by Bijou Hunter
“I guess that’s why he didn’t want me.”
“You’re not from Hickory Creek.”
Tatum stares at her hands and sighs. “He said if she didn’t abort me, he’d abort her. Mom wouldn’t do it. She ran to Florida and hid me and started over. She left her home and family and everything she knew because of that awful man. It’s my right to put a bullet in his ugly face.”
“Though I agree murder is often the best solution to many problems, killing a guy like Howler in the Brotherhood’s bar with other club guys sitting nearby is suicide. Murder, yes, suicide, no.”
Tatum stares at me for the longest moment, and I realize her eyes are a mossy green. Up close in the bright moonlight, I also realize the woman of my dreams sports a gorgeous splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks.
I instinctively reach out to run my thumb across her left cheek.
“What are you expecting?” she cries, slapping away my hand. “Do you want nookie? Is that what you’re hoping for? Do you think I’m an easy breezy because my mom got pregnant by that bum munch? She wasn’t a loose woman. Call her a fool, but she loved and trusted him. She never trusted another man. She wasn’t easy, and neither am I.”
Smiling at her indignant outburst, I explain, “If I wanted to get laid, I have a handful of willing chicks in my contact list. I certainly wouldn’t cruise a stinky bar to pick up a suicidal stranger.”
“I’m not suicidal.”
“Oh, that’s even worse. What pray tell did you think would fucking happen after you blew off Howler’s fat head?”
Tatum blinks rapidly while considering my question. Not too surprisingly, those green eyes of hers fill with tears. “I want him dead,” she whimpers, and I fight the urge to give her a fucking hug that I sense wouldn’t be appreciated. “It’s not fair how he’s alive and happy while my mom is dead. She had to leave her home and hide all these years out of fear because of him. She gave up so much because of him,” she says, ending on a moan. “And because of me, and now she’s gone.”
Covering her face, Tatum shakes with wretched sobs. Whether she appreciates my gesture or not, I wrap her in an embrace. Of course, her tall, lean frame fits perfectly against my body. She is my woman, after all.
The world falls away as a very drunk Tatum wrestles with her demons. Holding her shaking body, I let my fingers enjoy her feathery, pale blonde locks. Soon, though, her tears slow, and she shoves me away from her.
“No nookie!” she cries, wiping her eyes and messing with her unruly hair.
“No matter how much you try, there’s no hiding that you’re having a bad night.”
“Shut up.”
I grin at her bitchy tone. She sounds so much like my twin sister, Cricket, when cornered. Tatum’s attempt at snarling is interrupted when the earlier whiskey shots make a break for freedom.
Turning away to puke, Tatum liberates the last few hours of her liquid courage. I sensed vomit coming after watching her drink so much. Having stashed napkins in my pockets before walking outside, I hand them to her now.
She upchucks the booze and possibly part of her low intestines. Taking the napkins from me, she wipes her mouth while using the wall to remain standing.
“Thank you.”
I open my mouth to say something quite brilliant, but then a local crotch stain decides Tatum’s vomiting is a sign that his romantic overtures might be successful.
“Sweetheart, are you feeling all right?” asks the no-neck, fatheaded corn-fed fucker.
“Walk the fuck away,” I tell him without menace. Ultimately, we’re both men swooning for a brilliantly beautiful woman. I can’t blame him for walking his cowboy ass over here and doing his “aw shucks” shtick.
“Mister, I’m concerned about this young lady’s safety.”
Tatum still leans forward, hiding her puke-green face behind her golden hair. Realizing she won’t reassure fathead or ask him for help, I have to get the guy to piss off myself.
“Hey, pal, why don’t you take your curious taint elsewhere or we’ll need to find out how far my foot will fit up your ass.”
“Well, aren’t you a showy piece of shit?”
“Or I can just shoot you and keep my foot clean,” I say, unzipping my black bomber jacket to flash him the shiny silver Beretta strapped to my side. “It’s up to you what happens to my foot.”
No matter how glorious Tatum appears—even stinking of puke—she isn’t worth getting shot over. Besides, the fathead coward must know his chances of turning this situation into thank-you nookie is slim to none.
“Asshole,” he spits out and walks away.
Smirking triumphantly, I return my focus to Tatum. I stand next to the wall, an inch from her shivering body.
“Where’s your car?”
“I took an Uber.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want my mom’s car to be around Howler.”
“Why?”
In a trembling voice, she whispers, “She loved her car.”
“Where do you live?” I ask in the softest voice I can muster.
“I don’t remember the address.”
Her voice failing, Tatum slides down the wall. Before she can hit the puke-covered ground, I sweep her up into my arms and walk to my maroon Range Rover. She demands I put her down, refusing to be a nookie call. I smile at her love of that word, but she’s in no position to protest.
If any other man took home a barely conscious woman, I’d label him a sick fuck.
But I’m Chipper Wilburn. At worst, I’m a spoiled, prone-to-drunkenness, white-collar criminal. The only thing Tatum has to worry about with me is losing her heart once she sobers up.
2—TATUM
I’ve been sleepwalking since my mother’s death. The last few weeks blur together. Her funeral. Packing up our house. Selling everything except a suitcase worth of clothes and a few favorite objects Mom gave me. I left Florida without waking from my nightmare. Arriving in Tennessee, I have one goal.
To destroy my father.
I first imagined killing Jude “Howler” Hallstead when I was ten and overheard the story of how he wanted me to die. Like a dumb kid, I imagined shooting him full of holes and laughing over his corpse. Killing seemed so easy.
Then I hit puberty and no longer cared about a man I’d never met. At sixteen, my mother told me the whole truth. How she lived in Hickory Creek Township, Tennessee, and got a job at a bar called Salty Peanuts a week after her eighteenth birthday. That was how she met Howler, who was a fifty-year-old biker. I couldn’t imagine why she’d find him the least bit interesting. She was young, and he was old.
“He charmed me in a rough way,” my mom, Marissa, told me. “Every night I worked, he was there. Every night, he complimented me and said he was always thinking about me. He said he’d never met anyone like me.”
“And you believed him?” I ask, laughing at her stupidity.
“Yes, because he had access to a lot of easy women. He didn’t need to charm anyone. Or wait for me to be ready. He could just screw one of the club bunnies. They were sexy and would do whatever he wanted.”
“Bunnies?”
“Whores.”
“Grody.”
Mom shook her head and tugged at my braid. I did the same to hers, and we shared a smile.
“Howler had money too,” she explained. “Not just from the motorcycle club he was in and the illegal stuff they did. He came from the town’s most powerful family. One of his sisters was the mayor. So when he paid attention to me, I felt special.”
“Then what happened?”
“We had sex. I’d started birth control not that long beforehand, and I messed it up, or it didn’t work. I don’t know. I’d never been with a guy before, and Howler said he used condoms.”
Giggling, I mumble, “I’m a miracle baby.”
Mom hadn’t gotten angry at my laughter. She only smiled and played with my braid again. “I thought so, and I wanted you. Even though I was eighteen and barely maki
ng it with my waitressing job, I wanted you. My mom and dad weren’t happy, but they’d help me out. I had a friend who would watch you while I worked. I had it all planned out before I told Howler I was pregnant.”
“But he didn’t want me.”
“No,” Mom said, losing the color from her cheeks. “He said he had enough bastards running around. I promised I would take care of you and I wouldn’t ask anything from him, but he said all the whores claimed that. That’s when I saw him for the man he really was, and, you know what? I didn’t want him in your life. I told him I would have you alone and he didn’t have to worry.”
“It’s okay,” I said, taking her hand when I saw the tears filling her pretty green eyes.
“He said I could abort you or he would abort me. I thought he was kidding, but he said the last girl thought the same thing, and now she was rotting in a field.”
I remember how my breath caught at how harsh his threat had been. In a whisper, I asked, “What did you do?”
“I told him I would get an abortion, but I didn’t have the money. He gave me cash and told me to do it that week, or he would kill me. I knew nothing would happen to him if he killed me. His family was powerful, mine wasn’t. But I had the cash. Along with the money I put away from my tips, I planned to get out of town. Mom said I could move to Florida to stay with my uncle.”
I’d frowned when she mentioned my great-uncle, Simon. He and his pervert friends spent all day playing video games when they weren’t watching porn. These were the losers my mother depended on when she was a scared, pregnant teenager in a new place.
“I got a job helping at a home daycare,” Mom said, sounding tired. “It paid enough for me to get a grody apartment, but I was safe from Howler, and I was away from my uncle.”
“And you never went back to Tennessee because of him.”
“No, and our family rarely had the money to visit.”
“Did you want to go back there?” I asked, thinking of a family I barely knew and a place I couldn’t imagine.
My mother shocked me by gripping both my hands and bursting into sobs. “Yes, I miss them so much, but I couldn’t kill my baby. I had to choose between my home and my baby. I chose you, and I never regretted that choice even when I’ve felt my worst. You were my angel.”
Less than five years after saying those words, my mother is dead.
Now Howler needs to die too.
Except I failed to kill him because of a man named Chipper. I remember talking to the tall, blond man outside the bar, but I don’t know how the night ended.
Opening my eyes to find a wood-plank-covered ceiling, I don’t believe I’m awake. I attempt to lift my arms yet find them trapped under something heavy. I’m probably still asleep. This is a nightmare. I’ll wake up soon.
Every time my eyes open, though, I still find the wooden ceiling.
I lift my head and notice a heavy beige quilt over my body. My arms move with more effort, finding freedom and reaching to my sides. Sitting up, I study my surroundings.
Based on the quality and width of the dark wooden walls and ceiling, I know this room belongs in an expensive home. Mom and I watched a whole lot of HGTV since I was a kid. I let my mind linger on the memories of Mom and me spending our weekends together. Fighting my sorrow, I force myself to get out of bed.
My feet settle on the plush beige carpet, and I steady my vertigo. The room provides three possible exits. The door nearest to the bed likely leads to the rest of the house. One of the other two must open to a bathroom.
I get lucky on my first try. My bladder keeps me busy forever, giving me time to think about last night.
His name was Chipper, and he took my gun. I remember that much. I don’t know how I got here. I am very aware no sex occurred. I dodged a bullet with that possibility.
A bullet like the one I planned to put in Howler’s head. All I could think about yesterday was killing my father. This morning, I only want to know why Chipper brought me here, assuming this is his home and he didn’t pawn me off to someone else.
After cleaning up, I open the bedroom door and glance up and down the quiet hallway. Taking a right, I find my way to a railing overlooking a massive living room complete with a stone fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a large frost-covered backyard.
Gripping the thick handle, I take the stairs slowly. My head swims with every movement, but I soon reach the bottom where I glance to my right.
“Good morning,” Chipper says from the kitchen where he leans against the island. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
Staring at him, I’m shocked to find him as breathtakingly handsome as I remember. I assumed my whiskey goggles made him only appear gorgeous. Nope, he’s stunning. At least six feet tall with broad shoulders and a buff chest hidden under a dark blue thermal sweater. I notice how his thick blond hair is slicked back as if recently washed. I think I even smell fresh cologne from my spot across the kitchen. A smile lingers on his full lips as he scratches at his freshly washed beard. The man is the epitome of effortless beauty. I, on the other hand, look as grody as the vomit I spewed the night before.
Resenting myself for ending up in this awkward moment, I still lift my chin, level out my shoulders, and walk toward him.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask in the toughest voice I can manage.
“You didn’t know where you lived, and I wasn’t comfortable dropping you off at the local homeless shelter.”
Glancing around the house, I can’t think of anything smart to ask, so I say instead, “What do you do for a living?”
“I work for my father. I’m a trust fund kid. Did you want coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
Chipper pours a cup and sets it on the six-foot-long island with its butcher block countertop. I study the rustic, industrial-style mug. Raising my gaze to meet his, I notice how his eyes are as dark as the coffee.
“Did your wife pick out all this fancy stuff?”
“You don’t really think I’m fucking married, do you?”
“Sure,” I stammer, startled by his cussing despite his agreeable smirking face. “I don’t remember much from last night.”
“Amnesia, huh?”
“I drank too much.”
“That would explain the vomiting,” he says, smiling over his coffee mug. “And the attempted murder.”
“Where’s my gun?” I ask, regaining my spine.
“Safe.”
“You should give it back now.”
“I can see how you’d think that.”
Resting my hand on my hip, I give Chipper the same glare I use on misbehaving kids at our daycare. “I want it back.”
“You can’t kill Howler. I thought the lack of whiskey clouding your brain would help you accept this reality.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“If you’re really suicidal, I might need to have you committed for seventy-two hours. Just to be safe.”
I open my mouth in shock before realizing I’m acting like an open book for this man. “You wouldn’t.”
“I can’t have my future wife killed by my business partners. Think about the bloodshed that’ll ensue.”
Shuffling back just an inch, I think to use the cup as a weapon. “Are you crazy?”
“Wait, are you now threatening to have me committed to a seventy-two-hour hold?”
“I want to leave.”
“After I finish my coffee.”
Realizing he doesn’t plan to budge until we’ve finished drinking, I sip my coffee despite the immediate stomach cramps. Chipper casually watches me, his dark gaze making me feel insignificant.
“Did your mother want you to kill Howler?” Chipper asks.
Flinching at the mention of Mom, I cross my arms angrily. “Of course not.”
“So you came up with the brilliant plan all on your own.”
“He deserves to die.”
“Yes, but he’s old. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s likely dyi
ng from dick rot. Meanwhile, you’re young and not suffering from any pussy problems.”
“How would you know that?”
“Well, I don’t know for certain about his dick rotting, but logic says it can’t be healthy after so many decades of whores.”
“I meant about me.”
“Last night, you told me you were a virgin.”
“Why would I tell you that?”
“You thought I wanted to fuck you. I considered explaining I’d rather fuck you when your breath was less puke-y, but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“What else did I tell you?”
“That your mother was your best friend,” he says in a voice that tears through my chest and seizes my heart. “That she died and left you alone. That you don’t think you want to survive without her.”
I shouldn’t be surprised by my tears. My mother’s death left me overflowing with sorrow. Crying is my only way to keep from drowning in the pain.
“I told you all that, huh?” I ask, wiping my cheeks.
“You wanted me to understand you’re not always who you were last night. You’re normally stronger and happier. In fact, you said you’d be the life of the fucking party if your mom was still alive.”
“I didn’t say that last part.”
“I’m paraphrasing because your babble was just a tad bit fucking hard to follow. I blame the whiskey.”
“Blaming inanimate objects is a failure’s lie.”
Chipper watches me for a long minute and then grins. “I’m going to kiss the ever-loving shit out of you soon. First, though, I think we should talk about your plans with Howler.”
I have no doubt my cheeks are bright red after hearing his threat to kiss me. Pretending I’m not flustered by his words, I say, “I want to kill him.”
“You know he’s old, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So he’ll likely be dead soon from an infected dick illness or possibly kidney failure. Who knows? The guy is old as fucking hell. You are young. Your blossoming life shouldn’t be ruined by destroying his old-as-fuck life.”
“Why did you look at my chest when you said blossoming? These are as big as they’ll get,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my breasts.