Page 74 of Existential
“She’s a hard woman, my mother. But that’s what made her such a force to reckon with in this life. She took no shit, and she didn’t tolerate any either.”
“You miss her?” King’s genuine question takes me by surprise.
Do I? “I regret the idea of her.” I miss what I could have had, but at the same time I don’t dwell on it because the likelihood of actually having the mother I daydream of is a whole other kettle of fish.
King rises from his chair and opens the door. “I need to get my ass home before I’m locked out for the night, but if you come across anything, message me, yeah?”
“Sure thing.”
He walks out, not perturbed in the slightest by leaving me sitting in his office chair. We go way back, King and I, to when he was a green prospect lusting after the life of danger his parents had sheltered him from. If there’s anybody in this world I trust, it’s him. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and if I’d really thought on it I should have dropped Mel’s details with him. Yet the idea Jessup would have got hold of the address if I’d kept it in house still has me thinking reaching out to Mom wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.
Anybody who knows our family history would have searched there last, and the feds know my family well.
I push out of the seat and head through to the common room. In part to give my peaking body a distraction, but mostly to search out Crackers. Something’s gone down since I’ve been away, and I think it’s about time I set my own fears and inadequacies aside to nut out the details. After all, isn’t that a president’s role? To iron out the kinks in the club colors? A patch isn’t gifted lightly; it brings with it respect and honor, a promise to serve and lay your life down if it means protecting the integrity of the organization we’ve sculpted over the years.
The Aces are founded on honesty and valor. This modern day trend of each man for himself is wearing thin, fast.
“Hey, Jo,” I call out. “You seen Crackers?”
“Took a bedtime buddy upstairs, I think.”
Great. Just what I need.
“Anything we can help with?” Murphy asks from his position at the bar, making love to his whiskey neat.
Digits chooses that exact moment to emerge from the garage with one of the Lincoln guys. His eyes meet mine across the room, and for a fleeting moment I consider the repercussions of smashing his face into the concrete floor until he isn’t quite so pretty anymore.
“Pres.” Murphy touches my shoulder, jolting me from the standoff.
I swing my gaze around to the older man and hang my head. “Sorry, brother.” Laying my hand over his, I nod. “You can help me with something, but I might call it a night and hit you up in the mornin’, yeah?”
“Anything you need.”
He returns to his post at the bar and I look around to find Digits gone. My head pounds, my joints feeling as though smashed glass grinds into the bone. I’m hungry, peaking for a fix, and grappling for a last hold on my sanity.
Each day I wake up thinking it couldn’t get any worse, and every night my head hits the pillow realizing I never knew the half of it.
I’m tired: physically, mentally, spiritually.
And as much as the stubborn asshole inside of me, inherited from my father, wants to fight, the man who carries him wants to lie down never to rise again.
One more day. The mantra I give myself as the sun sets to hold on a little longer. One more day. And maybe then I would have run out of excuses.
Maybe then, I won’t be missed.
Maybe then, I can cut the cord and drift free.