CAOS MC: The Series

by KB Winters

  I continued to fight back, smacking him across the face as I pulled away from him and took several steps away. As soon as I realized what I'd done, I felt terrible. I knew he hadn't been trying to hurt me—on some level, he'd only been trying to help me. But in a gut, animalistic way, all I could see was another man putting his hands on me. Another man getting ready to beat on me. And I wasn’t going to let that ever happen again.

  “Oh God—I—I didn't mean to—” I stammered.

  “It's fine,” he said, rubbing his cheek and surprising the hell out of me. “Not the first time a woman has slapped me, probably won't be the last. Hell, I probably deserved that for calling you sweetheart.”

  “No, you didn't. I'm just—I—I'm just a little raw right now. I'm sorry, though. You didn't deserve it.”

  I kept muttering to myself, ignoring Jameson's questions because I couldn't bring myself to answer them. I couldn't face myself. I felt completely powerless. But, instead of confronting my issue head on and coming clean to the one person who'd tried to help me—I freaked about the car.

  “What type of town doesn't have BMW parts in stock? Seriously, I don't get it. What is this place?”

  I paced around frantically, ignoring Jameson entirely as I freaked out. “So, now I have to stay here longer, in a disgusting, filthy motel in the middle of no—” Jameson grabbed my hand, pulling me into him. Before I could say another word, his lips were pressed to mine. I didn't fight back—at least, not at first. I was so surprised, so shocked that he'd be so bold, that I just stood there, letting him kiss me.

  He tasted like cigarettes and coffee—not an entirely pleasant taste. But in a weird way, it was kind of sexy too. It was manly. Rugged. Masculine. As soon as it fully registered that not only was he kissing me—but I was kissing him back—I pulled away, pushing him hard in the chest with both hands as I reached back to slap him again.

  “Sorry, I had to get you to calm down somehow,” he said, licking his lips with a satisfied smile.

  “So you fucking kissed me?” I shouted.

  “It worked, didn't it?” He grinned. “For a second, anyway.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, and then snapped it closed again. I couldn't find the words for what I wanted to say. I knew there were a lot of expletives and insults mixed in, but I couldn't form a coherent enough thought to blurt anything out at all.

  “Come on,” he said and motioned for me to follow him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Lunch. It's on me,” he said. “I'm sure you're starving. And you need some food in your stomach to keep your strength up if you're gonna keep fighting everybody like that.”

  Chapter Six

  Jameson

  If Isabelle was trying to put me off she was doing a piss poor job of it. Did I say I like redheads? Let me clarify that. I like fiery redheads. What possessed me to kiss her like that, I don’t know. But she was flailing her arms and throwing herself at me and it turned me on. And now I’m in deep shit. I got a taste of those lips and everything in me wants more. All of her, that mouth, that tongue, that pussy.

  Hold her, buddy. Didn’t she just give you every signal that she’s not into that? You’re not an animal, right? Everything but. At least when it comes to women. Now I’m going to have an even harder time keeping my thoughts under control. The smartest thing I could do is let Isabelle cool her jets in the motel while Dave takes care of her car and then she can drive out of my life. There’s certainly no future, not even much of a present for me, with a girl like her. But that was my brain talking. My cock was saying something else. That’s why I made the next move.

  Lunch.

  I’m no cook, but the mood Isabelle was in, I’d rather have her tearing my place apart than embarrassing herself in public again. Plus, I could probably put together a better sandwich than the heartburn express Milling had to offer.

  But as soon as I made the plan clear, I was kicking myself. Invite this uptown queen home? What was I thinking? None of my buddies ever complained about the clutter that stretched from the front door to the back porch in my house, but more than one neighbor had suggested I apply for a FEMA grant to clean up the disaster area I called home.

  So maybe Isabelle wouldn’t notice the dishes in the sink and last night’s pizza boxes on the couch. She didn’t have much of a choice here in Milling. Maybe my plan would work after all and I could get her to calm down and talk to me, not rant and rave about Milling, the motel, her car. But what’s really been going on in her life, that’s what I’d like to know? Who gave her that shiner and why? Maybe she’d see that unloading her problems could be the first step to solving them.

  But the closer we got to my house, the more my feet began to drag. What the hell was I doing, inviting a woman home? A woman like Isabelle. What did it take to learn my lessons? At least I’d covered my tracks, and as I went over the shithole I called home these days, the closer we got to the front door, I realized the bachelor lifestyle I’d adopted the past few years had covered up any traces of my former life. My real life.

  Heartache doesn’t show through layers of dust and rows of beer cans, I figured. I’m good.

  Besides, from what Isabelle’s been through in the last twenty-four hours, I doubted she’d even notice if a tornado had churned through my living room in recent days.

  I smiled to her as we approached the front door to make her feel welcome. Let’s do this, old buddy. What could go wrong with a couple of cheese sandwiches and two beers?

  Chapter Seven

  Isabelle

  “I thought we were getting lunch,” I said warily, looking at the house in front of us. We’d walked past a few storefronts, a church, then down a side street to a cluster of tract houses with scraggly gardens and bed sheets for curtains.

  “We are,” he said, leading the way to his front door.

  I stood there a moment trying to decide if I was really going to go into a stranger’s house, when he turned to me and asked, “You coming?”

  “This doesn't look like a restaurant, though,” I said, my brain still a fuzzy mess. “It looks like someone's house.”

  “That's because it is,” Jameson said, opening the door. “It's my house.”

  “Well I guess it's a good thing we're not breaking and entering, but why are we here? I'm not going to sleep with you. And if you brought me here thinking that was going to happen, you're out of your mind.”

  He laughed, holding the door open for me. “Relax. I figured I could make you lunch.”

  “Make me lunch?”

  “What? I don't look like a man who can cook?”

  “No. Not really. You seem more like a pizza and beer guy.”

  “Okay, you're right. I'm a terrible cook, but I can make a sandwich at least,” he said. “Come on, I won't bite.”

  “No more kisses either.”

  Jameson winked at me. “No more kisses. Scout's honor,” he said. “Unless, of course, you're the one kissing me because I certainly won't object to that.”

  “Not gonna happen,” I said, stalking past him.

  Stepping inside Jameson's place, I tried hard not to grimace. I stepped over a pizza box on the floor—just sitting in the middle of the floor—and watched my step very carefully, trying not to trip over shoes and books scattered everywhere. The furniture was mismatched and in need of a deep cleaning, so I avoided touching anything. Dust coated every tabletop like it was part of the decor.

  It was a small place—a little too small for my liking. Kind of claustrophobic. But it didn't look like Jameson had any need for a bigger place. He had a couch facing a large TV, and a couple of empty beer bottles decorated the coffee table. The thing I found odd, though, was that there were no photos or decorations on the walls. The place was completely sterile and barren of any personal touches. It was almost like he rented the house and didn't expect to stay here long.

  We walked through the small living room, and I could see the kitchen from there. I hoped it was cleaner than
the living room. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. The trashcan was overflowing with beer cans and a row of empty bottles of Jack Daniels beside it.

  “Someone had a party,” I said, glancing at the worn-in couch.

  “Huh?” Jameson said, looking around. “Oh, uhm yeah. Had some friends over a couple days ago. Haven't had a chance to clean up much.”

  He started piling the bottles into a trash bag and then dumped an ashtray in as well. I walked through the rooms, trying to get some sense of who he was from the home he lived in. But it was just a house, not a home. It seemed like just a place where he laid his head at night. Nothing more, nothing less. It all just felt—temporary. Which in a way, spoke volumes about his state of mind and his life. And frankly, it was a little sad.

  “Did you just move in?” I asked him.

  “Nah, been here for about two years, give or take,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason.”

  As I walked over to the built-in bookcase, I saw something that caught my eye. Something shiny. It was a beautiful heart-shaped locket, which seemed very out of place there. Without thinking, I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a picture of a woman and a little boy. It was from an earlier time picture, and the woman had the same dark hair and blue eyes as Jameson—they were obviously related. Mother, perhaps?

  I looked up to find him staring at me, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Please put that back.”

  “I'm sorry, I didn't mean—who is this?” I asked. “Is this your mom? Why don't you have more—”

  He dropped the trash bag and took the locket from my hand, closing it and replacing it on the shelf. “Don’t touch my stuff,” he said, his voice low. The room became quiet and Jameson had lost his smart aleck tone.

  “I'm sorry,” I said, embarrassed and awkward. “I was just curious.”

  He turned away from me, visibly upset, and continued picking up the bottles around the living room. He didn't say another word for a while, so I didn't either. I followed him into the kitchen and he turned toward me and said, “What now?”

  His tone surprised me, a little edgy. I didn’t know what to say. This lunch thing was his idea.

  “Sorry,” I said, my voice rising, “I didn't mean to be such a problem to you, maybe I should be going now.”

  “No, that’s okay,” he said, dropping the trash bag near the rest of the cans. “I promised you lunch.” I could see he was trying to smile but it wasn’t working.

  I felt a lump in my throat, but I swallowed it down. “You know, I’m not really hungry. I think I need a nap. I'll just walk back to the motel. You said it wasn't far away anyway.”

  I picked up my purse and turned to him. He looked kind of pissed off but I didn’t know what to do. Apologize? For what? “Maybe I’ll see you later,” I said, more confused than ever about Jameson.

  I closed the door behind me as I hurried away from Jameson's place, cursing my Jimmy Choo’s and wishing for something more practical on my feet. I needed to go shopping for some clothes, some makeup, cosmetics and a toothbrush. When I left Palm Springs, I'd left in such a hurry, I didn't pack anything. I didn’t know what I was thinking, leaving behind a whole closet full of my expensive clothes and bags and shoes—all for that jackass to sell or destroy. And here I was with one outfit to my name and not even a practical one at that.

  I walked to the main road and headed toward the motel, more confused than ever. I’d run away from one guy and now a stranger had my head spinning. Apparently, I had some issues to deal with. Although I wasn’t going to think about that now.

  I was starving. My stomach growled and I hadn’t even had coffee today, so I prayed there would be a restaurant on the way. The first place I walked by looked like a roach fest, so I kept going. I heard a motorcycle coming up behind me and I tried to walk even faster. Not that I could outwalk a motorcycle, especially in these damn heels, but I tried.

  Jameson pulled up beside me and stopped, but I kept walking.

  “Isabelle, I'm sorry,” he said.

  I didn't answer him. At this point I wanted to get as far away from Jameson whatever his name was as I could. I didn’t need another psycho on my hands.

  “Are you really going to walk all the way back to the motel?”

  “It's not that far,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

  “It's far enough,” he said. “Come on, let me give you a ride. One last ride and I'll leave you alone for good.”

  I turned around and walked toward him, my feet seriously killing me now. “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes, ma'am. Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said. “One last ride and you'll never see my ugly mug again.”

  Without a second thought, I got on the back of the bike, feeling almost like a pro at this point, and let him drive me back to my disgusting motel room.

  Chapter Eight

  Jameson

  There are no words. At least to describe the feel of Isabelle sliding her warm pussy up against my ass when she scrambled onto my bike. She said it would be the last time, but I had to figure something fast to make her change her mind. What kind of an asshole spends five minutes with a gorgeous redhead and sends her running for the hills?

  I don’t know what hit me. I never expected her to find the locket. She ran for it like a homing pigeon, like she knew it was there and it was the one thing I was hiding, like it was the one thing that would hang my shit out for her to see.

  In a flash, everything came back. All the memories of my childhood hitting me in the gut again. All the work I’d done to hide from them, gone in a snap and I was a raw piece of meat again.

  I know she thinks it was her fault and I was pissed off that she found it. That wasn’t it at all. It was just, oh, what the hell. How could I tell her, bring everything out into the open when I hardly knew her name? I could laugh off the crap hole I lived in, but my past? The reason for my present? That was no joke. What, was I going to tell her what I did with my life now? How I made sense of the shit fate had dumped on me by making a career out of payback? And women. She’d probably want to know about them, too. So how was I going to explain about relationships, and why they don’t work for me. Long term anyway. How could I make her understand my life is worth something now, but probably not on her terms?

  I stood there like an asshole. I can’t even remember what I said and all of a sudden, she was outta there, like I was contagious or something.

  Well I couldn’t let that happen, I had to at least give her a ride back to the roach motel. Otherwise, they’d find a puddle of baby fat and high heels on the side of the road by dinnertime. I had to rescue her from the desert heat, and maybe in that time I could come up some brilliant plan to convince her to give me another chance.

  A chance at what?

  Chapter Nine

  Isabelle

  I hopped off the back of the bike and prepared to say my goodbyes to Jameson, once and for all, when it hit me. I didn't know a single person here in Milling. He was it.

  “What's wrong?” Jameson asked, staring at me from where he remained on the bike. “Almost looks like you're second guessing our arrangement.”

  “Not second guessing anything,” I said, my head held high. Inside was a different story, but I wasn’t going to let him know how scared and lost I felt.

  I could be as stubborn as hell when I wanted to be. And in that moment, I wanted to be. Felt like I needed to be. I wasn't one who particularly enjoyed showing weakness or asking for help. I could be as prideful as any man.

  “So, you have stuff to eat in there?” he asked, motioning toward the motel room.

  “I'll head to the store in a bit.”

  “In those heels?” He looked down at my feet.

  “I can walk barefoot, if need be,” I snapped. “Believe it or not, I can usually take care of myself. Did it a long time before you ever came around.”

  Jameson smirked. I hated smirks. “Have you felt the pavement beneath your feet, Isabelle? When it's th
is hot outside, the ground is scorching as well. But don't take my word for it. Go on, put your hand to the ground and feel it.”

  As gracefully as I could manage, I squatted down and put my fingertips on the pavement. Damn. He was right. I didn't even have to lay my hand against that nasty ground to know he was right. I could feel the waves of heat coming off the rough asphalt from several inches away.

  “Thank you for your concern, but I promise you I'll be just fine. You don't have to worry about me. I'm a big girl.”

  I turned on my very high, very painful heels and walked toward my motel room, biting my lip and blinking back the tears that were trying to fall. I didn't have the first clue what I was going to do about my car, about food, about comfortable shoes, about anything. As much as I wanted to scream and cry in frustration, after my tirade earlier, I sure as hell wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

  “What about some new clothes? Might be nice to change out of that get up, wouldn't it?” he yelled after me.

  Yeah, it would be nice. But I had a feeling Milling didn't offer much in the way of respectable shops. I didn't imagine that Niemen’s or Saks Fifth Avenue had locations here. But I'd find something. I couldn't parade around like this every day. Maybe I'd have to lower my standards and find something a little more suitable for this place. Maybe a burlap sack and some Crocs? Yeah, liked I'd ever be caught dead in Crocs.

  “I'm sure I'll figure it out,” I called back to him as I pulled the key card out and inserted it into the reader.

  It beeped, signaling it was okay to enter. I needed to stop by and tell Jerry I'd be here for a few more days, but I decided that I'd wait until Jameson took off first. I shuddered, realizing I’d have to stand in front of Jerry—alone. The guy gave me the serious creeps, but according to Jameson—he was harmless.

  Like Jameson was the type of person I could trust for a character reference, but still. What choice did I have? Also, Jameson was a big, burly man. Not a woman. A woman alone, at that. Part of me wondered how harmless Creepy Jerry really was.