“Ain’t that the truth,” he muttered.
“When the time is right, gut Ruger. Bury his carcass somewhere he’ll never be found.” I let myself fantasize about doing the kill myself for a few seconds. Nice and clean with a bullet to the head? Or slow, methodical wet work? “And after it’s done, you slip that tacky fucking ring off his hand. Wear it to pay me a visit so I can celebrate.”
He scoffed. “It’s not even club colors.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Don’t let him go to the grave with it.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
Three years later, he kept that promise. It didn’t make the agonizing years ahead any easier. But it gave me hope that one day I’d be free and able to reclaim my life.
Chapter One
Grinder
Fifteen years of my life wasted.
Fifteen years of eating shitty food, being watched every second, and being told what to do and when to do it.
Thirteen years pacing an eight-by-six cell.
Two years pacing my much more spacious eight-by-fourteen cell.
Fought every second to stay alive.
The constant vigilance wore me down and turned me into an animal I no longer recognized.
I came through the gates the sergeant-at-arms of the Lost Kings MC New York charter. Planned to do my four years and get the hell out. But those first few years behind bars, the club kept giving me “assignments.” I did what my club asked of me and paid the price with years added to my sentence.
Eventually, I ended up ruling through fear and intimidation.
I should be happy to finally get the hell out. Go back to my life.
Except I don’t have a life anymore.
My wife barely responded to my letters.
I have no children to reunite with.
No job or job prospects.
Officially, I can’t associate with my club for another year. Even if they want me back.
I’m not the same man who walked into this prison.
And I’m not so sure I like the man I’ve turned into.
“Don’t fuck it up, Grayson,” Carl, the only guard I can tolerate, says as he walks me to the front gate. “Don’t want to see you on this side again.”
“Trust me, I don’t plan on it.”
I’d traded in my snazzy prison-issue green pants and shirt for a pair of jeans and a thick flannel shirt Rock made sure to provide for my release. If I never see another pair of scrub-like clothes again, it’ll be too soon.
The few things I’d gone inside with fit in a plastic bag. A wallet full of outdated information. A set of keys that don’t unlock anything anymore. Tucked under my arm, I have a large envelope with my medical records and information about when and where to meet with my parole officer.
Carl walks me to the door, even though technically his job is finished, and holds out his hand.
Surprised, I take it and he gives me a quick shake. “I mean it. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I’ve dreamed about this day for years. Stepping out into the blinding sunshine. Tasting freedom again.
The reality is, it’s winter in upstate New York. The sky’s gray and overcast.
Still, the weak sunlight and cool breeze feel damn good on my pasty skin.
The crisp air fills my lungs with peace.
Fat, wet snowflakes fall to the ground, creating a slushy mess, and I’m glad to have the black work boots instead of my former prison-issued canvas slip-ons.
Freedom tastes like brisk, soggy air, and I inhale a deep gulp.
I don’t want to take anything for granted this time.
I’ve had fifteen years to pinpoint all the mistakes I’ve made.
The black SUV parked at the curb has to be someone from the club. Cautiously, I make my way to it. When I’m maybe five feet away, the driver’s side door opens and Rock steps out.
He’s no longer the boy I mentored and brought into the club. Now, he’s the president. Never expected him to personally pick me up. Figured he’d send Murphy or Teller, just as he’d sent them to visit me every month for years.
“Grinder.” He pulls me in for a tight, brotherly hug.
At first, my body stiffens. I stand there in his embrace without moving or breathing. Human contact has been rare and unpleasant over the last fifteen years. Even though I’m a hundred percent sure Rock’s not planning to sink a knife between my ribs, the hypervigilance I developed in prison won’t melt as fast as the falling snowflakes.
“It’s good to finally see you on the outside, Gray,” he says. “Missed you, brother.”
Slowly, I will my arms to return the embrace.
We hang on probably longer than necessary, but I’m too choked up to speak or let go.
Never had any kids of my own. Even if he’s less than a decade younger than me, Rock’s as close as I’ll probably ever get to having a son.
“Good to be outside,” I finally respond, pulling away. “You didn’t have to pick me up yourself.”