irrevocable

{Twenty-Two}

Times Like These // Foo Fighters

Jackson

"We need to talk."

I interrupt Grinder as he's inking a client. My tone brings his eyes up to mine.

"Problem?" The concern written all over his face calms some of my anger, but not all. My dad must be in the back somewhere because no one was at the front desk when I stormed in here.

"Yeah. Big fucking problem. Judge is missing. After shoving Holly into the wall and giving her a fucking bruise. After abandoning them for months at a time when her mom has been sick for years. Piece of shit threatened Holly at the hospital." No one actually cares where Judge is, least of all me, but I want him to pay for what he's done. And I want to know where the fucker is so I can keep him the hell away from Holly and her mom. I turn away from Grinder as I feel the violent anger build once again. I shove a hand through my hair, tugging at the length as I grit my teeth.

"Why hasn't anyone fucking dealt with him? You all let him get away with this shit for goddamn years." I know I'm unhinged but I've been keeping my shit together all day for Holly's sake and I can't do it anymore.

I sense Grinder rise from his chair, muttering an apology to his client before standing right behind me. His mouth is right next to my ear when he says, "Come with me. Let's talk."

I follow him down the back hallway to the rear entrance. He pauses at the open storage room door, leaning his head inside.

"Butch. Follow us to the shop, right now. Finish this inventory later. Or fucking never. I don't care." His voice is controlled but menacing. At least he's pissed about this. Or at me. I have no idea right now. I don't give a shit either. As long as someone steps up, I don't care what it costs me.

"Sure thing, Grind." My dad drops a clipboard on the couch and follows us.

Grinder leads us out the door, down the steps and twenty feet across the back alley to a currently unused autobody shop. I've been told it served as a storage garage for Reaper bike parts until Brax came back to town. He used it for a while before moving his shop elsewhere. Now it's empty of tools and bikes other than a couple that I estimate to be Grinder's and my dad's.

Once we enter the bay, Grinder rests his palms against a workshop countertop, his back to us as he faces a grimy shop window. His elbows are bent, his back straight. He looks aggravated.

"Like I told you on the phone, Jackson, I don't lead on feelings. But, as I also mentioned, I knew in my gut that Judge was an issue. That's on me. I should have dealt with him long ago."

"An issue? He abused his family! That's criminal, not an issue."

Grinder turns to face me. I'm fuming but he appears calm.

"You're right. This is not the Reapers way. Not anymore. I took the reins twenty years ago when Duke passed. Changed how things were run. Ended the road trips. But Judge has been part of the club for decades, longer than even me. He never did settle down." He looks at my dad.

"You've known him longer than me. Talk." He gestures for Butch to take the floor.

I think I'm experiencing secondary humiliation. My dad seems taken by surprise. Is it that no one ever asks his opinion? Or is it that he has a history with Judge? One I've just been made aware of by my vindictive mother? I haven't even had a chance to talk to him about it in private. Is this the way it's going to come out in the open? I'd hate that for him. I listen with caution, ready to cut him off in order to save his pride. He's been beat up enough about his past. I won't let it continue.