaho, Washington and Montana. Once Dragon had known he could trust me, he’d needed me.
As I started being part of more and more conversations, I’d finally figured out the club’s plan for the Russians. It wasn’t very intricate, but it was pretty brilliant all the same and if you looked close enough, you could see Casper’s fingers all over that shit. We met up with dealers and suppliers and informants all over the west coast, and one by one we either earned or bought their loyalty.
That loyalty had once belonged to the Russian cartel before it had gone tits up. The Feds arrested so many key players the fuckers were barely limping along, and the few that were still around began to find they didn’t have any allies left. People flocked to strength, and when the Aces gave them the opportunity to jump ship and climb into our lifeboats, they’d taken it.
The Russians inside weren’t finding life as pleasant. We had allies from coast to coast, in every federal prison, and we’d sent out the call. Half of those fuckers wouldn’t make it to trial, and the other half was locked in solitary. They wouldn’t be there forever. At some point, the guard would relax. Their time was limited.
Things were moving along. Life was happening. We were still pretty careful about big groups of us together outside the club gates, but we were able to let our guard down a bit like we hadn’t done in years.
Months went by and the weather got cold, but I still didn’t get any divorce papers.
My nightmares started happening less and less. Sometimes I’d go three or four days without one. I hadn’t made it an entire week yet, but I could see it on the horizon.
I missed Heather in a way I hadn’t even realized was possible.
And I still didn’t get any divorce papers.
We replaced the siding on my house and installed new windows before the weather got bad. I spent two weeks at our club in Sacramento visiting the brothers down there and solidifying some deals we’d made with a pair of sisters that controlled the meth trade in that part of the state. Casper and I froze our balls off as we rode home.
When I got there, I still didn’t have any divorce papers waiting for me.
Eventually, I stopped expecting to see them. I still looked for them, waited, but I stopped thinking she’d actually send them.
Then two days after the beginning of the new year, almost six months after the last time I’d seen her, a courier dropped off the manila envelope filled with her escape from me.
“Fuck!” I yelled, shuffling through the paperwork.
“Tommy?” my mom called, jogging down the stairs. “What’s going on?”
I looked up from the papers in my hands and tried to ignore the twisting in my gut. “Divorce papers,” I mumbled, waving them back and forth. “Son of a bitch.”
“Damn,” she whispered.
“Am I supposed to just sign them?” I asked in confusion. “She hasn’t signed them.”
“I’m not sure,” she replied, walking toward me. “Does it come with directions?”
“I’m not seeing any.” I handed her the papers and scrubbed my hands through my hair. “But I don’t have my glasses on me so I can barely fuckin’ read it.”
“I don’t see any,” she said, leafing through the pages. She stopped suddenly and looked up at me. “Do you want to sign them?”
I looked at her in disbelief. “ ’Course I don’t wanna fuckin’ sign ’em,” I snapped, shaking my head.
“Then don’t.”
“I can’t just—” I threw my hands up in the air and shook my head again. “She’s done, Ma.”