by Jayna King
PRODIGAL SON
SAVAGE SONS MC
by
JAYNA KING
Prodigal Son. 1st Edition
Copyright © 2014 Jayna King
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously.
All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Freedom's Son
More
Other Books By This Author
Prologue
Sable
Friday, July 2, 1982 - Flagstaff, Arizona
Sable Bellamy tossed her backpack into the passenger side of her 1974 Chevrolet Caprice Classic, and she turned around to give her friend, Jennifer, one last hug.
“Thanks again. For everything,” Sable whispered into Jennifer’s ear before letting go.
“You be careful,” Jennifer said for the third time, reluctant to say goodbye to the girl she’d first met twelve years before during first grade orientation at Colfax Elementary School in Denver, Colorado. “You have change for the pay phone if anything goes wrong, don’t you?” Jennifer asked, worried about the dozens of things that could happen to a pretty eighteen-year-old girl on the road alone.
“I do, and I’ll be fine. Nothing’s going to happen. Thanks to you and your parents, I have a fresh start, and I’m not gonna waste it.” Sable opened her car door and stepped back as the heat rolled out of the long black car. “Hope my a/c holds out,” she said as she walked around to roll down the passenger window, hoping to get some air moving inside the car that felt more like an oven.
“Say hi to Daniel for me when he gets home, and don’t you dare forget to call and let me know when you get in, okay?”
“Will do.” Sable checked to make sure that her map of Arizona, folded to show the route from Flagstaff to the Grand Canyon, was tucked beneath her backpack. “I think I’m all set. I’ll call you tomorrow night when I get home.”
Jennifer stood at the curb, watching as Sable pulled away from the house, and turned toward the highway that would lead her north to the Grand Canyon. She waved one last time and headed back inside, looking forward to the air conditioning even though it was only eight in the morning.
Sable drove away, blinking back tears and trying to distract herself with thoughts of the Grand Canyon — a sight she’d never seen. She realized that Independence Day was just two days away, and she took a deep breath, placing her hands deliberately at ten and two on the steering wheel, determined to think of her drive as traveling toward a new life and toward liberty.
“I can’t change the past,” she said out loud. “I have to look forward toward my future.”
Sable had always talked to herself, for as long as she could remember. She tried to do it only when she was alone, but the conversations were so second nature that she was accustomed to being on the receiving end of strange looks wherever she was. She knew that people looked at her because she was pretty — young, petite, but with curves, and with the most gorgeous head of nearly black hair that most folks had ever seen. But she also knew that people looked at her because she walked around in conversation with herself half the time.
About an hour-and-a-half after she’d left Jennifer’s house, she pulled into the parking lot near the visitor’s center at Mather Point. She parked the car and gratefully stretched her legs as she got out.
“Guess I should crack the windows,” Sable said as she walked to the passenger side, rolled the window down a bit, locked the door, and closed it again. “Well, let’s go see this hole in the ground.”
After she took a long drink at the water fountain in the visitor’s center, Sable headed back outside for the short walk to the edge of the canyon. She didn’t really care much about how many years it had taken for the river to wear away the rock and create the natural wonder. She just wanted to see it and move on. Following the path toward the edge, Sable watched all of the families out enjoying a holiday weekend together. She smirked at frazzled parents pleading with their precious darlings to behave, and she walked to the edge of the canyon, brave as could be.
“Oh, my,” she whispered.
No one even glanced at her, because they’d all had the same reaction when they’d come up on the profoundly massive chasm, lined with rocks that almost looked like they’d been painted with the striking colors that showed off the layers of their composition. Sable decided to take a few minutes and let the scene sink in. She looked around, feeling a little sick to her stomach at the edge, and she found a rock off to the side. It was situated a few feet away from the edge, and it was a little out of the way. Sable took a seat and rested her tennis shoe-clad feet on a smaller rock that looked like it had been placed there as a footrest.
She sat, quiet and full of her own thoughts. She watched birds floating on the thermal currents in the canyon, rising and falling in a way that looked effortless.
“Easy and free,” Sable said as she watched the birds, wheeling and turning in a descending spiral.
“Pardon?”
Sable was startled when she heard the man’s voice, and looked over to see a man about her father’s age. He wore a U.S. Marine Corps hat, studded with pins.
“Sorry,” Sable apologized. “I was talking to myself. I do it all the time.”
“That’s all right, honey. I just thought you were talking to me.”
Sable watched the man walk away, back toward the visitor’s center, and she thought about Daniel. The man’s hat had reminded her of him, though he was never very far out of her thoughts. He was due home from the Persian Gulf in less than a month, and Sable had very mixed feelings about his return. They hadn’t parted on good terms, but the few letters he’d sent from overseas had tried to explain things, and Sable had agreed to give him another chance.
“It’s better if he doesn’t know everything,” she said, having looked around to make sure no one would overhear her.
She scanned the little overlook point, watching people creep toward the edge and peer into the depths. Parents clutched their children’s hands, though there was no way they could get past the barriers that the National Park Service had put in place. Sable wondered for a moment what that would feel like — to shoulder the responsibility for another person’s life.
“Too much for me,” she said, preparing to return inside, get another drink and get back on the road.
Just before she stood up, she saw a young couple walking toward Mather Point. The father held an infant in one arm, the little boy sound asleep, his head resting on his father’s chest. The young woman, who looked just a few years older than Sable, let go of her husband’s hand and walked closer to the
edge, looked for a moment, and returned to take the infant from the man so that he could inch closer without endangering their child. Sable watched the woman shift the child so that he lay across her body. They were close enough that Sable could see that his hair was damp from the heat, and she watched the woman smooth the boy’s hair and tuck a few strands behind the ear of the sleeping child.
The man rejoined his wife and they headed toward the visitor’s center, leaving Sable still sitting on the rock, tears streaming down her face.
Chapter 1
Luke
Saturday, May 4, 2013 - Denver, Colorado
I had never been so glad to get out of my car as I was the day I arrived in Denver. I grabbed my ancient L. L. Bean backpack from behind my seat and groaned out loud as I stood up to stretch my legs. I handed the keys to the valet and pointedly ignored the skepticism in his expression. I waved off his offer to carry my bags, retrieved my large, nondescript duffel bag from the back of my dust-covered Jeep Wrangler, handed a couple of dollars to the man who looked like he wasn’t relishing the thought of climbing into my dirty, nearly ten-year-old car, and headed toward the hotel’s front door.
I started to reach for the door, but before I could grab the handle, a bellman beat me to it.
“Welcome to the Ritz Carlton, sir”
I nodded at him as I walked into the luxurious lobby and headed for the front desk.
“Checking in,” I said to the man behind the counter, whose trendy eyeglasses looked like they’d come direct from Italy and whose suit — I shit you not — looked like it had been handmade.
“Welcome to the Ritz Carlton. The last name on your reservation, please?”
“Callaway. First name Luke.”
I watched the man’s eyes widen slightly as he read the information on the screen and read it a second time to confirm. When he spoke, there was a greater tone of deference in his voice.
“We have you in our Ritz Carlton Suite — our largest and most luxurious. The reservation appears to be open ended, Mr. Callaway. Do you know how long you’re planning to stay with us?”
“Not yet. At least a week, as long as you don’t need the room before then.”
“We’re happy to accommodate you for as long as you like, sir.”
I smothered a laugh. I’d had a feeling that they didn’t have people lined up around the block to pay nearly a grand per night for their fanciest suite. I probably shouldn’t have booked the biggest suite, but I felt like splurging.
“I’ll have one of the valets take your bags up and show you around your home for the week, if you’d like, sir.”
“Nah. I can manage.” I was looking forward to seeing the ridiculously enormous set of rooms that I’d be paying for, but I didn’t need people kissing my ass any more than they already were.
“Very good, sir. We’ll just authorize your card, which will put a hold of four hundred dollars on your account. Is that acceptable?”
“Fine.”
“You’re all set. Thank you for staying at the Ritz Carlton, Mr. Callaway. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”
“Will do,” I said, as I took the card key and headed for the elevators. I was looking forward to the view.
The room was ridiculous and I loved it. I wondered what my buddies from college would think if they could see me at the moment that I walked into the rooms that, at over three thousand square feet, were twice as big as my condo back in Flagstaff. They’d be envious for a minute, I realized, until they realized where my newfound wealth had come from. I shook my head, determined not to wallow in self-pity any longer than I already had.
I was going to be grateful for the good things in my life — more money than I ever thought I’d see, a job that was flexible enough to give me an indefinite leave of absence to sort out the bombshell that my parents had dropped on me, and…well, I couldn’t really think of anything else that was good in my life at the moment. The huge gaping hole — the center of my life that had been ripped away a week ago — kept me from feeling terribly sunny.
I missed my parents. I was certain that I always would.
I dropped my bags just inside the door and walked over to the huge windows that looked out onto the Rocky Mountains.
“What am I gonna do?” I wondered out loud as I looked into the sun that was about to set just behind the mountains.
I turned away from the window and took a walk through the rooms. There was a dining room with a table set for six people, several seating areas, a bath with a huge soaking tub that looked out over the city and the mountains, and the bedroom…wow. It was a shame that I’d be sleeping in that big bed all by myself.
Grabbing my bags from the living room, I brought them into the bedroom, taking a few minutes to unpack into the dresser and put my suitcase away in the closet. I didn’t see the point of cluttering up such a gorgeous room with my ratty old bag. I pulled a thick folder, embossed with the logo of my parents’ attorney, from my backpack and I headed back out to the living room.
I sat down on the couch that faced the windows, and I flopped the folder onto the cushion next to me. I’d already skimmed the contents of the folder, but I hadn’t taken the time to read the whole thing carefully. I really didn’t want to, but I knew that I needed to. I opened the folder and pulled out a single sheet of paper — a sheet I’d read several times already. The sight of my parents’ signatures at the bottom nearly made my eyes well up with tears, and I was finished crying. I took a deep breath and reread the letter.
September 25, 1999
Dearest Luke,
Before we ever brought you home — you, our greatest treasure — your father and I agreed that we would find a way to share with you the information that we had about your birth parents should anything happen to the two of us. When we signed the final paperwork to adopt you, though, the social worker told us that the birth mother, a woman we never met, wanted your adoption to be completely closed. We knew nothing about her or your father, and we were so thrilled to have you that we decided that it didn’t really matter. We were a family, and we didn’t need anyone else.
The thought of leaving you alone in the world just haunted me, though, and I convinced your father that we should hire a private investigator to find your birth parents and leave the information with our attorney to share with you once both of us have passed on. Though I was curious, neither of us read the file that the investigator shared with us. We feel like the information is yours — that it’s your history to explore if you wish.
Whoever your birth parents are, they did one wonderful thing, and that was give us the child we wanted so desperately and couldn’t have. We have known more joy as your parents than we ever could have imagined. I don’t know under what circumstances you will read these words. I hope it’s many, many years from now when you’re settled and raising a family of your own, but just in case it’s not, we don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in the world.
We love you, and we’re so very proud of you,
Mom and Dad
The signatures that followed those words were the same ones that had been at the bottom of my report cards, permission slips, and absence notes when I’d been growing up, and a fresh wave of sadness at the fact that I would never again see my parents washed over me. I wondered what Roger and Jeannie would have thought about Daniel and Sable (nee Bellamy) Hall. They were certainly from different walks of life.
I walked over to the bar that faced the living room and decided to pour myself a drink before I cleaned up and headed out for dinner. I spied a miniature bottle of Dewar’s scotch and went in search of a perfectly chilled can of ginger ale in the silver refrigerator behind the bar. I found a rocks glass, added a couple of cubes and mixed my scotch and ginger ale. I walked back over to the window and thought about the enormous differences between my biological and my birth parents.
Roger Callaway, sixty-one years old at the time of the car accident that claimed his life
, had been the most respected civil attorney in Flagstaff. Handling wills, divorces, and custody matters, Roger was nearly a mythical creature — an attorney with a reputation for scrupulous honesty and abundant compassion. Jeannie had been a talented goldsmith and jeweler, whose business had allowed her the flexibility to stay home with me for most of my childhood. They’d been well-educated, practical people who’d raised me with patience and love, teaching me that I could become anything that I wanted, as long as I was willing to work hard for it.
Based on what I’d picked up from my quick read of the file, Daniel Hall had never made much of himself, being variously underemployed at several low wage jobs over the course of his life — the one exception being his military career, which he’d completed with distinction. Sable, clearly a smart woman, had briefly attended community college after she’d graduated from high school, but she’d taken a job working as a secretary/receptionist at a construction company, and she’d never moved on. Nothing much about their lives stood out to me, with the exception of the fact that Daniel had, along with his brother, started a motorcycle club called the Savage Sons. Based on the PI’s research, it looked like the club wasn’t exactly one of the outlaw, one-percenter gangs, but they were a rough crew. I was a little curious.
I was also hungry.
I headed into the bathroom, a shiny chrome and marble-filled fantasy, peeled my clothes off and stepped into the shower that was large enough to house a sorority. I felt much better after I’d washed the traveling dirt off myself and was dressed in clean jeans and a fitted black long-sleeved t-shirt. Though the day had been warm, I knew the evening would be a little chilly.