Page 35 of His Other Half

Chapter 14

Paco

The club meeting adjourned. Paco left the room as soon as Priest's fist hit the table. He'd asked one thing and got denied.

Going straight to the make-shift bar, he grabbed a whiskey bottle and took it outside with him. At his Harley, he packed the bottle in his duffle.

"Hold on." Curley jogged toward him. "Stick around and drink with us."

"Not in the mood for company." He threw his leg over the seat and toed the kickstand.

Curley looked toward the street. "It was an undivided vote, brother. We can't have you on the run when you're circling."

"Do what you gotta do, man. I'm out of here." Paco started the motorcycle and popped it into first gear, leaving his V.P.

No one needed to explain why Priest left him off the crew going to Northern California to check on the production of the marijuana fields with the others. Understanding and wanting to go were two fucking different things. He needed to get out of Missoula for a little while.

He ran the yellow light and turned at the intersection, shifting as he hit the straightaway as if the devil licked his boots. The only way to escape was to lose himself in the bottle. It was the only way he'd get Josie out of his head.

Riding through his yard, he stopped in the driveway and backed his tire up to the garage door. He wasn't going anywhere for the next forty-eight hours, except to bed after he got wasted.

Chrischris had already informed the club that he'd be out for the weekend. Then, he'd overheard him telling Curley that he planned to spend tomorrow with Cami. Knowing his MC brother, he'd keep an eye on the apartments.

At least he'd know Josie was safe and protected.

He opened the whiskey on the way to the door. Once inside, he dropped his bag and turned on the stereo. Cranking the music until the four-foot speakers in the corners of the room bounced, he tipped back the bottle while walking to the kitchen.

In the overhead cabinet above the fridge, he brought down the wooden box filled with enough drugs to let him escape for a month. All he needed was a couple of days to escape.

Needing to clear his head, he grabbed a joint and a bag of white powder. He walked to the couch and took off his boots, peeling his socks off. Then, he took off his vest and set his pistol on the couch beside him.

Where he planned to go, he wasn't a Tarkio member. He wasn't Paco.

Hell, he wasn't even Paxson Cook. A name that came from nothing. Had no connection. Had no one.

He lit the end of the joint, took a hit, and held that first toke in his lungs, settling back on the couch and propping his feet on the coffee table.

Exhaling harshly, he followed it with a swig off the bottle. Damn Josie for being there for him. For letting him stay. For holding him all fucking night and not getting a wink of sleep because she truly believed she was stronger than his demons.

He gripped the bottle until his calloused fingers turned white.

Fuck the journal that made him care about her.

Repeating the smoke. Repeating the drink. The vision of her in front of him never faded. The warmth of her body against his never cooled, even when she was away from him.

He couldn't get her out of his fucking head.

The phone rang somewhere in the house. He ignored the call. There was nobody he wanted to talk to. Nobody that mattered more than forgetting what he was doing.

He pulled off his shirt. The tattoos on his skin a reminder of everything he'd lost. Of his failures. Of his weaknesses. Of his dreams that were buried to the ground.

The whole inside of him echoed. He'd never be whole.

With the joint between his thumb and index finger, he trailed his pinky over Penny's name. His sister had no proper grave. No fancy headstone.

He'd buried her in the mountains, promising to do it right, but the hills were scattered with death. Deaths marked against Tarkio.

It was the best he could give his sister without turning himself in for the murders of the men who'd hurt her. Who killed her.

And it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

But Josie was alive. He'd saved her.

She'd end up hating him. He wasn't the man for her. Damn her.

He lifted the bottle, draining the rest of the whiskey. Needing to take a piss, he stood and stumbled, falling over the coffee table.

A groan slipped out of his lips. He could feel the vibrations in his soul but failed to hear the sound over the music. He reached up to the couch. His hand came down on the pistol. Gripping the handle, he hefted himself to his feet and carried the weapon with him to the bathroom.