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 ERUPT
SONS OF GODS MC
BOOK 3
ELIZABETH KNOX
LONDON KINGSLEY
Erupt

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblances to persons, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Erupt. Copyright © 2022 by Elizabeth Knox & London Kingsley. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in articles or reviews. For
information, contact E. Knox & London Kingsley.
Editing: Kim Lubbers, Knox Publishing
Proofreading: Beth Hale, Magnolia Author Services
Formatting: R. Epperson, Knox Publishing
Cover Designer: Clarise Tan, CT Cover Creations
Photographer: Wander Aguiar, Wander Aguiar Photography
Created with Vellum
 CONTENTS

About Erupt / Blurb

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue

Up Next!
About the Author: London
About the Author: Elizabeth
 ABOUT ERUPT / BLURB

I didn’t think I’d ever love someone again.

Zeus
As the President for the Sons of Gods MC, I’ve lived a hard life. I’ve made many mistakes, some
greater than others. There’s not a day goes by where I don’t think about those mistakes.
We all thought the worst was behind us, but an unexpected death rocked our worlds. It made me
rethink everything, and in the process I used alcohol to numb my pain.
Amira recommended grief counseling to me, and I wasn’t keen on the idea. Over time—and
constant nagging on my daughter’s side—I ultimately gave in.
I never thought I’d meet a woman who’s been through as much hell as I have in grief counseling,
but I did. She’s constantly on my mind, and I know I have no place pursuing her in the first place, but I
can’t stay away.

Jolene
Six years ago, I lost my husband and seven-year-old daughter in a car crash. Their loss left me a
shattered wreck—but over time, I put my life back together. I went back to school and eventually
became a counselor, determined to help others the same way my counselors helped me.
Now I’ve opened a private practice in a new city and am ready to truly start again.
The last thing I need is to get mixed up with the leader of a motorcycle club—not to mention a
potential client, too.
But when Zeus walks into the grief group I run on a volunteer basis, everything about him
overturns my preconceived notions about MCs. And no matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about
him.
If he continues to pursue me, I don’t think I’ll be able to say no.

***Erupt is the third book in the Sons of Gods MC series by Elizabeth Knox and the first book of
the series featuring London Kingsley as co-writer. London will complete the rest of the series with
Elizabeth. The Sons of Gods MC is intended for mature audiences only (18+) and may include
triggering subject matter. Please proceed with caution.
 PROLOGUE

3 MONTHS AGO . . .
Zeus
Sweat drips from my head as I stand outside in this intense July humidity. We have a party going
on inside right now, and I could’ve retreated back to the privacy of my office, but I wanted to get out
and have some room to move around. The club is like a can of sardines right now, packed to the brim.
The only person I give a shit about who isn’t here is one of my daughters, Amira. Calli’s here
since she’s shacked up with Eros, one of my men. Pan’s ol’ lady, Trix, is here . . . and Trix is good
friends with Calli. Otherwise, the only other ladies here are clubwhores or some people my boys
have pulled off the street for a good night of fun. Maybe Amira will show up at some point tonight. It
would be nice to see her, especially since we’ve all been working on our relationships.
Calli and I have come the furthest so far, but Amira and I are a totally different story. Amira
barely remembers me from when she was a little one, and I don’t blame her. I left them when they
were small. Calli barely remembered me from what she’s said, and if she barely remembered me,
then I question if Amira ever did in the first place. She probably only knows me from what her mother
or sister told her, and knowing their mother, she didn’t say anything overly kind. Not with the way I
hurt her—the way I hurt them.
Razi didn’t know it back then, but I only left because I thought it was the only option to keep them
safe. Many years ago, there was a notorious MC president named Rage. He was the president of a
club of misfits, ex-cons, felons, and some of the most despicable people on the planet. It didn’t matter
what they did. He’d take them in so their numbers would increase. This goes without saying, but the
man had no moral code whatsoever. He’d do whatever it took to keep himself in power, and he’d hurt
whomever he needed to in order to keep it.
One day, I received a call from the president of the Reapers Rejects MC up in Billings, Montana.
He’s long dead now, but Boone was a damn good man. He received information where Rage had told
a group of people how he had a plan to go after my children and their mother at their daycare. He
blatantly stated he knew the worst way to hurt me was to go after my kids, so he formed this plan, but
before he acted on it, I discovered what he was prepared to do. In order to save my wife and my two
beautiful baby girls, I broke Razi’s heart in the worst way possible. I told her she and the girls were
only holding me back, weighing me down, but the reality was they were the only thing lifting me up. If
anything, letting them out of my life was my biggest regret. I had a woman who loved me
wholeheartedly, and being a father was what I was always meant to be.
The club is my family, sure . . . but nothing compares to seeing your blood walking around every
single day.
I bring the ice-cold bottle of beer to my lips and take a swig. The cool chill of the liquid isn’t
even enough to cool me down. I guess that’s the lucky part about being in Birmingham, Alabama. It’s
so hot down here some days that the Devil couldn’t even live here.
I lean over the railing of the porch and look out at the pitch-blackness in front of me. I can see for
maybe about forty feet thanks to the pole lights I have in front of the club and the ones leading to the
garage we have on the side. Otherwise, I can’t see a thing for miles. The nearest neighbor is maybe
three miles away, which gives us plenty of space to be on our own and do our own thing.
The club’s even located on a back road, but we can get to some state ones within a few minutes.
We’re right around the corner from civilization, pretty much. Out of nowhere, I spot a set of headlights
coming down the road, but I hear the engine. Whoever it is, they’re booking it down the street. There
must be some sort of fire lit under their ass. Around these parts, it’s more than likely some teenagers
who are out past curfew, terrified their father’s going to skin their hides when they get home.
At least, it’s what I think until the car comes peeling into the club’s parking lot. Once the car
comes under the light, I know it instantly. It’s Amira’s. She slams on her brakes and throws her car
into park before throwing open the door and running straight over to me.
As she’s running, her hands are shaking violently, and tears are cascading down her cheeks. She
looks exhausted, worn out, and naturally upset. “Dad, I . . . I tr-tried calling b-but no one is a-
answering,” Amira chokes on her words, and her emotion is evident in her voice.
I nod my head and put my hands on her shoulders, giving them a good squeeze. “Okay, do me a
favor and slow down. Take in a breath. You’re shakin’ like a dog out in the rain, baby girl.”
Amira tries to do as I’ve asked, and she inhales deeply through her nose. “I-I got a call from the
local hospital. Mom was in a car accident and . . . and t-they need us to get down there s-straight
away. They wouldn’t t-tell me a-anything over the p-phone, and I—” Amira’s struggling the more she
speaks, so I pull her against my chest and hold onto her tightly. Not for too long, but for long enough. I
just need her to know I’m here for her, but since this matter is so pressing, I have to find Calli and get
the three of us to the hospital as soon as possible.
I let go of Amira and look right into her eyes. “Go sit in the car. I’m going to drive, okay? I just
have to go in and find your sister really quick.”
Amira nods, and she heads for the car as I head for my club. I toss my beer in the trash and walk
through the crowd of people. There are flashing lights, and the music is louder than I’d like it to be,
but I’ll do whatever I need to find Calli. There’s one sure way to find her, so all I have to do is find
her friends. She’ll surely be with them.
I head through the main area, and clubwhores mixed with my brothers are amongst a few people
who aren’t affiliated with the club. Once I finish in the main area, I look in the kitchen and then head
into my office since Calli has a key to it. She’s not in either place, so I head upstairs and go to Eros’
room. Sure enough, I find my daughter sitting on the bed against the headboard, reading a book.
“Hey, Dad. Everything all right?”
I shake my head, not wanting to lie to her. “Your sister just showed up here at the club. I don’t
have all of the information, but your mother was in a car accident. I don’t know anything else, but we
need to get to the hospital and see how she is.”
“Shit, I need to text Connor and let him know. He, Dion, and Kratos are still out on that run you
sent them on a few hours ago,” Calli tells me, and I completely forgot they weren’t here. The day has
gone by in the blink of an eye, and with what Amira told me, I’m a bit distracted.
“Okay. Text him once we’re in the car. Your sister is really upset.”
“She would be. She and Mom are extremely close,” Calli tells me as she gets off the bed. She
rises and slips on some sneakers, then the two of us head out of the room she shares with Eros when
he stays here. We head down the stairwell. Once we’re at the bottom, I grab onto her shoulder. Calli
turns back to look at me. “Go ahead and get into the car. I need to find Hades.” She gives me a nod, so
I know she heard me, and I go through the crowd until I find my VP.
“I’m heading out. Amira showed up distraught. Razi’s been in a car accident. The hospital called
her, so I don’t know anything else.”
Hades’ eyes widen in shock. “You want me to shut this down and for us to head there with you?”
I shake my head. Knowing Razi, she’d get pissed off if the entire club came to the hospital. “No,
you keep things under control and let me handle things with my wife and the girls. I’m sure Eros,
Dion, and Kratos will end up meeting us at the hospital later, though.”
Hades shakes his head in understanding, and I pat him on the shoulder before exiting the
clubhouse. I need to get to Razi, but I need to be there for my girls as well.
I waste no time getting behind the wheel, and as I’m driving toward the state road, I ask Amira
which hospital her mother was taken to. She’s at Birmingham Memorial, so I head straight there,
going far past the posted speed limit. We all need answers, and we need them now. I’m not sure
where we should go once we get to the hospital, so I drive over to the emergency room and park in
their parking lot.
The three of us get out of Amira’s car and head straight into the emergency room.
“Hi, how can I help you?” a lovely woman from behind the glass asks us, and I walk straight up to
her.
“Hello. My daughter received a call that my wife was brought in. She was brought in from a car
accident.”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry to hear that. What’s her name? I’ll look her up in the system and see what I
can tell you.”
“Razi, her name is Razi,” I state, and the brutal reality of what’s happening hits me. The woman
asks a few questions, and Calli takes over. She answers every single question flawlessly, and we’re
only waiting for a few minutes before someone comes to get all of us.
We’re shuffled into a small room. It only has five chairs in it, and the walls are an off-beige color.
There are two paintings of flowers I couldn’t even begin to name, and the clock on the wall ticks
tirelessly. My daughters are sitting on either side of me, and I’m holding onto both of their hands.
Sure, their mother and I had a hard, tumultuous relationship, but I still love their mother with all of
my heart. She was my first true love, and she’s the woman who gave me these beautiful girls. I need
Razi to be okay. Not only for me but for our daughters too.
Five minutes pass by before there’s a knock at the door, and it opens. An older doctor comes in.
He has a beard and mustache, and glasses that come to the end of his nose. “Hello, I’m Dr.
Cummings.” As he introduces himself, he takes in a breath and sits in the chair across from us. “I’m
so sorry to inform you of this, but Razi passed away after she was brought into the emergency room.
Our trauma team did everything they could to try and bring her back, but unfortunately, her injuries
were too severe.”
Calli’s mouth falls open from disbelief, while Amira begins shaking violently from the news. I
haven’t even had a second to process this news because I’m so concerned about my daughters. “She
was on her w-way to m-meet me f-for a late d-dinner,” Amira sobs uncontrollably, and the doctor
visibly looks like he feels for my daughter.
“How did the accident happen? Is any of that stated in her file?”
The doctor shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. That’s something you’d have to ask the police
department. I’m sure they have an incident number for it. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Are we allowed to see her?” Calli asks, and the doctor’s expression immediately shifts.
“You most certainly can, but I’d highly advise against it. I doubt your mother looked anything like
she does now, and to preserve her memory, I’m sure you’d rather remember her looking like she did
while she was living.” Dr. Cummings takes his time telling Calli this, and I can tell with every word
he’s trying to tell her as delicately as he can that this would be a terrible idea.
Calli nods and licks her lips, her grief sinking in with every passing moment. While my daughters
are processing their mother’s untimely demise, I’m caught wondering what the fuck happened. I know
the police will give us a report, but it won’t have enough details. I want to think this was a horrible
tragedy, but Razi was still my wife. Sure, we hadn’t been a true husband or wife for many years, but
we never signed the divorce papers either.
Dr. Cummings asks us if we have any more questions, but we don’t. He directs us to speak to a
funeral home so we can arrange for Razi’s body to be taken, but I want to make sure everything is
done the way Razi would want it to be. She always told me when she was younger that when she
died, she wanted to be put into the ground as soon as possible, so we won’t delay her wishes.
Amira, Calli, and I exit the emergency room, and once we’re in the parking lot, three bikes are
pulling in. Eros parks his bike and rushes over to Calli, pulling her into his arms. Kratos and Dion
come up. Kratos is simply a brother within the club, but Dion is my girls’ younger half-brother. He’s
my son, but I’m sure he doesn’t want to see his sisters hurting the way they are right now.
“What happened?” Kratos questions while Connor is holding onto Calli. Dion looks at me and
then at Amira, who can’t contain her pain.
“Razi was in a car accident, and we came here. They told us she succumbed to her injuries.” I
keep what I’m telling them plain and simple because I don’t want to upset my girls even more, but I
know they’re going to be in so much pain for a long time.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry, Prez,” Kratos tells me, and Dion surprises me. He goes over to Amira and
enfolds his sister in his embrace. They aren’t close in the least bit, but he’s trying really hard right
now. He’s trying so hard to be there for his sisters. Maybe we can get through all of this as a family.
 ONE

Jolene
“Watch out!”
I freeze as everything around me seems to go in slow motion. The mover carrying three boxes
piled in his arms trips coming into the house, and the top box—clearly labeled fragile—tumbles off
the stack, landing on the hardwood floor with a crashing sound of breaking glass.
The mover, a tall, muscular young man, probably around twenty years old, gives me a sheepish
glance. “So sorry about that,” he says. “The company will pay for any damages.”
It was an accident, I remind myself. He certainly didn’t mean to do it on purpose.
“That’s okay,” I reassure him, slipping into what one of my clients had recently called my
“counselor voice”—gentle and caring but also carefully controlled. Choosing every word, reminding
myself to remain nonjudgmental no matter what someone says.
The mover skirts around the fallen box, and I swoop in to rescue it, trying to ignore the sound of
tinkling glass shards shifting around inside.
It’s labeled as belonging in the living room, but I take it into my new home office and set it on my
desk. I’ll open that one first, I promise myself, then head back out to oversee the rest of the move-in
process.
As the movers bring in more boxes, I direct them to specific rooms, determined to help with the
sorting process as much as I reasonably can.
Before they leave, Andre, the lead mover, brings a claims form from his company to me.
“You can either fill this out by hand and mail it in, or you can go to the website listed up top and
fill it out online.” He hands me the form. “Sorry about Josh—he’s new.”
I thank him, and then he and his crew are gone, leaving me totally alone in my brand-new house
for the first time.
It’s the second time in six months that I’ve moved, but the first time the move has been into a
house I own. I wanted to wait to put down roots in Birmingham until I was certain my counseling
practice would thrive here.
Okay. To be honest, part of me resisted moving from a rented apartment to an owned house.
After all, finding the perfect home had been a dream Allan and I had shared.
I stand in my living room, surveying the boxes I still have to unpack.
Allan would have approved of this place. It was exactly what we had discussed. Built in 1940,
the Craftsman style bungalow has a glassed-in front porch, hardwood floors, three bedrooms, and one
bathroom—when we’d made our wish list, the three rooms had included a shared bedroom and a
room for Danielle.
Now it’s all mine.
I move to the French doors opening out to the back deck. The deck was added sometime after the
original construction. The deck overlooks a long, sloping yard that leads down to a walking trail. I
stare out at the enormous backyard, surrounded by a tall wooden fence.
Danielle would have loved this. I can picture my daughter as she was six years ago—only seven
years old. I try to imagine what she would look like now. At thirteen, would she have looked more
like me at that age, tall and lanky and gawky, or more like Allan, round-cheeked and muscular?
Just before the accident, I promised her we’d get a puppy.
I lean against the door frame, dropping my head to the side and sigh heavily.
No matter how old she is now, Danielle will always be six in my mind, and I can picture her
playing in the backyard with the dog.
I might not be able to get Danielle back—I know that will never happen, though it took a long time
to come to terms with that harsh truth—suddenly, I’m overcome with the need to make at least part of
that old dream come true.
I can still get a dog.
My mind made up, I step back inside the house and close the French doors behind me. Moving
into my office, I pick up my phone, once again noting the box of broken, fragile items. I swipe the
phone open and search for the nearest shelter. Once I’ve copied the address into my notes, I turn my
attention to the box of broken, fragile items on my desk.
I rip away the packing tape and flip back one of the flaps of the cardboard box. That’s when I
realize what’s inside it.
Framed photographs.
I take them out one by one, shaking the glass back into the box and gently spreading out the photos
across my desktop. Even the bubble wrap I packed them in couldn’t protect the glass from a drop like
that.
The last photo I remove from the very bottom of the box is a family portrait.
I stare down at it, remembering the day we went to have it taken.
Allan had worn his favorite blue plaid dress shirt, and at the last minute, I decided that Danielle
and I would dress in blue, as well.
In the picture, Danielle holds a white stuffed rabbit, the one the Easter Bunny had brought her just
a few months before. The bunny is the same one I buried her with.
A jagged crack runs through the frame’s glass right down the middle.
Allan had teased me about how much time and attention I put into choosing the frame for the
photo.
It’s just an object, I remind myself, but still, a tear escapes, trembling on my lashes for a moment
before slipping down my cheek.
I brush it away even as I remind myself that it’s okay to cry.
What would I tell my clients?
That pain and grief are natural, even this long afterward.
That grief doesn’t end. It’s merely tucked away into a corner of your heart. And it’s natural for it
to come out again, sometimes at unexpected moments.
“The frame can be replaced,” I remind myself aloud.
 It won’t be the same. Then again, my life isn’t the same as it was before. I’m not the same.
For just an instant, I allow myself the maudlin thought that the frames are a lot like my heart—
shattered beyond repair. But the broken parts can be replaced, I remind myself. That won’t change the
fact that the glass was broken, just like my heart was broken. But it will help me to hang up the
pictures. Just like I’ve replaced parts of my heart, choosing to remember the good parts of my life
before.
I blow out a breath and pick up my phone again, this time making a quick list of the number and
sizes of the frames I’ll need to replace the ones with the broken glass.
I won’t have time this week to replace them all, but I promise to make time over the weekend.
Maybe after the grief counseling group, I run on a volunteer basis in the nearby Episcopal church.
I stay in my chair long enough to do five deep, calming inhalations, blowing each one out slowly,
sitting with my grief for another few moments before allowing it to fade into the background, once
again becoming part of the complex pattern that has led me to become the woman I am now.
Then I move to the kitchen, where I play a pop-music list from my phone, allowing the bright,
cheery music to lift my spirits as I continue unpacking in there—boxes of items with fewer painful
memories, even though many of the dishes were wedding gifts.
At least they’re all intact.

The next morning, I get up early and double-check my calendar. I only have one client today, one of
my regulars, so I head to my office a few miles away to see her for her eight o’clock session.
Georgia Adams is an easy enough client to work with, all things considered. She’s been going
through a rough divorce over the last year and has been working through her issues surrounding her
now ex-husband. I can’t blame her—he seems to have been a complete jerk to her, though, of course,
as a counselor, I’m not supposed to say as much.
But today, I’m feeling particularly defiant, and as she finishes telling me yet another story about
his insistence that she behaves according to his overly strict ideas of feminine propriety, I nod
sympathetically, and the words just slip out. “Sounds like he was a real asshole sometimes.”
Georgia blinks, startled, then laughs aloud. “You know, he really was.”
“It took a lot of strength to leave him,” I remind her.
She sits up straighter and nods. “You’re right. It did.”
We finish the session by discussing other ways in which Georgia is stronger now than she was
before she left her ex. By the time she leaves, she’s holding her head up a little higher than before.
I file away the knowledge that sometimes, even in a counseling session, saying the wrong thing
can end up being absolutely right.
As I get ready to lock up my office not far from downtown, a single room in a house that used to
be a family dwelling, it occurs to me that some of the family pictures I need to reframe might look
good in here.
Maybe it’s time to let my clients see a little bit more of who I am underneath the role of counselor.
I’ve hidden it away until now, still too new at the job to be comfortable giving my clients that much
insight into my personal life. I’ve had a private practice for only six months, and before that, I did all
my counseling work through Jacksonville State University in a small town a little over an hour and a
half from my new Birmingham home.
 But now that I am an LPC, a Licensed Professional Counselor, I have a much better sense of my
professional identity.
I’m willing to let some of my personal life show through.
I snort to myself as I head out to my small SUV.
Personal life.
Right now, that consists of Pamela, the only friend I’ve made in Birmingham so far, and a few
evening television shows.
But that’s about to change. I am headed to the shelter, where I’m hoping I can find the perfect
puppy.

Dogs begin barking loudly as Anton, a tall, thin teenage volunteer with a shock of bright red hair,
leads me through the shelter to a pen holding a Labrador retriever mother and her litter of mixed-
breed puppies.
“These guys won’t be ready to go for another week or two, but you can choose one now, and we
will hold him for you.”
I look at the squirming mass of puppies. They’re super cute. But I can’t help thinking about
everything that goes along with getting a puppy—mostly the house training that I’ll have to do.
Suddenly, it seems like too much.
“Let me think about it,” I say. I turn to leave, and a damp nose nudges my hand from the cage next
to me. I give a little squeak and glance down. A fluffy brown and white dog with curly fur stares up at
me with golden-brown eyes.
As soon as I make eye contact, it gives a single soft bark.
“Well, hello,” I say, crouching down in front of the wire-mesh gate. “Who are you?”
“This is Bailey,” Anton says. “She’s about three years old, we think.”
The dog sticks her nose through her cage again and, this time, licks the back of my hand.
“Can I see her? Outside of the cage, I mean.”
“Sure.” Anton opens the gate, and I sit down on the floor, expecting to have to call the dog to me
to overcome some initial shyness.
Instead, Bailey walks up to me and, with a funny little hop, puts her front legs around my
shoulders.
“Bailey’s a hugger,” Anton says.
“Ohh,” I coo, wrapping my arms around her deep barrel chest. “Aren’t you just a sweetheart?”
“She’s only been with us for about a week,” Anton continues. “Her owner passed away recently,
and he didn’t have any relatives to take Bailey in, so she ended up here.”
“Oh, you poor baby,” I whisper. “I know how that feels.”
Bailey drops down off my shoulders and crawls into my lap, though she’s far too big and hangs
off either side.
“She hasn’t done that with anyone else,” Anton says, a laugh underscoring his voice.
I run my hair through her soft, curly coat. “Do you know what kind of dog she is?”
“Well, she didn’t come in with any papers or anything, but we’re pretty sure she’s a mix of poodle
and Australian Shepherd. That would make her an Aussiedoodle, and if we had the papers for her,
she’d be a pretty expensive dog.”
 I take her face in my hands and rub my nose against the top of her head. “I don’t care about that. I
just care who she is, not what she is. Is she house trained?”
“Perfectly,” Anton says. “In fact, I’m surprised no one has picked her up yet.”
“That’s because you were waiting for me, weren’t you, Bailey baby?” I say to the dog that
apparently will be going home with me now.
“Should I get the paperwork started?” Anton asks, grinning widely.
“Definitely.” I gently move Bailey off my lap and stand up. She leans against my legs.
“Australian Shepherds are work dogs,” Anton tells me. “She’ll do best if she has some kind of
perceived job.”
I glance down at her, dropping my hand to the top of her head and scratching behind her ears, and
an idea begins to form.
“What do you think about learning to be a therapy dog, Bailey?” I ask—but it’s a rhetorical
question. I can already tell Bailey and I are going to get along great. And if she does as well in
therapy training as I suspect she will, my clients are going to love her too.
 TWO

Zeus
I can hardly believe it’s been three fucking months since we laid Razi to rest. I found a local
mosque somehow, by the grace of the Gods, really. Who knew there would be one within an hour of
Birmingham, Alabama.
It’s October now, and I don’t know where all this time went. I’m grateful it’s not hot as balls out
here anymore, but with each passing day, I’m finding the most basic of things are harder to do. Truth
be told, I never thought Razi’s death would impact me so much. Maybe it’s the gruesomeness of
knowing my own morality that sticks with me every day. Maybe it’s because I pushed Razi away to
keep her safe, and she died in a car accident. What I did all those years ago seems pretty fucking
stupid of me now. At the end of the day, all I ever wanted for her was for her to be safe . . . and now
she’s in the ground.
I’m back at the edge of the property with my gun and a beer. I’ve been spending a lot of time in my
office lately and figured getting out here would do me some good. So, I’ve got some targets lined up
against the woods, and I’ve had some shooting practice.
I’ve been out here for a few hours, since about ten this morning, and I’ve killed an eighteen-pack
already. Amira had the audacity to come speak to me the other day and suggest I should quit drinking.
I pretty much laughed in her face because life is hard as fuck, and if I want to drink, I’m going to damn
well do it. She got her feelings hurt and left in a hurry, but I could’ve been kinder to her as well.
Out of my two girls, Amira is my soft one. Calli is as solid as an ox mentally. She doesn’t look
rough around the edges, but she is. She’s the kind of woman who can go through hell and somehow
walk out of it unscathed. Amira, though . . . Amira is the type of woman who you can read from a mile
away. She does a shit job of hiding her emotions, and she doesn’t know how to master a poker face
for the life of her. She’s the type of woman who always wants to be in your business, but she does it
because she cares. I love her to death, but after Razi passed, I hoped Amira would toughen up a little
bit. Her mother was strong, but Razi’s strength was a lot like Calli’s. The only difference is that Razi
let you know exactly where her mind was and told you exactly how you disappointed her or let her
down. I smile thinking about it because it became something I love about the woman.
I just hope Amira will find her strength like her sister has. She isn’t weak by any means but
finding the words to describe Amira can be difficult. She has so many amazing qualities about her, but
if she could hold her chin high and tell the world to go fuck itself, she’d be that much stronger.
 I point my gun at the target and shoot until there are no more bullets in my gun. I don’t have any
more ammo with me either, and I only have one more beer left. I guess my time is ticking out here.
I’m so frustrated with life. With myself. With not being able to protect Razi. I can’t count the
demons that have filled my head every day since her death. Sure, she was my wife . . . but we didn’t
have a good marriage. Our marriage had dissolved with betrayal and hurt feelings, so why am I letting
her death torture me so much? I don’t even understand it, to be honest. I don’t understand it in the least
bit.
If I had known how things would’ve turned out . . . I don’t know if I would’ve made the same
decisions I did all those years ago. I think that’s what’s truly plaguing me. A guilty conscience filled
with regrets. Regrets I can’t change.
I slide my gun back into my holster and finish the rest of the beer in my hand. I toss the empty can
in the cardboard container and grab the last full beer, crack it open and take a swig. I know the
alcohol won’t help forever, but it’s helping the sting for now.
The crunching of boots against the ground pulls my attention away from my inner thoughts, so I
turn around to find Amira walking toward me. Her hair’s pulled up in a ponytail, and she’s in a nice
jacket with some jeans. “I have to admit, I was shocked to know you got out of the office for once.”
“Yeah, well, even prisoners get outside for an hour a day.”
Amira smiles softly, “You’re not a prisoner, Dad.”
That’s where she’s wrong. I’m a prisoner to my own mind. “I’m surprised to see you here again
so soon. I figured I pissed you off the other day.”
Amira rolls her eyes. “You did. Royally, in fact, but you were out of my life for over twenty years
. . . you don’t get to be out of it for any longer than that. You kind of reached the maximum for a ‘kid
break’.” Amira doesn’t realize it, but her words slap me flat across the face. It’s not like I don’t
deserve it, though. I do.
“What did you come all the way out here for?” I ask, figuring she can get to the bottom of what she
wants.
“I came here to check on you. Seeing you out of your office is a positive, but the empty case of
beer next to you is disappointing. Did you kill those over the last day, or has it been a couple?”
Amira has no idea how much I’ve been drinking. “We had a small get-together last night. I figured
I’d take the empty cans and use them for target practice. This is only my second of the day,” I don’t
have to lie to her . . . but yet I am. For fuck’s sake, she’s my daughter, not my mother.
“Oh, okay. Cool. How was target practice?” Amira looks at my holster, and I remember I put my
gun away a few minutes ago.
“Good. Ran out of bullets, so I can’t complain. You change your mind about learning how to shoot
yet?” Amira doesn’t want to know how to use a gun, but I think she needs to know how to defend
herself. Her own brother and sister have been trying to advise her that it’s always a positive thing to
be able to protect yourself, but Amira doesn’t want to cause anyone any harm. I understand her
reasoning, but I do hope she’ll change her mind at some point.
“Maybe someday, Dad, but that day won’t be today.” Amira shrugs her shoulders and looks
around. We have so much space out here. It makes me feel damn lucky that I bought the property when
I did. We have over two hundred acres located on a back road just outside of Birmingham. It doesn’t
take too long to get into town when we need to, and I’m thankful for that.
“Fair enough, but when the day comes, you’d better come to me.”
“I already promised Dion, I’d let him show me.” Amira catches me off guard. Since Razi’s death,
Dion and Amira have become so close. I can’t express my gratitude that the two of them are trying to
have a relationship.
“Guess he beat me to the punch, huh?”
“Yeah, he did,” Amira tells me as I grab the case of beer and start walking back toward the
clubhouse. Amira walks alongside me, and the two of us have some chit-chat while we walk.
“I take it you didn’t just come out here to check on me.” I raise both of my brows and cast an
accusatory glance. I think Amira forgets I know her pretty damn well sometimes.
She swallows hard. “I did, actually, but I wanted to run something by you. Something I think might
actually help you a lot.” Ah, there it is.
“And what would that be?” I have to admit, I’m really fucking curious now.
“There’s a local church that has grief counseling meetings. They’re starting a new group next
week, and I think you should join. I think it would do you some good to talk to people about mom’s
death or how her death is impacting you. Sometimes you don’t even need to talk because it’s just nice
knowing that you’re not alone in your pain.”
“Have you gone to this type of shit before?” I question her, realizing I sound like a total asshole as
I’m speaking.
“Fuck, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did. You always mean it that way because you’ve been a callous asshole lately. You’re
pushing me away every chance you get when all I’m trying to do is help you. You’re drinking yourself
into an early grave, and you’re turning into some person who thrives on solitude. You’ve never been
like that, Dad, and the sad part is I wouldn’t even know that. The guys in the club have told me what
you used to be like, and Mom’s death really affected you. That’s okay. It’s affected a lot of us,
especially me and Calli . . . but you have to try to do something for yourself. If not for you, do it for
Calli and me. Just go to one counseling meeting for us.”
Fucking hell. She’s doing the worst thing a child can do to a parent. It’s an ultimatum, really. An
‘if you really love us, you’ll do this’ kind of ultimatum.
“Please, will you just try it? Just a couple of times?” Amira’s pleading with me, but she knows
damn well I can’t say no to her. Not with how she just prefaced this ‘plea’ of hers.
“Fine, but I’m not going to make any more promises. It’s not like I’m going to be a changed man or
whatever after going to a couple of them,” I grumble, and Amira’s lips curve into a soft smile. I know
all she wants is the best for me, and if she thinks going to a counseling group could help, I should at
least give it a shot.
Amira and I continue walking up to the clubhouse, and once we get to the back side of it, we head
in through the back door. We walk down the hallway, past my office and the kitchen, until we’re in the
main living area.
“Shit, I heard a rumor you were outside in the sun, but I thought someone was lyin’ to me.” Ares
cackles, and I shoot him a glare.
“Oh, Dion!” Amira catches sight of her brother, and within an instant, she’s heading over to spend
some time with him.
“In all seriousness, Prez, it’s good to see you out and about,” Ares tells me.
“It’s nice to be out today,” I admit, and Ares smirks.
“Yeah, I’m gonna be headin’ out to a fight with Calli later. Figure what better thing is there to do
on a nice day like this than go watch some idiots bust their heads open.” Ares snickers, and I shake
my head at his antics.
Ares and Calli have an interesting relationship. Calli isn’t close with her half-brother like Amira
is, but Ares is almost like Calli’s brother. It gives me some peace knowing my daughters have
brotherly men in their lives who will protect them at any cost. Now, Calli has Eros since he’s her ol’
man, but if anything were ever to happen between the two of them, I know Ares would have no
problem protecting my daughter. I doubt anything ever would but having someone who you
undoubtedly know would keep your child from harm is a positive thing.
I’m going to give this group counseling thing a shot simply to make Amira happy, but I’m not going
to get sucked into it for life.
I’ll go for a few sessions, but that’s it. Maybe if I go, she’ll get off my case for a while.
 THREE

Jolene
I wake the next morning to a cold nose nuzzling my neck.
“Okay, Bailey. I’m up. I’m up.” I push her away and glance at the clock.
Yeah, I definitely have time for a run before I have to get ready for work. So I get up, drag on my
running clothes and shoes and pull my long, dark blonde hair back into a ponytail.
I mapped out the running route I planned to take in my car a few days before my actual move-in
date, knowing I’d be too busy to do it after I’d moved in.
The first mile is the hardest, as usual. My body complains, telling me it thinks this is a terrible
idea. But by mile two, I’ve settled into the rhythm, hit my stride, and can pay attention to my
surroundings. That’s one of the things I love about being a runner—it lets me see the world around me
up close in a way that feels more personal than it does when I’m driving, encapsulated in a car,
separated from everything by glass and metal.
My new neighborhood is beautiful, with several of Birmingham’s rolling hills and tall live oak
trees providing plenty of shade, something I’ll definitely appreciate during the hot summer months.
And when I get home, Bailey’s there to greet me, her tail wagging. The night before, she slept on a
brand-new pet pillow beside my bed, apparently trained by her previous owner not to climb on
furniture. Once again, I’m glad of my decision to get an older dog.
“Hey, beautiful,” I greet her. “You want to go for a walk?”
Apparently, she knows the word walk, because she barks twice, excitedly, and turns in joyful
circles as I get her leash and clip it to her collar.
I use her walk as a cool-down from my run, still thinking about how much I love my new
neighborhood. It’s calm and peaceful this early in the morning. My neighbors are just waking up and
getting ready to head to work.
This is so different from both the apartment I just left and the one I rented in grad school in
Jacksonville, Alabama. Even the nicest apartments came with a certain level of commotion from
neighbors, like the one Allan and I shared when we were married—the one we brought Danielle
home to when she was born.
The one we were making plans to leave right before the accident.
It had been part of a small complex, also in a quiet neighborhood, like this one.
The neighborhood I spent hours and hours running through after the accident.
 I shake off the memories of that time.
“I sure have been thinking about all that a lot the last few days,” I tell Bailey as she sniffs the
grass and pauses to do her business. “Probably because of those pictures.”
Back home, I let Bailey off the leash and take a shower, getting ready for the volunteer grief group
starting in a little over two hours.
I’ve been running the group for the last three months as part of a community outreach I am
participating in with several other counselors in the area.
It’s been good for my business, too. A few of the group members have chosen to do individual
counseling with me, and a couple of others have referred their friends to my private practice.
Originally, part of the reason I’d participated in it was that it gave me the hours I needed for my
licensing. Now, however, I stayed with it because I enjoyed it—not necessarily hearing people’s
stories of grief and pain, but because of how often I saw them break through their personal misery,
coming to a place where they could begin to see their way to happiness again.
As I walk into the church’s community center, a large open room with folding chairs set up in a
circle for us by the first arrivals, I’m glad to see some new faces. It suggests that community outreach
is working.
I get a cup of coffee from the large urn the church provides and take my seat as everyone gets
settled.
“Good morning,” I greet everyone. “Welcome to our grief counseling group. Since we have some
new faces here this morning, why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves? I’ll start. I’m Jolene.
I’m Jolene Bell. You can call me Jo.” I tell them a little bit about myself—that I’m an LPC and what
that means.
I reassure them that anything they say in the group is confidential and remind them that while it is
absolutely okay for them to talk to other people about their experiences in the group, it’s better that
they not share other members’ experiences.
It turns out there are three new people in the group—Tiffany, a twenty-something woman who
recently lost the grandmother who raised her, Andrew, an elderly man whose wife of fifty years
recently passed away from breast cancer, and Chip.
Chip’s a little different from my usual client. Or even my usual group participant.
He has dark hair shot through with gray—I place him in his mid-40s to early 50s, but only after he
glances up, and I see his face, unlined except for the grief etched into his face—the kinds of lines I’ve
come to recognize as largely temporary.
He sits with his knees slightly apart, his elbows on them, his hands clasped lightly as he leans
forward.
He’s wearing jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a leather jacket with patches and other decorations.
Definitely not the sort of man who usually seeks out counseling.
He affirms this when he introduces himself. “I’m Chip. My friends call me Zeus,” he adds as an
afterthought, waving at his leather jacket as if the gesture explains something significant. I guess it
does since several of the people in the circle nod. He pauses for a long moment as if searching for the
right words. “I’m here because my daughter Amira suggested it. My wife Razi died recently in a car
accident.”
“How recently?” I ask gently, trying to draw him out. The other two new members offered this
information easily, but I get the sense Chip is going to be more reticent.
He frowns as if calculating in his mind, then says, “Three months.” He shakes his head, dropping
his face to stare at his hands. “And I can’t seem to get over it.”
 “You know, three months isn’t very long. Grief can take a long time to resolve itself.”
Murmurs of agreement come from the group, some of whom have been in counseling for months or
years.
Chip gives an openhanded shrug, instinctively brushing off the comment.
I recognize the move. This man, like so many of us, believes he should be able to move on from a
profound loss quickly and easily.
He’s wrong. None of us can do that. Grief always finds an outlet—if not through acknowledgment,
then by more self-destructive means.
I say as much, keeping my tone gentle.
But for the first time in a while, I’m prompted to share my own story.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs but keeping my hands loose in my lap, so my body
language is open and inviting. “I don’t do this at every meeting, but since we have several new people
here, I want to share a little bit about how I ended up running this group.
“Almost seven years ago, my husband and daughter were killed in a car crash. They were hit by a
drunk driver when they were coming home from my daughter’s ballet practice in Atlanta, where we
lived at the time.” I make eye contact with Chip, acknowledging the similarities in our stories.
“I spent the first year barely getting out of bed, unable to understand how or even why I could go
on with them gone. Finally, I got to the point where I knew I either had to figure out a way to get past
my grief or just go ahead and commit suicide.”
Several people in the circle nod—I know from their conversations in the group at other points that
they had been in similar situations.
“That’s when a friend of mine suggested I join a grief group much like this one. That group saved
my life. After a while in the group, I switched over to private sessions to really finish my personal
work. It took another year for me to really feel whole again, but when I started thinking about what I
wanted to do with the rest of my life, I realized that I wanted to help people the same way the
counselor in my grief group helped me. But I also realized that I needed a change of scenery. So, I
began looking into ways to do that. I ended up at Jack State, where I completed my until-then-
unfinished undergraduate degree, then went on to complete a master’s in counseling. In order to get
the hours I needed for my licensing, I started a grief group much like this one in Jacksonville. Then,
when I was ready to begin my private practice, I moved to Birmingham. I continue to run this group
on a volunteer basis because it’s important to me.
“So, all that to say that although I might not be able to understand the particulars of each of your
situations, I can empathize with the emotional issues that come with grief because I’ve been there.”
I glance around the group again, waiting to see if anyone wants to jump in and open the
conversation.
It isn’t unusual after I share my story for people to be unwilling to immediately begin talking, so
after a few seconds, I lean forward. “Charlene, you said last week that you were about to begin
sorting through your mother’s belongings. How did that go?”
“It was okay,” Charlene says. “Harder than I expected in some ways, easier in others.”
“In what ways was it harder?”
“I opened her makeup drawer in the bathroom, and suddenly the whole room smelled like her. It
took me back to my childhood, and I ended up sitting on the bathroom floor crying my eyes out.”
I nod sympathetically. “That’s not uncommon at all. It’s natural to miss someone when we’re
going through their things—and smell is one of the most powerful memory triggers humans have.”
I glance away from Chantel and realize that Chip has crossed his arms over his chest and is
leaning back with his head tilted to one side. I’m not sure if that’s simply his listening pose or if he is
feeling somehow skeptical of the process, but I decide to do something else that I only occasionally
do—share my own more recent experience with grief.
So, I tell them the story about the mover breaking the glass on all my framed pictures of Allan and
Danielle.
By the time I’m done talking, he’s leaning forward again, his arms uncrossed. If he’d been feeling
skeptical, my story had brought him out of it.
And if he’d simply been listening? Well, then, hearing that even those of us trained in helping
people with their issues still face our own emotional barriers sometimes won’t hurt.
The rest of the hour goes by quickly. I make a quick mental note of the people who haven’t spoken
during the session, promising myself that I will draw them out next week.
I thank everyone for coming and end the group session for today.
As usual, some people bolt for the door as soon as the hour is up, but a few hang around, getting
cups of coffee to go, and chatting.
“Hey, about those broken picture frames of yours,” a voice comes from behind me. I turn away
from the coffee urn where I’m refilling my cup. It’s Chip—or Zeus.
I definitely need to ask him about that nickname sometime.
“Yes?” I ask.
“If the rest of the frames are salvageable, I know a guy who could cut new glass for you.”
I blink, surprised. “Yeah?”
Chip nods. “His name’s Marty. He works out of a shop in Anniston. If you tell him Zeus sent you,
he’ll give you a good deal. Shouldn’t cost you any more than new frames.” He takes a couple of my
business cards from the stack I keep out on the table, reaching around me as he does so.
I get hit with the scent of him, a mix of some kind of spicy soap and leather. For a second, it
makes me dizzy, and it takes me a moment to recognize the feeling.
Good God, Jo, I admonished myself. It is unprofessional to be attracted to your clients.
Chip pulls a pen out of some inner pocket of his jacket and scribbles a name and address on the
back of one of the cards. He hands it to me, then tucks the other one into the pocket with the pen.
“Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate that.”
I gather up my purse and begin walking toward the exit, Chip falling into step beside me. “How
do you feel about the session today?” I ask him. It’s not an unusual question, but I find I’m suddenly
deeply interested in his response. I have to remind myself again that this man is off-limits, no matter
how attractive he might be.
He nods. “Not bad.”
I grin at him, realizing that it’s likely that’s his version of high praise. “Good. I hope to see you
again next week.”
He nods, and I get into my SUV.
As I pull out of the driveway, I find myself staring in the rearview mirror, watching as Chip—
Zeus, whatever his name is—gets on a motorcycle and heads out in the opposite direction.
I have to force myself to look away.
 FOUR

Zeus
I had my first meeting with the grief counseling group this afternoon at the church a few miles
away. I was reluctant to go to such a place, but once I got there and started listening to the group
leader’s own experiences, I started giving it a chance. When Amira suggested something like this to
me, I automatically thought it would be some pompous ass sitting up front telling us that feeling the
way we do was normal. Only, it turned out to be much more than that.
One of the other group members spoke about how going through her mother’s makeup drawer was
difficult for her. Jolene told us that something as simple as getting the scent of the person we loved
was enough to trigger us. I never realized anything like that until I attended my session earlier today,
and I’m glad I went. I doubt I’ll let Amira know. I’m glad I went to this session, but for now, that’s
okay. Amira just cares about me getting some sort of ‘help’ to process my grief, and I am, so I know
she’ll be elated I actually went to the damn thing.
I’m sitting out back on the concrete patio we have behind the clubhouse in one of our old wooden
chairs. They’ve been here for ages, but they’ve got some solid bones, so I haven’t replaced them as of
yet. These things have got to be eight or nine years old, but I like to live my life by the old saying, ‘if
it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. It’s never let me down thus far.
I’ve been texting back and forth with my brother, Ice, who’s part of the Satan’s Raiders MC out in
Los Angeles. He used to be the president of the club, but he retired and his son, Breaker, took over as
the president of the club. Ice has had a lot of problems with drugs and alcohol, but he’s done a damn
good job of getting sober and doing better for himself. I don’t think my problems are nearly as bad as
my brother’s have been, but I always wonder in the back of my mind if I’m as capable of going down
that path as he has. The bottom line is that I know I am, and Amira constantly checking in on me
shows me that my reality isn’t so different from where my brother’s been. I don’t think I’m that far
gone, though, but I do appreciate my daughter’s concern.
Ice said he was going to call me, but so far, he hasn’t done it yet. Typically, we just talk through
texting, but I think it must be pretty damn important if he wants to speak with me over the phone. Sure
enough, my phone rings, and the caller ID pops up with my brother’s name.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve actually called me,” I tell my older brother as I pick up the
phone.
He chuckles lowly on the other end. “Yeah, well, I’m not the talkin’ type, I guess. Texting is much
easier. There’s something I think you need to know about, given what happened with Callista.”
Immediately, my stomach tightens. Ice knows something important, and I’ll put my money on the
fact it has something to do with Thorn. “The Vile Serpents MC has been seen riding around Los
Angeles. Breaker’s put a couple of the brothers on assignments watching them, and I was on one of
the first teams. I saw him here, brother. I saw Thorn.”
“Have any of you seen them in your neck of the woods before?” I’m sure they’ve traveled from
time to time, but given what happened with my daughter, they’ve been running for the hills. Fucking
cowards.
“No. The last time I saw their club was at Sturgis in the nineties,” Ice answers honestly, and I
know deep in my gut that Thorn’s riding around to not only get away from my club but to cause more
chaos too. He’s sadistic, and he’s not the type of fucker who gives up easily.
I don’t have any solid evidence, but in the back of my mind, I keep wondering if Thorn or his club
have anything to do with my estranged wife’s death. He wanted Calli, and he was determined to have
her until we interjected. I wonder if he’s insane enough to go after Calli’s mother since he couldn’t
have her.
“Can you keep me updated about anything you find out? I don’t like that he’s in Los Angeles, and I
have a bad feeling about him being out there. I’m sure he knows you’re my brother.” I don’t want to
freak Ice out, but if Thorn had something to do with Razi’s death, it would mean he’s targeting people
close to me.
Ice snickers on the other end. “Let him try and do something to me. The club can handle it, brother,
and we’ll wipe him off the face of the Earth like he never existed in the first place. As far as keeping
you updated, you know I will. It’s why I wanted to call in the first place. This shit seemed sensitive.”
“When have you ever been the one to handle a situation with delicacy?” I laugh as I ask my
brother, and he tells me to fuck off, then we quickly say our goodbyes.
I have a hot coffee in hand and take a sip of the liquid. Caffeine is the only thing that gets me
through most days, and since we’re having a party here at the club tonight, I need it. In my younger
days, I didn’t use to need coffee to keep me up, but now that I’m forty-nine, I can’t party like I used to.
Hell, sometimes I barely have the desire to stay up for the damn thing.
I slowly sip on my coffee until there’s nothing left in my cup, and I finally get up and head inside
the clubhouse. The party won’t start for a couple more hours at least, but I spot Pan’s ol’ lady, Trix,
here with their baby Atlas. I’ve always thought Pan and Trix make an odd coupling. He’s been quite
the manwhore in the past, and if I had to compare her to anyone, I’d say she’s really similar to
Wednesday Addams. Not that it’s a bad thing, she’s just typically wearing dark clothes with really
dark makeup. She’s a lovely lady, but on the surface, I never would’ve thought I would pick a woman
like that. She also happens to be one of Calli’s best friends, so I keep my thoughts to myself. As long
as they’re both happy, it’s all that matters.
Trix is holding Atlas in her arms as she sits next to Pan. The little boy is wrapping his hand
around his mother’s finger. It seems so simple, but the way Pan stares at Trix and his little boy
reminds me of many years ago. I used to look at Razi like that when we had Calli. I only bring up
Calli because there was so much shit going on with the club when she had Amira. I wasn’t there as
much as I should’ve been, and that’s one of the many regrets in my pile of them.
I’m walking in the narrow hallway, intending to go into the kitchen and put my mug in the
dishwasher when Risk comes up. She’s wearing a crop top, which I don’t think she should be at her
age. She’s in her early forties, sure, so I know women in her age bracket still wear young shit. But
Risk looks like she’s washed up on shore a few too many times. She smokes cigarettes like a train and
drinks from dusk ‘til dawn. Honestly, she puts my drinking to shame.
Risk drags her tongue against her cherry-red painted lips. “You need me to keep you company
tonight, big boy?”
I haven’t touched Risk in ages, and I know deep down she has to realize I don’t want a damn thing
to do with her. The only reason I’ve even let her stay here is because she’s Dion’s mother. Risk has
done far too many things over the years to piss me off and fuck with the peace within the club. I
should’ve kicked her ass to the curb, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it because of Dion.
“No one will be keepin’ me company, Risk.” I make sure to keep my tone firm, but knowing Risk,
she’ll let it fly straight over her head. If it doesn’t fit what she’s trying to achieve, she’ll do whatever
she can until she gets what she wants.
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Zeus. I miss you. Don’t you miss me too?”
“Neither was my reply. I’m not in the mood, so go find someone else’s dick to suck and fuck off,”
I grit. It’s hard to be nice to the woman when she won’t listen to whatever I have to say. It’s
infuriating, really.
“You can’t be serious,” Risk snaps at me, inflecting her voice at the same time. “Is there someone
else? You’ve never stayed away from me for this long. I was giving you some time, given Razi died
and all, but you should really get over it.”
Just like that—everything changes.
Fury swarms over me, and I pull my gun out from my holster, pressing the end of it right against
her forehead. “The love of my life died, and you have no right to tell me that I need to get over it.
Absolutely no fuckin’ right. Who are you to tell me that shit, huh? Oh wait, you’re nobody. You’re just
some washed-up whore that I let live here, so you aren’t homeless. Razi was the love of my life,
Risk. It was never you. All you ever were was a bitch to suck my dick when I was horny, now get the
fuck out of my sight before I actually pull the trigger.”
Risk wastes no time shuffling down the hallway. She opens the door to the clubwhores’ bedroom
area and slams it shut behind her. I slide my gun back into my holster and finally get into the kitchen.
While I was placing the mug in the dishwasher, I wondered if I was too harsh on her, but I wasn’t. I
should’ve snapped at her a long time ago, but I’ve been biting my tongue. I think it’s high time I stop
biting my tongue with her. The only way she’s going to learn is if I’m brutal with my words. What she
won’t understand is that the brutality of my words is only more affirmation of how I’ve been feeling
for a while.
As I leave the kitchen, I head for the main area, and Amira walks in all smiles. I wonder if she’s
going to head around and say hello to everyone, but my youngest daughter b-lines it straight for me.
“Dad, how was group?”
Well, I guess she’s cutting straight to the point. “We can talk about it in my office.” I don’t want
everyone hearing that I’m going to some counseling group. I doubt they’d think that I’m a softie or a
pussy ass bitch, but I don’t want to take any chances.
Amira and I head down the hall, and I unlock the door. Once the two of us are inside, I head
behind my desk and take a seat. “It went good.”
“It went good.” Amira raises both of her brows. “That’s all you’re going to tell me about it?”
“We’re not supposed to talk about what people say. It’s a confidentiality thing,” I tell her, vaguely
remembering Jolene said something along those lines.
“Dad, seriously? I advocated for you to go for weeks, and all you’re going to tell me is that it was
good. Can’t you give me something more than that?” I understand what Amira’s asking from me, but I
don’t think it’s really any of her business. The fact that I went in the first place should be a win for
her.
“The counselor was nice. She lost her loved ones in a car accident too, so I guess I understood the
pain she has.” I tell her a little bit, but not a lot.
“I heard about Jolene’s story. It’s why I recommended you go to that group specifically because I
thought it would be a good match for you.” Amira’s admission surprises me, but it shouldn’t. She has
so much of her mother’s intentions behind everything she does. I’m just only seeing it now.
There’s a knock on my office door, causing both of us to turn our heads in that direction. “Yeah?” I
call out.
“Prez, you got a package,” Kratos calls back.
“All right,” I holler back at him, “Amira, would you mind getting it from Kratos?”
“Not at all.” Amira goes to the door and opens it, grabs the package from Kratos, and closes the
door, then hands me the package.
The package is in my legal name, which strikes me as odd. I have a P.O. Box in town where I get
my electric bills and all of that, but I haven’t gotten anything in my legal name delivered to the club in
a while. It’s probably been years.
I grab my switchblade from the pocket of my jeans and flip it open, sliding the knife against the
tape. Once I have the package open, there’s only red tissue paper in there. I grab all of the tissue
paper and spread it open until a gold bangle lies in my hand.
I narrow my eyes at it, reflecting it in the light. On the inside of the bracelet are the letters C, C,
and A.
“Dad . . . that’s Mom’s bracelet.”
Immediately, I lift my eyes until I’m staring into my daughter’s. “What do you mean?”
“It’s Mom’s bracelet. It’s the one I couldn’t find after her accident. The one the hospital said they
never had, and the one we looked for at the scene of the accident. Why or . . . how are you getting it in
the mail?”
I want to be able to tell Amira something. Anything, really . . . but how can I tell her something
when I don’t have an answer myself?
If anything, this is proof enough that Razi’s accident wasn’t an accident. It was premeditated, and
someone ripped my daughter’s mother from our lives.
 FIVE

Jolene
For the third time in the last hour, I check the card in my hand, staring down at Chip’s bold,
decisive handwriting.
Somehow, I know his writing style is indicative of who he is.
It’s been two weeks since Chip gave me the information, and I’ve gone back and forth between
getting new glass to help preserve my memories of my husband and child and simply getting new
frames and starting all over.
Finally, I realized that not every move I made had to be symbolic. I like the frames the pictures
are in, so if I can keep them, I will.
I had also considered tracking down the number to his friend’s shop and calling but finally
decided if Chip gave me the address rather than a phone number, there was probably a good reason
for it. So now I’m in my car on the way to Anniston, Alabama, about an hour away, to ask about
getting new glass for my frames.
Following the directions on my phone, I turn down a winding road leading, as far as I can tell, to
nowhere.
I’m still several miles away from my destination when my car begins to wobble, making a
distinctive thumping noise against the asphalt.
“Dammit,” I curse aloud. I don’t have time for this.
I pull my SUV over to the side of the road and get out, walking around to the passenger’s side.
Sure enough, the tire’s flat.
This is what I get for waiting too long to buy new tires.
God. I hope I can remember what Allan taught me about changing a flat tire all those years ago.
I pop the trunk, muttering to myself as I try to remember all the steps involved.
It might be simpler to call a tow truck, but it would certainly cost more.
“Jack up the car. Take off the lug nuts. Remove the old tire, put on the spare, and replace and
tighten the lug nuts.”
I’m sure I’m forgetting something.
I lift open the cover in the back end of my SUV and stare down at the donut tire in the trunk. But
when I try to lift it out, it’s bolted down.
“Well, there’s one thing you forgot,” I mutter.
 With a sigh, I lift out the tire iron. I’m about to begin working the spare loose when a giant black
pickup truck pulls up behind me and slows to a stop. I can’t tell what kind of truck it is—all the
identifying emblems have been removed, and it’s painted a midnight black all over, from rims to trim.
Even the windows are tinted so darkly that all I can make out of the person inside is a vague shadow.
I turn to face the truck fully, hefting the tire iron in my hand a couple of times. I could use it as a
weapon if I had to, I decide.
The driver’s side door opens, and a pair of motorcycle boots drop to the ground, followed by the
man’s legs clad in blue jeans.
My fist tightens around the metal in my hand, and I inhale deeply, ready to do whatever might be
necessary to protect myself.
But when the man steps out from behind the door and shuts it behind him, I exhale in relief.
It’s Chip.
“Hey there,” he calls out. “You okay?”
I gesture with a tire iron as if I haven’t just been contemplating violence. “Flat tire,” I say
ruefully.
“Want some help?”
For a split second, it crosses my mind to refuse. But that would be ridiculous. Somehow, I’m
guessing that Chip has more experience changing flats than I do.
Hell, he probably has more experience dealing with anything at all having to do with cars.
“I would really appreciate that, actually.” This time, the relief is evident in my voice.
“Let me see what you’ve got.” Chip comes over and surveys the tools in my trunk, then shakes his
head. “I’ve got better gear in my truck. Hang on.”
He leaves and returns moments later with a tire iron and a jack, both of which look to be much
sturdier than mine. Within moments, he’s got the car jacked up, the original tire off, and is putting on
the spare.
That’s when I notice the emblem on the back of his jacket. I take a moment to study it. At the top
are three snarling dogs’ heads—maybe pit bulls?—and at the bottom is what looks like a motorcycle
handlebar topped with a hissing snake, some kind of viper, I think. The words Sons of Gods run
through the center in a gothic-looking font.
Sons of Gods.
And Chip’s nickname is Zeus.
That would make the dogs at the top the three-headed dog from Greek myth, right?
I wrack my brain, trying to recollect what I knew.
Cerberus. If I remember my world literature class from my sophomore year in college correctly,
that was the three-headed dog’s name.
As he spins the lug nuts onto the replacement tire, he glances up at me, squinting a little bit in the
sunlight. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”
“I was headed to talk to your friend about cutting new glass for me.”
He nods. “I was wondering if that was it. I was headed over that way myself. Want to ride over
with me? It’ll save you some wear on that donut of yours. Then I can follow you back to whatever
shop you want to use.” He cuts his eyes toward me, then glances away. “Just to make sure you’re
okay,” he clarifies.
Part of me likes the idea of having him watch my back.
Of course, the rest of me knows that’s dangerous, given how attracted I am to the man.
But his logic is undeniable. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
 “Sure,” I say.
I grab my purse and phone out of the front seat as Chip finishes tightening the lug nuts, and then I
follow him to his huge truck.
I have to boost myself up on the running board and use the handle above the seat to swing myself
in. As soon as my ass hits the seat, I’m enveloped by his scent. It surrounds me in spice and leather,
and a shiver runs down my back and arms, settling in my core, sending heat throbbing through my
entire body.
I’m acutely, almost painfully aware of Chip as he gets into the driver’s seat and starts the truck.
As he pulls out from behind my car and continues toward our shared destination, I wrack my brain for
something to say—anything to break the silence that suddenly feels far too comfortable. “We missed
you at last week’s group session,” I finally say, my tone too bright to sound natural.
My stomach clenches, but Chip answers as if there’s nothing odd about my voice. “Sorry about
that. Something came up, and I was unable to make it.”
“No problem,” I say, and turn to stare out the window at the trees as they roll by us. This time, I
decide to allow myself to simply enjoy the companionable silence until we get to his friend’s shop.
At Anniston Glassworks, we bypass a front desk, Chip leading me directly to the workshop in the
back. As soon as the door opens, several men glance up from their work, and one of them raises his
hand. “Zeus,” he calls out. “Good to see you, man.”
I trail along behind Chip, once again wondering about that name. “Marty Jamison, this is Jo Bell,”
he introduces us, and Marty holds out a hand to shake mine. The glass worker is younger than Chip by
a good ten or fifteen years—closer to my own thirty-nine than his friend’s.
“Nice to meet you,” Marty says, then turns to Chip. “What can I help you with today?”
“A couple of things,” Chip replies. “First of all, Jo here needs new glass for some important
picture frames of hers. I was hoping you might have some scraps that you could cut to size, maybe
give her a little bit of a deal on them?”
“Absolutely. Sure thing.” Marty turned back to me. “What’re you looking for?”
I swipe open my phone, glad that I had not only written down the dimensions but also taken
pictures of the frames so Marty could see what I needed.
We talk about it for several minutes, and then Marty disappears into another part of the shop,
returning moments later with several sheets of glass in varying sizes.
“These are all extras that we have lying around in the back. I’d be happy to do the work for you.”
Then he quotes me a price that’s so low my mouth drops open. I glance at Chip, who flashes a grin at
me.
“If you can really do the work for that amount, it would be wonderful,” I say, trying hard not to
stammer in my gratefulness.
“No problem.” Marty’s smile is wide and genuine. He turns back to Chip. “You said there were a
couple of things?”
He and Chip begin discussing some design—I miss any reference to what it’s for, though, so I
stand back, happy to be shuttled off to the sidelines while they work out a much more expensive
agreement. To be honest, knowing that Chip is paying Marty for serious work makes me feel better
about the amazing deal he’s arranged for me.
“Sounds good,” Marty finishes before turning back to me. “Ms. Bell, I’ll have yours ready in
about a week. If you leave me your number, I can call to let you know when it’s ready.”
I fish a business card from my wallet, and Marty takes it and tucks it into his pocket. I note the
interested glance he flashes in Chip’s direction when he reads my title. He doesn’t say anything,
though, and moments later, Chip and I are walking back to Chip’s oversized pickup truck.
“Marty seems like a nice guy,” I observe as we pull back onto the road, headed toward my car.
“Yeah. He’s done some work for members of my club before.” Chip’s answer doesn’t give much
away, but I don’t get the sense he’s being evasive—just that Marty is one of many social connections
he has.
But also . . . “Club?” I ask.
“Motorcycle club.”
That explains both the words on the back of his jacket and the gesture he made toward the jacket
during the group session.
I remind myself to check out the back to see if I can figure out more about what club he’s in.
“Speaking of,” he continues, his eyes darting toward me and then back to the road in a way I can’t
immediately decipher. “Do you have any plans for Halloween?”
“Well, I just bought a new house and moved into it, so I imagine I’ll be handing out candy to trick-
or-treaters.” To be honest, I haven’t considered it yet—but that seems like a safe-enough answer.
“Gotta love the kids in their costumes,” he replies with a grin.
“Always.” I remember the last time I took Danielle trick-or-treating, but I shake off the memory.
“My club is having a party. Maybe you could join us. After you run out of candy, of course.” He
smiles, and the expression hits me like a baseball bat to the stomach, sending all the air whooshing
out of my lungs.
Holy hell, he’s attractive.
I absolutely cannot go to the party. After all, he’s a member of the grief group. That makes him a
client, which makes it unethical for me to do any socializing with him—and not least of all because I
desperately want to socialize with him.
You have to say no, Jolene.
Still, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “Let me think about it?”
“Sure.” He pulls the truck over behind my SUV, then draws my other business card and a pen out
of his jacket pocket and writes down an address. “Feel free to just show up.”
He hands it to me, and I reach over to open the door and exit the truck. “Thanks for the ride,” I
say. “And for the recommendation to go to Marty. I’m looking forward to being able to keep the same
frames.”
“No problem.” He gives me an inscrutable look before continuing. “Also, I figure you should
know—I’ve decided to switch over to a private counselor. I just don’t think the whole group thing is
for me.”
“Oh?” I try not to let my internal panic leak through to my voice. “Need some recs?”
“No. I think I may have found someone I can work with. I have an appointment already. But
thanks.”
And there’s that look again.
Chip leans over toward the open passenger door just before I close it. “Oh, in case you do decide
to come? It’s a costume party.” He flashes that grin that transforms his whole face, and I can’t help but
smile back.
“Got it,” I reply and shut the door. I barely notice my surroundings as I clamber down from his
truck and get into my own car.
Once again, I find myself staring at him in the rearview mirror.
Chip has found a different counselor.
That means he’s not a client.
Oh, hell.
This changes everything.
 SIX

Zeus
“So, Amira said you actually went to a group therapy session. I don’t want to have to ask this, but
are you lying? I mean, you said you didn’t want to go to any of those, and I quote, ‘bullshit
therapies’.” Calli and I are having dinner together, which is a nice change. We’re not just having
dinner together, but she actually invited me out to this steakhouse outside of Birmingham. It’s a newer
place, but I haven’t had the opportunity to check it out until tonight.
“I didn’t lie.” I cut my medium-rare steak and pick up a piece of the meat with my fork. As I’m
putting it in my mouth Calli’s leaning back against the booth with her arms crossed.
“Dad, seriously? You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m not fuckin’ lyin’ to you. Damn, I actually went to the damn place so your sister would get off
my ass. But it looks like you don’t have a problem jumpin’ on me for apparently lyin’ about this shit. I
went to the damn group. Your sister said she even knew the counselor had lost her family in a tragic
car accident, and I told Amira about that, so how can I be lyin’ when I know that? Hmm?” I cock a
brow at Calli while I chew on my perfectly cooked steak. Fuck, it’s good. I haven’t had a steak like
this in a while. Then again, the last time I cooked steak was at one of our club get-togethers over the
summer.
“Fair enough. I’ll believe you, but it’s only because Amira confirmed the information you’re
telling me. We both thought you were going to skip out on it, honestly. She’s elated you went, and I’m
really glad you did too. You needed to go, Dad . . . and I hope you keep going.”
“I’m not makin’ any promises. I told your sister I’d go to a few sessions, so that’s what I planned
on doing.”
“Planned?” Calli shoots me an accusatory glare.
“Yeah.” I shrug my shoulders. “I planned on going to a few of the group ones, but I honestly don’t
know if that’s the right choice for me. Sure, it was good to see that other people can relate to the pain
I feel, but I don’t want to waste time hearing about other people’s problems when I could get to the
root of mine.” I cut my steak into a few more pieces and bite down on another one while Calli speaks.
“I don’t know what to say, really. I never thought you’d give it one opportunity, and now you’re
telling me you want to go do something one-on-one. I’m . . . shocked.”
“Yeah, well, I think people can change their minds. I never thought I’d enjoy the therapy thing, and
I don’t enjoy it . . . but I think it can help me get down to the bottom of my shit. You know?”
 “Yeah, but I think you’re spewing a bunch of bullshit at me. If I’m being honest, I think there’s
some sort of ulterior motive behind this.” Calli takes a sip of her Pepsi and stares right at me. She
doesn’t take her eyes off me in the slightest, and I know my girls learned this look from their mother.
I could tell her right here that I’m romantically interested in the group counselor, and it would be
an extreme conflict of interest, but I don’t think it would be a good idea. Her mother had just died, and
sure we hadn’t been romantic in a long time, but I loved their mother in a way I could never express.
Jolene is beautiful in that natural sort of way, though deep down, I think my initial attraction to Jolene
is because we share the same pain. The two of us know what it’s like to lose the person we love out
of nowhere. Only she lost a daughter too, and I can’t imagine that pain. Sure, I lost my daughters . . .
but it was because I was protecting them. I knew they were living and breathing a few states away. I
still had the option to call them if I wanted or drive up and check in on them. Jolene’s never had that
opportunity.
“Can’t I just try something and decide it doesn’t work for me?”
“Yeah, you can . . . but you deciding to go to solo therapy is blowing my mind. I think this is a
load of crap, Dad, and I know you better than to think anything else. But I’ll forego this sudden
changing of your mind. I, however, want to know what’s going on with the package you got at the club
the other day. Has anything else happened?”
I told Calli about the package the day it arrived. I knew if I didn’t say something to Calli that her
sister would, and I didn’t want it to seem like I was keeping something from her. I’m headed to the
post office after we finish up with our early dinner. “Nothing yet, but I’m trying to see if I can find out
who sent the package. There’s a tracking number on it. With any luck, it’ll lead us somewhere.”
Calli nods her head once. “Okay. I . . . Connor’s told me not to get my head too deep into this, but
I really think this has something to do with Thorn. I just have a really bad feeling, Dad.”
I want to ease her worries, but out of all my enemies, Thorn and the Vile Serpents MC are high on
my list. I don’t know if I truly think anyone else is capable of doing this. Sure, other people have
motives against my club and me, but most people have a code. Most clubs don’t go against the other’s
families. It’s an unwritten rule, but it’s something the Vile Serpents MC doesn’t give a fuck about.
“I promise I’m going to get to the bottom of this, sweetheart. Don’t worry about anything. I’m
handling it.” I grab onto Calli’s hand, and she offers me a soft smile, but I know it doesn’t do much to
ease her worries. Calli’s a lot like me in this way. She wants to find a solution to the problem or an
answer to the question as soon as possible.
Calli and I finish eating, and I pay for the two of us. She gave me a hard time about it, but if I want
to spoil her or her sister from time to time, then I’m damn well going to do it. After we both say our
goodbyes, I swing by my local United States Post Office, and the woman in the front scans my
package.
She and I both see how the return address has a marker over it, so she’s more than happy to help
me figure out who sent me a ‘lovely gift’, as I told her. She ends up giving me an address and writes it
down on a post-it note for me.
I leave the post office and, on the way, send a group text to the club saying to meet me where we
have church. Everyone except the prospects will be there, and once I pull my truck up to the club, I
head straight in.
The moment I walk through the door where we hold church, everyone’s eyes are on me. I pull out
the post-it note and take a seat. “You all know I had a nasty feeling like someone had a hand in Razi’s
death, and the package I received the other day proves it. She was wearing it when she was in the car,
so someone must’ve taken it off her before officers got to the scene. Now, I need a couple of
volunteers to go over to the location. From what I could figure out on the drive over here, it’s a little
over two hours away.”
“I’ll go.” Dion instantly volunteers and looks around at the group of his brothers.
“You know I’ll head out and see what’s up.” Ares volunteers as well. He and Calli have an
interesting bond, so I’m sure he wants to help find answers for her.
“Fuck it, I’ll head out with ‘em,” Kratos says.
I nod, a silent appreciation to the three of them. I pick the post-it note up and hand it to Kratos. “I
want an update as soon as you get there. I don’t care what I’m doin’, I’ll answer the phone. You
understand?”
“Yes, Prez. I got you. We’ll head out right now if you want,” Kratos offers, and I nod in
agreement.
Kratos, Dion, and Ares all head out while Eros looks right at me. He hates this for Calli, and I
hate it too. I hate it more than he could ever possibly know.
“Who are you thinkin’ is behind this? Thorn?” Eros questions.
The rest of the brothers grumble lowly, and we’d be fools to think it was anyone else, but we have
to keep our minds open. “I think it could be. I also think it could be anyone else. I can’t rule anyone
out right now. Not until we have some solid answers, and as much as the rest of you think we know
who’s behind it, we can’t jump to conclusions. We have to keep our wits about us, especially now.”
I’m the one who’s barely keeping my shit together. I’m so fucking furious that it isn’t even funny. All I
want to do is get my hands on the son of a bitch who’s responsible and make him suffer.
I hate the pain inside me.
I loathe the fact my girls had to go through it too.
But more than that, I can’t understand why Razi’s life was cut so short. She was a good woman,
and she didn’t deserve this fucking shit.
I end the meeting and go out back to shoot for a while. I eventually run out of bullets and head
back into the clubhouse. Hades tries to keep me occupied until my phone rings, but the fact of the
matter is I can’t keep my mind off this shit. Me and Hades butt heads quite a bit, but it’s only because
we’re two opinionated bastards. It’s what makes him a great VP. He’s not the type to ever shy away
from what he’s thinking, and he certainly won’t tell you something just to make you happy.
After a while, my phone rings, and I answer it immediately. “Hello,” I say into the receiver.
“Hey, Dad. This address. You sure it’s right?”
There’s a problem. “Yeah. I got it straight from the postal worker. It’s what the tracking number
went back to.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry to tell you this, but it’s an abandoned lot.”
Fuck, this address was a waste of time, and I bet it was a planted one at that. It’s a dead end, and
I’m back at square one.
 SEVEN

Jolene
All the way home, I find myself fretting about the ethics of going to a party hosted by one of my
former clients.
Assuming he really is a client. I don’t know, to be honest.
Luckily, I still have several days to decide whether I’m going to go. After all, I didn’t make any
promises to Chip, I remind myself.
As attractive as he is, I don’t want to lose my license over him.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I’m laughing and shaking my head at myself.
There was a time not that long ago when I wouldn’t have even considered going. After Allan and
Danielle died, I fully believed that I would never get over their deaths enough to date again—even
after I decided to move on with my life, to find a way to make my existence meaningful again. The
very last thing I had ever contemplated was romance.
I go inside, glad to have Bailey there to greet me. “No time for a walk today,” I tell her. “But you
can go outside to play.” I open the French doors, and she bounds outside, dashing from one end of the
yard to the other, snuffling in the grass as she searches for small animals to hunt.
I’ve seen squirrels in the branches of the trees taunting her.
I hope they’re careful not to get close enough to get caught.
Heading back inside, I move to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and scanning it for something
worth cooking for dinner.
It’s still every bit as bare as it was the last time I looked.
The thought of going back out to track down something for dinner—yet another lonely meal in
front of my television set—doesn’t really appeal to me.
I know it’s not healthy, but I do have cereal. And a half gallon of milk that hasn’t gone bad yet too.
“Self-care, Jolene,” I remind myself. “It’s as important as caring for other people.”
I’ve almost convinced myself to go out to the grocery store when my phone rings.
I glance down to see that it’s Pamela—another counselor who shares the office space I’ve rented
for the last several months and the woman who has quickly become my best friend in Birmingham.
Okay. My only friend, really.
“Hey, Jo,” she greets me. “You doing anything tonight?”
“No,” I admit. “I was just staring into my refrigerator to see if I had anything fit for human
consumption for dinner.”
Pamela laughs a deep throaty sound. “Then you’re in luck. I’m going out for dinner tonight with
several of my friends. We’d love it if you joined us.”
My immediate instinct, born out of years of hiding away from the world, is to say no. By I’m
determined to make a real life for myself here, so I agree.
“Great,” Pamela says. “I’ll come by in about an hour and pick you up.”
I laugh, knowing that she’s well aware of both my tendency to want to avoid social interactions
and my vow to overcome that tendency.
“I’ll be ready,” I assure her.
My friend arrives an hour later on the dot, and I climb into her luxurious sedan.
Pamela’s been working in Birmingham for her entire career, having started a solid decade before
I did, and she has a steady clientele. She’s also become my primary go-to for advice.
“I have a professional question,” I tell her.
“Shoot,” she says.
In a few broad strokes, I outline the situation with Chip.
“So, he came in once for a group meeting, right?”
“Right.”
“And he doesn’t plan to come back?”
“That’s what he says.”
Pamela bites her bottom lip, her eyes narrowing as she considers all the implications. “What did
you discuss during the session?”
“I told the group about my background and credentials and explained how I ended up as a
counselor—this guy’s wife died in a car wreck too.”
She nods. “Okay. What did you cover about confidentiality?”
“I talked about the differences between private sessions and group sessions when it comes to
confidentiality—that there are much stricter rules for private interactions with a counselor.”
“And after one group session, he decided that he was more interested in private counseling, but
from a different counselor entirely, right?”
“Yep.”
“Do you usually have your group members fill out information forms?”
“Generally, the second time they come to the group.”
“And he invited you to the party hosted by . . .”
“By his motorcycle club.”
“Not a date, not some private event, but a party. Just a party.”
“Just a party,” I confirm.
She tilts her head. “And there’s no actual paperwork confirming his participation, right?” I nod,
and she grins at me. “Then that was not a counseling session. It was a consultation. Besides, you run
the group on a volunteer basis. So although you are technically a counselor in that situation, he’s not a
paying client. I think you are safe to accept the invitation.”
I laugh aloud. “That’s playing a little fast and loose with the rules, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. It is strictly appropriate, according to the rules.”
“I’ll think about it,” I promise her as we pull into the parking lot.
The restaurant Pamela and her friends have chosen is a local favorite, housed in a converted barn
painted red, with the former stalls set up to house private booths.
Halfway through an appetizer course of fried green tomatoes, Pamela leans in to glance around at
the other three women sitting with us. “Okay, y’all,” she announces. “Jolene has a dilemma.”
“Pam!” I admonish her, but she keeps talking, waving a hand at me to hush.
“She’s been invited to a Halloween party and is trying to decide whether or not to accept the
invitation.”
“Who’s the invitation from?” Becky, a blond, round woman who works as a bank teller, asks.
“His name’s Chip,” Pamela tells them.
“Is he hot?” asks Sandra, a black woman with smooth skin, big hazel eyes, and long box braids
who owns a downtown art gallery.
I scratch my nose. “He kind of is,” I confess.
Choruses of “Do it!” and “Say yes. Go!” echo around the table.
I shake my head. “You people are terrible.” But I’m laughing as I say it, and I realize I’ve already
decided to accept Chip’s invitation.
Only because I want to continue expanding my social circle, I tell myself.
But I know that’s a lie.
“One problem,” I say. “It’s a costume party, and I don’t have a costume.”
“You know,” Becky says, “one year, I wore my wedding dress as a Halloween costume.”
The women at the table hoot with laughter, and Becky defends her choice. “It’s not like I was ever
going to wear it again for anything else.”
I join in the laughter, even though I know Becky’s solution won’t work for me. Even though I
could still fit into my wedding dress, showing up to Chip’s motorcycle club dressed as a bride
seemed a bit much.
By the end of dinner, I’ve gotten a pile of suggestions, none of which really seem quite right.
“I have an idea,” says Gina, a dark-haired woman in her late 50s. “I took my granddaughter to one
of those pop-up Halloween stores the other day.” She glances at her watch. “I think it’s still open. We
should go over there and find something for Jolene to wear to her party.”
And before I know it, we’ve paid our tabs and are meeting up at the nearest Ghost of Halloween
Present store in a nearby strip mall.
The shop has more Halloween-themed items than I ever really realized existed. And Pamela’s
friends—who are quickly becoming my friends, much to my delight—have almost as many
suggestions for costumes.
Some of those suggestions are ridiculous, like Becky’s suggestion that I go as a zombie.
“No,” Sandra objects. “She’s going to a hot guy’s party. She needs something sexy.” She turns
around and holds up a 1960s-style flower-power dress. “You’re a counselor. Peace and love seem
appropriate for you.”
I snort. “But not so much the drugs and free sex. Not really my style.”
Well . . . okay. Not the drugs. But sex with Chip?
Good lord. I have to stop thinking like this!
“What about a witch?” Gina asks, holding up a pointy hat and miniature broomstick. “Add a sexy
black dress, and you’re good to go.”
“That might work,” I say.
But then I turn around and begin flipping through the rack of costumes.
And there it is.
 A long, flowing gown with gold and white interlocking squares printed along the sleeves and hem.
I check the tag. Greek/Roman Goddess Costume, it reads.
I remember the words on the back of Chip’s jacket.
Sons of Gods.
Not to mention his own nickname, Zeus.
“This is it,” I announce. “This is the right costume.”
I can’t explain why, but all the other women ooh and ahh over it.
“You will look absolutely stunning in that,” Pamela says.
So I purchase the costume, complete with a costume jewelry headpiece and two gold, circular
armbands.
My stomach clenches a little as I use my debit card to buy it.
Am I really going to show up to a Sons of Gods motorcycle club costume party in a Greco-
Roman goddess outfit?
But in the end, I decided to go with the instinct that told me it was the right costume as soon as I
saw it.
Now I simply have to force myself to actually go to the party.
 EIGHT

Zeus
The club is booming with loud music, and practically everyone is dressed up in some sort of
costume. Calli is here with Eros, and she’s dressed up as a SWAT officer while he’s in a prison
uniform. Pan is dressed up in some sort of gothic getup with a fake mustache, looking particularly
pale this evening. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to be. But, the
moment Trix walks in the front door in a long black gown with thick eyeliner and their baby boy Atlas
in an on-theme outfit, I figure they must be dressing up as people from the Addams family.
Other than those two couplings, everyone else is something random as shit. Kratos is dressed up
as Spider-Man, Hades looks like he’s someone from Men in Black, and Amira is here dressed up as
Jasmine from the Disney movie Aladdin. Overall, everyone seems to be having a damn good time. I
smirk at myself as I take a sip of the beer, anxiously awaiting the woman I invited to show up. The
party’s been going on for an hour now, and I’m starting to get the feeling that I might get stood up.
Calli walks over to me and has something behind her back in her hand. As she approaches, I raise
a brow. “What do you have there?”
“A fun present, and it happens to be something you can use tonight. I mean, Dad, this is a
Halloween party. A freaking costume party and you’re . . . wearing what you always do. Biker boots,
dark jeans, a black t-shirt, and your cut. Did you not want to dress up?”
“I don’t need to dress up,” I grumble, knowing my daughter has something up her sleeve.
“Yes, you do. It’s the whole point of having a Halloween party in the first place. So, I took it upon
myself to get you these.” Calli pulls out her hand from behind her, and in her hand, she has a gold
lightning bolt and some sort of golden leaf headband. “It’s for the Zeus costume. I didn’t bother
bringing the white cloth because I knew you wouldn’t put it on in the first place. But, I figured you
could at least put on this and hold the lightning bolt.”
I chuckle lowly at my daughter’s good intentions and how witty this idea was. “Fine, but don’t
think you can pull this shit on me next year,” I warn, and Calli giggles lightly before placing the
golden headband over my head and giving me the lightning bolt.
She smiles widely and then looks over at the door. “You’ve had your eyes on the door all night.
Are you waiting for someone?”
I inhale slowly through my nose, knowing I can’t lie to her. “I am, actually. She hasn’t shown up
yet.”
 “The night is still young. Maybe she’s just putting on the perfect outfit to blow you away.”
“I sure hope so.” If she isn’t, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get past this. I never thought I’d
move on after Razi died, so trying to make a move on a woman and being turned down would fucking
hit me where it hurts.
“Who is she?”
“Hmm?” I turn my attention back to my daughter, who’s staring up at me with those glimmering
blue eyes of hers. The same eyes she somehow inherited from me, even when all of her mother’s
genetics were more dominant.
“The woman you invited. Who is she?”
Ah, well, here I go. “She’s the therapy group leader of the group your sister had me go to.”
“Mmm, so that bullshit reason you gave me for changing to solo therapy is just that. It’s bullshit.”
Calli smiles from ear to ear. “Don’t get me wrong, Dad. I’m not standing here casting judgment. If
she’s kind to you and treats you right, then I want you to follow your heart. And for the record, I think
it’s really good that you decided to leave the group setting and find a solo therapist, especially since
you’re interested in her. It would be a conflict of interest on her part, and I imagine that would be a lot
to deal with.”
“Yeah, I was thinkin’ about all that. I didn’t even know what I wanted to do in the first place. Just
figured if I’m gonna pull the trigger, then I need to do it the right way.”
The moment I tell Calli this, the front door to the clubhouse opens, and there she is. Jolene’s
wearing a long, flowing white gown. It has white and gold interlocking squares printed along the
sleeves of it, and she’s wearing two gold circular armbands. She’s also wearing a headpiece, and all
I can think about is how gorgeous she looks.
“Looks like you did it the right way, and maybe you found the Athena to your Zeus,” Calli smirks
as she walks away and heads back over to her ol’ man.
Jolene spots me, and we both begin walking toward each other. Once we’re within reach, I can’t
help but compliment her on her costume. “You look amazing.”
“And you look . . . different than usual. Love the headband, but the lightning bolt really gives you
a spark.” Jolene makes her joke with a pun, and I chuckle at the attempt. I didn’t realize she was so
corny with her humor, but it’s something I could get used to. I love to laugh, and I haven’t done it too
much lately.
“That was a good one.” I snicker, and it’s like Jolene’s smile is extending to her eyes.
Over the next couple of hours, Jolene has a couple of drinks, and I have another beer. I don’t want
to drink too much right now since this is our first ‘date’. At least, I think it’s a date. I don’t know if
Jolene realizes I even asked her out on one. Maybe she thinks it’s just a friendly outing, but I hope she
knows better.
Hell, the other day, when it happened to be her on the side of the road with the flat tire, I had a bit
more time to talk to her. It was enough time to convince me inviting her to the party tonight was a
good idea. I saw that the two of us had some sort of connection, and I really wanted to test it out.
From the way she’s staring at me right now, I know I’m not losing my damn mind. Not yet at least.
Some of the brothers start dancing with some women, so I take Jolene over to the dance floor to
shake what her mama gave her. We both laugh, having a damn good time, but in the midst of dancing
with Jolene, I spot Risk’s green-eyed gaze. She’s leaning up against the back wall, staring daggers
into me like it might make a difference, but it won’t.
Risk ends up storming off back toward her bedroom. For a second, I wonder if, in her delusional
mind, she thinks that I’m going to chase after her or if inviting Jolene was only to make her jealous.
 “I need to get another drink. These are amazing,” Jolene yells in my ear over the loud music.
I take her up to the bar, and she orders another one of the ‘Skele-Spookies’. Calli created a drink
list of Halloween-themed drinks for the party tonight for the prospects to make. Once she has her
drink in hand, she leads me outside. I revel in the chill October air, and it feels damn nice to get out of
the stuffy clubhouse.
Jolene takes a sip of her drink and sighs. “You know, I had to convince myself to come here. I kept
trying to find every reason under the sun to avoid it, but I’m glad I came. This has been a lot of fun.”
“I, for one, am glad you came. I kept thinkin’ you were gonna stand me up after a while, though.”
Jolene places her hand on my forearm. “I’d never stand you up, Chip. I’m honored you invited me
here in the first place.”
“Thanks for comin’ here, darlin’. You’ve really made my night a memorable one.” I’m speaking
from the heart here, and Jolene takes a step closer to me.
She licks her lips nervously and places one hand on my cut, running her fingers on it softly. She
stands up on her tippy toes, and I realize what she’s trying to do, so I meet her halfway, colliding my
lips with her own.
She tastes like the fruity mixture that’s in the drink, but she smells of vanilla and coffee, oddly
enough. I’ve never smelled a mixture like that on a woman, but it’s a damn good one. Jolene pulls
away from the kiss with a massive smile dragged across her face, and I think I’m looking the same
damn way.
We end up heading back into the clubhouse and have some food and get another round of drinks.
The two of us are having a blast together, and this night is going better than I ever thought it would.
Out of the blue, Jolene turns to me, placing her hand on my arm.
“Um, so I haven’t done this in a minute, but would you like to come back to my place?” Jolene
asks with an adorable smirk at the end.
“I somehow feel like it’s been more than a minute, sweetheart. But, yeah, I’d love to go back with
you.” I can’t help but tease her a bit. Jolene’s been through literal hell, just like I have. As time passes
by, I’m beginning to realize how much our connection stems from the pain we’ve both experienced.
Truth be told after Razi died, I never thought I’d want to be romantically involved with another
woman . . . but Jolene is awakening my ice-cold, dead heart.
“Cool.” Jolene smiles softly and looks up at me through thick lashes. She’s had a couple of drinks
here tonight, and while I don’t think she’s a lightweight by any means, I don’t want to put her in a
position where she isn’t comfortable.
“C’mon, let’s head on out. It’s only gonna get rowdier as the night goes on.” I grab onto Jolene’s
hand and walk her through the packed clubhouse. The keys to my truck and bike are already in the
pocket of my jeans. I debate taking Jolene for a ride on my bike for a split second but then realize I
don’t want the skirt of her dress to come up. She’s damn gorgeous in her Athena getup, but I don’t
want anyone we ride by to see any of her goods. So, we’re taking the truck.
We walk out of the clubhouse and head toward my black truck. I unlock it and open the door for
Jolene, offering her a hand as she steps up on the side step and slides onto the seat. Once she’s inside,
I make sure the skirts of her costume aren’t going to get caught in the door, then shut it for her. I walk
around the other side and hop in, put the key in the ignition, and it comes to life.
Jolene and I make small talk on the drive over, but for the most part, it’s nothing too serious. The
drive is an easy one, and her house doesn’t take too long to get to. It’s a little over ten minutes away,
and as she tells me the next driveway on the right is hers, I’m mesmerized by her home. It’s a
craftsman-style bungalow with a glassed-in front porch, and there’s a tall wooden fence that comes
out on either side of the house. I would’ve taken her as someone who wanted something a bit posher,
but looking back at it now, I don’t know why I would assume that. Her home is a good representation
of what she is—beautiful and unique.
I pull up to the house and throw the truck in park. Only a few moments later are we both getting
out of the truck, heading up the short stairwell to her glassed-in front porch.
 NINE

Jolene
As soon as I shut my door behind us, we’re all over each other, kissing with an intensity, a
ferocity, like I haven’t felt since Allan and Danielle died.
I shove all thoughts of my husband down deep.
After all, I know without a doubt that Allan would want me to be happy and would want me to
find a way to move on with my life, including my sex life.
I take Zeus by the hand and lead him into my bedroom, where I turn on a soft lamp.
“Let me know if you would rather keep the light off,” I say. “But I kind of like to be able to see
what I’m doing,” I add with a grin.
“Light works for me,” he says, his voice gruff with desire as his gaze rakes over my body from
head to toe. “And as much as I like this costume,” he says, his hand going to the golden cord serving
as a belt around my waist, “I can’t wait to see you out of it.” He quickly, deftly unties the knot. The
rope slithers to the floor, and the soft cotton fabric drapes around me. It’s a simple design—two
single panels of fabric sewn together. There are snaps at the shoulders, and swiftly, Zeus unfastens
them.
The gown instantly drops down to pool around my ankles.
Underneath it, I’m wearing a matching white lace bra and panties set. Zeus stares at me
admiringly, and instinctively, I slide my palm over my abdomen in an attempt to cover the stretch
marks left over from my pregnancy with Danielle.
“Don’t,” Zeus says, gently taking my hand away from my stomach. “I want to see all of you. It’s
all beautiful.”
I reach up and push his jacket off his shoulders, and with a wry grin, he strips off his shirt,
revealing a hard, muscled torso—one with many more scars than I have. I run my forefinger along the
thin, pale scar line across his chest.
“Knife fight in my wayward youth,” he tells me.
I touch another one, raising my eyebrows inquiringly.
“That’s from my more recent wayward adulthood.”
I laugh and lean in to kiss it.
When I pull back, he tugs me up to his mouth and kisses me, walking me back to the bed as he
unbuckles his belt.
 He sits down on the bed and kicks off his boots, then stands again and pushes his jeans down to
step out of them.
I sigh at the sight of him. He’s gorgeous all over, and I reach out to run my hands over his
shoulders.
We come together hard and fast, pausing only long enough to feverishly remove the rest of each
other’s clothing.
Zeus leans over the side of the bed to pull his wallet out of his jacket pocket and retrieves a
condom. I help him roll it down over the hard, long length of him, realizing that I want to feel him
inside me more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.
He slides into me, his thick cock stretching and filling me.
I sigh again, this time in delight.
We move together perfectly like we’re made for each other. He pulls my legs up to wrap them
around his waist, my heels digging into his ass as I meet him, thrust for thrust.
Holding himself up with one hand, he slides the other between us, rolling his thumb against my
clit as he moves in and out of me, the rhythm sending chills racing through me.
An orgasm hits me unexpectedly, and my entire body clenches around him, holding him inside me
as I cry out his name, alternating between Chip and Zeus.
Almost as soon as I come, he does, too, his cock jerking inside me. He slips both arms under my
back and pulls me against him until we’re both sitting up.
With a final groan, he lowers me to the bed gently, and grasping the condom against the base of his
cock, he slowly withdraws.
“Well, shit,” he mutters as he stares down at himself.
He’s kneeling between my legs, and I push up on my elbows to stare at him. “What is it?”
“The condom broke.” Worry threads through his voice. He glances up at me, his brow furrowed
into a frown.
I nod slowly. “Well, that happens sometimes. I can’t get pregnant—not without medical help,
anyway—and I haven’t had sex with anyone since the last time I was tested.”
“Tested?”
I shrug. “For pretty much everything. I had a short fling a couple of years after Allan and Danielle
died, but it turned out he was seeing a lot of other women, too. So, I got tested.”
“That’s the last person you were with?”
“Yeah.” I hate to admit to him that it’s been years since I’ve had sex. But after that debacle of an
attempted relationship, I’d promised myself I would always be completely honest, no matter what it
cost me.
“I think we’re okay,” Zeus says. “But if it makes you feel better, I can go get tested, too. For
everything.” He grins at me, and I smile back, appreciating his willingness to do something just to
ease my mind.
“I’d like that,” I say. “Just so neither of us has to worry.”
“Sure. I’ll go Monday,” he promises. “In the meantime, let’s get you cleaned up.”
I sit all the way up, pulling my knees to my chest, giving him room to slide off the bed. He holds
out his hand and leads me into my bathroom, where he steps into the shower and starts the water.
“Don’t come in until it warms up,” he tells me as I start to step over the threshold.
I blink but step back out.
It’s been a long time since someone’s taken such good care of me.
A moment later, he ushers me into the shower with him.
Another random document with
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favorably received. Boieldieu was not yet ripe for operatic
composition, but at least these works furthered his career in that
they obtained him the privilege of free entrance to other operatic
performances, and thus his experience and taste were gradually
expanded.

BUST OF BOIELDIEU BY DANTAN.

From the Carnavalet Museum, Paris.

The partial success fired his heart sufficiently for him to leave
Rouen and seek Paris for the second time. This time he carried with
him thirty francs, an operatic score, and an abundance of self-
confidence. He was now nineteen years old. His reception was the
chilling one usually accorded to young composers in Paris, and very
soon he began to feel the nippings of hunger, which put the thoughts
of public success out of his head for the nonce, and drove him to
teaching piano. He however had the good fortune to make the
acquaintance of the celebrated tenor Garat, and this gentleman
became interested in him, and finally sang some of his chansons in
public and in fashionable drawing-rooms. These little songs soon
found favor, and Boieldieu became gradually known through them.
M. Cochet, the publisher, paid him twelve francs each for these
productions, a figure which seems ridiculous until one remembers
that Schubert sometimes accepted a franc or two for some of his
immortal lieder. Some of these early works of Boieldieu are still in
the musical repertoire, and are occasionally heard in concerts, as for
example, “O toi que j’aime,” and “Menestrel,” and they served at the
time to spread the social success of the composer. Finally Boieldieu
made the acquaintance of Fiévée, the novelist, who wrote for him a
short libretto in one act, “La Dot de Suzette,” and this opera, after
many intrigues and jealousies, achieved performance and success,
thanks to a bright libretto, sparkling melodies, and the excellent
performance of Madame St. Aubin.
Boieldieu’s prospects now changed with Aladdin-like suddenness,
for his next opera, “La Famille Suisse,” was performed at the Theatre
Feydeau for thirty nights in alternation with Cherubini’s “Medee,”
and thus early began that connection with the great Italian maestro,
at that time the best musician in France, which was to be so fruitful
of good results to the new favorite. In 1798 Boieldieu turned for a
while from operatic work, and composed a number of piano sonatas,
piano and harp duets, and a piano concerto. Although these
exercised no permanent influence on the art, they obtained for him
the appointment of professor of piano at the Paris Conservatoire, two
years later. In this position, however he was not very successful; he
was too much wrapped up in composition to make a good teacher.
The musical historian Fétis, who was his pupil, confirms this
estimate; but the post at the Conservatoire led to a close
acquaintance with Cherubini, by which Boieldieu began to remedy
his lack of knowledge of counterpoint and fugal work. Although Fétis
denies that Boieldieu was ever the pupil of Cherubini, there is every
reason to believe that this was the case, even if a regular stipend was
not paid for the tuition. The very fact that in 1799 the two worked in
collaboration on “La Prisonnière” might tend to show that Boieldieu
was anxious to attain something of Cherubini’s musical learning, and
his submission of many later operas to the judgment of this master
proves that he was willing to be guided by him.
About this time Boieldieu produced two operas that carried his
fame beyond his native country; these were the Polish “Benjowski”
and the very tuneful “Caliph of Bagdad,” both of which will receive
further mention in the analytical portion of this article. A little later
there appeared a more advanced work,—“Ma Tante Aurore.” The
success was now so well established that all Parisian managers
sought for works from the gifted pen, and opera followed opera.

TOMB OF BOIELDIEU IN PÈRE

LACHAISE, PARIS.

From a lithograph.

Boieldieu now lived on contentedly in Paris until 1802, when he

almost wrecked his career in the same manner that his father had
done; on March 19th of that year he married a ballet-dancer named
Clotilde Mafleuroy, and immediately began to taste the bitterness of
conjugal misery. He suddenly left Paris on this account and sought
employment in Russia. He was received in St. Petersburg with open
arms, and the Czar Alexander at once appointed him capellmeister of
the court. He produced little on this barren soil however, and
although he stayed there eight years, and his contract called for three
new operas and a number of military marches annually, scarcely
anything of this period has been preserved. In 1810 the political
horizon began to darken, and trouble between Russia and France
became so imminent that our composer again suddenly packed up
and returned to his beloved Paris, arriving at the beginning of 1811.
Here however he found everything changed. The Napoleonic wars
had exerted a deleterious influence on operatic patronage, and the
taste, too, had changed in some degree; Cherubini and Mehul were
silent, and Isouard alone ruled Opera Comique. Considerable
jealousy of Boieldieu was at this time displayed, and at first he was
unsuccessful in having any of the works he had written in Russia
performed in Paris; therefore he set himself to producing an original
work, and in 1812, “Jean de Paris,” a masterpiece of its kind, was
produced at the Theatre Feydeau. Again a success was won, although
not such a phenomenal one as the “Caliph of Bagdad” had attained,
and for the next six years another series of operas proved that the
composer had not lost his hold upon the Parisian public, and in
addition to his own operas Boieldieu collaborated with Cherubini
and Isouard. Two years later a great success attended the first
production of “Le Chaperon Rouge,” but the composer was so
exhausted by this effort that he was obliged to rest for a while from
further composition. He now received the position of professor of
composition at the Conservatoire, taking the place of Mehul, and for
seven years he produced nothing more in opera. The crowning work
was however to come later. During a stay at his brother’s farm in
Cormeilles Boieldieu began composing once more. This time it was
something far beyond his previous efforts, it was a chef d’œuvre in
the domain of comic opera,—the ever-beautiful “La Dame Blanche.”
This masterwork was performed in December, 1825, and at once
awakened boundless enthusiasm. Boieldieu was not much
exhilarated by the result, for he seemed to feel that he could never
hope to equal this work again. Nevertheless he soon attempted
another subject, as if to ascertain if his surmises were correct.
Bouilly’s dull libretto, “Les Deux Nuits” was accepted, as much from
friendship as from any other motive. The new opera was finished in
1829, and made a flat failure, a result which hurt Boieldieu’s feelings
in an inordinate degree. He had brought back a pulmonary trouble
from Russia, and his disappointment seemed to aggravate the
disease. He gave up his position at the Conservatoire, feeling too
weak to continue teaching. The director of the Opera Comique had
given Boieldieu a pension of 1200 francs for his great services to the
art, but the expulsion of Charles X. now came about, a new direction
was installed, the institution was found to be bankrupt, and the
income from this source ceased just when it was most needed. He
had married again in 1827, and this time the union was a fortunate
one, for in these final days of trial, sickness, and pecuniary difficulty,
his wife sustained his drooping spirits with unswerving fidelity. She
was a singer, Philis by name, and was the mother of Boieldieu’s only
son, a composer of good attainments, but overshadowed by his
father’s ability. Finally Louis Philippe was established on the throne
of France, and his minister, M. Thiers, made speedy recognition of
the value of Boieldieu’s work by granting him an annual pension of
6,000 francs. It could not give back the composer’s health, however,
and, after a tour to Pisa he came back worse. He had been obliged by
poverty to take back his old position at the Conservatoire, and made
a brave effort to continue in it, but it was useless; in another tour in
hopeless search for health, he died at Jarcy, October 8th, 1834. At
the tomb his old companion and teacher, Cherubini, gave a last
tribute to the modest and talented nature that had passed away so
prematurely.
Boieldieu may be summed up in a single phrase as a Parisian
Mozart. He had Mozart’s gift of melody and grace, and in his later
years something of Mozart’s skill in harmonic and contrapuntal
combination, but, unlike Mozart, his work can be divided into three
epochs, the third only being comparable in ensemble to the works of
the German master. Boieldieu has been ranked as the best composer
of opera comique that France ever produced, and it is not too much
to say that only Bizet has approached him in characteristic touches
and poetic inspiration. Three works are at present the chief
representatives of Boieldieu’s fame, “The Caliph of Bagdad,” which
shows his earliest method, “Jean de Paris,” which is a good example
of his second period, and “La Dame Blanche,” which is the finest of
all his operas, the best outcome of the French opera comique school,
and shows the composer in his third and best period of growth.
 Boieldieu was never misled by the popular applause which was
showered upon him before it was fairly deserved. It has been well
said that “there is no heavier burden than a great name acquired too
soon,” and it is to the credit of Boieldieu that, although he acquired
this burden with “The Caliph of Bagdad,” which has had over a
thousand performances in France, he did not continue in the rather
frivolous vein which had so captivated his earliest audiences. His
modest desire to advance may be proven by the fact that when this
opera was achieving its greatest success, Cherubini reproached him
with “Malheureux! are you not ashamed of such an undeserved
success?” when Boieldieu mildly begged for further instruction, that
he might do better in the future. He even courted the opinions of his
pupils in the Conservatoire as to portions of his work, a rather
dangerous meekness. Pretty tunes and marked rhythms are the
characteristics of this period. “Zoraime et Zulnare,” although at
present almost unknown, always remained a favorite of the
composer, but it is only another example of musicians not being the
best judges of their own works.
 Fac-simile musical manuscript written by
Boieldieu.

“Benjowski” is a transition towards his second period. It has a

Polish plot written by Kotzebue, and its music has much local color.
It was composed in 1800, but was retouched by Boieldieu a quarter
of a century later, when he wittily said, “It smells of Russia leather!”
The opening quartette in this work is very dramatic.
“Ma Tante Aurore” may be said to begin the second period. It
preserves the brightness of the first period, but is much finer in its
scoring, and it is no exaggeration to say that in this matter Boieldieu
surpassed all of his contemporaries in France, with the sole
exception of Cherubini. The versatility displayed in this period
speaks of growth.
The eight years spent in Russia may be passed over with but slight
comment, for of all that he wrote there, he cared to preserve but
three operas, “Rien de Trop,” “La Jeune Femme,” and “Les Voitures
Versées.” One cause of the weakness of the works of this period was
the fact that no good librettos were obtainable, and the composer
was even obliged to use many that had been set by other musicians.
Some commentators class “Jean de Paris” in the third period of
Boieldieu’s work. It is a beautiful and characteristic opera; the song
of the Princess, full of charming grace, the bold and dashing
measures of the page, and the stiff, ceremonious style of the music of
the Seneschal, are a few of the striking touches that go to make up a
very brilliant work which has not yet disappeared from the
repertoire, but when compared with “La Dame Blanche” the
ensemble-writing is seen to be inferior. In this latter opera, the
climax of his works, Boieldieu did not depart from the melodious
character of his first and second periods, but rather added to it. All
through his career he clung to the folk-song, and exactly as “Der
Freischütz” was evolved by Weber from the German Volkslied, so “La
Dame Blanche” had its root in the French Chanson. The libretto was
evolved by Scribe from Scott’s works by amalgamating the
“Monastery” and “Guy Mannering,” but spite of the introduction of
“The Bush aboon Traquier” and “Robin Adair” (the latter not a true
Scotch song) the flavor is by no means Scotch either in libretto or
music. The harmonization of the finales of this opera is beyond
anything that has been attained in French opera comique, and shows
Boieldieu as a master in a school of which we find no traces in “The
Caliph of Bagdad.” Yet through all the three periods one finds the
thread of the Chanson running melodiously. Music that is sincerely
national can never die, and the secret of the success of Boieldieu’s
operas, and their perennial freshness may be found in the fact that
the composer builded upon the music of his country, and there is no
firmer foundation possible.
 ETIENNE NICOLAS MÉHUL

Reproduced from an aquatint portrait

by Quenedey.
 ETIENNE NICOLAS MÉHUL

One of the most unique and interesting figures in the French musical
world of the close of the eighteenth century is Etienne Nicolas
Méhul. Sprung from comparative obscurity, he mounted to a world-
wide fame. Starting out in life with the scantiest educational
advantages, he reached a high degree of elegant culture. Living in a
most dissolute period, he retained through life an irreproachable
character. The son of a cook in a regimental barracks, he was
tendered the position of chapelmaster by the great Napoleon.
Méhul was born at Givet, in the Ardennes, June 22, 1763. Like
many other great composers, he was of low degree, had but few
opportunities for study at the start, and struggled hard to gain his
musical footing. His talent displayed itself at an early age and he
himself never had a doubt as to his ultimate vocation in life, though
his naturally religious disposition had predetermined his parents to
send him to a monastery. At ten years of age he played in the
Franciscan Church at Givet, such qualifications as he may have had
being the result of his studies with a blind organist. Shortly after this
time, Wilhelm Hauser, a distinguished German organist, arrived at
the neighboring convent of La Val Dieu, whither the boy repaired to
pursue his studies. He was fortunate enough to attract the favorable
attention of the Abbé Lissoir, under whose auspices he studied for
three years with Hauser. He made such rapid progress that he soon
equalled his master and was appointed deputy organist at the
convent. It is altogether probable that he would have been his
successor had not good fortune attended him again. His playing
attracted the notice of an officer of the garrison, who was a musical
amateur, and it needed but little solicitation to induce the boy to go
to Paris. He arrived at the capital in his sixteenth year and placed
himself under the tuition of Edelmann, a Strasburg composer of
eminence, who some years afterward deserted music for politics and
perished ultimately upon the same scaffold to which he had
consigned many a victim. With Edelmann he studied both the piano
and composition, supporting himself meanwhile by giving lessons
and writing sonatas and minor compositions for that instrument.
The genius of his good fortune did not desert him in these days of
stress. It was shortly after his arrival in Paris that Gluck’s “Iphigénia
en Tauride” was placed in rehearsal. The popular interest in the
performance had been heightened by the feud which had raged so
bitterly between the Gluck and Piccini factions. Méhul caught the
infection and, being without the money to purchase a ticket, he
smuggled himself into the theatre the day before, intending to
remain in concealment until the next eventful evening. He was
discovered, however, by one of the inspectors, and as the latter was
on the point of ejecting him, Gluck’s attention was drawn to him. He
made some inquiries, and upon learning the facts in the case gave the
young man a ticket. It was the turning-point in his career and
decided the direction he should take; for Gluck followed up the
chance acquaintance, took a decided interest in Méhul, gave him the
benefit of his experience and advice and instructed him in the
dramatic qualities of music. The young composer already had
produced a cantata at the Concert Spirituel, written upon the subject
of Rousseau’s Sacred Ode, and was ambitious to become known as a
composer of church music, for the religious element was always
strong in him; but Gluck changed all this and set his feet in the path
of the opera, which he was destined to follow to the end of his life.
 MÉHUL.

From a lithograph portrait loaned by the

British Museum.

Méhul began his dramatic work by writing three operas (“Psyché

et l’Amour,” “Anacréon” and “Lausus et Lydie”) merely for the sake
of practice. He was testing his wings before flight. He made his debut
before the public with “Euphrosine et Coradin” in 1790 and achieved
a brilliant success, though his first opera was “Cora et Alonzo,” which
was produced later and met with only a moderately favorable
reception. He was now in the full tide of musical activity, and opera
after opera came from his prolific genius. “Stratonice” followed
“Euphrosine,” and by many was considered his masterpiece,
especially for the fine treatment of the ’cello parts, which instrument
he had specially studied, and for the general excellence of the
orchestration as well as its dramatic strength, in which quality he
showed his close study of Gluck. The revolutionary period which now
ensued was not favorable to the opera, and as if in sympathy with the
depressing character of the time, Méhul brought forward such works
as “Doria,” “Horatius Cocles,” “La Caverne,” and others, which did
not add to his reputation. There were others, however, that proved
an exception to the rule. “Le jeune Henri” for instance, was hissed
because it introduced a royal personage, but the overture, with its
lively and picturesque representation of the chase, was demanded
several times over at the close of the performance. The overtures to
both “Adrien” and “Ariodant” were also general favorites, as well as
the romanzas in the latter. It was about this time (1799) that Méhul
had his first encounter with some of the French critics, particularly
Geoffroy, a well-known writer, who declared that he could not write
in any other than a severe and heavy style. Shortly afterwards the
opera of “Irato,” written in the Italian style, appeared anonymously.
After its first performance the journalist wrote: “This is the way in
which Méhul should compose.” The composer had his revenge on
declaring himself the author and followed it up with another opera,
“Une Folie,” in which his critic was satirized. Soon afterwards,
however, he lapsed into the serious style. In 1806 he produced
“Uthal,” in which he made the daring innovation, at the suggestion of
Napoleon it is said, of doing away with the violins entirely and filling
their places with the violas, as better adapted to the sombre Ossianic
character of the composition. The result was so depressing that
Grétry, who was present at the first performance, made the remark:
“I would give a louis to hear the sound of a chanterelle, or the E
string of the violin.” Undismayed by the reception of “Uthal,” Méhul
followed it up with “Joanna,” “Hélène,” “Les Amazones” and
“Gabrielle d’Estrées,” all written in the same serious style, showing
high scholarship in counterpoint, but lacking in those light and
elegant graces of composition which were so popular with the
French. His activity was great during this period. Between 1791 and
1807 he wrote no less than twenty-four operas, besides six
symphonies; music to poems of Chénier, Arnault and Sontanes,
composed in honor of the Republican fêtes at which Napoleon
presided, among them the “Chant du Départ,” “Chant de Victoire”
and “Chant de Retour”; choruses to the tragedy of “Timoleon”; the
incidental music to “Oedipus” and the drama of “The Hussites”; four
ballets, “Le Jugement de Paris” (1793), “La Dansomanie” (1800), “Le
Retour d’Ulyss” (1807), and “Persée et Andromède” (1810); besides
many operettas and smaller works. He had enjoyed the favor of
Napoleon to such an extent that upon the death of Paisiello he was
offered the position of chapelmaster. Méhul, who was a devoted
friend of Cherubini, was anxious that the latter should share the
office with him, but Napoleon, who was incensed at a sharp reply
Cherubini had made him in Vienna, sent word back to Méhul: “What
I want is a chapelmaster who will make music and not noise,” and at
once nominated M. Sueux to the position. Méhul was not without his
honors, however, having been appointed a member of the Institute in
1795, and of the Legion of Honor in 1802.
In 1807 he achieved the crowning success of his career. “Joseph,”
written on a Biblical subject, was produced and spread his fame all
over France and Germany. Though not often heard in this country, it
still remains a great favorite to-day among the Germans by its
dignity, nobility and elevated style. It made ample compensation for
his many failures and regained for him all the advantages he had
lost. After 1810 he wrote but little, “Le Prince Troubadour” (1813)
and “L’Oriflamme” (1814), written with Berton, Kreutzer and Paer,
being his most important works.
 MÉHUL

From a portrait in Clément’s “Les

Musiciens Célèbres.”

Méhul made his parting bow to the public with the opera of “La
Journée aux Aventures,” which was produced in 1817 with
considerable success. The same year closed his earthly labors. He
had been in ill health for some time, and shortly after the production
of his last opera he went, upon the advice of friends, to the south of
France, where he had a residence, hoping thereby to regain his
strength. His ailment, consumption, however, had so weakened his
constitution that the change was fruitless. Moreover, he was
homesick for Paris. In writing to a friend he mournfully says: “I have
broken up all my habits. I am deprived of all my old friends, I am
alone at the end of the world, surrounded by people whose language
I can scarcely understand—and all this sacrifice to obtain a little
more sun. The air which best agrees with me is that which I breathe
among you.” He returned to Paris, warmly welcomed by his friends
and the public. He made one, and only one more visit to the opera.
He was soon stricken down in his last illness and died Oct. 18, 1817,
in his fifty-fourth year, universally lamented both in France and
Germany, for, like his pupil Hérold, he was as much of a favorite in
the latter country as in the former. In fact neither of these composers
was appreciated to the full extent of his ability in France, at least
until after death, a neglect which was not confined to them, however:
Berlioz shared the same fate. More than one French composer
indeed has made his greatest success in Germany. Tributes of respect
and admiration were shown to his memory in both countries. His
funeral was attended by a great concourse of persons, and the pupils
of the Conservatory with which he had been identified so many
years, covered his grave with flowers. On the day of his interment
memorial services were held in many places in Germany and France
at which public addresses were made. Méhul married a daughter of
Dr. Gastoldi, but having no children adopted his nephew, M.
Daussoigne, a young musician of excellent promise. His posthumous
opera, “Valentine de Milan,” was finished by the nephew and was
performed in 1822, upon which occasion the composer’s bust was
publicly crowned. The popular success, indeed, which he achieved as
a composer, was unquestionably expedited by his high character as a
man. His uprightness and natural tenderness had commended him
to all the pupils of the Conservatory, and his strong affections did the
same service for him with his friends. His generosity and
benevolence were proverbial. The utter absence of jealousy in his
disposition especially commended him to musicians. He had a
particular abhorrence of intrigue and of those small rivalries which
were abundant at that time, and which sometimes developed into
great wars, as has already been hinted at in the reference to the
famous struggle between the factions of Gluck and Piccini, which not
only enrolled musicians, composers and opera-goers in opposing
ranks, but even brought courtiers, the nobility and members of the
royal family into fierce antagonism. In the midst of all this small
turbulence Méhul had carried himself with even poise, working for
the best interest of his art and always true to its canons, though he
made many tentative innovations when fortune frowned upon him.
At a time of more than ordinary dissipation and immorality, he
maintained the highest moral principles and a sterling manhood. It
was but natural, therefore, that such a man should have been
mourned sincerely, and it may have added to public admiration that
he had reached his high distinction by his own efforts, rising from
rude and obscure beginnings to the summit of European fame.
Méhul was the legitimate successor of Gluck. It was that
composer’s “Iphigénie,” as we have seen, that first caught his fancy,
fired his ambition and directed his attention to dramatic
composition. It was owing to Gluck himself, who at once recognized
the ability of the young musician, that his feet were set in the right
path, and it was to his advice and instruction—the instruction of a
friend rather than of a teacher—that he owed his discovery and
appreciation of the dramatic quality of music. Other composers,
among them Cherubini, had a certain influence upon him, but Gluck
was the all in all of his system, the source of his inspiration and the
dominant element of his methods of treatment. He clung to dramatic
truth with as much tenacity as did the great author of “Orpheus” and
the “Iphigénias” and strove with the same earnestness to make his
music a close and perspicuous illustration of the text, and to keep it
elevated in style. Meanwhile his own nature was assisting him. Style
and character are closely related, and Méhul’s music is a reflection of
his own personal traits, namely, refinement of sentiment,
seriousness and earnestness of presence, strong religious tendencies
as shown in the opera—or shall we not call it oratorio—of “Joseph,”
and nobility of character as shown in all his dramatic work. His style
is always elevated, though at times he made the effort to unite light
and graceful melodies of the effervescent and short-lived sort which
find so much favor on the French stage. He was not successful in
these, however. He was more at home in passion and pathos, in
strong, broad motives, rich harmony and ingenious and elaborate
accompaniments. In a word, his standards, like those of Gluck, in
whose steps he followed so closely, were classical and of the highest
romantic type. At times he was daring and ingenious in his
innovations, as in “Ariodant,” where four horns and three ’cellos
carry on an animated conversation; in “Phrosine et Mélidore,” where
four horns have a full part in the score; and in “Uthal,” where the
violas are substituted for the violins, as already has been mentioned.
These, however, were only experiments, though they serve to show
his originality of conception as well as his curious scholarship—a
scholarship all the more remarkable when the poverty of his early
training is considered. And yet he did more than almost any other of
his contemporaries to elevate the Opera Comique, and has come
down in musical history as one of the principal founders of the
modern French School.

Fac-simile musical manuscript by Méhul,

from Cherubini’s collection.

Méhul’s name, in upper left-hand corner,

was written by Cherubini.

Méhul’s activity was almost incessant. He has left forty operas, of

which the following are the more important: “Alonzo et Cora” and
“Euphrosine et Coradin” (1790); “Stratonice” (1792); “Le jeune Sage
et le vieux Fou” (1793); “Horatius Cocles,” “Arminius,” “Phrosine et
Mélidore” and “Scipion” (1794); “La Caverne,” “Tancrède et
Chlorinde” and “Sesostris” (1795); “Le jeune Henri” and “Doria”
(1797); “Adrien” and “Ariodant” (1799); “Epicure” (with Cherubini)
and “Bion” (1800); “L’Irato” (1801); “Une Folie,” “Le Trésor
Supposé,” “Joanne” and “L’Heureux malgré lui” (1802); “Helena”
and “Le Baiser et la Quittance,” with Kreutzer, Boieldieu and Nicolo
(1803); “Uthal,” “Les deux Aveugles de Tolède” and “Gabrielle
d’Estrées” (1806); “Joseph” (1807); “Les Amazones” (1811); “Le
Prince Troubadour” (1813); “L’Oriflamme” with Berton, Kreutzer and
Paer, (1814); “Le Journée aux Aventures” (1816); and the
posthumous opera, “Valentine de Milan,” finished by his nephew, M.
Daussoigne, and first performed in 1822. Besides these dramatic
works he has left four ballets, several symphonies, songs, operettas
and incidental dramatic music to which reference has been made in
the body of this article. Méhul’s literary ability, though never
specially cultivated, was of a surprising kind, considering his early
disadvantages. He has left two reports which have been greatly
admired,—one upon the future state of music in France and the other
upon the labors of the pupils in the Conservatory. Taken all in all, he
was one of the most earnest, high-minded, conscientious and
thoroughly artistic composers France has produced. He carried on
the great work of Gluck and is one of the important links in the
evolution of music which led up to Richard Wagner and his music-
dramas.
LOUIS JOSEPH FERDINAND HÉROLD

Reproduction of Hérold’s best known

portrait, drawn from life on stone by his
friend L. Dupré with the epigraph
“Virtute non ambitu, laurum meruit.”