STICK: MC ROMANCE NOVELLA (Forsaken Riders MC Romance Book 8)

by Samantha Leal

  “Hey, Rebecca, do you feel like braving the weather and heading into the nearest village this afternoon? We might even find a pub–do you want to come?”

  They were all staying in a large rented property on the outskirts of a village, and Rebecca hadn’t had time yet to get her bearings.

  Sammy was of the baggy jumper brigade and Rebecca felt nothing in common with her. She would rather stick pins in her thighs than have to make small talk.

  Shaking her head, she stood up to leave when Johnny Hampshire strode into the room. Johnny was handsome yet arrogant. He was Scottish but had attended an English public school and spoke with a very clipped accent. He worked closely with James, and neither man had much time for each other. Unfortunately, Johnny had noticed her long blonde hair and treated her like the local bimbo. For once she wished she was wearing Sammy’s shapeless garb.

  “Hey, Becky, fancy a stroll in the heather with me?” he grinned suggestively as he looked her up and down, before placing his hand territorially on her arm.

  She wanted to tell him to go screw himself but was far too polite.

  “Actually, I’ve already arranged to go out with Sammy.” Rebecca shrugged his arm away and his grin slipped into a sneer.

  “Frigid bitch,” he muttered under his breath, the muscles clenching around his jaw line.

  “What did you say?”

  Johnny smiled again, but this time it made her shiver with its coldness. “I said have a great time” and with that, he turned and slowly left the room.

  “What a creep.” Sammy made a face as he left and Rebecca laughed. Perhaps the afternoon wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  They ventured out into the mist and fog. The drizzle was light yet constant and Sammy loaned Rebecca a bright green jacket to wear. There was no one to see her wearing it in this place, and James would probably find it sexy.

  The girls walked along a little path, and for once Rebecca was glad she had bought a decent pair of walking boots. She could feel the mud slip and slide beneath her feet and was glad that she wasn’t wearing her usual flimsy sneakers.

  After half an hour, they had almost given up hope of finding a place when they stumbled across an old coaching house –The Bluebell Inn. Relieved, they staggered inside, dripping water across the polished floorboards as they made their way to the bar and ordered double whiskies to warm them through.

  Rebecca looked around, amazed at the place–it was like stepping back in time. Apart from the two of them, the bar was occupied by several all men wearing tweed jackets and caps. They all stared back and nodded. She must have looked as strange to them as they did to her, in waterproof, fluorescent pink boots.

  Sammy walked back with the glasses of golden whisky. The whisky tasted good. It was the best thing about Scotland so far. As it hit the back of her throat, her whole body seemed to glow.

  “We’re just down the road,” Sammy laughed. “I bet we can see our place from here–I’ve just spoken to the barman, and this is the village of Selkirk.”

  Rebecca coughed and started to choke on the amber nectar. Selkirk was the place where her old relative lived, and she was staying literally on the doorstep. A shiver ran through her as if there was something sinister about the connection, as if it was always meant to be. Maybe it was just a mixture of the cold and the alcohol or perhaps she was still jetlagged? She laughed at her foolishness. There was something surreal about the whole thing, standing in the middle of this Scottish pub, dripping wet and drinking whiskey among the tweed-clad locals that made the whole thing seem absurd. A couple of double whiskeys later and she had soon forgotten all about her ancient relative.

  It was evening when they rolled out of the door and into the darkening air. The mist had lifted slightly and a smell of decay lingered. The night had started to draw in and wrap itself around the girls, chilling them to the bone as they hurried quickly along the road, this time taking the more direct route. The path took them past an old church, its old Norman tower looming in the darkness. Next to it, Rebecca could just make out the dark shadows of the ancient gravestones and, stopping for a second, she peered through the rusting iron railings and wondered if any of her ancestors were buried there. Sammy proceeded to pounce on her making ghostly wailing noises and Rebecca shrieked with delight as they ran on, not stopping until they were back inside, safe and sound.

  It wasn’t late when they returned, but Rebecca was tired, still recovering her recent flight.

  As soon as her head hit the pillow, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. If it weren’t for a noise outside her door, she would have probably slept all night. She stirred and reached on the bedside table for her watch. It was only 10:30 and she realized she had a terrible thirst from the whiskey. She always slept naked and quickly slipped into her fleecy dressing gown, a present from her Mom, before opening the door and setting off down the landing towards the stairs. There was some juice in the kitchen downstairs, and if she was quick no one would see her.

  A noise on the landing made her stop in her tracks; perhaps it had been the same noise that woke her? All was quiet again apart from the muffled voices coming from the downstairs lounge.

  A hand grabbed her arm as soon as her foot reached the top step.

  “Becky.”

  Johnny was suddenly in front of her, and from the smell on his breath, he had been drinking for most of the afternoon. His hand was squeezing her arm against the wall and she struggled against his strength. His eyes were like slits and there was a hint of cruelty behind the steely grey as he looked her up and down. She could feel her face start to flush as she realized that her gown was gaping at the front, and she quickly brought up her free hand to hold it together.

  “For God’s sake, Johnny, let go of me. You’re hurting my arm.”

  Licking his lips, Johnny sneered at her as he brought his face directly in front of hers.

  “How about a little kiss first?” His breath was hot and sour, and Rebecca turned her face away from him.

  “Fucking little tease, I’ll show you.” He slammed his weight against her, pinning her to the wall as his free hand started to work its way underneath her gown, groping up her bare leg towards her thigh.

  Rebecca was stunned. She disliked Johnny, but it was hard to believe he was capable of this, however drunk he might be. She tried to strike him and started to shout for him to stop, but he released her arm and covered her mouth to gag her. His other hand by now had slid to the fastenings of her gown and started pulling at the buttons. He was soon grabbing at the soft flesh of her naked breast, his hand rough and greedy as he squeezed at her nipple, now hard and erect in his fingers.

  “I knew you wanted me, you little bitch,” he said, and as he thrust his pelvis into her stomach, she could feel his hardness rubbing against her.

  At first she had been alarmed by his behavior, but now she felt powerless and sick at the thought of what he might do to her.

  His hand was almost suffocating her, and she thought she might black out when suddenly he released her, his whole weight lifting away from her. Someone was coming up the stairs. Without hesitating, Johnny had disappeared around the corner just as James came into view. She looked startled as she pulled the robe around her, too stunned to cry.

  “Are you OK?”

  His voice was rich and deep, lilting softly on the question, a look of concern in his eyes.

  She nodded quickly in reply. “Yes, I thought I heard a noise. I came out to see what it was.” Rebecca couldn’t look him in the eye, and she sensed that he didn’t believe her, his eyes searching the landing for something or someone.

  “You’re sure you’re OK?”

  This time their eyes met and she felt a strange tingling run through her spine. It was almost as if something passed between them, some knowledge or sense of something shared. He must have felt something too for his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed as if trying to remember something but not quite catching hold of his thoughts.

  “I’ll s
ay goodnight, then.” And with that, he was gone.

  Leaning against the wall, she let her body sink to the floor until she sat on the landing. She was so tired, past tired, and her emotions were doing cartwheels through her brain. Maybe she should have told James about Johnny, but she had just arrived and didn’t want to make trouble. After all, Johnny had been drunk, not that it was an excuse. Who knows what would have happened had James not arrived when he did? She shivered again at the thought.

  No, she didn’t want to think about that; she just wanted to sleep.

  The next day it was much brighter but still raining. There would be no dig again today. She had slept right through to 10:00 am, and by the time she had dressed and gone down to breakfast most people had finished. Sammy sought her out as she drank a strong cup of coffee to wake her up.

  “Hey lazybones, you’ve missed all the news. You’ll never guess.”

  Rebecca raised an eyebrow. It was all she could manage. “What?”

  “Johnny’s walked out. He had a big fight with James last night, and he left early this morning.”

  The coffee dregs tasted bitter in her mouth. The coffee was terrible here and she had already started having withdrawal symptoms from her favorite brand. She remembered the previous night’s activities and wondered if that had any bearing on the matter.

  Some of the girls were catching a bus to the nearest town, but this time she declined the invitation, wanting a day to herself to catch up on her reading on the history of the place.

  For an hour she struggled with the dusty textbook. She loved history because it was exciting, but the pages she was reading about the Battle of Flodden seemed as dry and unimaginative as the sands of the Sahara. Rebecca stifled a yawn as she looked out the window. A weak sun was shining through a break in the clouds, and for the first time she could appreciate the beauty of the landscape before her. It was hard to relate the splendor of this area to the thousands of bloody deaths centuries before. Ten thousand Scotsmen had lost their lives in the battle and some of them had been from these small villages. She had a sudden urge to explore the land and tread along the pages of her history books. Packing herself a quick lunch, she made up a cheese sandwich and finding an industrial-sized flask in one of the cupboards, filled it up to the brim with tea. Her head was still thumping from the whisky and she needed plenty of liquid. At least it would be better than the coffee.

  After pulling on her walking boots, she set off with no particular intent.

  There was only one main road passing through the village and she quickly found that she was on the same route as her walk home the previous day. Within ten minutes, she had arrived at the graveyard and the little church. It didn’t seem as morbid in the daytime and swinging open the iron gate, she walked up the mossy path towards the church. Huge slabs of stone lay facing upwards on the grass, headstones of the long departed that had sunk and collapsed with age. The inscriptions were now barely visible, the surfaces gnawed away by time and nature. She couldn’t help but think about all of the forgotten lives lying rotting beneath her:

  Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything

  Heading to the church, she tried the iron latch on the great oak door. Surprised, she found it open and stepped inside the small porch. She had never been inside an old church before and was immediately taken by the hushed and hallowed space within. The air smelled stale and faintly of chrysanthemums and musty hymn books.

  It seemed almost a violation to step over the stone flagged floor partly made out of old tombstones, so she tiptoed around the edges, hardly daring to make a noise. Walking down the line of pews, she stopped at the altar, a small table covered in a green velvet cloth supporting a large white and gold plaster cross. The sun was shining through the east window and the colored light from the stained glass formed patterns across the stone walls. Rebecca wasn’t religious, but as she stood there in the silence she thought she could sense a presence, something spiritual and eternal.

  “Can I help you?”

  Although the voice was soft and gentle, Rebecca almost shot out of her skin like a frightened rabbit caught trespassing in the farmer’s field.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Henry Parsons was the vicar of St. Andrews. He was a tall, middle-aged man with a receding hairline.

  Rebecca blushed. She wasn’t really sure if she was just allowed to walk into an old church like this.

  “I’m really sorry. I hope you don’t mind me taking a look around the church. It’s my first visit to Scotland.”

  Henry beamed down at Rebecca as if she were the second coming herself. He liked Americans; they were always so interested in his tour of the little church and he liked to think that he was an interesting speaker.

  “Not at all, my dear. We love to extend the hand of friendship to our cousins across the Pond. I can show you around if you like?”

  Hesitating, she looked at her watch.

  “It won’t take long, I promise.”

  She smiled; it was difficult to say no; besides, it might be interesting.

  First he showed her the chancel arch. The church had first been built in the 12th century, and this was the oldest and most original feature that had survived.

  They walked to another part of the church that had been built later in the 16th century.

  “Of course, one of the largest families here in those times was the Stewarts of Selkirk, and they built this part of the church in memory of their dead. Almost all of their line was wiped out in the Battle of Flodden. Seventy men set off from Selkirk and the surrounding villages, and only one man returned.”

  Rebecca ran her fingers along the cool stone walls and tried to imagine the hands that had shaped the stone. An inscription had been carved into one of the larger blocks and she stood back to read the words:

  Praeteriti praesentisque temporis collatum mundos se colliduntur.

  Henry came to her rescue. “It’s a Latin phrase and quite an unusual one. Translated it means, “Worlds collide with the past and present.” We think it must mean the world of the living meets that of the dead. What do you think?”

  Touching the engraved words with her hand, she felt a shiver run through her spine and shuddered.

  The vicar laughed. “I get that feeling sometimes–as if someone had stepped over your grave. Now you must be getting cold. Shall we go outside into the sun?”

  It was good to be back in the sunshine, she had started to have strange imaginings back in the church, some kind of déjà vu about the whole place. She had started to let her imagination run away with her in this place of old bones and death.

  Just as she was about to leave, Rebecca remembered her old relative.

  “Do you know of a Mrs. McPherson? She’s supposed to be a relative of mine. I think she used to live in the old vicarage?”

  Henry Parsons beamed his schoolboy smile. “Nora. Yes, she’s the oldest member of my congregation. She doesn’t get out much, but I call and see her once a week. You can see the house over there, the big one behind the trees. I’m afraid the new vicarage is a much simpler affair. I’ll take you over there now if you like?”

  Rebecca had started to protest, but Henry was already marching down the path and she had to hurry to catch up with him.

  The old place was an imposing structure of red bricks and was surrounded by ancient poplar trees that bathed the place in a strange green light. There was an old-fashioned bell pull that Henry tugged and the gentle tinkle of a bell could be heard somewhere in the house. Rebecca expected the dull thud, thud of an ancient butler coming to answer the door and was surprised to hear the light skip of footsteps running up the hallway. Jane Sweeney was a bright young woman who was keeping house for Nora McPherson. She had beautiful red-golden hair that tumbled down her back into natural curls. She clasped Rebecca’s hand as if welcoming back an old friend and a feeling of familiarity swept over her. Perhaps it was because these people were so friendly that she almost felt like o
ne of them. She had been told that the British were a bit aloof, but it had proved exactly the opposite in her case.

  Jane led them down the dark hallway and into the library at the back of the house. It was a beautiful wood-lined room with huge French windows that led into the garden. Despite the sunshine, a huge fire was burning in the grate and the shades were drawn on all of the windows. In front of the fire was an old sateen chaise lounge that had seen better days. As they approached, Rebecca could see an old woman lying on the coach, apparently asleep by the fire. Jane called out her name quite softly at first, then again more loudly.

  “Mrs. McPherson... Nora?”

  Slowly the frail head lifted up and a pair of brilliant blue eyes looked out at them.

  “It’s the Reverend, Nora. And he’s brought someone to meet you.”

  The old lady reached for her spectacles dangling on a chain around her neck and with a shaking hand put them on.

  She seemed to stare for a very long time at Rebecca, and the girl wondered if her relative could see her at all. She looked old, very old, her skin lined like an old map–the roadmap of her life, Rebecca supposed. The only thing of her youth that remained was the pair of blue sparkling eyes, shining like a young girl’s.

  Henry Parsons stepped forward and cleared his throat.

  “Nora, this is Rebecca Brooke. She’s come all the way from California to see you. She’s a distant relative of yours.”

  Nora nodded and started to speak. Her voice was gentle and low with the soft lilt of the Scots.

  “I’ve been expecting her to call. I have been waiting a long time. Too long.” She motioned for Rebecca to step forward and sit with her.

  Raising her eyes towards Henry, Rebecca wondered if Nora might be a little bit senile. She was sure her Mom hadn’t contacted Mrs. McPherson, she would have said.

  “Thank you Reverend. That will be all.”

  Nora raised her fragile arm to him. Henry cleared his throat to protest, but the old woman glared at him through her glasses. There was to be no sweet talking this old lady. Rebecca was warming to her already.