EDGE OF REASON

by Barker, Freya

  Table of Contents

  EDGE OF REASON

  COPYRIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  EDGE OF REASON

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 1

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY FREYA BARKER

  Copyright © 2019 Margreet Asselbergs as Freya Barker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or by other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in used critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses as permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, mentioning in the subject line: “Reproduction Request”

  at freyabarker.writes@gmail.com

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, any event, occurrence, or incident is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created and thought up from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN: 978-1-988733-42-5

  Cover Design:

  Freya Barker

  Editing:

  Karen Hrdlicka

  Proofing:

  Joanne Thompson

  Formatting:

  CP Smith

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I always seem to be thanking the same people, but that’s because they ALWAYS help me put my books together. They put in time and effort and I’m very grateful to have them in my life.

  Karen Hrdlicka and Joanne Thompson, my fabulous editing/proofreading team; and Deb Blake, Pam Buchanan & Petra Gleason, my beta readers for Edge Of Reason.

  Also, CP Smith for her amazing formatting talents!

  They’re responsible for cleaning up my messes and making me the book look pretty!

  Then there are a group of folks who make sure my books get into your hands.

  Stephanie Phillips of SBR Media, my agent; Debra Presley & Drue Hoffman of Buoni Amici Press, my publicists; as well as all the amazing bloggers, who help spread the word of every new book.

  But arguably the most gratitude I have for you, my readers. With each new book published you get excited at the prospect of a new story and run out to buy it the moment it hits the market.

  I thank you so much for supporting, encouraging, and motivating me!

  Love you all.

  EDGE OF REASON

  Brotherhood and beer meets single mom and apple pie.

  I am a riding contradiction.

  A scholar, a cynic, a brother, and a biker.

  My name is Trunk.

  I’m smart enough to recognize the chip on my shoulder, and cautious enough to keep it right where it is.

  I am a misguided romantic.

  A mom, a daughter, an agent, and a survivor

  My name is Jaimie.

  I’m strong enough to look after my family alone, and too stubborn to accept I don’t have to.

  We make an odd couple—our differences obvious—but when hatred and danger threatens to destroy everything of value in our lives, we only get stronger.

  Together.

  FIND MORE OF MY BOOKS HERE!

  CHAPTER 1

  Trunk

  “HOW’S HE DOING?”

  Ouray is waiting for me in the hallway outside the small office I use. Both of us watch as the lanky teen, I just spent the past hour with, disappears into the clubhouse common room.

  The kid’s a hard nut and so far little I’ve tried to get through to Matt has been successful. In fact, haven’t even begun to scratch the surface since the club brought him in three weeks ago.

  He’d been found in the furnace room of an apartment complex in town, where he’d been spending his nights staying warm. The kid jimmied a basement window and used that to come and go. Judging by the nest he’d made for himself between two large water heaters, he’d been there for a while.

  Matt was lucky he didn’t start a fire. Luckier still the building happened to belong to Arrow’s Edge. Although whether he thinks so remains to be seen.

  The Arrow’s Edge is unlike any other motorcycle club I’ve encountered in my years riding. Most of them are either purely recreational, like the one I rode with back in Denver, or involved in illegal activities. Although flexible with the rules of the law, for the most part the club runs a variety of legal enterprises. In addition, they provide a safe haven for street kids, giving them a roof over their heads, food in their belly, structure, education, and a sense of family.

  The boys all have their own stories on how they ended up on the streets, some harder than others.

  Exactly how Matt—if that’s even his real name—ended up where we found him is still a mystery. The boy is slicker than an eel in a bucket of snot.

  “Hard to tell. Kid’ll do and say anything to make sure he’s got food to eat and a place to stay warm. He’s a con.”

  “Streetwise,” Ouray translates.

  “I’m guessing he’s been there for a good while.”

  “No names? Parents? Nothing we can get our teeth into?”

  I shake my head. Three weeks of one-on-one sessions and he’s not given me a single piece of concrete information. The kid’s an enigma and a serious blow to my professional confidence.

  “I’ll keep on him,” I promise Ouray, the club’s president.

  I’m as frustrated as he is at the lack of information. Most of the boys here are under guardianship of the club, either obtained from the parents, through the CPS, or through the court system. Not knowing who a kid is makes that difficult.

  “I know you will,” Ouray says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You sticking around for Christmas?”

  “Momma made me swear to stick around for dinner tonight, but I told her I can’t be here tomorrow.”

  Momma is the club’s matriarch. She’s the wife of the founding former president, Nosh, and the two of them are like the club parents to anyone affiliated. Momma is not one to mess with.

  “Your sister’s?”

  “Can’t miss my niece’s first Christmas.”

  “I met your sister,” Ouray shares, chuckling. “Thinking that’s the right call.”

  A little over a year ago, I left a good job as a child psychologist, working mostly with kids on the autism spectrum at the Children’s Hospital in Denver, tired of politics and lack of program funding. I jumped at the opportunity when I heard through a buddy that a Durango MC was shopping for a child therapist. Of course, I did my research to make sure the club was on the up and up—as I’m sure they did with me—but when all was said and done, I didn’t waste any time moving my ass out here. Life has to be lived, and when given a chance to combine work and passion, only a fool would say no.

  The cherry on that cake was, just a few months after I left Denver, my sister followed me out here. At the time she was pregnant and single, but has
since become a parent and found herself a man. Decent guy, although, he had to grow on me.

  Growing up, Christmas was always something other people celebrated, but for Tahlula and me it was just another day to get through.

  Now that she has a baby and a man, she’s bound and determined to catch up for all those holidays spent alone. Which means my ass will be in her chair tomorrow, come hell or high water.

  I follow Ouray into the common room where Matt already reclaimed his turn at the game station with some of the other boys. Normally they get just a couple of hours of screen time per day, but given we’ve had snow on the ground for the past three weeks or so, and the temperatures have plummeted, they’ve mostly been cooped up inside. Because Momma put her foot down and won’t tolerate nonstop gaming, they’re limited to the afternoons.

  “Boys!” The old woman sticks her head out of the kitchen. “Shut that shit down and get cleaned up. Dinner in fifteen.” The kids don’t hesitate, not even Matt. He hasn’t been here long, but he knows damn well who rules the roost. “Matt, you run out to the gym and round up the guys there.”

  I watch the boy give her a nod and hustle out the door. He seems more intimidated by the five foot five senior citizen than he is with my six foot four bulky frame. They don’t call me Trunk for nothing. I make a mental note to see if I can get Momma to help drag some information from the boy.

  “Need a hand, Momma?”

  “If you could move the pool table parallel to the dining table? I think there’s a board that fits over it against the side of the porch. We’ll probably need the smaller tables too, if you butt them end to end, we’ll have three large tables. Folding chairs in the shed in the back.”

  “On it.”

  “I’ll give ya a hand,” Paco announces, having just walked in.

  By the time it takes us to haul in the chairs, lug the heavy table over, and shift the rest of the furniture around, Momma and Luna—Ouray’s wife—are ready to set the tables. Large white linen sheets to cover the roughed up surfaces, topped with nice bone china, matching cutlery, and proper glasses that seem out of place in a clubhouse.

  “Turn on the Christmas lights, will ya?” Momma asks Ouray, who is observing the activity from a stool at the bar.

  I barely recognize the place. The cavernous space, with scuffed barn board on the floors and sparse well-worn furniture, looks festive. A large Christmas tree sits in the corner by the bar and lights are strung around the windows and doors. I’ve never known an MC to put so much stock in the holidays. Then again, other clubs don’t have Momma.

  Dinner is a raucous affair, which isn’t a surprise with around thirty people at the table. Especially when a few of them haven’t even heard of table manners. Momma strategically installed herself and Nosh, Ouray and Luna, and Ouray’s second man, Kaga and his wife, Lea, at each of the tables to keep an eye on the young ones. The rest of the club members, along with a few hangers-on of the female persuasion, have pulled up seats wherever there was room.

  Across the table from me, Matt seems to take everything in: the food, the talking, the laughter. He looks overwhelmed when his eyes meet mine. Maybe even lost in this sea of brotherhood and togetherness.

  I know just how he feels.

  Jaimie

  “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

  I look over at Mom, who has her eyes peeled out the window as we drive through Durango’s downtown district.

  “Wait ‘til the moving truck arrives on Monday,” she warns with a quick smile my way before she directs her gaze back outside. “You’ll be a believer then.”

  She was supposed to fly in yesterday morning, but all flights into Durango were canceled due to the large storm, which dumped another ten or so inches on the snowpack that had already accumulated over the past weeks. This morning—Christmas morning—she caught the first flight in.

  Winter in Durango is nothing to sneeze at, and I’m grateful for the new tires on my sturdy, secondhand Honda CRV.

  I left Denver about six months ago with nothing other than a couple of suitcases and my then six-month-old son, River. If not for the support of my friend and client, Tahlula Rae, and the amazing people in her circle, the past half year would have probably decimated me.

  I am now the proud tenant of a gorgeous little home in a nice family neighborhood, beside the Animas River. Since I’ve worked mostly from home, I haven’t had much need for babysitting, but that will change now my divorce is final.

  That had threatened to become a long, drawn out affair when my ex contested the divorce from his prison cell. Thanks to Tahlula’s savvy Denver lawyer, who pled my case to the family court judge just days after my ex’s conviction, I was granted a surprisingly easy divorce. The decree arrived at the lawyer’s office last week.

  Mom started packing the day after.

  “I can’t believe how much he’s grown,” she muses, looking over her shoulder at River, dozing in his car seat.

  “I know. I’m so sorry you’ve had to do with pictures and videos, Mom. It just wasn’t safe for you or for us to visit.”

  Mom turns tear-filled eyes to me as she grabs my hand. “Not your fault, Belle.”

  She uses the nickname I gave myself at three years old, after a lengthy obsession with all things Peter Pan and Tinker Bell. I try hard not to get emotional, giving her a smile and a firm squeeze instead, quickly turning my eyes back on the road.

  “We have about an hour to get you settled in, before we’re expected over at T’s place.”

  “Are you sure she won’t mind me tagging along?” I snort at her question.

  “Mom, the woman threatened to fire me if I didn’t drag you over there right away. T has decided to do Christmas big, with a living room filled with family. That’s us.”

  “But she’s never even met me,” she protests.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t even know what to wear. I’ve never met a celebrity before.”

  This time I laugh outright. “Mom, you’ll never meet a more down to earth person than Tahlula,” I enlighten her. “She’s more likely to be wearing jeans and a tee covered in baby spit than some cocktail dress. Hell, I doubt she even owns one. Trust me on this. You’ll love her. You’ll get a kick out of Joan as well—her soon-to-be mother-in-law—who’s the salt of the earth and as straight forward as they come.”

  “Who else will be there?”

  “Autumn and Keith with their son, Aleksander. He’s only six months older than River, so it’ll be baby chaos. You can ‘grandma’ all day long. I think T’s brother Trunk’s supposed to be there as well.”

  I try not to think too much about Tahlula’s massive, brooding, much darker-skinned half brother. Despite a few acts of kindness and a degree in psychology, the man seriously lacks in social skills. The few times I’ve bumped into him, he’s done nothing more than growl at me, yet I still have an unhealthy fascination with him.

  “Who would name their kid, Trunk?”

  “His name’s Titus, Mom. Everyone just calls him Trunk. You’ll understand when you see him.”

  At home, I take Mom for a quick tour of the house, and show her the brand-new, small, but self-sufficient apartment above the garage, where she’ll move once her belongings get here. For now, she’s sleeping in River’s room while he bunks with me.

  My landlord, Ollie—who lives across the street and is married to Chief of Police Joe Benedetti—told me she’d had a fire in the garage last year. When they rebuilt, they added the nanny apartment, which I thought would be perfect for Mom. With two large windows in front, she’ll have views of the river across the street, and the two smaller ones at the back—one in the bedroom and one in the bathroom—look out on the yard.

  Mom, who has a bit of a green thumb herself, will be happier than a pig in shit this coming spring when she sees the garden.

  I quickly pack a few changes of clothes for River, and one for myself, just in case, while Mom freshens up. Downstairs I grab the pumpkin and app
le-rhubarb pies I baked from the fridge. Dessert had been the only thing I’d been allowed to contribute. Mom comes down carrying a large plastic container.

  “What are those?”

  “Sugar cookies.” She smiles as I make a dive for the container. “You can have one, Jaimie,” she admonishes me when I discover it filled to the brim with my all-time favorite Christmas cookies. She and I would spend a day every year, baking and decorating these holiday favorites.

  “When did you have a chance to make these?” I ask, my mouth full. Luckily River is still sleeping in his car seat in the living room, or I’d have to share.

  “On the weekend. Can’t have Christmas with my girl without her favorite treats.”

  I round the kitchen island and wrap Mom, who is not much taller and equally rounded, in a big hug. “Love you, Mom. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too, Belle, me too.”

  The first person I see when we walk into Tahlula and Evan’s house twenty minutes later, is her brother. If it wasn’t for the barely-there muscle twitch by his right eye as his gaze seems to travel through me, I’d swear I was invisible.

  “Holy moly,” Mom whispers behind me. “I see why.”

  Yeah. It’s hard to miss the large, wide, and illegally good-looking black man leaning against the counter.

  CHAPTER 2

  Trunk

  FUCK.

  She’s as pretty as she was when I first saw her, despite the hell her scumbag of a husband put her through. Curves for days on her short frame, blonde shoulder-length hair, and sharp blue eyes that don’t seem to miss a thing. Even the tow-headed baby she has perched on her hip doesn’t do much to curb her appeal.

  I’ve never really had preference for a particular set of looks, but hers seem to hit all the right buttons. Or the wrong ones, depending on your point of view. I’ve been with women of all shapes and sizes, all colors of the rainbow, and just about all walks of life—even dated a few for longer than the couple of weeks it usually takes me to tire of them—but none have stuck. I’m surprised at the impact seeing her again still has on me.