by Anne Malcom
“Morning, sweetie,” I greeted cheerfully, passing her a cup of coffee.
She sipped it then eyed me cautiously. “Has there been some horrific national disaster?” she asked.
I glanced up from the griddle where I was scrambling eggs, frowning at the strange morning greeting. “Not that I know of,” I answered.
She shuffled to the breakfast bar. “Have any of our friends or family died?”
I gaped at her. “Of course not!” Maybe her weird half sleep phrases were making another appearance.
She sipped her coffee, looking slightly more alert. “Has Hell frozen over?” she continued.
I put my hand on my hip. “I sure hope not. If Little Nicky has anything right that would not be a good situation,” I replied. “Now what’s with the twenty, Sherlock?”
“You’re cooking,” she observed.
“I can cook,” I defended myself.
“If held at gunpoint, yes,” Lexie conceded. She paused, looking me up and down. “You’re dressed,” she also pointed out.
I looked down at my pencil skirt and heels. “People look at me weird if I go out in only my underwear,” I answered, sliding eggs onto a plate with toast.
“It’s 7 a.m.,” she said.
“I own a watch,” I told her, passing her the plate.
“Is this—”
“Gluten free? Yes, weirdo, it is. I wouldn’t dare poison my favorite daughter with wheat,” I interrupted her, topping up my own coffee.
“Only daughter,” she countered, taking a bite of her toast.
“That you know of,” I shot back.
“Anyway, as I was saying—” She glared at me accusingly. “It’s 7a.m. Never in my life, apart from that one time you decided we had to get up and watch the Olympics, have you been up dressed and coffee’d before this time,” she said in between bites. “And I can count on one hand the times you’ve cooked me breakfast.”
“Hey! Don’t make me sound like a terrible mother. I’ve cooked you breakfast since you were born,” I said defensively. “Starting with these puppies.” I pointed at my breasts, which she put in danger of ruining for good until I changed to formula.
She gave me a disapproving look before ignoring the breast milk reference. “Toasting Pop Tarts and putting milk in cereal doesn’t count,” she offered.
I leaned against the counter. “I respectfully disagree.”
“I’m not discussing the semantics over our differing definitions of cooking with you,” Lexie said exasperatedly. “I’m asking why, at 7 a.m., are you up, dressed and cooking?”
I stiffened slightly. “I woke up. Was feeling energetic,” I lied.
I had never lied to my daughter, save the one I had told her about her father. Though that one was for her own safety, and I still felt sick over it. I felt no better about this one. I could hardly say I was across the road at Zane’s having crazy animal sex all night, had only got home a couple of hours ago, and decided I couldn’t sleep so had consumed copious amounts of coffee and decided to cook breakfast.
“You were feeling energetic?” she repeated suspiciously.
“Mmhmm,” I said into my coffee mug.
She gazed at me disbelievingly and for a moment, I thought the interrogation would continue. But thankfully she focused on her breakfast and said nothing more on the subject.
Zane and I hadn’t exactly fleshed out terms of our sex arrangement. Namely because most of last night was spent discovering each other’s bodies and him giving me insane orgasms. I was delightfully sore, and more than a few places on my body had small discolorations from the grip of his hands. It was rough. The sex. He was rough in everything he did. I knew he held back; a man that size had to. But not much. He was rough and I loved it. Before him, I didn’t consider myself exactly adventurous in the bedroom. I certainly wouldn’t say I liked rough sex. With Lexie’s father we had been fumbling teenagers for a start, so it wasn’t exactly good. Then he learned and it got better. Then he turned into a monster and his touch repulsed me.
The couple of men I’d had since then weren’t anything to write home about. They did the job, but they didn’t set my entire body on fire as Zane had. So last night was spent with little to no talking. And in the early hours of the morning, when we had finally finished, we lay in silence for a long while, neither of us sleeping.
“I should go,” I had whispered, breaking the spell.
His grip had tightened around my middle.
“Yep.” His breath tickled my ear.
He held me for a moment longer, then released me.
I had dressed silently in the dim morning light as he watched me.
“So um,” I said awkwardly, “I’ll see you.”
He was silent. I almost turned to leave, but he knifed up before I could move.
“Need one last taste,” he muttered, gripping my hips as he stood.
His hand clutched my head and he pulled me into a brutal kiss. It seemed the passion of our entire night poured into that kiss.
When he let me go I blinked, momentarily stunned. “Bye,” I said quietly, regaining motor skills.
He did that thing where he ran his thumb from my temple to my jaw. “I’ll see you,” he promised me quietly.
I had wandered home in the dim morning light, luckily unseen by any neighbors. Because of the sheer amount of thoughts racing through my brain, once I was safely in my house I couldn’t sleep. So I cleaned. Did laundry. And cooked my daughter breakfast. Something that was obviously an oddity, thanks to the reaction it got. But I needed to keep busy. Otherwise I would think about what I had just done. Gone back to the bed of a broody, dangerous, menacing man who had treated me like a leper for weeks, then a whore, then with confusing tenderness. I would also think about how I had waltzed over there and hopped back into bed with him after barely giving him a verbal lashing for the way he treated me. Then there was the small fact he was in a motorcycle club. Now I wasn’t one to judge. I had been a single teenage mom. I had my fair share of judgment in my life so I knew how crappy it felt. Therefore, I considered myself pretty open-minded. From what I could see, his “club” was full of scary, seriously hot nice guys. But it wasn’t just me I had to think about.
I eyed the girl who was turning into a woman, munching on gluten free toast and organic eggs. The girl that was my entire world. I would protect her with my last breath. Do anything to keep her safe and happy. And I wasn’t sure having connections with the Sons of Templar would accomplish that.
Bull pulled up to the clubhouse, and for once it didn’t give him that feeling of relief. Of purpose. The sight of the clubhouse, the garage and the club’s flag flying in the wind didn’t do their job of keeping the demons at bay. That’s because something had already done that. Not something. Someone.
Mia.
He could still feel the sweet taste of her cunt on his tongue. Feel her nails raking into his back, drawing blood, making his cock pulse. Christ, he could still smell the vanilla, as if she was right there with him, on his fuckin’ bike. He had fucked up. Not only by fucking her in the first place; that was the huge colossal fuck up. Because now he was like an addict who had his first taste. He thought he could withstand her after the first time. But then he heard the fucker Lucky flirting, trying to lay claim on her. She was his. The thought of her with his brother made him grip the handles of his bike as he pulled up.
Then she turned up on his doorstep in the middle of the night. Fucking barefoot. Wearing a scrap of lace barely covered with a flannel. The tiny thing was like a goddamned wet dream with her tousled hair and rosy cheeks. Then she started at him. Yelled at him. He had a fuckin’ gun in his hand, for crissakes, but that didn’t stop her, not his Wildcat. She had pounced.
The moment he opened the door to her his cock hardened. But then, seeing her face redden, watching her throw him sass, it barely stayed in his pants. He had no choice but to claim her mouth. And when she fought him, slapped him, it had taken every ounce of his control to wait while s
he chewed it over in her mind. He was beyond fuckin’ glad the moment she launched her little body at him. He shuddered to think of what would have happened had she not.
Then he had tasted every inch of her. Fucked her with abandon. With a fury he had never unleashed. She took it. She fuckin’ loved it.
And then he had seen it. In her eyes. He had seen something that threatened his very core. Something he couldn’t describe but something that planted deep. Something that had him, right now, sitting on his bike in front of his clubhouse, feeling the closest thing to satisfied he had been in forever. Which made him fuckin’ furious. He couldn’t have this. Couldn’t have her. But he couldn’t not have her either.
He pushed off his bike and glowered at a prospect who was milling about. “What do you think you’re doing, fucktard?” he snapped. “You want to get a patch, you don’t fuckin’ stand around with your finger up your ass. Make yourself fuckin’ useful!” he bellowed, and the prospect paled.
He didn’t wait to see what he did; he had church.
He saw, once he made it to the room that had become his place of worship, he was the last to arrive. The look on his brothers’ faces communicated that this was a rare occurrence. He ignored this. His glower stayed in place, although he gave a chin lift to Cade.
Cade nodded back. “Brother,” he greeted.
Bull took his place at his left. Brock was at his right, Steg beside him. Steg had stepped down as president after being shot; considering the fact he almost died, he was in no state to ride for months. Not being able to ride meant not being able to rule. Cade had stepped up. It had been almost two years since, and Cade had continued to be president even after Steg had recovered. Bull had half expected that to turn sour, considering the bad blood brewing between them before. But for some reason it hadn’t. Steg seemed content, and the club was running well under Cade’s rule. Running legit.
“Now that we’re all here, we need to get straight to business,” Cade addressed the room. “We all know that another club over in Hope has been testing our boundaries, looking to extend their patch.” He paused, leaning forward to clasp his hands together. “Up until now they’ve been nothing but a vague annoyance, one that is easily ignored.” He stopped again, looking around the table. “Unfortunately, they have upgraded themselves to a pain in my ass. Not only does it seem like they’re recruiting solely to gain numbers, which is worrying in itself, it seems the fuckers have been trying to push product within our town,” he declared tightly.
Bull’s fists clenched. Even though the Sons were legit, or as legit as they could be, that did not mean other clubs could get away with shit. It was known, widely fuckin’ known within all MCs, that the Sons did not tolerate drugs being sold in Amber. It was a policy strictly enforced throughout the years. To do so, especially by another MC, was tantamount to a declaration of war.
“You’re fuckin’ shitting me,” Asher bit out from down the table.
Lucky shook his head. “Got word a couple of hours ago. Their patch was seen doing a deal at the lumber yard.” He flexed his knuckles. “Had a... conversation with the foreman. It seems his workers have been purchasing product for fuckin’ weeks.”
There were hisses around the table. This was an ultimate disrespect. The club may not run guns anymore, but they were not to be fucked with.
“We’re not letting this shit stand,” Brock said evenly.
“Too fuckin’ right we’re not,” Steg added roughly. “This pissant club is going to regret the day they put on their cuts. You do not fuck with us.”
Nods around the table.
“Steg’s right,” Cade said, his face blank. “Goes without saying we gotta play this smart. ATF may not be up our asses anymore, but we’re still on their Christmas card list. No to mention that fucker Crawford would love to get us locked up over unpaid parking tickets, if he could.” Cade looked around once more, his eyes settling on Bull. “We’re doing this smart,” he repeated. “But we’ll make sure these fuckers get the message.”
With that declaration, they discussed strategies and plans. Once that was done, Cade dismissed his brothers. Bull stood to leave; he would never say it out loud, but he was almost happy this shit was going down. He needed it. Needed to pummel out his anger on these pissants. He needed to focus on something other than a blonde with a sweet cunt.
“Bull,” Cade called before he could leave. “A word,” he requested.
Bull nodded and moved back to his seat as the boys filtered out.
Cade stared at him once the room had emptied. Bull didn’t say anything. Cade was used to it. He didn’t speak when he didn’t have to. Mostly because he was focusing on the shit inside his head. On the demons. Those fuckers were quiet at the moment, but they were still there, waiting.
“You good, brother?” Cade started, watching him.
Bull nodded. “I’ll be better when I get to teach those bastards a lesson,” he said, referring to the mission.
Cade nodded distractedly. “Yeah well, they’ll get taught.” He paused. “I’m talking about you nearly rearranging Lucky’s face yesterday.”
Bull stiffened. He said nothing.
“You want to tell me what that was about?” Cade asked evenly.
“Nothing,” Bull bit out.
Cade regarded him. “So it wasn’t about Mia?”
Bull’s fists clenched. He didn’t need her name spoken here. Not in this room.
“All due respect, Prez, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about and I’d appreciate if you don’t say her name again,” he ground out.
Cade’s eyes flared slightly, but otherwise he didn’t react. “Not looking to get my face rearranged either, brother, just looking out for you,” he said carefully. “She’s nice. Her kid too. It’s okay, you know, to move on...”
Bull pushed out of his chair. “This conversation is done,” he grunted, having to hold himself back from grasping his president and his best friend by the collar.
Cade stood too. His normally emotionless face was troubled and he was looking at him in concern.
This bristled Bull that much more. He didn’t need that fuckin’ look. He loathed to see that on Cade’s face. It made him feel weak. He knew what his brother had done for him. What his Old Lady had done. Pulled him back from the brink. When he had been preparing to meet the Devil, to give in to the demons, Cade had yanked him back from the edge. He wasn’t thankful at the time. Sometimes he hated his brother for making him continue the fight, other times, like right now, was angry for another reason. For thinking there might be another reason to continue, other than the club. Her.
I tapped my pencil down on my desk impatiently. I was in a bad mood. This was unusual. Once I had dragged myself out of my very own living Hell, I made it my mission to be happy. To be positive. Have a sense of humor. It helped I had a beautiful daughter to keep me looking at the glass half full. I was also stubborn. So through money problems, fear and all sorts of other things life threw at me, I managed to look on the bright side and try to make the best of it. I had it pretty good. I had friends, Steve and Ava, and I had Lexie. The dark shadow of our life before would always be with me but I learned to turn a blind eye. Apart from making sure he couldn’t find us, wouldn’t find us, that shadow didn’t exist. Apart from in my dreams.
So, sitting at my desk in my little office at the hotel, I found it hard to drag myself out from the black cloud I was currently letting infect my life. Nothing particularly bad had happened. It was an accumulation of things. I slept through my alarm. Ran out of coffee. Poked myself in the eye with a mascara wand. Twice. I then spilled my precious Shelly coffee all over my white pants, hence a detour home to change an outfit. And then another detour to replace the coffee. So I was late to work. Then I had to deal with rude guests and staff shortages.
I had hidden myself in the salon, the place where I felt most at home, at peace. I had started in hotels as a maid while working to support Lexie and I and put myself through beauty school. I
t was hard, really hard. But I did it, and worked as a therapist for years before Steve had promoted me to manager. Although I didn’t miss the backaches from the exertion of giving massages, I missed the feeling of helping to make women feel beautiful.
So that’s how I found myself behind the desk at the salon, sipping a coffee, trying to find my Zen.
“I’m so freaking furious at him!”
I glanced up at hearing the raised voice amongst my Zen music.
“Girl, how you can be furious at a man like that is beyond me. One look at his impressive physique and broody eyes, he’s forgiven for an-y-thing,” a throaty voice replied to the complaint.
My eyes rested on Gwen—I think that was her name—from the store that was way out of my price range but sometimes existed in my dreams. I remembered how nice she had been to Lexie and I, and her accent was pretty unique. She hadn’t properly approached the desk and seemed too into her conversation to notice me.
“Yes, well, trust me—those things have got him away with a lot.” She paused and stopped walking. “A lot,” she repeated meaningfully. “But not this time,” she said firmly.
The woman with her just shook her head knowingly. The woman I did not recognize. And I would have remembered her. She was like a supermodel. Her inky black hair tumbled down her back, shining like she was in a fricking shampoo ad. I wondered if there was a way I could ask her about which products she used without sounding like a weirdo. Her skin was pale and flawless, not needing the expertly applied makeup, though her winged liner that could cut a bitch it was that sharp. She was wearing all black, which would have been harsh on anyone else, but somehow she worked it. Her long, svelte body encased in a tight polo neck dress that finished below her knees, and killer heels with laces creeping up her calves. It made me have a fleeting thought about joining the gym. That didn’t last for long.