Bitter Sweet Deception (The Kingsmen M.C Book 4)

by Oakes, Tara

  BITTERSWEET DECEPTION

  Book four

  The Kingsmen MC series

  TARA OAKES

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  First edition. February 25, 2014

  Copyright c. 2015 Tara Oakes

  Written by Tara Oakes

  Published by Twelve Oakes Publishing

  Book Cover: Image from Tatiana Vila, www.viladesign.net

  TO MY LAMBCHOP, MY LOVE

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The hardest part of writing any book, for me at least, is writing up the acknowledgement page. I save it for last, just before a book is published because I somehow think it will be easier that way.

  It never is.

  BITTER SWEET DECEPTION, will be the fifth book that I’ve released and there are simply too many people to thank. I’ve come across so many people along this journey that have helped me navigate my way through all of this, that I’m terrified I’ll forget someone in even the smallest capacity.

  Many of these names are the same, book after book, and that is a testament to the loyalty and friendships that have been forged in this crazy industry. I’ve also learned the valuable lesson that sometimes these names do change…and that’s OK, too.

  To my editor, Laura; once again, another tight deadline and you pulled through like a champ. I’m so happy to have you on my team. Now that things have really taken off, I’m eternally grateful to have a core group around me that has in fact been there from day one. You are one of those people.

  To my assistant Alicia; thank you so much for every single thing that you manage to fit in your already crazy schedule. I don’t know how you manage to do it, but I am in awe. Nobody can multitask like you, kiddo. From your daily reminders (because I am that scatterbrained), to your cracking the whip (because I have a habit of procrastinating), you work wonders. You handle everything I throw your way and seem to always be able to make room for more. Cheers.

  To my dear friend and street team extrodinaire, Des. It’s been a crazy road and you’ve helped steer the car for a bit when I didn’t know how to drive it. Now you’ve got your own set of wheels and I know you’re gonna do fantastic. Just remember to wear your “blinkers”, and to write the books you would want to read. The rest will fall into place.

  Thanks to my street team, and some special women over there. CBB…. no words, chica. Just tons and tons of thanks. To my Beta’s; Christy and Ana, thanks for putting up with me doling this book out with an eyedropper. I hope I kept you on your toes.

  Thanks so much to all the readers who’ve welcomed the Kingsmen MC into your lives. I hope this book finds a place in it just like the others have.

  So without further adieu…Book 4 in the Kingsmen MC series, BITTER SWEET DECEPTION.

  BIKER FRIENDLY REFERENCE

  The life of a biker, although foreign to most of us, is a very intriguing subculture with its own laws, rules, language, and traditions. Hopefully this reference will help the rest of us get to know a bit more about them before we take a peek into the lives of Lil's and Jay, two people born and raised in the secret world of the M.C., full of passion, loyalty, fierce family bonds and... danger.

  TERMS

  1%er -

  The small population of biker clubs that consider themselves outside the law. They often run operations in gambling, guns, prostitution, smuggling, paid protection, drugs, and more. They are considered to be the baddest of the bad, and the roughest of the rough.

  Brother -

  Club members within the same club refer to each other as“Brother.”They have made a vow to protect and take care of each other as family.

  Cage-

  An automobile, usually a van.

  Church–

  A club meeting to be attended by patched brothers only. Most clubs run as a democracy and important matters are voted on during meetings.

  Club Mama–

  Women who regularly attend events and interact with the M.C. They may aspire to become an Ol' Lady one day but do not yet have a patch holder. They may spend time with many different bikers within a club but have loyalty to the club first before a man. They are considered to be a little bit more respected than a“Sweet Butt”.

  Cut -

  Refers to the the leather vest worn by most bikers in a club.

  MC-

  Acronym for Motorcycle Club.

  Ol' Lady–

  A term of affection used for the main woman, or wife of a club member. She is given his protection and is considered off limits to any other biker. Women are not considered club members, but rather have associations to the club through their ol' man, or their patch holder.

  Nomad–

  A member of an MC that is currently without a specific charter. They are still considered a brother but they choose not to offer specific allegiance to a designated charter; instead they are loyal to the club organization on the whole.

  Patched in–

  When a prospect completes his initiation period and is voted in to become a full-fledged club member, or “Brother”

  Patches–

  The cloth patches or embroidered designs added to bikers’ vests, or cuts, that identify which club he belongs to, the location of their specific charter, and their position in it. Other patches can be added to signify milestone events. Example: If the member has ever served prison time for his club, or killed for it.

  Piece–

  A gun.

  Pig -

  A law enforcement officer.

  Prospect–

  Those who desire to become full fledged patched members must complete an initiation period as a prospect before a final vote is taken as to whether or not they can fully join. Prospects usually are given the worst assignments and must prove their loyalty and worth to the club.

  Rag–

  Another term for a leather vest, or cut, but worn by a woman, given to her by her ol' man to signify that she is his “property” and is off limits. An ol' lady's rag does not usually bear the club name, logo or charter as she is not a club member. It simply states “Property of_____”.

  Sweet Butt–

  A term used to describe a woman who is “used” by members in a club. They are usually welcome at club parties, or “Brother only” parties, but they are never allowed at family events. It is a derogatory term and there is very little respect for these ladies by club members.

  Tat–

  A tattoo. Full-fledged club members, or brothers, often have the club patches permanently tattooed on their bodies to signify they are members even if they’re not wearing their cuts. An ol' lady will usually have a tattoo to honor her ol' man to signify that she is his property even if she is not wearing her rag.

  PROLOGUE

  CHARLIE

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  My eyes stare at the monitor as if they expect to see something other than the same white peeking points that I’ve been fixed on for the last half hour. The screen changes slightly as the minutes pass, the blood-pressure reading varying one or two digits in either direction, the blood oxygen levels teetering and the pulse rate hovering just close enough for the average person to consider the patient stable
.

  But I know better.

  I know that given his condition and prognosis, those single-digit fluctuations mean a whole world of difference. He sleeps soundly, the meds being pumped through his IV line working their magic. The lights are dimmed, other than the white electronic glow from the monitor screens and the soft wattage from the hallway creeping in through the opened door.

  The clipboard attached to the end of his bed lays undisturbed. I’ve studied it, poured over its pages, searching for something, anything, that might have been missed. Something to answer the prayers of his loved-ones who sit bedside hour after hour, awaiting news from his doctors. They didn’t easily agree to finally leave him tonight. It had taken a great deal of gentle persuasion to get them to take a much needed break, wash-up, change clothes, and force a few bites of food.

  But they had finally agreed to go…because they trust me.

  They trust me to sit here, watching over him, as if that will magically keep him from continuing his course, keep his body from failing on him. I know my presence does nothing to change the odds in either direction. Hell, he probably doesn’t even know I’m here. But, I sit and watch. Not for him. Never for him. This man is owed nothing from me.

  I stay for them.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  I close my eyes and wrestle with my conscience. I tell myself he deserves this. This is the life he chose…to live hard, and be damned with the consequences. Hatred boils deep within, as I realize that I am a consequence of that life.

  I’ve waited for any other option to present itself to save his life. One that doesn’t include me. It didn’t come, and I hate him for it. I hate that, because of him, I have no choice other than to expose myself for who I really am. A liar, a pretender. I know they will see me as both of those things and more.

  I’ve tried to hide the truth from them, to convince myself that the circumstances that brought me into their lives had changed. I’m not the same person I was all those months ago. I had fooled myself, as well as them, into thinking that I could have it all, thinking I could have the family, the love… and the man. Clink.

  But, I know better now. No matter how hard I try to make something good for myself, it always comes back to the person lying in the bed before me. He is the source of everything negative in my life, and that’s why I came here… to ruin him.

  The insecurities, anger, lack of trust… it all came from him. It was his legacy, the only thing he ever gave me. And now, I’m going to throw everything away, to save him. But not for him…never for him. It’s for them.

  I may not need him in my life, but I know they do. I’ll never be able to live with myself, knowing that I could have possibly spared them the pain of losing him.

  I already lost him, a long time ago. The day I was born, actually.

  I slow my breathing, stretching out the moment, the seconds, before I move forward with what I know I must do. Savoring every last drop of time before I lose it all. For him, dear old dad.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHARLIE

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER

  “I got it, Sugar!”

  Fuck! No! I blindly reach for the shower curtain, eyes closed tight to prevent the shampoo from entering. Fumbling around, my fingers make contact with the lush bath towel hanging from the hook nearby. I pull it quickly to my body, fighting to keep it secure as I race from the bathroom, dripping a path behind me. I can hear his voice talking into the open air around him, and I use it as a guide, steering my course.

  “Well, it’s nice to talk to you, too. Sure, she’s right-”

  I interrupt Clink as he’s mid-sentence, “Here! I’m right here.”

  I open my left eye in a slit so as not to let the harsh chemicals offend my sight. Now that I can sort of see what’s in front of me, I take my cell phone from Clink, as his brows furrow into a look of confusion at me.

  “Hi, mom.”

  My mom makes her weekly Sunday check-in call promptly at 9 AM. I must have spent a few too many extra moments shaving my legs to be free of the shower in time to intercept the call.

  “Hi, sweetheart. I was just having a nice chat with your…young man,” she baits me.

  I’ll bet she was. I press the phone into my shoulder, using it to hold the speaker to my ear as I feebly use the corners of the towel to wipe my face free of suds. Once I’m sure my eyes are no longer at risk for a God-awful sting, I cautiously open them. Clink’s naked chest is directly in front of me, arms crossed, muscles bulging.

  “Oh, no. That’s just…he’s…,” I think fast, trying to explain the male voice to her.

  Clink arches his eyebrow.

  “The landlord,” I spit out. “He’s here to fix the shower head. It’s acting up again.”

  I shrug my shoulders, contorting my face to represent some physical sign of apology, as he rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

  “Really? I thought your landlord was in his seventies? He sounds young.” Nothing gets past mom. “I hope we’re still set to have lunch next week. You’re not going to cancel on me again, are you?”

  I purse my lips in a tight smile. If I remember correctly, it was she who cancelled on me the two times before. But, they don’t count, “Nope. Not gonna cancel. I’ll be there.”

  “Good. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen you. You can tell me all about that handsome doctor.”

  God. I mention that the new ER doc at the hospital asked me for coffee once, and the woman acts as if it’s a full-blown relationship.

  “Sounds good, mom. I’ve gotta go, the landlord needs help. See you next week.”

  I end the call before she has a chance to grill me further. A pool of cooling water is growing around my feet, spreading. I press the buttons to power down the phone, not chancing a return phone call.

  The shower is still running, it’s cascading sounds echoing down the hallway. I drop my towel, leaving it to cover the circle of liquid as I return to the open bathroom, where I rinse the remaining lather from my hair and clean myself of any residual body wash. Turning the water off, I shake the large droplets from myself before reaching to the wall hooks to grab another towel.

  There is nothing but tile.

  What? I pull the plastic shower curtain aside, squinting to help my eyes sift through the rising steam. No towel. The deep throat clearing causes my eyes to dart to the doorframe where Clink’s body rests against the door jamb, ankles crossed, shit-eating grin on his face. His shaggy brown hair lies in place, with that recently-fucked muss to it.

  “Looking for something, Sugar?”

  You have got to be kidding me. I laugh under my breath. All righty, then.

  “What?,” I try to sound innocent.

  “Your landlord?”

  I smile. “I could have said plumber. Or the cable guy.”

  He nods, stepping to me. “OK then. If I’m your landlord, I’ll have to collect the rent. With interest.”

  Here we go. The familiar thudding in my ears returns. Every time this man looks at me with his chestnut-colored eyes, the way he is now, my heart pounds against my chest, it’s beating coursing through my veins and into my ears. My mouth dries. He has this way of making me feel like a caged bird about to be pounced on by a hungry cat. His darkening eyes look starved for me, I feel it.

  His flannel pajama pants hang low on his hips, the sun-tanned, weathered skin of his upper body serving as his canvas, displaying the tattoos that are its masterpiece. His chest is smooth, its rounded mounds speaking out to me. The inked letters and swirls intertwine themselves, each melding into the next, ending just above the deeply set “v” notch near his hip. I’ve never been a fan of tattoos before, my mother having brainwashed me early on that only scumbags had tats. But, they look so natural and beautiful on Clink’s body that I can’t imagine him without them.

  I know they have no taste, other than the saltiness of his skin, but damn, whenever I kiss them, I swear I taste a little victory. My own little “fuck you” to my mom and her bias. I crave them n
ow.

  “How about a little bartering?” I wink at him, using my hands to ring my hair of the wetness.

  He laughs, reaching for the confiscated towel on the counter top nearest him. “Turn around.”

  My stomach flips. This is what he does to me. He doesn’t ask. He never asks. It was a hard pill for me to swallow at first, being commanded about, instructed. But, I quickly learned that it was always in my favor.

  I do as I’m told and turn my nakedness from him, my ass cheeks now burning under his stare. It’s his favorite part of me, I think, always showered with affection and admiration. He doesn’t disappoint. I feel his body heat grow closer to my damp flesh, but it’s his hand that makes actual contact first.

  Gripping my right cheek, he kneads its plumpness. His hard-earned calluses scratching deliciously against my recently pumiced skin. The drying wetness between our skin attempts to cool the scorching heat of his movements. A loud “smack” reverberates and echoes within the tiled chamber as my skin starts to burn beautifully. He soothes my ass tenderly where his palm left its sting.

  I hiss at the sensation, which only serves to encourage him. He crows in self-satisfaction.

  “That’s right, Sugar. Feel it.”

  I close my eyes and let his words wash over me. I feel it, alright. He contradicts the strength of his hand, by gently unfolding the soft towel around my shoulders, lifting the edges of it to my hair and fisting handfuls of my damp locks within the substantial folds of material.

  Drop after drop is mopped up, soaking through the fabric as it leaves my body. His hands quickly maneuver over my skin, searching out any remaining wetness. The towel keeps him from me, prevents our bodies from touching. It’s served its purpose and now I need it gone.