by Paula Cox
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Unthinkable copyright @ 2017 by Paula Cox and E-Book Publishing World Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
UNTHINKABLE
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
Epilogue
BIKER DADDY
OUTLAW DADDY
More Books by Paula Cox
UNTHINKABLE
Chapter One
Rev
Goddammit! I completely forgot what night it is.
I pace into the living room, being careful not to disturb the snoring bulldog on the rug, and grab the TV remote sitting on the armchair. The massive flat screen TV hums on, and I flip through the channels until I come to the local news.
Luckily, I haven’t missed it.
Commercials play in the background while I head back to the kitchen for snacks...
What the hell is this?
The cabinets are practically barren. I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly, but I expected to find a little more than opened boxes of pasta and a browning banana in a ziplock bag. The dude who lives here is just sad. But then again, that’s addicts for you—they’re all about the blow and never about a healthy appetite. It’s a damn shame, and my mouth is already watering at the thought of some beef jerky or pork rinds or a nice juicy medium-rare steak. Yeah, that’s the shit—any one of those would make be a happy man, indeed.
With a frown, I settle for the handful of slightly stale, off-brand graham crackers and a can of cheap light beer from the fridge. As I shut the door, the picture tacked to the outside of it catches my eye. Standing dead center in the crumbled picture is a girl with a long blonde ponytail. She’s wearing a light pink bikini and holding onto a paddleboard. Hmm, I can think of another long and wide object she could hold in those pretty little hands of hers. She has smokin’ hot curves and perky tits that are a perfect handful size. Despite her eyes being concealed by a pair of dark, oversized, fashionista sunglasses, I’d bet ten grand that her face matches her body, especially with that cute, sexy smile she’s flashed for the camera. She stands next to a guy, the dude I assume I’m here for, with her free arm draped around his neck. Boy, did he get lucky with this stunner—she’s way out of his league. Who knows, maybe if he ends up being bumped off, I’ll snatch up blondie for myself—now there’s old lady potential if I ever saw it.
I snatch the photo from the magnet, tear it in two, and toss the half with the guy onto the floor. The girl, on the other hand, I slip into the pocket of my jeans. I might need to use this later, and I’m all about collecting mementos.
The TV catches my attention again. Loud intro music for the local news station blares like trumpets. I make my way back into the living room, but just as I’m about to sit down in the armchair, I halt in my place.
“Yesterday, tourists shopping and dining on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile got a treat when a group of veteran motorcyclists formed an impromptu parade. The group, members of the United Eagles Motorcycle Club, were in town to...” the newscaster says in that rehearsed, put-on voice.
I turn up the volume as I head upstairs to scope the place out, for curiosity more than anything else. The rickety old stairs screech under my weight, forcing me to walk a bit lighter. I don’t want to disturb the neighbors next door. They already gave me a suspicious once-over as I walked up to the apartment building. Any wrong move and I’m sure they won’t hesitate to call the cops on my ass.
That happens to me a lot. Big guy, covered in tattoos, driving a souped-up Harley—I’m not exactly the stranger people want roaming their neighborhood at night. Fortunately for me, I’ve got most of the cops in the entire city of Chicago on my side. They know me by name and understand my story. I’m even friendly with a few of the detectives; though I’ll admit that a little hush money has certainly helped those relationships develop.
The two bedrooms at the top of the stairs are just as empty as the fridge. A mattress covered in a thin gray sheet rests in the master and a sleeping bag with a patchwork quilt is the only thing in the second bedroom. By the looks of it, no one lives here. The only sign of real life is the few pictures in dusty frames that line the hallway. I blow off the thin, gray layer of it from a few of the ones at my eye-level.
“And tonight, we have reports of an armed robbery at 29th and...”
I jump at the newscaster’s change of topic. Sprinting back down the stairs, I practically trip over that damn dog. He follows me to the couch, jumping up beside me as I lean forward in my seat to watch the rest of the coverage. Well, I always did have a way with mutts.
“Detective Ashcroft reports that a man in his late twenties, wearing a black T-shirt and dark wash jeans, entered the pawnshop and pointed a long-barrel gun at the owner. Michelle Rodriquez, our reporter at the scene, talked to him tonight.”
I try not to laugh as the small, balding man shakes before the cameras. In the overhead lights, he looks even smaller than when I saw him this morning. His voice trembles, “I was on m-my way into the shop. I didn’t see anything ou-out of the ordinary until I got behind the c-counter. He ca-came out of nowhere! I-I-didn’t know what to do. I’m lucky he didn’t kill me!”
“Ha! Bastard!” I laugh, speaking to the dog. “This little pussy can barely get out a word. I bet he doesn’t mention how he nearly pissed his pants when he saw me. Or how the only reason why I was there was to steal back the diamond watches he took from Vic and the Blazers! That little bitch got what he deserves.”
The report flashes back to the studio where the newscaster woman in a red pantsuit looks mildly interested. She stares deadpan at the camera to say, “Detective Ashcroft and the 24th ward police warn the public to be on the lookout for a man fitting this composite sketch. If seen, do not approach. He should be considered armed and dangerous.”
“Damn right I am, lady!”I shout back, flattered by the comment. The suspect pencil drawing of me looks just as I expected—no resemblance whatsoever. My connections with Ashcroft have definitely paid off tonight. Even the tattoos are all wrong, and the scar on my cheek is missing altogether. Besides letting the public know I rode a Harley with an Illinois license plate, there was nothing that could indicate I was the guy they were trying to find. Nice.
Satisfied, I reach over for the remote and turn off the TV. The clock hanging on the wall above it hits seven. This loser is making me wait, and I hate when anyone makes me wait. It’s a stupid game of cat and mouse, but it’s a game I’m way more experienced at playing. And I’ll be honest, the power trip is kinda worth it.
I take out the creased, white piece of paper I wrote his information on earlier. It says it right in the cen
ter—I even circled it for emphasis— Gets home at 6 p.m.
So, where the hell is he? And why is he an hour late? Tsk, tsk. The dog looks up at me and then at the door. Well, it sounds as if I’m about to get my answer.
I stand up and position myself right at the door’s opening. Patting my pockets with the palms of my hand, I try to decide what to use this time around. I settle on the long, thin army-issued knife my dad gave me when I was fourteen.
I don’t expect this Mark guy to put up a fight—people rarely ever do when I surprise them like this. But if he does, I’ve got the clear advantage given that I’m probably over a half-foot taller than him. The damage would be minimal, and I’d be able to end it quickly and with little mess.
As I hear him twist the handle of the door, I take a deep breath and steady my feet. It’s go time baby.
***
Jenna
Ugh! I can’t believe I forgot the stupid dog food again. I’ve meant to pick it up from my house for three days now, but it keeps slipping my mind with all the other stuff I’m struggling to remember. Whatever. The dog will just have to eat this leftover hamburger I brought back from the bar.
It’s been a long day. Then again, the days are always long when you’re working at a rehabilitation center for sex addicts, alcoholics, and drug abusers. It’s like watching the worst of someone’s life play over and over again without any sign of stopping. Just when I think I’ve seen or heard it all, more come through my office or join the group sessions.
I don’t exactly get a break from it when I get home. Well, it’s not my home. I have to remind myself of that. I’m just housesitting for Mark while he’s out doing... I don’t know what. He called nearly a week ago needing my help keeping the place safe, and I came running—like I always do.
I’m the good sister, the one who looks away when you break the rules or don’t play fair. Some of that’s because there’s just none of us left. As the only living people in our family on both sides, there’s always a part of me that feels like I have to put aside my training as a rehab counselor and addiction specialist and just be Mark’s sister when he gets up the courage to ask for my help—no matter how hard that may be.
Mark’s entire apartment is a reminder of just how low he has fallen over the years. As I park my car in his spot, I see the litter piled up on the concrete. It’s all empty beer cans and red solo cups. There are scraps of plastic baggies too... I can only guess what they held. I watch as one of the pieces of dirty plastic flies off in the wind, landing at the wheel of a motorcycle parked a few spots down.
I roll my eyes at it. I hate those things. Noisy and smelly—they’re just ways for men like Mark and his friends to overcompensate for their insecurities. This apartment building is no place for a person like me or my brother.
Okay. Done being Jenna, the counselor. It’s time to focus on being Jenna-after-work. A long walk with Bugsy and a few drinks from the bottle of wine I bought on the drive here will clear my head from the disastrous day I’ve had.
Not only did I deal with abusers, like Mark, I also had the unfortunate luck of another miserable date with Teddy. I don’t know why I give him any chances. It’s so taxing to pretend like I’m enjoying myself as I sit silently in a cheesy, dim lit bar with some smug, arrogant jerk who apparently only wants one thing from me.
I stumble a little in my kitten heels, finally giving in and taking them off as I get up the stairs to Mark’s second-floor apartment. I don’t know why I bother dressing up for these pointless dates with Teddy.
He’s just like all the rest. In my entire twenty-six years of life, I have yet to date more than one guy that’s made me not want to dig my eyes out with my salad fork. And that guy ran off with our history professor before I could figure it out. I have zero interest in trying it all over again with a man like Teddy.
At the door, I fish out the keys from the bottom of my handbag and scold myself for not just putting them on the chain with the rest of my house keys, but then this situation would feel too permanent. I have to have hope that Mark was going to come back any day now and pay his rent, water the few plants that are still alive, and at least buy some damn bedroom furniture so his guests wouldn’t have to sleep on a borrowed sleeping bag in the middle of the floor.
Still reeling from my angry thoughts, I gasp when a strong hand suddenly grabs my waist and a knife presses against my throat.
Even in the half shadow, I see it’s a man, and he pulls me inside, his husky voice threatening something that I can’t quite make out.
He pushes me towards the couch where I land with a small thud. I force myself to look up at him, staring into his large, emerald green eyes. Eyes that, despite the context, are captivating. The small scar etched on his cheek is another road mark; something to remember when I look back on this.
I memorize the shape of his strong, chiseled jawline and the small dimple in his chin. This man might be devilishly handsome, but on instinct, I curl my knees up to my chest, making myself as small as I can.
“Please! Please! Don’t hurt me! You can have whatever’s in my purse. Take the TV. I don’t care! Just please get out of here!”
He doesn’t react to my pleas. He only stares back, appearing both bewildered and annoyed. I can’t hold my eye contact with him or his face any longer. Instead, I pick a light spot on his brown leather boots and focus on that. Every part of my body tenses in what feels like waves traveling the length of my toes to my temples.
I talk about “flight or fight” all the time as a counselor. Most addicts are always in flight mode. It’s an oddly thrilling sensation not to have to fight—to be able to deal with life in a way that puts them in control of their situation, even if it is to escape. The endorphins make the “flight” almost as appealing as the drug of their choice. Right now, I can feel that same energy build within me, even through all of the nauseating fear.
The man laughs under his breath. It’s hearty, humorous, full of life. I haven’t heard someone laugh like that in years. It’s almost like my dad’s laugh, but way less innocent. He’s apparently taking pleasure from seeing me like this.
I go to speak again, but he cuts me off.
“Shut the hell up,” he orders, getting down on the couch beside me and covering my lips with his large hand. “Just quiet down and be good for me, and I won’t have to hurt you.”
I nod, agreeing to his terms because it’s the safest option right now.
He continues to hold me in place. “You’re way more valuable alive than you are dead. Though I certainly can’t make promises on how you’ll end up when I’m through with you...”
My voice trembles as I question him, “What do you mean? Didn’t you hear me? Take whatever you want and go. I’m not going to try to stop you.”
“Robbing you? This place isn’t yours.” He pulls back a bit. That light spot on the boots disappears into the shadows as he gets up and takes a seat across from me on the old recliner Mark always sat in when he was in a good enough place to have me over for dinner.
I push myself up to my elbows, blowing a piece of my hair out of my eyes with a huff. “How do you know that this isn’t my home? Who are you? How do you know Mark?” A large, thick lump in my throat sinks to the bottom of my gut. It’s all becoming so much clearer to me. This wasn’t just a robbery. This was something so much worse.
He cracks his knuckles casually as he replies, “I don’t know Mark. I couldn’t care less who he is. I’m just a businessman. I pick up the strays for my clients and cash in on a commission. Tonight is your unlucky night, I guess. You walked into the wrong apartment at the wrong time.”
“If you don’t know Mark,” I ask, trying to steady my voice, “then what’s your business with him? Are you a dealer?”
He stands again, pacing a bit as he looks out the window over his shoulder.
“Hell no,” he says, his tone insinuating that he’s taken offense to the question. “I don’t deal. That stuff is too petty. There’s not enough
money in selling drugs to deadbeats and burnouts like your brother. I work for the dealers, making sure that they get their cash when their customers don’t pay up.”
My mouth goes dry. The man was painting me a crystal-clear picture now. I have suspected for a long time that Mark was getting himself in way too deep with this stuff. Even all my training couldn’t stop him from throwing his entire life away to this shit. And now it was catching up to him. But the problem was that it hadn’t caught him—it had caught me.
“How much?” I ask, in a hushed whisper. “I’ve got money—a good job. I could work out a payment plan if it’s more than what I can afford. Do you need to run a credit check or do you just take my word for it? I don’t know how this works.”
He laughs again. His dark eyes steer back out the window towards the sky while his shoulder-length hair cuffs against the back of his neck. “It’s way, way too much for you to pay, darlin’. And I’m not a bank. I don’t do installments, and I certainly don’t call up your references or place of employment.”
This time, it’s me laughing; a genuine burst of ridiculous chuckles.