I wasn’t ready to be a father. I wouldn’t ever be ready to be a fucking father. My father was never around much in my childhood. And the last time I’d tried to get serious…
Hannah just needed time. Even if she’d gotten knocked up by someone not in an MC, she was still not exactly raking in dough or living in a town that was a great environment to raise a child in. I suspected that with enough time, she would come to realize that getting rid of the baby was best. If she didn’t want to have an abortion, then adoption would work just fine.
Still, I knew I’d acted like a fucking asshole. I knew what I had done was horrible. I knew I needed to make it right.
But as weird as it sounded, I needed to just have the shit with Mason go down first. I needed to handle the consequences of that, and when Mason calmed down, then maybe we could move forward.
But fuck, right now, I really needed a shot. And for once, I wasn’t thinking about in a jestful, playful mood. I really just needed it to forget how awful of a night this had suddenly turned into.
* * *
The Next Day
I worked over a Honda Accord, doing some oil changes before getting to some tire rotations. It was pretty mindless shit, which unfortunately was about the exact opposite of what I needed.
For one, Mason was at the shop helping out, and every moment that passed left me wondering how soon I was going to get my ass kicked. He’d walked into the shop in some sort of foul fucking mood; when Brock had said hello to him, he’d only grunted, and there was nothing in his demeanor or attitude that suggested the slightest hint of cheerfulness. He at least had not directed his rage toward me, but that felt less like a sign than just waiting for the right moment.
I looked up at the clock. It was ten minutes before I could go on break. I almost wished that we had an influx of vehicles right then, anything to make Brock say that I had to stick around. But nothing came. I’d just have to accept my ass beating like a man.
“Garrett,” Mason said.
And here we go.
“You going on break in ten?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, wanna get drunk with me?”
“No,” Mason said without emotion. “Come meet me in the back.”
“OK, I’ll bring the whiskey!”
He gave no reply other than a grunt directed less at me and more at the Toyota in front of him. I looked to Brock, who had no reaction. To him, Mason might as well have been asking for help with building a new home.
Ten minutes later, I placed my tools back in their box, dusted myself off, and walked outside. I saw Mason coming outside the garage, nodded to him, and walked to the back. I cracked my neck and folded my hands. I was going to accept an ass-beating, but I wasn’t going to accept getting killed. The punishment had to fit the crime, and no one had been murdered.
Mason came around, arms folded.
“You and Steele were working on the Sheriff Davis case for the club, right?”
Well…this is unexpected. But OK.
“Yep, and we almost got that asshole to stop being such a shithead,” I said with a chuckle. “He still doesn’t like—”
“OK, fine,” he said. “Are you busy with him much? Or which one of you two can reach his ear more?”
“Well, even though he’s spending more time banging his ex’s sister, which, why would you do that, I’d say Steele, since—”
Mason nodded, bowed his head, and turned. This felt too odd to suddenly turn into a fight. Mason would have sucker-punched me by now if he’d used that whole bit as a setup to drop my guard.
“Why? What’s going on? You need me to sweet talk the cocksucker into doing something?”
Mason drew a deep breath in. I tensed my muscles.
“It’s about Hannah.”
Ah, shit, here we go.
