UnScripted

by Jax Hart

  Copyright ©2018 Jax Hart

  All rights reserved.

  Cover by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Interior Formatting & Design by Eric Miller

  To the incredible women that I’ve never met who have become a huge reason for my success. To all, you lovely ladies in the lounge thank you for all your love and support.

  To my beta readers; my boos—Wendy, Marcy & Daryn, the three of you have made me snarf my coffee at work more times than I can count. To Kelly for all, you do in the Lounge. To Cheryl for stepping up when I needed help.

  For anyone who has loved someone everyone told them they shouldn’t; f’em and follow your heart.

  And lastly, to E… live your life babe. Go forward and don’t look back.

  “Love knows no age. It has no boundaries; and often, your heart chooses for you anyway. It makes no … sense or maybe all the sense in the world,” Jax Hart

  IT’S COLDER HERE THAN I thought it would be. Where I’m from, the air doesn’t bite with a chill until September. Throwing an old sweatshirt on, I bend down to tie my sneakers and head out for my morning run.

  At least the air here smells clean. I breathe it in deeply, letting my lungs fill as I work my legs through several stretches.

  I could run for miles through scenery like this. It’s nothing but woods full of the largest evergreens you could ever imagine, lush moss on boulders littering the forest floor and air so clean—you want to bottle and drink it instead of breathing it.

  But I didn’t come here for nature. I came to Springdale to dig into the past and find out who my parents were.

  My mother was a whore.

  There’s no sugarcoating that fact.

  She gave me up, but luckily, I was adopted as a baby. Although, she did fill out some paperwork just in case when I turned eighteen—I would want to know who she was.

  I did want to know.

  There’s nothing I wanted more.

  But now I wish I didn’t. My adoptive parents never told me any of this until my thirtieth birthday last year.

  Over a decade.

  I lost over ten years waiting for answers, and I didn’t want to wait one more day. So, I tracked down the town of my birth: Springdale, Oregon and started making plans. It took almost a year, but when I was ready—I booked a one-way ticket from Chicago O’Hare Airport despite the pleas from my adoptive mother not to go.

  With my bag slung over my shoulder, I walked through security, ticket in hand gripped so tight it turned to mush from the sweat from my palm.

  Have you ever seen the look in someone’s eyes the moment their heart gets ripped to shreds?

  I have.

  The instant I turned around locking eyes with the woman who raised me through the glass wall separating us. I shook my head mouthing, “I’m sorry.” The tears streaked down her face as she clutched her gloves wringing them in her hands like a wet dishrag.

  She said she thought she was protecting me.

  Protecting me from what?

  Turning left down the road that leads into town, my feet make quick work of the same route I take every day.

  Up the hill, I climb, stopping at the top to catch my breath. The rusted metal gate swings open at my touch. I slowly make my way through the headstones finding the one I’m looking for.

  “Hello, Ma.”

  My finger traces her name carved in stone, Dee Dee Stanton where someone spray-painted whore in neon green on it a long time ago. It’s faded, but it’s still there.

  It was a punch to the gut the first time I came here, and I tried in vain to scrub it off. I even complained to the caregivers, but they just asked if I’d like to buy a new headstone, not giving a shit in the least that it had been defaced.

  Sitting for a minute, I wipe the sweat from my brow and begin the story from where I left off yesterday. I’ve decided to tell her all of them. Every last one she missed out on since she gave me away. But it doesn’t even matter since she died a few years after putting me up for adoption. She would’ve missed my life regardless.

  “… then in kindergarten, I met my best friend, Lucy. She was an only child and said we could be “sisters.” We’re still BFF's today, and she thinks I’m crazy for coming here when there’s nothing left. But that’s the thing Dee Dee, she shares the same blood as her parents and knows her whole history.” I hang my head, toeing the overgrown grass with my sneaker, feeling guilty.

  “I’m obsessed with history. I had told her. She knows this. I became a high school history teacher for Christ sakes.”

  Glancing at my sports watch, I check the time. “Shit. I gotta go, Dee. Good talk.”

  I stand, brushing the leaves and twisted sticks clinging to my sweaty legs, then walk a few rows over. “Good morning, Dad. I’m going to find out if you even knew that you fathered me. The answer has to be here somewhere.”

  His grave is the complete opposite of Dee’s. It’s freshly kept. The grass around is watered and manicured, fresh flowers fill the urns on both sides, and little American flags stick into the ground. My fingers trace his name just like I did with Dee’s.

  John Masters.

  A blackbird caws so loud, it makes me jump, “What in the hell?”

  There’s a huge man riding a beast of a bike coasting in, parking right by Dee’s grave. I can’t help watching his big frame moving gracefully amongst the headstones. He stops, putting one knee down in fresh dirt a few graves down from hers.

  He shakes his head, taking a flask from his leather jacket, does a mock toast and takes a swig before pouring the rest on the ground. Then he gets up walking away but not before stopping at Dee’s stone. “Crazy bitch,” he mutters out loud.

  I’m a runner, but my feet feel like lead. He climbs on his ride; I’m screwing up my chance to find answers.

  “Hey! Wait! She was my mom! You—asshole!”

  But the roar of his engine as he rides off like a devil, drowns me out.

  “Crap,” I mutter to the ghosts, “any of you feel like telling me who the hell that was?”

  “Meat.”

  “Eeek!” I shriek, “You scared the crap out of me.”

  The man laughs, “Shit. I wouldn’t work here if the dead talked.”

  “So, who is he?”

  “I told ya’. That was Meat. He’s practically the mayor.”

  “Um, okay, so where can I find him?”

  “The Sassy Wench Tavern.”

  “Come again? I’ve been in town for a few weeks now. I’d think I’d know if there was a place with a name like that around here.”

  “Google it,” he replies walking away.

  The rest of my run forgotten I head back toward the road, tapping my phone like a mad woman.

  “Holy shit.”

  Not only does this place exist, but according to the website this Meat guy is the owner, and he just posted a job opening for a new waitress. Hitting the number, I instantly call leaving a message that I’m interested and qualified. Heck, I waitressed throughout college. If I can handle serving drunk frat boys during pledge week, I can manage the clientele in this wooded town.

  My phone rings in my hand, catching me off-guard for the second time in fifteen minutes.

  “H-hello?”

  “Is this Devon?” A voice as rough as concrete asks.

  “Y-yes.”

  “You have a speech problem? It’d be hard to wait tables if you can’t talk.”

  “I can speak just fine,” I respond with an edge of bitchiness.

  “This is Roger. Can you be at the Sassy Wench at 11:30 for an interview?”

  “Sure. I can make that.”

  His answer is a grunt.

  “Goodbye—” But the click in my ear tells me he never heard me say it.

  I kick a pile of dirt, watching a
pebble roll down the street. So far today has not gotten off to a good start.

  It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. It’s bright as hell outside, but in here, it’s dark as night. It feels like this is a place where time gets lost.

  “Hello?”

  My sneakers cut across the floor to the bar. It's gorgeous, all dark gleaming wood and ruby leather seats. My eyes roam over the pictures hanging on the wall. One’s a black and white photo of an older man beaming proudly outside a bar that looks like this one. Then there’s one of a man with a little girl on his lap as he sits on his motorcycle outside the same bar. But the last picture, makes me want for something I’ve never had. There’s a stunning brunette who is staring straight into the camera with a look that's almost a taunt… but the man… he’s staring at her like she’s the only woman in the world. His huge tatted arms circle her waist, his mouth by her ear and then I notice they seem to be standing right here. In the same spot, I’m in.

  “You showed.”

  Shrieking, I turn around, with a hand over my rapidly beating heart. My first thought is: He’s huge. My second thought is: He’s that asshole. My third thought is: Damn, he’s fine. My fourth thought is: I’m gonna march him to the cemetery and make him apologize.

  Be cool Dev, be cool. My fingernails dig into my palms. I’m trying to hold back my anger—bite my tongue, and rein in my swirling emotions. I can’t make an enemy of this man when he could be the key to solving so many of the answers of my past.

  “Y-yes.”

  He smirks, slowly coming forward and my breath catches before I burst out in a fit of laughter. He’s a beast; a giant with ink covering both arms but in that white apron he’s wearing over a pair of worn jeans—he looks like any woman’s wet dream who’s over forty.

  “What?” He barks.

  “It’s just. It’s just that… I’m sorry,” I gasp out swiping tears of laughter. “You look hot. I mean, for an old guy and all… in that apron,” I gesture with one hand, trying to charm him with the truth.

  His lips don’t twitch. He stares me down with eyes that seem to glow in the dark. Fascinated, I slowly walk forward. I’ve never seen eyes that color before. They’re light blue like arctic ice caps, bobbing in a frigid sea. And his hair… it’s light brown streaked with gray. His beard looks soft, the kind you could run a hand over before you cuddle in, listening to the sound of your man’s steady heart.

  What the fuck?

  I shake my head and clear my throat. “I’m sorry. You caught me off guard.”

  “Follow me,” he grunts.

  He leads me down a hall towards the kitchen where the smells wafting towards us makes my tummy growl. I know he heard, but he doesn’t crack a joke at my expense.

  My eyes lower to his ass, and I bite my lip. He’s built. His ass is firm and meaty like he used to power lift or something. I kind of feel like a freak for even looking at a man who’s got to be twice my age at least—but I’m fascinated. I’m fascinated that he’s in such good shape and intrigued that he knows who Dee was. I need to make sure I get this job. It might be the key to solving everything.

  He pushes open the swinging doors, and my knees buckle. My nose lifts appreciating the aroma flirting with it.

  “Mmmm,” I inhale closing my eyes.

  “Here.”

  My eyes pop open wide. He’s standing right in front of me holding a spoon to my mouth. My lips part, our eyes lock as he presses the spoon gently in. I moan again, it’s a bomb of rich spices, warm and hearty and has just enough zing to make your eyes water.

  He grunts again, shifting his hips.

  This is the most unconventional job interview I’ve ever had.

  “It’s good, right?”

  “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  “It’s my special Fra Diavolo sauce.”

  “Devil monk.”

  “Come again?”

  “Fra Diavolo, it means “devil monk” in Italian.”

  This time I’m stunned as he throws his head back and laughs and then leans in close. “Christ, that’s me alright. The devil monk. Haven’t gotten laid in so long,” he mutters mostly to himself as he rinses the spoon in the sink.

  My eyebrows rise at his confession before I can stop myself I blurt out, “I find that hard to believe.”

  He grunts again turning his back, ignoring me. He picks up a long wooden spoon and starts stirring his sauce, turns down the heat to a simmer and takes off his apron.

  “My office,” he motions for me to follow.

  “Do you actually talk or just generally grunt, giving orders?”

  He stops abruptly and stares intently at me. “You have waitressing experience?”

  “Yes sir, paid my way through college.”

  “You’re hired.”

  “That’s it?”

  He studies me, “You remind me of someone… you’ve got the same sass and grit she had. You’ll do well here. Your shift starts at five.”

  “Oh, okay… then. So, who was the girl?”

  “Here.” He shoves an apron with the Sassy Wench logo on it and practically shoos me out his office door without answering my question.

  “That’s it? Don’t you need my name and address… and for me to fill out paperwork?”

  “Nope. That’s it, Devon St. John.”

  “H-how—?”

  “I own the building that you're renting a unit in,” he answers cutting me off.

  “Are you always this grumpy?”

  “Grumpy? Hell, sugar, I’m having a good day.”

  My eyebrows raise, “Well, okay then. I’ll see you at five, Meat.”

  He grunts, “Roger. You can call me Roger. Only family calls me by my nickname.”

  Swallowing my questions, I duck my head and grab a menu. I’ll need to look it over a few times to familiarize myself with all the dishes and types of beer they offer.

  “Devon,” he says in a voice rough but soft, like velvet.

  My head jerks up, and we lock eyes.

  “We don’t have a uniform here. But daisy dukes or short shorts are the way to go if you wanna make decent tips.”

  “Roger that,” I answer with a wink enjoying the moment his eyes leave my face and slide down my body.

  He’s a damn silver fox.

  Hot as fuck.

  He’s a man’s man: confident and gruff without apologizing for being rough around the edges. I need to get a grip. Falling for him would be a disaster.

  I need to find a way to get close to him, just enough to get answers. Small towns like this don’t trust outsiders especially one determined to dig into the past. And I’ve waited my whole life to find the answers, and I’m not leaving without them. Even if some badass giant wearing an apron and who cooks like a celebrity chef tries to get in my way.

  MY EYES FOLLOW HER as she walks across the lot. She can’t see me even if she turned around. The glass on my office window is tinted and bulletproof.

  I’m old as shit but when push comes to shove—I ride with my brothers in Creed, the motorcycle club I’ve been in practically my whole damn life. Back in the day, I was the Sergeant in Arms, the muscle, the enforcer tracking down our enemies and settling scores. I’m still the best at what I do running circles around these young-ass punks thinkin’ that they are hot shit. I was the original shit-starter raising hell in Springdale, well me, and two other guys.

  My best friend Colin Flynn was the Prez, and together we ruled the Pacific Northwest riding our bikes like two bad-asses straight outta hell. Nothing mattered but the club and the code of friendship. But shit changed fast. With the money and power, came women who wanted a piece. And nothing screws up a man’s head more than a pussy tighter than a glove and a pair of sugar tits that melt on your tongue.

  These days the bar keeps me busy, but I’m a man who is connected, and I always watch my back. Trash has a way of coming back long after you take it out and I’m not taking any chances on letting its stink touch me anymore.r />
  Unfortunately for Colin and my other buddy, John Masters—the two of them tangled over more than one broad—while I kept my both my dick and heart away from club chicks.

  Until, her.

  Fuck. Colin never knew how I loved the woman he married and how much it tore me up to watch her belly swell with his child. I’d leave this very bar and drink until I couldn’t see straight. ‘Course back then this place was called Stan’s and was a friggin’ dump.

  She was young and beautiful. Layla Flynn was a classy broad. She was smart too, but she changed when she got mixed-up with Colin and John. She was Colin’s wife, John’s side-piece, and the love of my life.

  Shit was already too fucked-up for me to get involved. Leaving town was the best thing she could’ve done for herself. But she left her baby girl behind. That tiny hellion had a hold on my heart just like her mama did. I protected her every day of her life. Now, Shanna belongs to Duke. He’s the club’s previous Prez, and no one gets near her. But she’s still connected to this place. Her grandfather started this business, and her father turned this bar into Creed’s clubhouse. Her man, Duke, burned it to the ground and then re-built it with me. This building is a landmark, just as important as the town hall.

  On this soil blood’s been spilled, men have been made, heck maybe even a few babies too. This bar is the lifeblood of the people here. Springdale would feel hollow without it. It’s a place to gather and drink, remember the past and celebrate the present. It might have had a shady start, but today The Sassy Wench and Tavern’s a legit business. I won’t launder club money through my bar, and our enemies are still out there. Every window has shatter-proof glass, the camera system is tight, and I’m always packin’ heat.

  Sighing, I turn from the window. My office chair creaks as I sit and open her file.

  Name: Devon St. John

  Age: 30

  Previous Address: 26 Valley Lane Naperville, IL

  My eyes skim the notes Federico wrote up. He started as the bouncer, but he pledged to Creed and Duke gave him his patch. He’s Duke’s eyes and ears in Springdale, and she’s been sniffing around—asking questions. It’s suspicious as hell. “Who are you darlin’?” But the picture Federico snapped of her jogging in the park doesn’t answer. Her long dark hair is in a ponytail off her face, her eyes the color of a stormy sea, hide secrets.