Cary

by Jessica Gadziala

He was tall and very fit with most of his exposed skin decorated in tattoos, so you could only imagine that underneath his clothes, he was extensively covered.

  He had a square jaw with a full beard, dark blue eyes, and hair that had gone from black to mostly silver since his last mugshot. Which only made him even more attractive.

  I’d shown up at the biker clubhouse still looking over my shoulder.

  What could I say? It had been a tense week and a half. I’d just barely managed to make it out of Mexico without being discovered.

  I’d known Raúl had a long reach, but I think even I had underestimated how many men and women and even children would be looking for me. Pictures of me seemed to be everywhere, a fact that had made me duck my head because it felt like everyone I passed was carefully examining my face to see if it matched the posters.

  Thankfully, covering up my freckles, heavily making up my face, and dying and cutting my hair made me all but invisible. I’d actually bumped shoulders with a man I’d seen at Raúl’s estate more than a handful of times, and he’d been none-the-wiser.

  But a part of me was terrified that it had been too easy. Like maybe Raúl had found a new way to torment me. Letting me taste freedom for a while before snatching it away from me again.

  I wasn’t sure I took a proper breath until I finally crossed the border, then got far enough away from it to be sure that Raúl’s people weren’t on every single street corner.

  Still, though, even when I made it all the way up to New Jersey after figuring out that Cary had headed in the direction of some weird town called Navesink Bank to join another biker club called the Navesink Bank Henchmen, I was paranoid that someone had picked up on my trail.

  Even though I’d been as careful as my means had allowed me to be.

  I hadn’t exactly left the house with much. A diamond necklace, some spare cash I’d very carefully been stocking away for years, and a single gold cufflink.

  It had barely been enough for transport and a bare minimum of food. I had a measly two-fifty left in my pocket. I hadn’t eaten a full meal, slept in a bed, or had more than a restroom whore’s bath since I’d left Raúl’s home.

  I was exhausted and dirty and starving and so freaking desperate that I just about burst out crying when Cary seemed to have absolutely no memory of me.

  It hurt more than I thought it could have. For me, corresponding with Cary had been a really significant part of my life for many years. I guess I always figured it would mean the same—or more—to him. Since, in my head, I figured a man in prison for so many years without a wife or children to write him must have been desperate for a little connection.

  I’d been wrong, clearly.

  Just another blow in a long life of learning to roll with them.

  I could process that later.

  “No,” Cary said, shaking his head. His brows furrowed as his gaze moved over me again. “No. That Abigail was—“

  “A long strawberry-blonde woman trapped in a miserable marriage and having a major identity crisis?” I asked, still aching for that girl I’d once been—so young, and so deeply unhappy. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Cary hissed, looking taken aback.

  “It’s been a while,” I said, giving him a ghost of a smile.

  “Last I heard from you…”

  “I was getting served divorce papers from my husband because I couldn’t give him a child.”

  “Fucking dick, that one.”

  Just wait until you hear about the one after him.

  And in both situations, I’d had very little choice in it, if you looked at both circumstances through an objective eye.

  “He was,” I agreed, proud of myself for being able to say that about him. For the months after the divorce that left me damn near penniless and as incapable of managing by myself in the world as a newborn foal, I’d been an open, bleeding wound, so convinced that I was to blame for the dissolution of my marriage, that I was somehow less womanly or desirable or worthy because of something so out of my control.

  Back in those days, my ex-husband had been the victim in my mind, a poor, unwitting man strapped to a woman who couldn’t give him what he needed, who forced him to do something as blasphemous as file for divorce from me.

  It took a really long time and a lot of inner work to realize that Kian hadn’t divorced me because I wasn’t able to have children. He’d divorced me because he believed—as I’d been raised to as well—that the only purpose of sex was reproduction. So if I couldn’t ‘be fruitful,’ then he couldn’t have sex with me anymore. Which made him a miserable wretch to live with. Even if, admittedly, a part of me had been relieved that I wouldn’t have to endure those ‘attentions’ from my husband anymore.

  In the end, the community we’d been raised in embraced him even as they shunned me.

  “Why’d you stop writing?” Cary asked, voice low, a little soft, even. Maybe even a hint of raw and vulnerable, making it clear that our communication had meant something to him as well.

  “I fell into a really deep hole after the divorce,” I admitted.

  “All the more reason you should have written. I’d have been a lot more helpful than that cult you were raised in.”

  Okay, maybe that was harsh-sounding at first blush. But time and distance had taught me that while my religion hadn’t been a cult, that the particular off-shoot of it that I’d been born and raised in definitely had some culty vibes. Complete with a creepy, but beloved leader who used fear and shame against us. Especially the girls and women.

  And the rules had been harsh.

  We couldn’t attend any public schools where we might have become privy to how the real world actually worked. Instead, we attended a small religion-based school in our community where the boys and girls were separated at all times. We couldn’t even go on the playground together.

  We didn’t learn about sex until right before our weddings.

  And even when we did, we knew of it as a duty and nothing more.

  I’d been raised to believe I had one purpose and one purpose only.

  To get big and round with baby after baby until my body couldn’t do it anymore.

  In turn, Kian and all the other boys and men had been raised to believe their place was at the head of the house, and therefore, could expect absolute subservience from everyone under their roof.

  I wondered at times what that community was still like, if there had been any progress in the years I’d been away. But my gut told me there wouldn’t be. If anything, as they thought the world was getting more and more evil and sinful, they would have pulled tighter and doubled-down on their narrow-minded beliefs.

  They would be no help to me.

  Somehow, they would spin the situation into my being at fault for what had happened to me. Not even my parents would offer a hand to help me. The parents who’d given Kian tearful hugs after our divorce proceedings, paying no mind to the puddle of despair their daughter had been reduced to right there in the office.

  “I felt a lot of shame back then,” I admitted. Though I didn’t admit that I still sometimes felt that. About my marriage. But also about what had happened to me afterward.

  “For what? Not being able to give that asshole kids?” Cary asked, scoffing. “Your body is meant for more than making babies.”

  “I realize that now. But back then, it felt like the end of the world. I didn’t open up to anyone about it.”

  “What did you do then?” Cary asked.

  “I decided to go on a mission.”

  “A mission? Like to make people join your religion type of mission?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Because it made you so happy,” he said, shaking his head at my previous lack of logic.

  “I think my mindset back then was that if I was good enough, if I tried hard enough, if I did everything in my power to bring our ways to more people, that maybe God would let me back in his favor.”

  “From the way you flinch wheneve
r there is any noise around you, I’m gonna go ahead and figure that all that hard work didn’t end up how you wanted it to.”

  “No,” I admitted, taking a steadying breath, feeling a little too open and exposed right then.

  It had been a long time since I thought of my life before Raúl.

  And I’d never actually openly discussed it with anyone.

  Cary looked off for a second, giving me a view of his profile as he worked through something in his head before facing me again.

  “So you need my help.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I asked, slow-blinking at him. “You don’t even know what kind of help it is yet.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But the way I see it, your first letter came to me in a down time. I needed someone then. And there you were. And you remained there for a long-ass time. I owe you for that. You made prison more bearable. But before I even want to hear about whatever shit has you jumping at shadows, I need to feed you.”

  “Feed me?” I asked, even as my stomach churned hard in objection to its emptiness.

  “Can’t fucking think straight with you looking like skin hanging over bones,” Cary admitted. “And maybe I can scrounge up some fresh clothes for you. The princesses leave their shit around all the time. Brooks, one of the guys here, makes the prospects clean them. So they’re around. Maybe you can use my room to take a shower and change while I make you something to eat. Then you can get a couple of winks without worrying about anything because you’re safe here. Then we can talk about it. Sound good?”

  “It sounds too good to be true,” I admitted, letting out a laugh that didn’t have a hint of humor in it.

  “It’s basic fucking civility,” Cary corrected. “Come on,” he invited, moving toward the doorway, leading me out into the main area of the clubhouse, then down a hallway that ran along the side of it. We went almost to the end before he pushed a door open, and welcomed me into his room.

  He had a space big enough for what looked like a queen-sized bed and a private bathroom to the side. The bedroom kind of fit Cary, if it wasn’t too presumptuous to think I knew a thing about him after so long.

  But the deep green of the walls and the rustic wood of the bed, nightstand, and dresser all had a sort of manly elegance about them. Which seemed to fit the man I spent so many letters getting to know once upon a time when I got a wild hair to join a prison pen-pal exchange with my women’s group.

  We were supposed to get to know the men and women, then eventually start to try to introduce them to our ways with the hopes of a full conversion.

  I’d been assigned to Cary. And I really hadn’t expected anything but to talk about his hardships and what led him to a life of crime, then show him how faith could help him back onto the right path.

  I hadn’t expected someone with so much depth and experience, with so many stories to tell, and even advice to give when I eventually went off script and started to open up about my own life as well.

  “This is really nice,” I told him, looking around the space that was masculine, yet still warm.

  “Thanks, love,” he said, waving toward the bathroom. “Feel free to use anything in there you need. Let me just grab some clothes.”

  And then five minutes later, he did just that.

  In private, I went ahead and had a good giggle over the shirt he’d given me without checking out what image was plastered over the breast pocket. Which was a collection of really cute cartoon condoms and condom wrappers.

  I didn’t exactly know what a “princess” meant when it came to biker clubs, but I thought that the owner of that shirt must have been very secure in herself and her sexuality. I couldn’t help but be just a tad bit jealous as I double-checked that I locked the door, then climbed into the shower.

  I spent way too long under the blistering hot water. First, scrubbing at my body and hair with a vengeance, disgusted in how long it had been since I’d gotten a proper wash. But then after that was done, just standing there trying to think of how to ask Cary for the kind of help I was going to need. And what the hell I was going to do if he refused.

  No.

  He wasn’t going to do that.

  I mean it was possible that he couldn’t help me, but he would at least send me in the direction of someone who could.

  He was a good man.

  That was why I’d decided to seek him out.

  “Abigail, love, are you okay in there?” Cary asked, shocking me out of my swirling thoughts as I stared into the mirror without actually seeing myself. “The water cut off ten minutes ago, just wanted to make sure you didn’t pass out in there or something,” he added.

  “Sorry. No. I’m okay,” I said, making my way toward the door and pulling it open.

  I won’t lie, when his eyes did a slow once-over, my belly totally flip-flopped.

  “Should have checked out the shirt, huh?” he asked, smirking as he raked a hand over his beard. “That one must have been Billie’s. She teaches tantric sex workshops and shit like that. I can lend you a different shirt,” he offered.

  “It’s fine,” I assured him, shrugging.

  “You’re sure?” he pressed, clearly thinking of my past, of the girl I’d once been.

  “A lot has changed since then. This doesn’t bother me anymore,” I told him.

  “Not sure if I should be happy for you, or deeply concerned,” Cary admitted as he led me back into the kitchen where the rich scents of cooking hit my nose and made my belly let out yet another grumble.

  “Maybe both,” I admitted, making him turn back toward me with drawn together brows.

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “It’s not a nice story,” I warned him.

  “Well, have a seat, and let’s get into it,” he suggested, waving toward the table as he went to the stove to start making a plate.

  I wasn’t sure I was ready.

  Hell, I wasn’t sure I could ever be ready.

  But it was time to tell somewhere what had happened to me.

  How and why I’d disappeared for the last six and a half years.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Abigail

  “So, you went on a mission,” Cary prompted a few minutes later as he dropped down across from me. Like he hadn’t just dropped a full-on meal right in front of me like it was no big deal.

  I’d never met a man who could cook.

  In the society I’d grown up in, men wouldn’t even think about doing such a thing. If they even tried because their wife was sick or something, the whole community would blame the wife for her husband having to do such a ‘womanly’ task.

  And with Raúl, well, there were cooks for such things.

  I wasn’t even sure that Raúl knew the way to his own kitchen.

  So the fact that Cary had just dropped a big plate in front of me with a hamburger, a giant baked potato loaded with butter, and a side of peas in front of me was just a little jarring. I couldn’t think past it to focus on my own story.

  “Something wrong? Are you a vegetarian? We have veggie burgers in the freezer.”

  “I’m having a hard time picturing a biker eating a veggie burger,” I admitted, smiling a little at the idea.

  “I like ‘em on occasion. They’re Billie’s, though.”

  “Same as my shirt,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s a princess?” I asked.

  “The daughter of one of the club members. The girls are princesses. The guys are legacies, if they choose to prospect.”

  “Prospect means to try to join?” I asked as I reached for the burger, too hungry to feel weird about eating when he wasn’t.

  “Yes.”

  “Can the girls prospect?” I asked, even though I’d never seen a lady biker before.

  “Ah, that’s a good question. I know with the older generation, under Reign’s leadership, they could prospect, but no woman was ever let in. I don’t know about how Fallon, our curre
nt president, feels about it. He’s with a former female biker president of her own MC. So I’m gonna imagine he’s more progressive. Why? You thinking about joining?” he teased. And it was teasing, since no one would ever look at me with my bones sticking out of my skin, and think I was going to be a badass biker.

  “I’ve never been on a motorcycle,” I admitted before taking another bite of my burger, just barely managing to resist the pornographic sounds that bubbled up in my system at having some real food for the first time in days. Hell, if I were being completely honest, I hadn’t had anything like a burger in years.

  “You ever feel up to it, I can take you out.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, hearing the hope in my voice, excited about the possibility of being able to make my own decision, to do something just because it sounded interesting.

  “Absolutely. But you have to do me a favor first.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, stiffening.

  “Stop starving yourself,” he said.

  And, truly, there was nothing but genuine, very sweet concern in his voice. But I couldn’t help it. The laugh bubbled up and burst out of me, high-pitched, almost a little hysterical. It was just so insane to think I’d chosen anything that had happened to me since, well, my marriage.

  “You okay?” Cary asked, looking even more concerned than he’d been about me not eating.

  “Yes, sorry. It’s just… I didn’t choose to be this thin,” I told him, wincing down at my plate.

  “Oh, fuck. Are you sick or something?” he asked, grimacing at his possible faux pas.

  “No. No, it’s… it’s just a long story.”

  “Right,” he agreed, nodding. “And it starts with a mission.”

  “It starts with a mission. To Mexico,” I added, starting to dig into the potato.

  “Why Mexico?”

  “It was as close to home as I could think of,” I admitted. “I know you have had a very interesting life, and that you visited all these places. But I’d only ever known three places. My home, my husband’s home, and the church grounds. The prospect of a new country and a new culture was scary. So Mexico felt more familiar than, say, Tokyo or South Africa. Though, in retrospect, maybe I would have gone there and rediscovered faith and purpose.”