by Chiah Wilder
Rock’s Redemption
INSURGENTS MC ROMANCE
CHIAH WILDER
Content copyright © 2016 Chiah Wilder. Published in the United States of America.
Kindle Edition
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing – Hot Tree Editing
Cover design – Cheeky Covers
Proofreading – Daryl Banner
Description
Rock is the ripped, handsome Sergeant-At-Arms for the Insurgents MC. Being one of the club’s officers, women clamor to share his bed. The biker’s more than willing to oblige as long as it’s a short-time hookup; long-term relationship is not part of his vocabulary.
He’s only been in love once—a long time ago—and the end result was shattering. He learned his lesson: keep his heart encased in steel.
The tragic night that sent him to prison is over even though it still simmers inside him. But once he joined the Insurgents MC, he vowed to leave the past darkness and disappointments back in Louisiana. He’s embraced his new life of brotherhood, booze, easy women, and Harleys. It suits him just fine. Some things are best left alone, especially a pretty brunette who destroyed his heart.
Easy sex has become his mantra.
Until his past crashes into his life….
Clotille Boucher is the wealthy, spoiled girl who’d stolen Rock’s heart many years ago. From a young age, family loyalty was drilled into her, so when darkness engulfed her and Rock, fleeing seemed to be the only way out for her. Deciding to make a new life for herself, she didn’t count on having to pay for the sins of her brother.
Just when her life doesn’t seem like it could get worse, a face from her past gives her a glimmer of hope. Shamed that Rock has to see how far she’s fallen, she pretends her life is exactly what she wants, but his penetrating stare tells her he’s not buying her act.
Fearful that the secrets of the past will catch up with her and Rock, her inclination is to do what she does best—run away. Only problem is, Rock’s not letting her slip away so easily this time.
Can two damaged people learn to trust one another again? Will Rock be able to reconcile the demons that have plagued him since that tragic night? Does Clotille offer him redemption or destruction?
As Rock and Clotille maneuver the treacherous waters of their past and present, someone is lurking behind the shadows to make sure the truth never comes out.
The Insurgents MC series are standalone romance novels. This is Rock and Clotille’s love story. This book contains violence, sexual assault (not graphic), strong language, and steamy/graphic sexual scenes. It describes the life and actions of an outlaw motorcycle club. If any of these issues offend you, please do not read the book. HEA. No cliffhangers! The book is intended for readers over the age of 18.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Description
Glossary
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Notes from Chiah
Author’s Note
Excerpt from An Insurgent’s Wedding
Other Books by Chiah Wilder
Glossary of Cajun Words
A bientôt: See you soon
Arrêtez: Stop, stop it.
Attends: Wait
Ҁa va?: How are you? How are thing going?
Cher: sweetheart, dear. Term of endearment used for a male
Chérie: sweetheart, dear. Term of endearment used for a female
Chouchou: sweetie
Fini: Finished, done
Gris-gris (pronounced gree-gree): curse, hex
Je t’aime: I love you
Je t’aime aussi: I love you too
Maman: Mom
Mawmaw: grandmother
Merci: Thank you
Merde: shit
Mon beau trésor: my beautiful treasure
Mon Dieu: my God
Mon fils: my son
Mon petit chou: sweetheart, my sweetheart
Père: father
Petits: small, small ones, little ones
Petit bonbon: little sweetie, honey
Putain: slut, whore, hooker
Qu’est-ce qui se passe?: What happened?
Très bien: Very good, very well
Vite: Quick, fast
Vite alors: Then go on now, quickly
Voilà: Here you go, here it is
Prologue
Lafayette, Louisiana
1997
The dark-haired boy clutched the money in his hand as he walked through the wealthy part of the city. Earlier that evening, he’d gone to the butcher shop like his mother had told him to do, to buy some ham hocks for her to make for their supper. He hated going to Le Petit Cochon without his mother. When he’d been there, all the old ladies had run their rough hands through his hair and pinched his cheeks, laughing when he’d turned red. If he were with his mother, she would have told them to stop. They would’ve laughed and called her silly, but they would’ve backed away from him.
That evening his mother had sent him to the butcher alone because she’d taken on an extra job helping Mrs. Boucher with her dinner party. She worked as one of the housekeepers for the Boucher family and sometimes they’d ask if she could help serve when they had guests over. His mother always said yes because the need for money was so great. The eleven-year-old boy wished his mother didn’t have to work so hard; she’d looked so tired when he’d gone over to get the money to pay the butcher.
The butcher, Mr. Despres, could be a mean sonofabitch. He’d told the boy—in a loud voice so everyone in the shop could hear—that he couldn’t extend any more credit to his family. If the boy’s mother wanted the ham hocks, she’d have to pay what she owed. All the people in the shop had stared at him, a few sniggering, and he’d wished the floor would’ve opened up and swallowed him up. Anything would’ve been better than the looks of amusement and pity the patrons had thrown at him. He’d walked backward out of the shop, nodding numbly. Once the sticky air hit his face, he took off running to Greenbriar Estates, where his mother was serving the elite on
china plates that cost more than his family earned in one month.
“Roche,” his mother said to him, surprise registering in her hazel eyes. “Has something happened to your father?”
A thread of anger slipped up his spine. She was always thinking about his father, even though he was drunk most of the time; beat her, him, and his brother regularly; and ran around with every putain on Louisiana Avenue and Johnston Street. Roche couldn’t believe how his mother made excuses for his father all the time. She was such a loving and patient person, and if it hadn’t been for her, Roche would have run away by now. He was scared to death to leave his mother with the monster who pretended to be his father.
The only respite the family had from his father’s anger, his hard fists punching into walls and soft bodies, and his string of crippling verbal assaults was when he went to the bayou to the wooden shack on land that had been in his mother’s family for more than seven generations. The monster would spend up to ten days fishing and hunting before he came back with some money in his pockets. Instead of paying the outstanding bills or buying his mother a much-needed new dress, he’d spend the weekend at the Three Kings Tavern, drinking it away and buying cheap perfume for his women.
And his mother always forgave him. It tore at Roche’s heart to see her eyes puffy from crying all night, but in the morning she always had a large smile on her face as she doted on her children and husband. Roche wanted to scream and tell his father he didn’t deserve a lady like his mom, but he knew his outburst would garner him a severe beating so he sat in silence, anger and hate churning in his stomach.
“Mr. Despres won’t let me buy the ham hocks unless you pay the bill. He said it’s been too long.”
His mother’s face softened and she ran her chapped finger over his cheek. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, petit bonbon. Here, take this money and tell him that’s all I have. And he better wrap up those ham hocks. He knows I pay.” She slipped her hand into a pocket of her worn dress, stuffing the bills in Roche’s small hand.
“It smells good in here,” the boy said, his stomach growling.
“The cook is wonderful.” She watched him while she moved the hair out of his eyes. “Didn’t you eat your lunch today?”
He nodded, cursing his stomach for making so much noise. How could he tell her the two bullies who picked on him stole his lunch? She had enough problems. Anyway, he didn’t need his mother to fight his battles. He was learning how to fight from Guy, a teen neighbor, who lived behind their house. Soon he’d show the bullies they couldn’t mess with him.
“Voilà.” His mother shoved a piece of French bread with a slice of roast beef nestled between in his hands, then a piece of chocolate wrapped in shiny green foil. He buried it in his pocket for later. She looked over her shoulder. “Alors, vite! I have to work. I should be home in a few hours.”
Roche hugged his mom, took a big bite of his sandwich, and scampered outside.
The mansions loomed all around him as squares of light from their windows lit up the dark, quiet streets. Deciding to take a shortcut to the main street, he crossed the road and entered a park. Finishing his sandwich, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d never tasted meat so tender—just like butter. He moved steadily, passing a large willow tree swaying in the late July breeze. As he went by a cluster of bushes he heard something crying. Is an animal hurt? He couldn’t be sure.
He walked nearer to the bushes and the small sobs became louder. As he rummaged through them, the crying stopped. He froze, the only sound his own breathing. Ready to turn around and continue on his trek home, the crying started up again. He forged ahead, separating the bushes and sliding between them until he was in a small space surrounded by foliage. A girl of about ten years old sat on the ground, her hands wrapped around her knees that were bent close to her chest. Her big green eyes shimmered in the moonlight. Roche sucked in his breath; he’d never seen eyes like that before. They reminded him of a panther’s—the ones he’d seen in books at school, anyway.
“Why’re you crying?” he asked.
The girl wiped her nose. “It’s nothing. I want to be alone.” Her brimming gaze held his.
“There’s always a reason for crying.”
She looked down and then buried her head between her knees. He shrugged and turned from her, beginning to make his way through the bushes. Behind him, her soft voice called out, “Wait. Don’t go. Not yet.”
He swiveled around, his gaze catching hers. Her lips quivered as tears dropped from her eyes all over again. He hunched down. “You gonna tell me why you’re crying?”
Without a word she pulled up her pants, exposing angry red streaks across her white skin.
He whistled. “Your pa do that?”
She shook her head, her light brown hair falling over her shoulders. “My maman.”
“Your ma?” He whistled again. “Does your pa know she does this?”
Again her head shook. “He knows she beats my brothers, but this is the first time she’s beaten me where he can see. That’s why she made me wear long pants. She’s mean when she drinks too much tea.”
“You gonna tell your pa?”
Her eyes widened in fear. “No,” she breathed. “My mother said she’d punish me severely if I ever tell him what she does to me.” She bowed her head in shame.
He watched her for a few seconds before he sat down next to her. “I bet my pa is way meaner than your mom.” He pulled up his shirt and, under the moonlight, showed her several angry lashes on his chest—some new, some healing, some scarred. He then pointed out the bruises on his arms and legs.
“Your father did all that to you?” she whispered.
“Yep.” His dark eyes narrowed. “I can’t wait to grow up so I can go away. My pa is always mad and he takes it out on me, my brother, and my sisters. I can handle it, but when he beats my ma, I get so mad that all I wanna do is slit his throat to make him stop. He’s a bastard. Sounds like your ma’s not too much better. How many brothers you got?”
“Two—one older and one younger. I wish I had a sister though. My older brother, Armand, is always telling me what to do. He’s so bossy. My younger one, Stephan, isn’t like us. He can’t learn like we do, but I’m not supposed to tell anyone about him. I play with him a lot.” She sniffled and wiped her nose again.
“What’s your name?
“Clotille Boucher.”
“Are you the Boucher girl who lives in the big house on West Bayou Parkway?”
“Yes. How do you know?”
“My ma cleans your house. I’ve never seen you before. I’ve seen your older brother a few times. He wasn’t too nice.”
“Armand’s like that. So you’re Mrs. Aubois’s son?” He nodded. “You look like your mother.” He smiled.
They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts until Roche remembered the ham hocks. If he didn’t get them, his mother wouldn’t be able to make dinner later and his father would be angry. He’d probably beat her.
Roche jumped up. “I gotta get going. I’ve got something to do.” He shoved his hand in his pocket and felt the chocolate his mother had given him earlier. He pulled it out and handed it to her. “Here.”
“For me? Thank you.” Shyly she took the thin wafer from his hand, unwrapping the green foil slowly. She plopped the candy in her mouth and a large smile crossed her face.
All of a sudden he felt awkward as the pretty girl watched him, her green eyes dancing. “I gotta go,” he mumbled, turning away.
“What’s your name?” she asked after his retreating figure.
He glanced backward. “Roche.”
“It means rock.”
“I know.” Their eyes locked and, in that moment, a friendship was born.
* * *
They spent the rest of the summer sharing laughs, catching fireflies in jars, and digging for worms on the bank of the Vermillion River. He soothed her through the bruises her mother put on her in places her father couldn’t see,
and she sat quietly by him as he breathed heavily after a severe beating from his father. Together they found some solace, some lightness in the midst of their violent and hurtful world.
Their friendship was frowned upon by Mrs. Boucher and her older son, Armand. After all, Roche came from the poor section of Lafayette where dilapidated shotgun houses dotted the bleak landscape. His father fished and hunted for a living in the bayou while Mr. Boucher sat in his office in a suit and tie and made multi-million-dollar decisions pertaining to land development.
At first, Mrs. Boucher forbade Clotille from hanging around “the poor boy,” but when she’d realized it kept her daughter out of the house for most of the day, she relented and poured herself another Long Island Iced Tea. Not having Clotille around kept Mrs. Boucher from beating her, and she welcomed the respite. She resented her daughter because she was “Daddy’s little girl” and her father gave in to her all the time. He spoiled her, doted on her, and paid more attention to her than he did to his wife. And the fact that he carried on with his mistress—the putain—was more than Mrs. Boucher could bear. What was he thinking in setting up a woman nearly half his age in a luxury house in one of his developments in River Ranch? It was an embarrassment, something she couldn’t do anything about except punish her daughter for her father’s indiscretions and coldness. Each slap and sting of the belt on Clotille’s tender flesh was meant for Mrs. Boucher’s husband. He’d kill her for beating his precious daughter, and Mrs. Boucher derived an inordinate amount of pleasure from knowing that.
So she let the two children while away the summer, surprisingly calm when she learned that Roche would be attending the same school as Clotille due to an open enrollment policy the city had passed at the end of the previous school year. As long as she didn’t have to see the boy, she was content to pretend that he didn’t exist.
* * *
Four years later
“Gaston, I will never agree to sell the land. It’s been in my family for generations and it’s going to stay that way.” Roche heard his mother’s soft but firm voice coming from the kitchen as he scrambled to get ready for school. His father’s loud voice bounced off the walls, and he knew if his mother didn’t finish serving breakfast soon and get out of the house, she’d find his pa’s fist on her face.