I felt like shit about it, especially when it came to my mother. She’d call every few weeks, and I’d promise to visit soon, but soon never came. There was always another deal to close, another territorial dispute to handle, another reason to put family second to the club.
But maybe that’s exactly what I needed to confront.
My mother answered the door before I could knock, like she’d been watching for me through the window. Ellen Van Der Berg was smaller than I remembered, her blonde hair now completely gray and pulled back in a simple ponytail. She’d always been beautiful in a fragile way, but now she just looked tired.
“Jacob,” she said, and I could hear the surprise in her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a son visit his parents?” I asked, trying for a smile that probably didn’t convince either of us.
She studied my face for a long moment, taking in the dark circles under my eyes and the stubble I hadn’t bothered to shave. “Come in. Your father’s in his workshop.”
The house was exactly like I remembered: clean, quiet, and decorated with the kind of generic artwork you’d find in a hotel. It had felt like a place people lived rather than a home when they’d first moved here, and nothing had changed. My mother led me to the kitchen and immediately started bustling around, putting on coffee and pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator.
“I’ll make your favorite sandwich,” she said without asking if I was hungry. “That turkey and swiss you used to love when you were little.”
I watched her move around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, and something about the scene bothered me in a way I couldn’t quite name. She was nervous, I realized. Nervous about having her own son in her house.
“Mom, you don’t have to—”
“It’s no trouble,” she said quickly. “I like having something to do.”
The back door opened with a bang, and my father strode in like he owned the world. King was still an imposing man at sixty-eight, broad-shouldered and intimidating despite the gray in his beard. He’d been president of the Venom Riders for twenty years before passing the torch to me, and he’d never let anyone forget it.
“Well, well,” he said, grinning when he saw me. “Look what the cat dragged in. What brings you to our neck of the woods, son?”
“Needed a break from the club, Pops,” I said, which was true enough.
“Smart man. Sometimes you need to step back to see the big picture.” He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Your mother making you lunch? Good. Woman’s been moping around here with nothing to do.”
I glanced at my mother, who had gone very still at the sink. “Moping?”
“You know how women get,” my father said dismissively. “Need constant entertainment or they start getting ideas.”
Something cold settled in my stomach. “What kind of ideas?”
“Oh, the usual bullshit. Wanting to get a job, or volunteer somewhere, or some other nonsense. I keep telling her she’s got everything she needs right here.”
My mother’s hands were gripping the edge of the counter so tightly her knuckles had gone white, but she didn’t turn around or say anything.
“Maybe she’s just bored,” I suggested carefully.
“Bored?” My father laughed like I’d told a joke. “What’s she got to be bored about? She’s got a nice house, a husband who provides for her, no real responsibilities. Hell, most women would kill for her life.”
“Would they?” The question came out before I could stop it.
My father’s smile faltered slightly. “Of course they would. Your mother’s never had to work a day in her life, never had to worry about money or any of that shit. She’s got it made. Has since the day she met me.”
I looked at my mother again, really looked at her. The careful way she moved, like she was trying not to take up too much space. The nervous energy that seemed to radiate from her. The way she hadn’t made eye contact with me since my father had walked in.
“Is that true, Mom?” I asked. “Do you feel like you’ve got it made?”
The silence that followed was deafening. My mother slowly turned around, and for the first time, I saw something in her eyes that made my chest ache. It was the same look I’d seen in Indira’s eyes the night she’d packed her things and left.
“I...” she started, then stopped, glancing at my father.
“Of course it’s true,” my father answered for her. “Ellen’s always been happy with our arrangement. Haven’t you, sweetheart?”
The endearment sounded more like a warning than a term of affection. My mother nodded quickly, but I caught the slight tremor in her hands.
