Into the Storm (Signal Bend #3)(3)

Isaac had begun to spend a lot of time in and around the clubhouse. Big Ike didn’t seem to care, as long as the boy—who back then was known as Little Ike—stayed out of his way. He was a good kid. Serious-minded and curious. And Show found himself talking to him often. When he’d earned his patch, he started to take up for Little Ike some, helped him keep clear of his old man. The kid moved into the clubhouse at his earliest opportunity and, then, as soon as he’d graduated high school, he’d applied to Prospect. Show had sponsored him. Big Ike had voted against him and lost.

Show had never wondered why Little Ike would want to join the Horde, even with his mean old man at the head of the table. Show had known. It was him. And C.J. And Reg. Frank. And the rest. It was the Horde itself. Most of those guys were dead now; only he and C.J. remained, but Little Ike had found his family in the clubhouse, a family that understood him and knew the man who was his father in a way the rest of the town did not.

Once patched, Isaac had proven himself quickly to be strong, smart, and savvy. Quick to temper, yes, but that wasn’t exactly considered a flaw among men like them. Even Big Ike had eventually seen it and come to a grudging kind of respect for his son. When Reg passed, and Frank put forward Little Ike’s name to replace him at VP, Big Ike had agreed. Less than two years later, Big Ike was dead, having dropped his bike on an icy stretch. Little Ike took the gavel, with the table’s blessing. And, though his given name would always be the same as his father’s, Little Ike dropped the nickname that had forced him to be seen as less than the man he’d grown to hate, and he’d become Isaac. At least in the eyes of the Horde. To the town of Signal Bend, it seemed, he would eternally be Ike. He’d only been able to lose the “Little”—which had been ironic from the time he was fifteen years old and had outgrown his father.

The big man sitting quietly next to Showdown was a good man. A good friend. A good President. A good leader of the club and the town. He’d seen them through the fight of their lives last year. The town was on its feet, with a future more hopeful than it had been in years. It had survived. But not without loss.

So much loss.

Show had always been Isaac’s strong right arm. He’d never had to lean himself. He wasn’t sure he knew how to lean. But now he wasn’t sure he could stand, either. He turned to his friend. His brother. Isaac’s eyes were on him, without judgment or pity. Only compassion.

With a stalwart sigh, Show dismounted. “Yeah. Okay.” Isaac nodded and dismounted, too. He clapped an arm down on Show’s shoulder and they walked together through the weedy yard and up onto the wood porch.

He got as far as the front door. His hand on the brass handle, his thumb on the lever that would release the latch, he stopped.

Isaac’s hand returned to his shoulder. “Show. We cleaned up in there. You know that, right? You’re not gonna…it’s not…there’s nothing.”

Show nodded and opened the door. He stepped into his house for the first time in ten months.

Isaac had told the truth—the living room, the dining room, the hall—it looked as he remembered.

Dustier, the air heavy and stale, but otherwise the same. No signs of the horror that had occurred.

But that was worse. It was so very much worse. Like what had happened to his wife and daughters—to his Daisy—could be just erased. Mopped away. His heart crawled into his head and broke apart, the force of it destroying the walls he’d erected to keep himself sane, get through each day. He was suddenly, overwhelmingly filled with the rage and pain that had held him hostage those first days and weeks. It brought him to his knees, down on the red, white, and blue braided rug Holly had made years ago.

Isaac squatted next to him. “You don’t have to do this, brother. I know this house. Tell me what she wants, and I’ll pack it up. You head out. I got this.”

At first, Show nodded. He couldn’t do it. He needed to get the f*ck out, go in to work. Or just go back to the clubhouse and start the day’s drunk. Be away from here. Pulling his phone out of his kutte, he started to hand it to Isaac and then stopped.

“No. This is me.” He stood and took a step forward. “This is me.” He opened his messages and scrolled to Holly’s list. She wanted a bunch of kitchen shit. Daisy had been hurt in the kitchen. That, he could not do. Turning back to Isaac, who was also standing again, he asked, “You take the kitchen?”

Isaac nodded. “You bet, brother. Whatever you want.”

oOo

It took a couple of hours, but they got the things Holly wanted together and stacked in the living room —beds, the couch, a couple of chairs, linens, clothes, toys, photos and knickknacks, all manner of things.

They’d run out of boxes early on, so a lot was stacked in fairly neat piles. It was going to cost a f*cking fortune to ship it to her.

For the most part, Show had mastered his pinballing head. He’d been unable to go into two rooms: the kitchen and Daisy’s bedroom. Isaac had gone upstairs and closed her door before Show had gone up.

Packing up Rosie and Iris’s room had hurt deeply, but he’d been able to get it done, even smiling a little while he gathered up dress-up clothes and Barbie dolls.

Now, they were sitting on the porch railing, sharing a joint. Isaac took a drag and closed his eyes, taking an extra beat or two. He didn’t smoke much of anything these days, with Lilli and Gia at home. He passed the joint to Show and said, “Lots of boxes in storage at the B&B. I’m going over there to pick my girls up.