ALSO BY PAULA MARINARO
Raine Falling
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Paula Marinaro
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477827826
ISBN-10: 147782782X
Cover design by Jason Blackburn
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014955024
This book is dedicated to my very own Harley Man . . . my husband and the absolute love of my life, Pasquale Marinaro.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
I had been on my feet for hours. And hours. And hours.
And I was feeling that pain everywhere.
The small muscles in my upper arms ached from lifting the heavy trays. The larger muscles in my lower back screamed from being bent and stretched. My left ankle hurt where I had twisted it. And despite the pain relievers that I was downing like candy, my headache just kept getting worse.
One more time.
Just one more time.
If the fat guy sitting in the second booth near the door called me over just one more time to stare at my tits, wink at me, and order “one more with lots of head, darling,” I was going to pull open that dirty mouth of his and pour an entire pitcher of beer down his throat.
Usually I didn’t mind helping out at Ruby Reds, but enough was enough.
I looked around at the sea of fools who occupied the red and black leather booths, and wondered where the hell they all came from. Crownsmount wasn’t exactly a booming metropolis. It was a small town, nestled among some other small towns, with the major city about fifty miles east. But the area did support two private colleges, so I guess the tequila bar had become a draw.
Ruby Reds was owned by the Hells Saints Motorcycle Club, which had been founded and was now run by my surrogate father, Prosper. Though we lived in the Southeast, there were chapters all over the United States. Just recently, the Saints had also expanded into Europe. In an effort toward more legitimate business practices, my sister’s husband, Diego, had recently been named vice president.
I emphasize the word effort. This not-so-merry band of outlaw men still had a long way to go before legitimate could apply to them, however loosely the term was used. But Prosper Worthington was a smart guy with a somewhat ironic sense for business, and under his rule the Hells Saints MC had made some strong alliances with like-minded criminals. Financially speaking, at least, they had come out the better for it. So I had to give them props. I didn’t know much, but from what I had seen from the corporate side of it, my adopted family of badasses were doing okay.
What seemed like a lifetime ago, my sister and I had found ourselves in a dangerous place and had gone to the MC for help. After things had been made right, we decided to stay on. It might not have been perfect, but it was safe, and it had been just what we needed. As it turned out, staying on had come with its own set of complications. A set of complications that I tried hard not to think about, because when I did, it made my head swim and my heart ache.
A stint in rehab, a few dead folks, a couple of kidnappings, one really scary car chase, and the dramatic, premature birth of my first niece were just some of the highlights that had taken center stage during our time with the club.
Yeah, my life had never been what one might call quiet, or even close to anything that could even remotely resemble normal. But in the past couple of years, I had found myself in situations that trumped even my low expectations for a shot at an average life.
And it wasn’t just me.
I could also add my best friend and roommate, Glory, to the pot of hot mess. Glory had the unlikely distinction of being a former all-nude dancer, turned recluse, turned fisherman. And I had the strong feeling that the evolution of Glory had just begun. The thought exhausted me.
My life.
My headache.
And then there was Reno. He was where the heartache came in.
Reno and I had been . . . hell, I had no idea what Reno and I had been. But for a while it had been good. Really, really good. And then it wasn’t anymore. The thought of him made my eyes mist and my heart hurt. I was pretty sure that it was my fault that things had gone the way they had, but I just didn’t know how to make them right. And, really, I didn’t even know if he wanted things to work out between us. I only knew that whatever it was that Reno and I had been working toward, we weren’t doing that any more. Sometimes I missed him so much that it was hard to breathe.
And then there was that other thing. And that other thing was the stuff of nightmares. That other thing was the kind of thing that even if you never talked about it or willingly thought about it, it was still right there with you.
The other thing invaded my dreams.
Try as I might to avoid it, in the past year or so, my life had taken on all the elements of a Greek tragedy. The determination that it took for me to rise above the doom and damnation wore me out and sapped all of my strength.
But I wasn’t beat, yet. I was a Winston woman, and if nothing else, that was enough to get me through.
Most days anyway.
I took a look at the clock. I had fifteen minutes left to my shift, then I was free for the weekend.
CHAPTER 2
I pulled off my apron and made my way toward Raine’s office in back of the bar. Attached to it was a large, well-lit bathroom. Inside of that bathroom was a shower that supplied enough hot water to keep me happy.
A shudder of pure pleasure shot right through me as I felt those stinging jets of full-on heat hit my sore, tired muscles. I laid my palms flat agai
nst the tiles, bent my neck under the spray, and let that steaming water run straight over me. Sighing, I felt a gradual release of the tension that had permanently taken up residence in my overused, tired, bunched-up muscles.
Reluctantly, I stepped out of the hot shower and into a cloud of fragrant steam. I took the thick cotton towel and rubbed my skin hard, feeling the blood flow back into my tired body. Starting with my legs and working my way up, I massaged in some lightly scented body lotion until I began to feel somewhat human again. The fragrance was called “In the Midnight Garden.” It had been a favorite of mine for years and it was the one luxury that I consistently treated myself to. I didn’t always take the extra time to use it, but when I did, it enveloped me in the soft scents of yesterday. The smooth, creamy mix made me think of the past. Both the good and the bad.
In the Midnight Garden reminded me that no matter how bad things seemed, they could always be worse.
Making a strong effort to hide the dark blue, telltale smudges of lost sleep, I grabbed every girl’s best friend, otherwise known as concealer, and dabbed a little under each eye. Then I brushed on some mascara and covered my lids with a light coppery shadow. I rimmed my baby blues with twenty-five dollar eyeliner, and tinted my lips with gloss.
Tipping my head forward, I flipped my hair upside down and dried it for maximum volume.
Satisfied that the strong effort would bring strong results, I stood back and looked at myself in the mirror.
Expectantly.
Hopefully.
And then . . .
With a heaping helping of disappointment.
The artfully made-up eyes that stared back at me still looked troubled. Turning away from the mirror, I let out a heavy sigh, wrapped the towel tighter around my too-thin body and rifled through the duffle bag. I pulled out my underwear, jeans, and the T-shirt that I had packed before I left for work. I always changed and showered after every shift, even if I was just going home. The greasy oil from the fryers, the spilled beer, and the piles of cash I handled all day long made me feel like a breeding ground for microorganisms. Even if that wasn’t the case, today was special and I did not want to take a chance of passing on any germs to my niece.
Today was Willow’s first birthday, and I was number one on the celebration committee.
After slipping on my bra and panties, I pulled the T-shirt over my head and tugged on the loosely fitting Levis. All my jeans hung a little too low on my hips now. But there were worse things than dark circles and baggy pants. So, pushing those worse things aside, I zipped and belted. Then I combed my long hair into a loose side braid. After stopping at the bar to grab a cold one, I headed out.
It was only a short drive before the busy, two-lane highway turned into an easy single stretch of road. From there, the asphalt eventually made its way to a long, smooth, graveled private lane leading to Diego’s property. I thought about my adorable niece. She was still so precious and new to this world. With her little Buddha belly and big blue eyes, she was love wrapped up in a soft pink blanket.
Despite a rocky start, Willow would have a good life. My sister would make sure of it, no question. Of that, I was absolutely certain. And that certainty brought me back to a place I rarely visited, the dark alleyway of my own childhood.
Funny thing, that trip down memory lane. For some, it was a leisurely Sunday morning drive coasting down a pretty, tree-lined avenue.
For others, it was a high-speed midnight chase along a dry, cracked highway.
For me, it was the highway.
Definitely the highway.
Growing up in a house with a dead mother and a perpetually grieving father hadn’t exactly been a recipe for happiness. Add to that pot of sorrow one cupful of loaded guns and a sprinkle of getaway cash, and there you had it. A heaping helping of danger—my childhood.
By the time my sister was twelve years old, she ran our household. Raine had cooked, cleaned, done the laundry, and set the alarm for school each morning.
Raine Winston had taken care of business.
Everything had fallen on my older sister, because in all the ways that mattered to two little girls, our father had been a useless drunk.
I blamed my mother. She should have known better.
Jesus, even at four and a half years old, I had seen that one coming. But, out of some sort of misguided bullshit, Maggie, Magaskawee, my mother, had condemned us to that life.
At eighteen years old, my mother had found herself in the unenviable position of choosing between the two outlaw men who loved her.
She chose the wrong one.
Our father, Jack, had been a weak man, made weaker by his dependency on the love of a woman who would not live to see her thirtieth birthday. Our mother had been the love of Prosper’s life. Prosper was Jack’s best friend. When my mother died, he had been our only hope. Prosper had whisked us away one warm summer night, and had given us the outlaw-biker version of normal. Because that version had come with a sunny house by the lake, a funny, loving woman named Pinky, clean sheets, and plenty to eat; I had loved that normal. I had thrived on that normal. And when I heard my eight-year-old sister laugh, for what seemed to be the first time, I knew that we were where we belonged.
Then Jack had come for us.
First just for a visit. Then for longer visits.
Our father came back to us with his clear blue eyes filled with uncertainty and something that looked like love. My child’s heart had opened wide to let that in. But it had turned out to be a big mistake to trust Jackie-boy. Because he didn’t have it in him. He just couldn’t do it. He could not be what two little girls needed.
The thing that I remembered most about the subsequent years of my childhood was the deep sense of underlying fear. Because my father spent most of his days in an alcohol- or drug-induced stupor, nothing ever felt solid or safe in our world. Even though Raine was no more than a child herself, she had tried hard to give me the sense of security that I craved. In the chill of the night, my big sister would snuggle tight with me under the blankets, and whisper soft words about a magical safe place where we could go if things ever got too bad.
I knew that Raine had meant for those words to comfort me. But, there were times when I would lie in bed and wonder just how bad things would have to get before we could Houdini our way out of this world and into that one. I learned, frustratingly early on, that big sister’s ideas of “when things got too bad” and mine were worlds apart.
But, I also knew that things could have been a lot worse for us. Thanks to Raine’s diligence, we were never the dirty kids or the stupid kids.
Thanks to Jack’s apathy, we were also never the kids whose parent showed up drunk at school events.
Those kids had been Clay and Della Jenkins.
To this day, I can still remember their horrified little faces every time they watched their mother arrive shit-faced at all the important elementary school events. Even now, almost twenty years later, I can still recall the mean-spirited laughter that had echoed through the hallways.
No, we were not those kids.
We were the kids who had stood with Clay and Della, solemnly slipping our small hands into theirs, in solidarity and understanding.
We were the kids who signed our father’s name on permission slips and report cards.
We were the kids with the perfect attendance, because school was the only place we felt safe.
We were the invisible kids.
CHAPTER 3
A gray storm cloud gathered up ahead. I felt a rush of cool air dance through the open car window and tug at my hair. The intermittent rays cast by the sun peeked through the lush, green foliage. The shadows splayed against my windshield like black confetti.
A sign of trouble yet to come.
I pushed the thought away and pressed down on the accelerator. Speeding up quickly to get past the darkening shadows and into the light of the lowering sun, I saw my sister’s happy little home come into view.
I smiled at th
e sight.
Raine and Diego currently lived in an eyesore of a double-wide on the edge of a grassy knoll. The ugly trailer sat at odds with every bit of natural beauty that the property had to offer. However, the unit was a temporary and necessary measure while Diego worked with Crow, one of the brothers in the Hells Saints MC, to build Raine’s dream home.
As my car crested the hill, I could see the smooth gray cement of the foundation and the sturdy straight angles and outlines of wall joists, studs, and beams. The shell of the house had begun to take shape. To my unending surprise, the Hells Saints brothers rocked the whole craftsman thing. They had descended upon the property with an impressive amount of trade skill. In the rare instance that one of them couldn’t plumb it, wire it, or frame it, they knew someone who could. With their do-or-die approach to things, I honestly had no doubt that the house would be perfect. It wouldn’t dare to be anything less.
Rattling in protest, my small, rusty, tin can of a car sputtered, heaved, and spit out a few billows of exhaust before it finally came to rest at the top of the hill. Tired old girl, and I knew exactly how she felt.
Gathering up an armload of presents, I headed toward the sound of celebration. I walked through the door to find Prosper holding the gurgling baby in his big, strong arms. Willow and her grandpa were engaged in a tug of war, the prize being a favorite blanket. Willow pulled and waited in gleeful anticipation for Prosper to pull it back. This seemed to be the funniest thing in the world to the baby girl, and she laughed out loud. Every time she let out that giggle, the rough, hardened outlaw smiled at the baby with such devotion that I could feel his love fill the room. Her eyes were the color of rich, round blueberries, her tiny mouth was cotton-candy pink, and she had a small smattering of dark hair that Raine insisted on gathering on the top of the baby’s head in funny little bows. Despite all of the girly trappings, Willow grinned up at her grandfather with that same intensity as Prosper.
She squirmed and wiggled in her grandfather’s arms. With every move, there came the soft, swooshing sound of a little bum covered in padding. Pulling and tugging and determined to triumph, Willow’s chubby baby hands gathered up the soft cotton blanket. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind who the winner was going to be. Prosper was putty in Willow’s hands. All the little sweetheart had to do was to gurgle and point to have her every wish granted.
Chasing Claire (Hells Saints Motorcycle Club) Page 1