![]() He was a man through and through, and in my experience, men like Deuce, men like my father, they dealt with their own emotions by using their fists, emptying a bottle of whiskey, or losing themselves between the thighs of a willing woman. In all the years we’d been together, through the good and the bad, the thick and the thin, he’d still yet to figure out how to react to me when I was upset. ![]() ![]() I’d done little else but yell, scream, and cry at him since finding out about my father’s rapidly declining health, something I’d come to discover Deuce had known about all along and had purposely hidden from me.īut my anger with Deuce stemmed from more than just that. Ignoring the glances I attracted from the staff standing behind and milling around the nurses’ station, I quickly spotted what I was looking for-a group of familiar men clustered together down the hall-and began marching toward them.īehind me-quite a distance behind me, actually-my husband, Cole “Deuce” West, better known as “Prez” to his fellow bikers in the Hell’s Horsemen Motorcycle Club, was shuffling along slowly, obviously not in any hurry to catch up with me. ![]() I stormed out of the elevator and into the fourth-floor hallway of Queens City Hospital in New York City, NY.
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