Strength & Courage (The Night Horde SoCal Book 1) (2 page)

~oOo~

Nothing, as it turned out. Not on this day.

Dakota had no blood family. Demon had no blood family. The State had deemed neither parent fit at this time. They wouldn’t release Tucker to Bibi because she was neither a relative nor licensed as a foster parent. Tucker was going in the system. Until one of his parents was judged fit, or until Bibi got licensed, Tucker was going with strangers.

As the social worker who’d taken the boy away from Dakota explained all that, Muse kept his hand on Demon’s arm. The tension running through his brother’s muscles had him worried that there would be blood before this meeting was over.

At least the woman had the good grace to look distressed about the situation. In Muse’s experience, social workers were drones who didn’t give a rat’s ass—or, at least, they put on a good automaton act. But this woman spoke like she did care and she really was trying to take care of Tucker. Bibi had worked some southern charm on her, and Muse got the impression that the social worker was sincerely sorry Tucker couldn’t go home with his ‘Granny Beebs.’

As far as Muse was concerned, most social workers looked like drones, too, their appearance as cold and drab as their personalities. But this girl was young and pretty. She was slender and on the tall side, with an exotic, Asian kind of beauty, though her hair was long and golden blonde. She seemed almost dewy fresh, and she was dressed in a pretty, silky top and a snug skirt. With heels. She didn’t look like a bureaucrat at all. Maybe this was her first job.

Demon flexed his arm dangerously, and Muse stopped checking out the chick who’d swiped his brother’s kid. He tightened his grip. “Easy, brother,” he muttered.

But the social worker—her name was Cindy, or maybe Sidney—heard him, and her eyes went to his, and then to Demon’s. At that same moment, Demon lost the last of his fraying restraint. He picked up the full water cooler, stand and all, and threw it, bellowing a psychotic roar.

The unit crashed to the floor, at about the spot where the social worked had been standing before she’d jumped out of the way, and water began to glug out of the plastic reservoir. While everyone in the office stood stunned, and Muse held Demon back against the wall, Bibi turned on Demon, both hands on her hips, and snarled, “Dammit, Michael! Muse, get him outta here!”

Muse was impressed that she’d thought to use Demon’s given name. Calling him ‘Demon’ in here wouldn’t improve the situation.

He grabbed his angry brother by the neck. “Come on. We’re only making things worse.” Demon glared at the whole room but didn’t fight it; he let Muse pull him through the office. As they approached the door, two armed security guards came through, weapons drawn. “We’re leavin’,” Muse told them and pushed on through. The goons followed them to the exit.

Bibi was only a couple of minutes behind them. She stalked up to Demon. “I covered the damage—Hoosier’s gonna talk to you about that, though. And honey, you didn’t even get to see him. Tucker’s right in there, and if you’d held your head together, you could have had some time with him.”

Demon dropped his head, his fight gone. “Mama…” His voice broke.

Bibi hugged him. “I know, baby, I know. We’re gonna get this figured out. C’mon. You come home with me. I’ll fix you something to eat, and we’ll talk to Hooj, okay?”

Demon nodded against her shoulder, and Bibi led him around to her Cadillac. After she put him in the passenger seat, she turned to Muse. “We’ll see you, honey. I’ll have him give you a call later.”

He kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Mama. Tell the Prez I’m keeping the van tonight. I got a date.”

“That’s right! That’s today, isn’t it?” She gave him a hug. “Give her that for me, will ya?”

“I will.”

~oOo~

Muse took the club van back to Madrone. He’d started out before Bibi and Demon, but Bibi drove like a fucking maniac, and she’d passed him inside of ten minutes. Chuckling despite the dark thoughts lingering from that nasty scene at DCFS, he sent her a wave, and she wiggled her fingers at him.

He turned off at Pinon Boulevard and headed left. He should have gone back to the clubhouse to check on the bikes he’d brought back this morning, but he needed to shower and decompress before the evening. They’d been at DCFS for hours. Muse felt dirtier after that than he had after standing out in the dusty desert all morning.

Plus, he needed to let Cliff out.

As always, the dog was on the couch, watching out the window, as he walked up. When Muse opened the door, he jumped to the floor and ran over, tail wagging.

“Hey, buddy. You have a good day?” He squatted down and ruffled his thick fur. Cliff was a purebred German shepherd, full black. He’d been abandoned by his first owners when they’d had their house foreclosed on. They’d just left him inside and moved away. He’d almost starved to death before a neighbor called about a noise nuisance. He’d been five months old.

Muse had gone to the shelter shortly after he’d rented this place, thinking that since he was settled for the first time in his adult life, maybe he’d get a cat, something low maintenance. Instead, he’d come home with a six-month-old Shep with crippling separation anxiety.

But they’d worked through all that, and Cliff did okay on his own now. When Muse went on overnight runs, the next-door neighbor took care of him. The work they’d done together, learning how to be friends, and Cliff learning how to trust, had bonded them tightly.

Being a Nomad had meant having a brotherhood across the country, but not having family, not having friends, not really. That was the way he’d wanted it. Counting on no one but himself. Even during the years he’d ridden with Demon, Muse had kept his own counsel.

And then he’d landed here, and Cliff was the first new bond he’d made. This damn dog was his best friend.

Muse dropped his kutte over the arm of the couch and toed off his boots. With Cliff in the lead, he went through to the kitchen and opened the glass slider, letting the dog out into the fenced back yard. Then got himself a beer and drank it down while he stood in front of the open fridge.

It wasn’t much of a place he had—a tiny, boring bungalow in a low-rent neighborhood. Just three rooms, and bars on the windows. But the rent was cheap, and his next-door neighbors on either side were decent people; they all helped each other out. His place had a big two-and-a-half-car garage with a washer and dryer. It also had a big yard and a solid fence—and, especially in the fall and winter months, when the air was really clear, a beautiful view of the mountains.

Hearing the dog barking, he grabbed a new bottle and closed the fridge. A neighborhood cat, a big, scruffy, black and white tom with only one ear, had come into the yard. Cliff loved that mean old bastard of a cat, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Muse stood at the screen door and chuckled as his huge, scary-looking Shep playing friendly tag with a mangy, maybe-stray cat. Looked like he wouldn’t need to walk him tonight; he was getting plenty of exercise. He pulled the screen door open so Cliff could get in, and he went back for a shower.

~oOo~

After his shower, he went out to his little slab patio and fell asleep on a fold-up lounge chair, with Cliff lying on the concrete at his side. He woke with a start almost two hours later, as the sun was moving down past the trees. Fuck. He was late.

He’d intended to stop at the little florist in his neighborhood, but it was closed before he got his shit together and got out of the house. There was a strip mall next door to his destination, with a Ralphs on the end; that would have to do. So he went into the grocery and straight to their florist section. The pickings were slimmer this late than he’d have liked, but there was a big arrangement of fall flowers in the cooler. They were expensive, but they were pretty, they smelled good, and they’d suit Carrie. So he shelled out the seventy bucks and carried the vase back through the store, peering around the side to see where he was going.

He stopped abruptly when he collided with someone. While he fumbled the flowers and recovered, there was a crash, a splash, and a crackling thud, and a feminine voice cussing in a decidedly unfeminine way.

“Motherfucker! Look where you’re fucking going!”

“Sorry.” He set the flowers down on the floor and found a slender blonde squatting in the middle of an impressive mess. It looked like she’d dropped a couple of bottles of red wine and a chocolate cake that had been in a plastic container. “Fuck.”

There was no use for her to try to clean any of that up—the employees here would have what they needed—so he bent down and took her elbow, meaning to help her to her feet. She yanked her arm from him and looked up.

The social worker from earlier in the day. The one who’d taken Demon’s kid. Muse took a step back. She looked as surprised as he was.

He wasn’t wearing his kutte, but he hadn’t been then, either. In most respects, Muse didn’t think he was a particularly memorable-looking guy—not with his shirt on, anyway. But he had a tattoo on his neck. It had been a scorpion; now, it was a phoenix. It was elaborate, and it made him instantly recognizable to even the most casual acquaintance.

“You’re Cindy,” he said, to break the tension. She still hadn’t stood; she was simply staring at him.

His statement shook her out of her little fugue state, and she stood, brushing her hands and taking a couple of steps out of the mess. “Sidonie.”

“Sidney?” He’d thought it was one or the other. He’d never realized how close those names were to each other.

She huffed. “SID-oh-nie.” He must have given her a look that showed the confusion he felt, because she rolled her eyes. “Don’t pull a muscle. It’s French.” She looked around at the mess. “Fuck. This day just
sucks
.”

As a grocery grunt wheeled a squeaky cleanup cart their way, Muse pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Club dues were up tomorrow, and the flowers he’d just bought had really put a dent in his available cash, but he’d crashed into her. As much as part of him wanted to tell her to suck it, that was karma taking its payment for stealing Tucker away from his father, the rest of him saw a pretty girl looking stressed out. “How much to replace what I broke?”

She eyed him for several seconds before she answered. “Seventy-five.”

“Shit. What? For two bottles of wine and a cake?”

She glared at him, her arms crossed.

He emptied his wallet. Everything but his emergency fifty, which he kept folded up behind the only photograph in his wallet: him, his sister, and their grandma. That had a been a decent year.

“You have expensive taste. All I got’s fifty-three.” He handed out the bills. At first, she just stood there, still glaring. Then she snatched the bills out of his hand. She didn’t bother with a thank you.

The grunt started cleaning up the mess while they were still standing there. Muse reached down and picked up the flowers that had cost him, now, well more than a hundred bucks. “Have a nice night,” he said, not really meaning it. She turned and headed back into the store without a word.

~oOo~

He set the flowers on the table. “Hey, pretty lady. Happy birthday.” Leaning over the railing, he kissed his baby sister on the forehead. As always, her skin was like cool paper. Her unseeing, unknowing blue eyes were open and dully dry. Some days, they were closed; other days they were open. Some days, she blinked; others, she didn’t. Muse picked up the bottle of artificial tears and squeezed a couple of drops into each of her eyes.

He opened the drawer in the nightstand and pulled out her brush—an old, silver and ivory piece that had been their grandma’s. When Carrie had been able to treasure things, it had been her dearest treasure. Muse brushed her long, thin, brown hair with it.

“Hi, Mr. Musinski.”

Without stopping his steady strokes of the brush through his sister’s hair, he looked over his shoulder and saw one of Carrie’s regular nurses. “Hi, Rachel. How’s she doing?”