Page 127 of The Loves We Lost

“Shit,” I curse as Switch stomps up the stairs.

“Ah, fuck,” he says, and reaches for Dad’s wrist, then his neck.

Switch places his palm over Dad’s eyes and closes them.

He turns and grips my shoulder. “What the hell happened here, brother?”

I rub my face with my hand. “Three times he tried to call, and I was so busy fucking, I didn’t answer.”

“We ain’t doing that,” Switch says. “From the look of him, you’re lucky you aren’t joining him.”

Lola wails from the other room, the sound cutting through my drunken stupor and overwhelming feelings of remorse.

“You need to go take care of her,” Switch says. “I’ll make the necessary calls.”

I’m grateful when Switch nudges me in the direction of the room; otherwise, I don’t know that I would have moved. Lola lies there, her tiny fists clenched as she whole-body screams.

It was why Dad slept over at the clubhouse so often.

“Fuck, Lola, give me a break.” I pick her up. She’s hot and sweaty. And her diaper feels solid.

My dad’s dead.

Focusing on Lola for a second, I strip her, clumsily change her diaper, and put her in a clean and dry onesie that saysI’m the prez in this housein pink sparkles.

Gently, I place her head to my shoulder and start the bob and sway that soothes her. As she settles, I return to the bedroom, where Switch is on the phone arranging whatever needs to happen next.

“I’m sorry,” Switch says as he hangs up. “Wrinkle was a good man, most of the time.”

I smile sadly at that. “Yeah.” My dad could be problematic as fuck when he wanted to be. And he was a shitty, often absent father when I was a kid. But when I patched in, our relationship changed.

“I’ll let the club know.”

My train of thought finally catches up with my floundering ass. “We’re gonna have to call the cops on this one. I’m going to need a death certificate to close up his affairs. An undertaker.”

“I’ll take care of it. I’m guessing she’s gonna need feeding and clothes and shit if you’re taking her to the clubhouse. You gonna take care of Lola, right?”

I look down at the baby in my arms. “Honestly, I don’t know that I can. Someone is going to pay for this shit.”

Switch shakes his head, and I ignore the glint of disappointment from my friend. “Yeah, well, the person who has to pay for this shouldn’t be Lola.”

As if hearing her name, Lola rustles against my shoulder, and I shift positions so I can see her face. “It’s you and me for now, kid. So do me a favor and be good, yeah?”

The cry she lets loose tells me she’s not in agreement.

“I think she needs feeding. You take care of her; I’ll deal with this.”

“I should take care of Dad. Can you take her?”

Switch raises an eyebrow. “I learned one really important thing in battlefield triage. The living come before the dead. Take care of your sister.”

I put one foot after the other, making formula for the bottle and feeding Lola, until first, the blue lights, and second, the roar of motorcycles pull up outside my dad’s house.

As I’m about to wrap a blanket around Lola and step outside to greet them, my phone vibrates. I almost ignore it, but something—the kind of something that saved my life on more than one occasion—tells me I should check it. There’s a text message from an unknown number.

Every decision has consequences, brother. Until it’s time to face yours, peace.