DAMON: A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel

by Meg Jackson

  I’m not saying that I went from Rihanna to Beyonce in a matter of an hour and a half, but there was definitely a shift inside me. I wasn’t the same beat-up little girl that had left the house that morning. I was one part mad, one part panicked, one part elated, and one part numb.

  And, if things went perfectly, I’d be 100% rich and living free in Argentina – or wherever – by the end of the week.

  I just had to get to Utah first.

  4

  Once the sun started setting, a lot of my confidence and the anger that had driven me so far began to wane. It was hotter down here, though the night air still had a bite to it. The Rockies loomed behind me, the desert stretching out in front. I’d passed Moab, home of Arches national park, and started heading south. All I knew was that if I kept heading south, I’d hit the border eventually, and have some semblance of safety.

  It was around 9pm; if Jeremy had thought I’d been running late, he probably knew something was up by now. I hoped, prayed, that his first instinct was that something had happened to me, not that I’d run off. I hoped that he still thought I was too stupid and weak to leave.

  If he called work, well…no one from housekeeping would be there to tell him I’d left early, and even if he heard about it the next day or someone at the front desk told him, the timeline would be way too close for him to know whether I’d texted him before or after “getting sick”. I was happy I hadn’t clocked out. The less of a paper trail, the better. They’d only be able to say it was “4-ish” or “around 4”, and “4-ish” is when I texted him that my phone was dying.

  And if they told him I’d gotten sick…

  But my mind was just racing around in circles, chasing the same thoughts, the same possible-but-unpredictable scenarios. It wasn’t getting me anywhere but tired. I had put some serious mileage in between Jeremy and I; thank God for deserted country roads, where speed limits are more like suggestions than hard-and-fast rules.

  I began to look for somewhere I could get a bite to eat, maybe even a room for the night. The thought of staying in one place for the next eight hours made me a little extra panicky, but I’d worked all day and was exhausted from the adrenaline rush and constant anxiety. All those greenbacks wouldn’t mean a damn thing if I fell asleep at the wheel and drove myself into a canyon.

  As I rode along, the desert lay on either side of me, and in front of me, like a great, big blanket of nothing. Distant, strange shapes of arches and rocky outcroppings faded into the dark sky. I sat forward, straining my eyes. Finally, after what felt like forever of nothing but the same-old-same-old, I saw a sign for the next exit.

  Ditcher’s Valley, 5 mi.

  Ditcher’s Valley: if that doesn’t sound like the kind of place that was made for wives on the run, I don’t know what does. I knew it couldn’t have been a very big town, but I also needed to get gas and assumed that there would be a Texaco or something else there where I could get directions to a bigger town with a hotel, or at least a plate of microwave nachos.

  Damn, but gas station microwave nachos sounded like a meal from paradise in that moment. Jeremy didn’t like when I indulged in “crap”. Jeremy didn’t like when I did a lot of things.

  Screw him, stuff your face with that gross, melty cheese, I thought with a smile, still testing out these waters.

  Ditcher’s Valley had a population just under 2,000, if you believed the highway sign that welcomed you in. The first place I saw that looked open had everything I needed: motel, bar, restaurant. The whole kit and caboodle.

  I still didn’t feel that great about the idea of stopping on my journey for the night, but logic won out in the end. I needed to get some sleep. I really did. I could feel my brain doing that thing where I’d realize ten minutes had passed and I couldn’t tell you a damn thing about what I’d been thinking about. That, plus a dark highway, did not bode well for my personal safety.

  I pulled into the parking lot, noting with some surprise the abundance of motorcycles outside. It seemed like this place catered to exactly one sort of person: bikers. Oh well, what did I care? I was just there to get a room and a meal, not make a bunch of friends and do karaoke.

  I checked myself in the rearview before opening my car door; the concealer had mostly worn off by then, my face slightly streaked from the sweat that had poured down my face during the ride. I looked, to be honest, like shit. First stop would be the bathroom, for sure. Just because I didn’t have anyone to impress didn’t mean I wanted to walk around like a slob, either.

  As I was about to shut the car door, I remembered the duffel bag under the seat. I mean, I hadn’t really forgotten it (how could I?), but I realized that I probably shouldn’t leave an indiscriminate amount of cash in a bag in my car outside of a biker bar. Hoisting it out and clutching it tight to my chest, I crossed the wide front porch outside the bar and ducked inside, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  I didn’t have to try very hard. The bar was full, wall-to-wall, with loud, rowdy, boisterous bikers of both genders. It wasn’t so loud that I couldn’t hear myself talk, but it was definitely loud enough to make me feel splendidly anonymous. I spotted the ladies’ room and made a beeline for it; it was a single-person bathroom, for which I was thankful.

  After splashing some water in my face, washing away the concealer, I went back into the bar. I didn’t see any place that specifically seemed to deal with the motel portion of the bar/restaurant, so I went straight to the bar, where a few bartenders were making chitchat with the clientele. No one seemed in much of a rush to get their drinks, and money never seemed to pass any hands as I waited for someone to spot me.

  Finally, one of the older women, who was really gorgeous despite being in her late thirties, came over to me. She was wearing a black leather vest over a tight white tank top and hip-hugging jeans. She looked like the sort of women who’d never let a man raise a hand to her. I envied her.

  “What can I do ya for, sweetheart?” she said, her eyes running over me, lingering on the bruise above my eye and the bag I held clutched tight to my chest.

  “A room? Is this where I can rent a room?” I asked, raising my voice slightly to be heard. It felt weird to speak loudly; living with Jeremy, I’d learned to affect a sort of whisper as my default speaking volume.

  “Yup, we got rooms,” she said, leaning back and reaching for something under the bar. “Single room is 60 bucks, with tax that’s…72.79. Cash or charge, hun?” Despite her liberal use of endearments, she sounded like she didn’t trust me, or just generally disliked me off the bat.

  “Cash,” I said, wishing I’d taken the time to take some of the hundreds from the duffel bag and put them in my wallet. I’d left my purse in the car. “Um, hold on, I have to go get my wallet.”

  “Alright,” she said, eyes narrowed as she watched me walk away. I trotted to my car and quickly unzipped the duffel bag, grabbing my wallet and slipping three hundreds from a wad of cash into the billfold.

  Back in the bar, I had to wait a little longer before the bartender came back. I handed her a hundred.

  “Um, I also need some food? If you got…well,” I said, stuttering now. When was the last time I’d ordered for myself at a restaurant? I couldn’t remember.

  “We ain’t got a big menu, doll. Burgers and wings, pretty much.”

  “Give me…whatever, I guess, the least healthy thing you have. Bacon cheeseburger? And fries?”

  “Alright, that’ll come to just bought ninety with the room,” she said, taking my cash.

  “Keep the change,” I said, hoping that a big tip would change the sour look on her face. She nodded and slipped a key across the bar to me.

  “Room 7. It’s on the far side back there,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the left. “You wanna go get settled in, your food should be ready when you get back.”

  “Thanks,” I said, clutching the duffel bag even tighter to me as I left the bar again. I drove around to the area where she’d directed me, inching down the row of rooms
until I saw 6, and then 7.

  Parking and locking the car, I breathed a sigh of relief as I opened the door and saw that the room wasn’t nearly as dingy or gross as I’d imagined it would be. It was small, and smelled funky, but it looked comfortable enough for the night.

  I scanned the room, looking for the safe. It was tucked above the closet; following the instructions, I set the combination, automatically using Jeremy’s birthday, which had become my default password for e-mail and anything else that required one; it had been his idea to use each other’s birthdays. He’d said random numbers like that were good for protection against hackers. I think he just wanted to know my password so he could spy on me.

  The duffel bag was a snug fit, but it fit nonetheless. As soon as I’d locked the safe, I felt like a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. Now, if shit really hit the fan, I could just ditch it and head home or whatever. I could always say that the safe had been locked when I got there. I realized that I was still wearing my maid’s uniform; I wondered if that explained some of the bartender’s strange looks.

  I wanted a shower, but not as much as I wanted to dig into a hot, fresh burger, so I decided to change and head back to the bar before cleaning up. I wasn’t sure which would be less conspicuous: gym clothes or the outfit I’d worn to work that day. I decided it didn’t matter and changed into the comfier option, which was a mix of the two. I didn’t have anyone to impress, anyway.

  Finally, I felt like I had my shit together. I considered throwing the maid’s uniform away for good. That would probably feel like real freedom. But, I didn’t have an abundance of clothes, and it might come in handy.

  I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror before going back into the night; my workout leggings hugged my curves, and I could hear Jeremy’s condescending voice in my head. The old, faded, vintage t-shirt I’d worn to work that day was tight around my breasts, the only part of me that Jeremy encouraged me to show off.

  I looked about as normal as I could, considering the circumstances. The only thing that stood out was the ugly welt above my forehead, but I didn’t feel like putting on more concealer. And who cared? No one was going to talk to me, and if they did, I’d shut them down. I didn’t want any trouble, and I didn’t plan on making any trouble. I just wanted to eat and sleep and coast away come morning.

  Back at the bar, I drew a little more attention in my tight-fitting clothes than I had in my maid’s uniform. Plus, I was no longer concealing half my body with a duffel bag. I approached the bar once more and caught the eye of the bartender who’d helped me earlier; she nodded and walked back towards the kitchen, grabbing a steaming plate and delivering it straight to me. It smelled absolutely heavenly.

  And it tasted like the best kind of sin.

  As I munched my way through the meaty, salty, greasy, savory sandwich, I let the background noise fade away, focusing entirely on that one moment. How long had it been since I’d indulged like this? Jeremy always kept me on a strict diet, disapproving of “indulgences”. Of course, that only applied to me and what I ate; he went to town on whatever he felt like, whenever he felt like it.

  I was pulled back into the real world when the bartender suddenly slammed a huge drink in front of me. I looked up at her, mouth full, eyes questioning.

  “Rum and coke. From that guy,” she said, sounding a little pissed. I looked where she pointed, then promptly wanted to spit my food out onto the bar.

  Holy fuck, but that guy was hot.

  He was looked at me, a sly sort of half-grin on his face, short stubble defining his strong chin under a nose cut from marble. Even in the dark bar, I could see his crystal-clear blue eyes, the color of a strong-burning flame. His dark, slightly curly hair hung around his face like an anti-halo. He was wearing a leather jacket over a loose white undershirt that showed just the slightest hint of the magnificent body underneath. My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t think that happened in real life, but apparently it does.

  Automatically, without even thinking about it, I grabbed the drink and took a sip, immediately recoiling once the alcohol hit my tongue. Jeremy didn’t approve of me drinking; aside from a beer or two at a work event or party (his work event or party, I’ll add), I hadn’t drank in the three years we’d been married. The taste of the rum seemed exceptionally strong. I coughed slightly, looking back at the dreamboat who’d bought me the drink. He was chuckling slightly, those eyes still lingering on me, his hand coming up to cover his smile. Charming. As. Shit.

  He just feels bad for you because of that knocker on your forehead, I told myself. There’s no way someone like him could like someone like you, you cow. Besides, what, are you gonna hop into bed with the first guy who’s nice to you? Slut.

  Shut up, Jeremy, said that other voice, that new voice, the voice that I was starting to like quite a bit. Go for it, Gabriella. Seal the deal. Make the break complete. When’s the last time Jeremy looked at you with half the interest this guy’s showing? You deserve to feel good for once. Drink up.

  I was as torn as I’d ever been in my life. But what the hell. I’d dug my grave deep enough, in my opinion, and one drink wasn’t going to get me out – or dig me any deeper. I smiled back at the handsome stranger, waved, and took another sip, this time hoping I looked coy and demure and grateful.

  I was rewarded by a nod – and then thrown into a panic when the man rose from his place at the bar and came to my side. I desperately swabbed at my greasy lips, cursing myself for having ordered the most disgusting thing on the menu.

  I gulped at the drink, needing liquid courage.

  Needing any courage I could get my hands on.

  That “Jeremy” voice inside me was still screaming at me for being stupid, for being silly, slutty, pathetic, worn-out, ugly, fat…

  “What’s a pretty gal like you doing in a place like this,” the stranger asked as he approached me, leaning into the seat next to mine. I’m pretty sure I responded, but I think it was just a strangled, choking sound.

  He was even better looking up close.

  I could make out the hint of tattoos crawling up his neck from the deep V of his shirt, and across the backs of his hands. His leather jacket was adorned with patches. One larger than the others, said “Black Smoke MC”.

  His eyes fell on the bruise above my eye, his brow furrowing, his hand coming up to brush it gently. His touch was like being electrified. Perhaps it was the boldness of the motion; we didn’t even know each other’s names, but he’d already made contact with me; a very sensitive part of me, to boot. Perhaps it was the way I was looking at his lips as he did it, his pouty, gorgeous lips. Perhaps it was the booze, or the leftover adrenaline from my rather eventful day. Whatever it was, it sealed my fate, even though I didn’t know it at the time.

  “Got something to do with this?” he’d asked when he’d brushed his fingers against my forehead. My mind dragged behind him, trying to figure out what he was asking, the small amount of alcohol I’d had mingling with the unusually fatty and carbohydrate-laden meal I was eating to create a general feeling of confusion in me. Alright, so I was confused for more reasons than just the booze and burger, but I didn’t want to admit it at the time.

  “It’s a birthmark,” I blurted out, flinching even as I said it. Of all the stupid excuses I’d made for the marks Jeremy left on me, that was, without a doubt, the stupidest to ever cross my lips. The stranger’s eyebrows raised in half-amusement, half-concern.

  “Is that so?” he said, his voice low and sultry. I gulped down more of my drink, realizing with no small dismay that it was the last gulp – I’d downed the whole thing in a matter of minutes. And for someone who never drank…well, you can imagine how that might have affected me. I felt warm all over, and suddenly a lot friendlier.

  “Actually, no,” I said, hearing the slightest slur in my words. What are you doing, Gabriella? One part of me asked.

  Getting what I fucking want for once, said that other voice, that new voice. And even if my real voice wa
s slurring, that voice seemed straight sober.

  “That’s exactly the reason I’m here,” I heard myself say. “I’m ditching the guy who did it.”

  “Well, if I ever heard something that called for a damn drink, that’s it,” the stranger said, flashing me another crooked grin. They have yet to invent a word to describe what happened in my pants, or my surprise at the feeling. He pounded on the bar, attracting the attention of the bartender and making an “another” gesture with his hand. She obliged, but not without a sour look in his direction. He offered me his hand, not turning to me, snaking his hand underneath his shoulder in a nonchalant way that was confusingly suave.

  “Reign,” he said. “Like a king, not the weather.”

  “What?” I asked, stupidly, taking his hand in a limp shake that belied the sharp, short shock that went through me when we touched.

  “My name,” he said, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I could only make out one side of his face, but I could see the grin on him stretching from ear to ear. I blushed.

  “Gabriella,” I said. Gabby, said that new voice in me. But not yet; I couldn’t, not yet.

  I have another confession to make, dear reader. Jeremy was not only my first and only husband, and the first and only man I’d ever let raise his hand against me, he was also my first and only lover.

  And in the five years we’d been sleeping together, he’d never once made me come.

  He’d gotten me close, a few times, but he seemed to enjoy keeping me in a perpetual state of sexual limbo. For that matter, I’d never been one to masturbate. That, at least, had nothing to do with Jeremy.

  I’d just always wanted to be able to orgasm with someone I loved, and I thought that if I masturbated I might “desensitize” myself to that sort of touch. Even when it became clear, throughout the marriage, that Jeremy was never going to give me the sort of release they write about in romance novels and talk about in Cosmo, I didn’t think it was going to help the situation if I took it upon myself to get the job done.