Page 5 of Property of Player

I give him one curt nod. There’s no avoiding it, so we might as well get it over with.

He pushes off the rail and heads to the door, and we don’t speak further about the fact he’s bought this house and put our family home on the market.

Apparently, it’s a done deal, and I don’t have it in me to argue. As the oldest, I suppose my brothers will expect me to take him on, but they’ve got a rude awakening coming. If they want to give him grief over it, that’s on them.

I suppose a part of me gets it. I know the pain of walking through rooms that hold memories of a lost love. The sadness is overwhelming. It’s why I left the place Debbie and I shared. I couldn’t take it, so how the hell can I blame my father for the same damn thing?

The room quiets when we reenter.

My father stalks toward the front door, Drae follows him out. Our Sargeant at Arms is my father’s shadow. The two of them are tight and always have been. Perhaps it’s because they came up through the club together. Drae would die for his president, but he’s never had any ambition to be his VP, so after we lost Dozer, it fell naturally to me. The rest of the club accepted it, and it’s been my spot for the last four years.

My brothers look at me expecting some explanation, but I don’t have one.

“Why is he selling the house?” Pony demands in a hissed voice.

“Probably for the same reason I got rid of the place I shared with Deb. Too many memories that do nothing but drive a man to drink.”

My answer has him pulling back.

I head for the door.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“Where do you think?” I snap. That shuts him up, and his eyes shift to Beck for help, but he gets none.

“Let’s go,” Beck replies.

Chapter three

Player

St. Joseph’s Cemetery is quiet and peaceful. We coast in, being as quiet as we can with our Harleys.

My father and Cruz lead the way to my mother’s grave, and we roll to a stop on the narrow-paved lane twenty yards from it.

Molly hangs back at the bike, lighting up a cigarette, having no interest in going to the grave. That suits me fine. She has no place there.

I catch up with my father, who’s carrying a small bouquet he apparently had in his saddlebag.

He glances at Molly, disgust on his face. “She’s a piece of work.”

“Lay off, Dad.”

He lays the flowers against the stone and steps back.

I stare at the name, as do my brothers beside me. I miss her so much, and I know they do as well. So many times since she’s been gone I’ve wanted to go to her for advice like I used to do. The kind of advice she was always so much better at than my father.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Pony’s eyes glaze, and I throw an arm over his shoulder.

Beck does the same from the other side.

We stand there for a long moment, and for some reason, my mind flashes to a memory of my mother standing in the kitchen when I walk into the house from school. I was probably about eight years old. She’s frosting a plate of cupcakes, and I steal one.

I expect her to smack my hand, but she just smiles and bops my nose with a dab of frosting.

“You always did love cupcakes; from the time you were old enough to hold one.”

“Mmm. Red velvet. My favorite. Thanks, Mom.”