Forgotten & Found: A Dark & Dirty Sinners' MC Boxset

by Serena Akeroyd

  I ignored them, though, as I often did. I had little choice.

  We always ate together in this room. It was how it was done. Luke had rarely joined us, usually too hungover to function at this time, but Father insisted that I ate breakfast with him, had ever since I was small.

  Not for the first time, I missed college.

  Sure, I hadn’t been in luxuriously appointed rooms within a mansion that would make most envious, but it was better than this.

  The room itself was unusual for a morning room. Normally, they were angled to take in the morning sun and were bright and colorful in design. But in this instance, the room, though it had a large window that let in a lot of light, was painted black. None of this was to my taste. He’d hired an interior decorator with bad taste but a killer body.

  I had to assume the latter was why we had to breakfast in this disastrous decor.

  The walls were matte, and that was offset with swag curtains that were a bright magenta in color. Placed atop a blue and cream flecked rug, the glass table was large enough to seat eighteen, and I sat at the head opposite my father. Always had, even if Luke did deign to share a meal with us.

  Beside the table was a small accent cabinet that was topped with a picture frame of my mother. It showed her laughing and smiling, a sight that was so rare, my father had copied the image, and it was in every single property he owned, in more than one room.

  To me, that image was like a ‘fuck you.’ I felt like he was sticking his middle finger up at me whenever I glanced upon her, so I never did.

  That wasn’t my mother.

  My mother had been miserable.

  Half doped up on Valium, the rest of her had been swaddled in an alcoholic stupor.

  That was how he’d gotten away with her murder.

  I’d seen him push her down the stairs, but he hadn’t seen me watching them argue. He didn’t know I knew.

  In front of the lie that was that photo, there was a votive candle that burned.

  You couldn’t make this up, could you?

  The bastard had murdered her, yet made sure a candle burned at all hours of the day in her memory.

  Behind him, there was an ash console table loaded down with a display of flowers that varied every day. In this mix, Mozart was piped in, a rousing orchestral movement that invigorated.

  At least, it did for my father.

  For me, it just gave me a headache.

  Amid all this designer splendor, we sat, dressed in the same kind of splendor, so beautiful and yet so vile that it was a wonder I didn’t choke on every bite I managed to swallow under his beady eyes.

  When I’d finished my meal, I placed the golden cutlery on the magenta-flecked china, and stated, “Do you just need the usual, Father?”

  “Yes. Pack my tuxedo though. I think I’ll be attending the opera while I’m there.”

  Inwardly celebrating the fact I’d be out from under his thumb for three weeks, I murmured, “Of course. May I be excused?”

  “Yes.”

  I slipped the chair back and, like every other goddamn morning, I rounded the table and leaned over so I could press a kiss to his cheek. He twisted his head around, moving so that my lips glanced off his cheek and pressed to his mouth. Swallowing down my revulsion, I acted as though nothing had happened and retreated, slipping out of the room with a simple, “I’ll have your things ready soon, Father.”

  “Good girl.”

  My mouth tightened as I escaped the monstrous breakfast room and headed deep into the beast’s cavern. I rarely went into his bedroom unless I had to. And even as I made my way there, I hated the necessity.

  Going into my dad’s room shouldn’t have been creepy, yet it was. Really, truly was.

  I sucked down a breath as I headed into the wing where he slept. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, plus, when he’d told me he’d be traveling later, I knew he expected me to act immediately.

  So I did.

  Making short work of it, I packed his clothes, ensured his suits were in the appropriate coverings, and gathered his tuxedo, as well as selecting a range of ties that would take him from a formal meeting to an evening event. Having chosen his shoes, cufflinks, and confirming that all the studs were present on the shirt he’d wear with his tux, I was done. All without seeing the bastard.

  The second his suitcases were standing beside the doorway to his suite of rooms, I escaped and retreated to my room. Hitting the intercom, I announced, “I’ll be heading to Crosskeys in twenty minutes.” I didn’t wait for a reply, just knew I had to give my guards sufficient warning. Then I changed into a pair of yoga pants, sports bra, and shirt, grabbed my keys, and went on out.

  As usual, the guards were only a few moments behind me as I took off, escaping the house that was shrouded in an atmosphere which was positively Addams’ family-esque.

  Leaving it behind, I decided to stop in town for a quick coffee. The twenty-minute ride sped by, those few moments the only true private ones I had, and I used them wisely—shouting along to Rag N Bone Man as a means of expressing my constantly internalized anger. Better that than have an unknown stomach ulcer explode on me.

  When I passed the coffee shop I liked, I noticed the collective of bikes outside the joint and wanted to wince when my heart skipped a beat. As I pulled up, so did Paul and Alix, but because they knew my routine, I knew they’d stay in the car and wait on me to return.

  I wasn’t a creature of habit by nature but by necessity. By repeating patterns, they trusted me to never deviate from my path, and I used that to my advantage. Even if it was stupid. After all, if they knew my routine, maybe some potential kidnapper did as well. They’d know when and how to grab me…

  Unfortunately for me, I wouldn’t mind being kidnapped. Anything to get me away from this fucking life I was leading. As was the way, because I didn’t mind, it’d never happen to me.

  Murphy’s law was a real bitch sometimes.

  Phone and keys in hand, mouth tight with irritation, I locked my car and crossed the street. Stepping inside, I made my way to the counter and felt my heart skip a beat when I saw a cluster of men wearing those leather vests in one corner of the room. I let my gaze drift over them, hoping to see that head of wavy hair, and when I did, my heart skipped two beats.

  It was stupid to feel nervous, stupid to feel antsy, but all I could think about was last night when I’d thought about him, used Link to get myself off.

  I was weird with sex, thanks to my upbringing. Masturbating in the dark, under the covers, hiding my face from the rest of the room by pressing my forearm to my eyes, was pretty much standard practice for me.

  But last night?

  I’d wanted to be naked.

  Had wanted to feel the brush of the silk sheets against my skin.

  I’d wanted his hands on me.

  Had needed to feel another’s touch, a touch I invited. That I wanted. Craved.

  It was stupid, impossible. A crush. Nothing more, nothing less, but that was how crushes worked, right? I’d never had a teenage crush before, so I didn’t know for certain. Back when you were allowed to feel giddy just because you saw a man you liked, I’d been deep in mourning and trying to get over what I’d seen my father do to my mom. My eyes had been opened that day, and I’d been reeling ever since.

  I didn’t appreciate that the moment I started being normal again was the moment a rough and ready biker came into my line of sight. Someone who was totally inappropriate for me. Someone who would never gel with my lifestyle.

  Although, when I put it like that, it was no wonder, really, was it?

  Talk about the ultimate rebellion.

  My mouth watered at just how delicious the idea was.

  Biting my bottom lip, I muttered my order to the waitress and forced my attention onto the menu boards. I knew the list like the back of my hand, but I gave it every ounce of my focus just to stop myself from gawking at Link. It was bad enough that I thought I was an idiot…I didn’t need him knowing
it too.

  Aware my cheeks were pink, I accepted the kombucha Chrissie, the server, handed me, and tapped my card to the reader. Once I’d paid, I smiled at her then retreated to my regular table in the corner where I could overlook the rest of the coffee shop, and where Paul and Alix could watch me without having to step inside.

  Taking a deep sip of passionfruit kombucha, I switched on my phone and began to mess around on Facebook. When, a few moments later, a shadow moved across the table, I didn’t glance up. If I did, one of the guards would pick up on it.

  Instead, I looked out of the corner of my eye, saw the phone on the table, saw the hands I recognized from yesterday, and tensed.

  “For you. Untraceable.”

  His voice was just as deep as it had been yesterday. Just as raspy. Just as rumbly. And God, it hit me straight between the legs. Exactly where I’d held my vibrator last night.

  “Why?” I asked, not moving my lips, aware the question was mumbled but unable to help it.

  “There’s a text message waiting for you.”

  He moved away at that, and though I wanted to snatch at the phone and read what he’d written, I reached for my kombucha, swiped my phone onto my lap at the same time, then reached for the one Link had given me.

  I had to applaud him for his perception, because it matched mine. Down to the rose gold color.

  Everything came with a cost, but still, it thrilled me to have a means of communication that didn’t come tied to a bank account my father monitored.

  As I swiped toward the messages, I saw he’d input his number already.

  Link: How are we supposed to talk if you can’t say what you want to say?

  I bit my bottom lip to hide my smile. Me: Figured that out, did you?

  Link: Just call me a fucking genius.

  This time I couldn’t stop my lips from twitching. I already knew Link didn’t have a problem with swearing around ladies. Even my dick of a father tried not to curse around me, and only did so in moments of extreme pressure or stress. I swore he thought I was some kind of shrinking violet when I was anything but that. Hell, he’d made me into the woman I was today, but he didn’t seem to figure out that hearing the word ‘fuck’ wasn’t going to make me pass out with horror.

  I pulled on the straw, swallowing more of my drink as I, carefully, looked out of the corner of my eye. When I spotted Link, watching me but without any of my caution, I relinquished the hold on the straw and shot him a careful smile.

  He was splayed out as, I was coming to see, was his way. On the table of four, he had the seat closest to the wall. His back was to it, and his legs were open at what most decent people would consider a vulgar—and unless he was hung like a fucking stallion—totally unnecessary width.

  Still, it suited him.

  I didn’t think he was trying to take up the maximum space to be a dick either. It was like he just needed the room. All the room. His eyes were on me, and he was typing without even looking at his screen.

  The phone buzzed in my hand.

  Link: I like that smile on you. I get the feeling you don’t do that often.

  What amazed me was the lack of typos. Not a single one. That was a talent I needed to pick up. If I didn’t look at the screen then I’d write something barely legible.

  Me: Not much to smile about.

  Fuck, that sounded self-piteous, didn’t it?

  I quickly sent. Me: I didn’t mean that to sound whiny.

  Link: Didn’t. Sounded fucking miserable.

  Despite myself, and despite the fact he was right, it was miserable, I laughed.

  Link: Not sure why you’re laughing, sugar tits. I was being serious.

  My eyes widened. Sugar tits?

  For a second, I was speechless, then I turned to him, uncaring that Paul and Alix might be watching, and mouthed, “Sugar tits?”

  He smirked at me and spread his arm out, resting it against the table. His fingers began to tap against the surface, and he looked so cool at that moment, so goddamn slick, that I had to shake my head again.

  The phone buzzed once more.

  Link: Now you know how to reach me if you need to tell us anything.

  Me: Might not be much to share at the moment. He’s going away. But good thinking. Thank you.

  He shrugged, the gesture effortless. Something about him made me wonder if he was always so damn chilled, but even as the thought crossed my mind, I recognized that that couldn’t be right. Everyone had their tipping point. Link included.

  Before I had the chance to stare at him like a love-sick teenager—Lord above, I could have stared at him for days like I was at a gallery opening and he was a lost Rembrandt—I forced myself to finish my kombucha then headed on out, my new phone tucked into the waistband of my pants, well aware that Link watched me go.

  Shit, I knew things were bad when I was hoping he was checking out my ass in the skintight pants I was wearing.

  Once outside, I dipped my chin, acknowledging Paul and Alix in their SUV before retreating to mine. My phone bleeped, my real one, and as I climbed behind the wheel, I opened the message and saw it was Tiffany.

  My lips curved into a genuine smile because Tiffany was the bomb. Her family wasn’t as rich as mine which, in Luke’s opinion, had always made Tiffany unworthy of our friendship—yup, he was that much of a dick—but she seriously rocked. My father agreed, too, because he’d never tried to stop our friendship, and he was more than capable of doing so.

  West Orange was an unusual enclave for a gathering of the nation’s one percent, especially so close to the city, but it was thanks to Tiffany’s family in a small part. On the outskirts, they’d developed a subdivision that had attracted a lot of wealthy families who were tired of the city sprawl, who wanted more room to roam.

  Father, also being a dick, hadn’t purchased land there, but had, instead, bought up a few parcels beside the subdivision. His property was like an island surrounded by an ocean of land which, ultimately, connected with the exclusive urbanization. I knew Father and Richard Farquar, Tiffany’s dad, played golf together at least once a week, so I had to assume they were friends too. Or, as much a friend as my dickhead dad was capable of having.

  Tiffany: Where. Are. You?

  Me: Just getting a kombucha.

  Tiffany: That stuff’ll kill ya.

  Me: How? By over-cleansing my gut?

  Tiffany: Pffft. You attending class today?

  Me: Yeah. Just driving to the club.

  Tiffany: Cool. See you there. We’ll get our nails done after, okay?

  I rolled my eyes, because we’d only just had our nails done a few days ago.

  Me: I might have a pedi. You’ll damage your nails with the amount of manicures you get.

  Tiffany: Stop preaching. :p I like to change the color!

  Shaking my head at that non-answer, I just tapped out, I know, babe. On my way.

  I set my phone on the dash, hooking it up to the wireless charger, then placed my new cell on the passenger seat beside me.

  Eying it for a few seconds, I wondered if Link understood what he’d actually given me. Not just a means of communicating with him, but a liberation I didn’t think he or many other people would ever be able to understand.

  I was rich. Therefore I had it all.

  But I was under guard twenty-four seven. All of my purchases were monitored, my activity taken note of. I couldn’t take a piss without someone being aware of it. What kind of freedom was that? What kind of life was that?

  I was a tiger in a cage, a tiger that was just waiting to maul its keeper in an escape attempt.

  In yoga, they taught you to let go of what you couldn’t change, but how could I do that? How could I relinquish my internal rage over the systematic governing of my existence? Was I weird that I couldn’t? Or was I strong in my refusal to turn into the Stepford wife my father wanted me to be?

  Even as I gnawed on my bottom lip over that, thinking of a day when I would be free to do whatever the hell I wan
ted, fucking anyone I wanted in the process—rough and tumble bikers included—I felt the shackles around my throat, wrists, and ankles tighten to the point of suffocation before I overcame the sensation of choking and set off.

  What I really wanted to do was head back into the café, flirt some with Link, and do something of value. Something of my choice.

  But that was for another day. Another tomorrow.

  So I exhaled, relinquished what I couldn’t change today, and moved my ass.

  Wednesday

  Lily: So, am I allowed to text you about non-murder related things?

  Link: Depends.

  Lily: On what?

  Link: If it’s interesting.

  Lily: How do I know if it’s interesting?

  Link: If I reply.

  Lily: Okay.

  Lily: What’s the farthest you’ve ridden on your bike?

  Link: Why?

  Lily: Why not?

  Link: Okay…I’m not going to talk about the MC.

  Lily: Didn’t ask you about the MC. Just wanted to know how far you’d ridden.

  Link: Why?

  Lily: Wanted to know if it made your butt hurt after a while.

  Link: :p I don’t mind.

  Lily: You don’t mind an aching butt? Hmm. I need to man up then when I’m doing a spin class.

  Link: That how you stay in shape? Spinning?

  Lily: Yup. That and a few other ways. I spend a lot of time at the club.

  Link: Why?

  Lily: Because it gets me out of the house.

  Link: Can’t blame you for THAT.

  Lily: No. If I’m not there, I’m at my friend’s.

  Link: Why haven’t you moved out?

  Lily: I can’t. Not really. He wouldn’t let me. I tried once, but he cut me off before I could do much. I got a job at this clothing store, he bought the building and threatened to shut the store down. The owner was this really nice woman, and it wasn’t her fault he wants me tied to him, so I quit… I know he’d do that again and again. *shrugs* Easier to concede than let someone innocent get hurt by our feuding.

  Link: o.O He bought the fucking store? You know he’s a psycho, yeah?