by Voss, Deja
“Austin ain’t coming near you. Either of you. Ever. I promise that.”
“We’re going to be fine, Brooks,” I say. “I feel fine. Everything is good. You just go do your thing.”
“I’m coming back later,” he insists. “You girls better be here.”
“Or what?” I say, standing so close to him that we’re almost touching. I look up at him with a wide grin on my face. He shakes his head and tries to fake a frown.
“Josie, I’m counting on you, girl,” he says. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”
I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him. I don’t know why, but it just feels right. Being near him feels right. Maybe we’ll never amount to anything, but he’s treated me kinder than any man I’ve ever met. Josie piles on, sandwiching me in in an embrace. Brooks stands there stiff, in shock.
“You two are weird,” he says.
“I need a favor,” I call after him as he walks to the front door. He turns and stares, like I could ask him for literally anything in the world and he’d be totally fine with it. These bikers are a different breed. So willing to put themselves on the line for anyone. “I need an address. One not tied to the club. I mean, I can go look for an apartment or whatever, but I just need something to put on my job application for now.”
“You’re not getting an apartment,” he says. “I’ll figure something out. Go to bed.”
He slams the door behind him, and Josie and I start cracking up. I’m laughing so hard I have to hug the kitchen island to stay upright.
“Why is this so funny?” she says, tears shooting from her eyes.
“Cuz I feel like he’s the dad we never had,” I wheeze.
“Well that’s just gross,” she says. “You guys are obviously trying to slam.”
“Where do you even hear this shit?” I ask. “Go get dressed.”
“Why?” she asks.
“I want a pedicure. And sushi. It’s gorgeous outside and I don’t want to stay cooped up in here all day. Isn’t fresh air supposed to be good for healing?”
“Absolutely hell no,” she says. “Look at you. People are going to talk. This is a small town, Helena. I know you try to forget where you came from, but you can’t just breeze in looking like that. Give it a few days. I’ll go pick up some sushi and bring it back. Hell, I’ll paint your toenails. You need to lay the hell low. Especially if you’re trying to get a job around here.”
“When’d you get so smart?” I ask her.
“Guess I inherited the street smarts there, Miss Bookworm,” she says with a shrug. “Now go lay down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
My brilliant little sister. Way too grown up for her own good. Making sense and keeping me grounded. She walks around opening up windows while I make myself comfortable on the couch. The TV here only has three channels, and you have to get up to change them. I can’t remember the last time I watched afternoon television, but I don’t think it’s changed much since back when I was in high school. Same game shows, more modern prizes. Same talk shows, more potential baby dads.
I’m glad those two talked me into being lazy, though. My body is pretty sore. Nothing ‘hurts’ but everything aches.
“I’ll be back in a little,” Josie says, jingling my car keys. “What do you want?”
“Everything,” I admit. “Get some money out of my wallet?”
“I got it,” she says. “Brooks gave me my allowance.”
“Get the hell out of here,” I say. “You can’t take his money, Josie. You don’t get an allowance. You give that back to him. If you want spending money, you’ll have to go get a part-time job.”
“You know I like my fake hot dad better than I like my sister mom,” she says, rolling her eyes at me. “Eating up all the molly and not even bringing some home for the rest of us…”
“You just go,” I say. Fake hot dad and sister mom. What am I doing? This can’t be healthy for her.
Suddenly alone, only the sound of appliances whirring on the shopping channel in the background, all I have are my thoughts and my aches to keep me company. I bury my face in the pillow on the couch and it smells like him. He smells like the earth, leather, a rugged and raw manliness that makes me feel like I’m back on drugs again.
Something about this sad, conflicted man is so attractive. Maybe it’s because I know I could never have him. I’m definitely not a club slut, and I’d definitely never be any good as a replacement wife, but the thought of just having him for the night, giving him a test drive, makes me clench my thighs together. I bet he’s insane in bed. All that pent-up anger, all that sadness, all that experience… it’s been a long time since a man has got me this hot and bothered.
My hand slips between my thighs as I bury my face in the pillow and my mind goes to a place of alternative reality, a place where I don’t have to feel any shame about wanting this bad mean widower biker.
Chapter 14
Helena
“Look at you, sis!” Josie whistles as I walk out the bathroom. I have my hair straightened perfectly, and the only remnant of last week’s incident on my body is the little red lump the stitches left behind. Under a layer of make-up, it really just looks like a pimple. Olive hooked me up with some cream for scars, and I’ve been lathering myself in it pretty religiously.
My navy blue striped tunic looks sharp under the matching fitted blazer, and I love the way my legs look in these skintight slacks. Red high heel pumps on my feet, if anyone thinks I mean anything other than serious business, they’re in for a rude awakening. I’m going to own this job interview.
“You look hot,” she says. “Doesn’t she look hot?”
Brooks just smirks as he pours me a cup of coffee. If we want to talk about people looking hot, he definitely belongs on that list. His black t-shirt and worn jeans should be illegal. The way they fit his lean, tattooed, muscular frame makes me want to commit some crimes.
“Can you look at this quick?” Josie asks, handing him her laptop. “I don’t know if this is right.”
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his glasses.
Not the fucking glasses. Seriously. I’m going to need a cold shower, right now, make-up and hair be damned. Something about a rough guy like him helping my little sister with geometry homework makes my ovaries start break dancing.
I sip my coffee while he helps her get her homework sorted. This has been the ritual for the last week. After a few days, we moved back up to his house for the time being, and even though he graciously offered to stay at the clubhouse while I slept in his bed, I’m happy on the couch. It gives me an excuse to be closer to Josie. Our difference in ages (and mothers) made it so that we really didn’t get to enjoy sister stuff growing up. Now every night feels like a slumber party. We might not have had the best childhood, but now that we’re on our own and in this together, we can live our lives however we want.
She’s got the confidence, I’ve got the resources and wisdom, and no matter where our journey takes us, we’ve got each other.
Brooks has been nothing short of amazing as well. He might come and go as he pleases, but every night at 7 p.m., we all have dinner together. Every morning, we sit around and drink coffee and talk about our day. Every night, he and I sit out on the front porch and listen to the coyotes crying. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes he puts his arm around me, and although I really like that, I don’t push. I don’t pry. We don’t need to talk about what’s going on between us, we can just enjoy it for what it is. Whatever it is.
I don’t know what he does in between those times, and I don’t ask. I can’t ask. Especially now that it appears this job is coming into fruition. It’s none of my business.
He knows I’m not doing this for me. I’m going after this job for the greater good.
“What’s on the agenda tonight?” I ask. “I probably won’t be back until after seven.”
“I’m babysitting Ethan,” Josie says. “Ollie and Tank are going to the city for the
night. She told me I could go through her closet and take anything I want!”
“That’s so great,” I tell her. “If you get scared and want company, I will come over, no questions asked.” I am proud of her for wanting to take on this responsibility, but she is still just a teenager and a night all by herself with a four-year-old is probably going to be a little more difficult than she realizes.
“I got eyes over there, don’t worry,” Brooks mutters under his breath. “Trixie’s on it.” If I trusted anyone to keep her out of trouble, Trixie would be the woman. Everyone on this mountain is her kid in her eyes.
Josie shoots Brooks a defiant sneer and trots off to the living room, slouching down on the couch.
“And what are you doing today?” I ask. “Pillaging and plundering?”
“I was thinking I’d clean out the spare room,” he says. He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself it’s a good idea. That room must have been Esther’s walk-in closet, because it’s filled to the brim with racks of clothes, her make-up vanity, and her workout equipment. I remember how Brooks kind of flipped his switch when Josie went in there and was playing with her perfume, so I know how sacred his little shrine is.
“You don’t have to do that, Brooks. This is your house, and if you like keeping Esther’s room as it is, you have every right to.”
“You two shouldn’t be sleeping on the couches,” he says.
“I’m an adult, Brooks. I can go get us a place to stay any time. I just worry that we’re inconveniencing you.” It has been kind of strange taking up residency in this man’s living room. Strange, but oddly comfortable. Strange, but slightly fun. I know it’s only temporary and that eventually we’ll probably have to think about getting our own place, but him cleaning out that bedroom seems like something more permanent. “You just think about it before you do anything. I’ll happily help you with whatever you need.”
“I have been thinking about it,” he says. “It’s all I do is think about it. I thought her stuff would make me feel closer to her, but it just makes me realize she’s not around to use it. It kind of hurts.”
I put my hand over his and squeeze it. I’m trying so hard to be a good friend, to be strong for him, but I’ve never really lost anyone I cared about so deeply. I guess I could count on one hand the people in my life that I care about that deeply, and fortunately, they’re all still alive.
“Guys and I are going on a run tonight. I might not be back til late. Stop at the clubhouse when you get back?”
“Want me to grab dinner?” I ask. Reality sinks in that this is the first time him and I are going to be alone. At least, the first time we’re going to be alone where I’m not bleeding from my face and high as a kite. My heart is racing at the thought.
Why would it be any different than any other time?
“It’s a date,” he says. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep my composure.
Those are just words. Words people say. They don’t mean anything. A date is a day on the calendar. Oh shit, is he blushing?
He turns and dumps the rest of his coffee down the sink. I stand there, paralyzed in my steps, not wanting to push the moment, not wanting to ruin the moment. Not wanting to breathe or blink or do anything that could possibly frighten him.
He said it, not you.
Guys say a lot of things, though.
“I’m out of here,” I say to no one in particular, grabbing my leather handbag and slinging it over my shoulder.
“Josie is right, though,” Brooks says. “You do look hot.”
Now I’m blushing. I tousle Josie’s hair on my way out the door, running out into the driveway, making sure nobody is within earshot while I squeal like a little schoolgirl. Teenage me would’ve died. Hell, adult me is about to pass out.
I put on my favorite 90s rock station, savoring a little breath of nostalgia while I pull down the street and off to meet my fate. I never thought I’d be this excited to get stuck back in my old hometown. I’d always wanted to run away, even before I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. Now, though, I’m crossing my fingers and toes that I nail this interview. It shouldn’t be hard. I’ve known the chief my whole life. I’m on good terms with everyone on the force. The letter of recommendation from my old chief basically said I was the best police officer that ever walked the face of the planet and anyone would be blessed to even spend a moment in my presence. It’s bittersweet.
Hopping from one corrupt force to another one was never the plan. But then again, none of this was my plan. Maybe plans aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.
Maybe it’s time I just learned to enjoy the ride.
Chapter 15
One Year Ago: Esther
I know he’s wide awake. He hasn’t been sleeping much at all since my diagnosis. At least, not in the traditional sense. I’ll catch him every once in a while dozing off midsentence while he’s at the clubhouse, but none of us dare wake him. My sweet husband has the weight of the world on his shoulders, the weight of the club, the weight of my health, and I think he looks worse than I do. He’s definitely losing weight as quick as I am. Turns out medical marijuana isn’t much better than the kind we already have, but it doesn’t matter how much we smoke, eat, or vape… he’s starting to remind me of the town meth head, only eating or sleeping when his body just completely shuts down.
It’s not pretty.
He’s not pretty. I’m not pretty anymore. My maladies are his. You’d think my ovarian cancer was contagious. My belly is constantly swollen from fluid. Sometimes they drain it with a needle. Sometimes they shoot me with chemo to try and get it to stop. Either way, it’s ironic. Just a few short months ago, a big round belly was exactly what Brooks and I both wanted. Definitely not this way.
I grab his hand in mine and squeeze it. He jumps at my touch. I know my bony fingers are repulsive, but he promised he was going to love me, have me, hold me, and nail me til the day I die when he put that ring on my slightly less skeletal finger.
“Come on,” I whisper, sliding his hand under my lace pink camisole, guiding it to my breast. “Let me make you feel good.”
He jerks away from me, sitting bolt upright in the bed, staring at me like I asked him to give my brother a blowjob or something. Like I’m not his first love, his wife, his old lady. Like I’m just disgusting and scary.
“You’re not going to break me, Brooks,” I say. I don’t ask for much these days. I really can’t in my condition. All I want is to feel close to him, and intimacy has always been my gateway. He knew that getting into a relationship with me. That letting him inside of me was when I felt the very closest to him. “I’m not dead yet.”
No, we can drag this out for 1.7 years or so if we’re lucky. I don’t know who the cancer is going to kill first, him or me. Some days, suicide seems like the most humane option, only because I don’t want to watch him go through this suffering. My pain is his pain.
“Esther, I hate when you say shit like that,” he growls. “You’re never going to get better if you talk like that.”
This poor sap thinks I’m going to get better.
Why he wouldn’t let me live in denial and just let this thing ride its course seems really rude at this point. He wanted me to listen to the doctors. He made me go to all the appointments, all the treatments. He heard everything they said, that the cancer is spreading through my body faster than they can catch it…
And he still thinks there’s hope.
I don’t know if it makes me love him more, or resent him.
I can’t kill myself right now, though. I have shit to do. Loose ends to tie up.
“You want me to call Jasmine?” I ask.
“Stop with that shit right now,” he barks, rolling over on his side, pulling the covers up over his head. I know what these men go through on a daily basis, the kind of life they live for the club, hell, I was raised in it. Sometimes they just need a release. If I can’t give my husband what he needs, I don’t mind sacrificing one of the
girls from the ranch for the greater good. She’s cute enough. I’m not jealous of her. I know she’ll never be able to replace me, even long after I’m gone.
“Why are you being so moody?” I ask. “You think this shit is fun for me? You think I like being treated like a disease by everyone?”
I reach for my morning dosage of pills on the nightstand and start shoving them down. They don’t make me ‘better,’ but they’ll give me a couple hours of feeling at least relatively ‘normal.’ He is unmoving, silent, just a bump under a blanket. I want to be angry at him on one hand. On the other, I don’t want to waste one moment of anger in my already shortened life on the only man I’ve ever loved.
I slip out of bed quietly. I might as well take advantage of the next few hours. Get some stuff worked out at the ranch. I want that place to stay open long after I’m gone, but there’s still so much paperwork that needs to be done, so many things I need to teach Olive if she’s going to take over for me, and a bunch of debt I still need to collect.
I pull on a pair of ill-fitting jeans and a v-neck black t-shirt that used to showcase my every curve, but now it just hangs on my body like a potato sack. I tie an American flag bandana over my head. Red lipstick. Dark sunglasses. Leather jacket. I’m definitely just a sliver of the beautiful badass biker bitch I used to be. A sliver of the glamorous high paid escort I was before Brooks and I got together. A sliver of the only woman who was ever allowed to sit in on church, the princess, the legacy of the Mountain Misfits.
I might not have the looks anymore. I might not have the energy. But I have the spirit.
“I love you,” I say softly to the snoring mass under the covers. I’m glad he finally found some sleep.
Even Mr. Gingerbread isn’t having it this morning. He’s curled up in a ball on the couch, his head tucked into his tummy. I run my fingers through his long red fur and he just snorts at me, not even opening his eyes. I fix his food and refill his water. I set the timer on the coffee pot for Brooks, empty the dishwasher, and fish my little green notebook out of the cookie jar.