Each and every birthday I got a letter from mom and it took the sting out of her death; well some of the sting at least. Each time she had something different to say to me. Sometimes it was motherly wisdom and sometimes it was just her thoughts and feelings. She shares those things with me so that I get to know her better. It’s important for her that I see who she really is as more than my mom, but as a person too.
Then my love of my life Joshua Harris left me for Mindy Casey when I was in the tenth grade. I don’t know how my aunt even knew anything about it. I thought I had been pretty secretive, but nevertheless, on my bed waiting for me to come home from school was the letter about love and mending a broken heart.
My dearest daughter,
I think we both knew this day would come. Maybe you recall me telling you about your first love back when you just turned fourteen. They say you never forget your first love and no doubt you’ll always remember yours. I know right now you’d rather forget he even exists but as you get older and more distance from this day you’ll look back on what you shared and how uniquely wonderful it felt to be in love for the first time. It’s okay to be angry, bitter, and hurting so long as those things do not define who you are as a person for the rest of your life. Allow yourself the time to grieve. I don’t know why your heart has been broken; I only know that it has finally happened. You are turning into an amazing woman Morgan and not everyone will appreciate the person you have become and certainly not the one who broke your heart. You will heal, you’ll learn from this, and you’ll move on, stronger for what happened.
Don’t rush into the next relationship no matter how tempting it may be. Give yourself time to sort through your feelings. Use this to learn about the person you now are and will become. Through this experience you will have a better idea of what you feel is important in a partner. You’ll get an idea of what you like and dislike and you will be better prepared for the next time someone has your heart.
A boy named Chris was my first love and the one who broke my heart when I was sixteen. I cried for weeks. I truly believed he was the one for me. I loved him and then I hated him. I both loved and hated myself for what I surely must have been lacking otherwise he would not have left me for another girl. I believed I would never get over him. Of course you know how this story ends. I had to wait six years before I was to fall in love again and this time it was with your father. I am so very glad I waited so long. When I met him I had a better idea of who I was and who I wanted in a partner. In the time between Chris and meeting your father I dated and I learned about myself and about men. And because of what I leaned I was better able to handle a real relationship. You know the story about when we met so I won’t belabor you with the tale again. I am just glad I was mature enough to know how to be a good girlfriend and one day a good wife as I am sure you will be one day too.
Let yourself be sad and let yourself be angry and confused, then learn from the experience and when you are ready, move one with your life. Just remember, your smart, beautiful, and have a good soul. Anyone who leaves you has made a terrible mistake. Someday Morgan you will find the one who appreciates who you are and will let you grow and will grow with you. I have no doubt that you will love again one day.
With all my love for your grieving heart,
Your Mom.
It wasn’t until I was a lot older that I began to understand how difficult it must have been for my mother to write all these letters. I can tell how much love and other feelings she puts into each and every letter. It must have torn her up inside knowing that she cannot be here with me on these milestones. If I do not know anything else in life, there is one thing I know of a certainty; and that’s how much my mother loved me.
FIVE
Trouble
I hear a distant throaty rumble outside, then a couple minutes later there’s a knocking coming from the front door. Cade turns off the TV and disappears down the hall. A minute later two of the mangiest looking, leather clad men I have ever had the displeasure of seeing, come walking into the living room. Guess this is what happens when you’re the guest in an outlaw biker’s home; unwanted degenerates drop by for beer.
Cade turns the TV back on and this time it’s the NBA playoffs that they’re watching. A few minutes later one of the men gestures in my direction and the three of them begin talking furtively. I hate it when people talk about me like I’m not even in the room when I am in plain sight. I swear it makes me want to punch someone; someone like Cade. He’s lucky I’m still wrapped in the warm opiate blanket or I might actually have the gumption to get up and make good on my mental promise.
I close my eyes for a few minutes, but when the sound of breaking glass penetrates the pink fog of medication I become alarmed. My eyes fly open just in time to see a leather clad biker lunge at Cade with a wicked looking knife. Cade moves to the right as his left hand slips on the outside of his attackers arm, slapping it away. As the blade whistles by Cade’s neck he grabs the wrist with his left hand, then strikes the man’s arm just behind the elbow, tearing the ligaments and tendons that keep the humorous and the ulnar and radial bones together. He does all this in the space of a fraction of a second and while spinning around to face the man.
After Cade destroys the man’s arm he strikes him in the soft cartilage of the throat with the blade of his right hand. The man collapses on the rug holding his throat with his good hand while he gasps for breath. And me…I just stare at Cade, mouth hanging open. How is it that a man…a human being, could move that fast and with such deadly precision? I mean come the fuck on…the only time I have ever seen anything move like that was on Animal Planet when I saw a lion take down a gazelle. Cade is like that lion and he just literally ripped the throat out of a gazelle; one clad head to toe in black leather.
Holy freaking shit, what will happen to me if he gets pissed off one day? Is he gonna fucking chase me down like a gazelle and bite me in the throat? I close my eyes and rub my throat unconsciously and wonder what it feels like to be a gazelle in the clutches of a six hundred pound hungry lion; not good I imagine.
I open my eyes just in time to see another biker two steps from Cade who is still looking down at the man he killed. Suddenly a knife appears in the other biker’s hand and I scream.
“Cade look out!”
Cade stiffens and starts to turn around but it’s too late. His assailant draws the knife across the front of Cade’s throat from right to left. I blink uncontrollably as the first bright red spray of blood bathes my face and chest. I hear a thud and force myself to open my eyes. Cade is lying on the carpet in a widening pool of his own blood. Oh no…not Cade! The man who just murdered him turns and looks over at me. Oh shit, this cannot be good.
“Morgan,” He says. “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”
What the fuck? Why wouldn’t I be looking at him like that?
“Morgan,” he says again. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you fucking think is wrong?” I finally manage to say.
“Morgan…Morgan…Morgan?” He keeps saying my name for some weird reason. “Morgan…”
I wake up with a start. Cade is sitting on the recliner watching me and drinking a Corona. There are two other bikers who have pulled up folding chairs and are drinking beer and watching the basketball game that is still on TV. No one is killing anyone. There’s no blood on the floor and there is certainly no blood on my face or chest. What a fucking dream!
“You okay Morgan?” Cade asks, getting up and coming over to me.
“Just a weird dream.” I reply. “You go back to your game.”
“Alright,” he replies. “I’d offer you a beer but alcohol and narcotics don’t mix.”
“Really? I heard they mix together nicely.”
“Well as long as you’re in my house they won’t be doing any mixing no matter how fine they are.”
“Watch your game already!” I reply, and then shut my eyes so he knows this conversation is over.
; I try to sleep but cannot. I have to admit I am curious about my murderous benefactor. How can he be wearing a patch like the filthy few when it’s common knowledge that means they have killed for their club? Then there’s the one percent patch. It’s like he and his cronies are flaunting the fact that they’re not law abiding citizens. I don’t get it. All I know is that the second I am able I am out of here! Sure it’s nice and all that he took me in, but there has to be ulterior motives here. He is a man after all.
At some point I do fall asleep because it’s nearing dark when I wake up again. I check my backup phone and the fact that there are no missed calls is testament to how well my two assistants are doing filling in for me. Had this happened three or four years ago it would be a colossal mess. Kudos to Stacy and Jason!
I look over to the kitchen and out walks Mr. Grubby looking…no so grubby. He’s wearing a pair of boxer shorts and not a thing else! Draped around his shoulders is a damp towel. His long dark hair is wet and clings to his face and shoulders. He turns away from me to look at something and I see the tattoo on his back for the first time. It’s the same design that’s on the back of his jacket. The main design is of a steely skeleton riding a chopper. Flames are shooting out the bikes tail pipes and the contrast of the bright red flames against his bronzed skin is abso- fucking- lutely mouthwatering! Above the rider and bike is the word Iron and below in the same circular pattern is the word Disciples. I have learned that the three part patch that his group sports also signifies that they are the one percent outlaw bikers. The man has balls; great fucking big ones! He not only flaunts it on his jacket and vest, but on his body in the form of a permanent tattoo! Who the hell does he think he is anyway?
He disappears into the kitchen only to return carrying two glasses of clear liquid. As he walks toward me I can’t help but drink him in. He’s gotta be six foot, maybe six two or three. He has powerful broad shoulders, baby smooth chest and muscular chest, and oh those abs! Holy crap I could grate cheese on them then eat it off afterwards!
My eyes drift downwards to his crotch. From the nerve of this guy you’d expect his current choice of underwear completely incapable of storing his family jewels. It’s also painfully obvious that he is far above average in that all important size matters category. The man is hung like a horse; a freaking iron horse! He hands me a glass. I take a sniff before a drink. It’s water. He sets his own glass on what’s left of his coffee table and sits down on the edge of the couch next to my encased leg. What is he up to?
“If you’re here to make a peace offering,” I begin. “You should have brought something a little stronger than water.”
“It’s not my wish to take advantage.”
“Like you could. I’d kick…okay maybe not, but what are you up to anyway?”
“I think we got off to a bad start.”
“Sorry but I’m not in the habit of associating with murderers. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”
“Honey you wish I’d leave a taste of me in your mouth.”
“You have got to be kidding me. I’m an upstanding citizen. I have an MBA from Stanford with a special focus on macro and microeconomics, I am the youngest vice president in the 108 year history of Capital America, and I earn more in a month than you’ll ever earn in your lifetime! I don’t consort with fucking criminals!”
“Have you always been so full of yourself? You’ve got more self-righteous wrath than God himself! How do you even live with yourself? I bet you don’t have a single friend in the whole world.”
“You have no right to judge me!”
Then it happens. I move to smack him across the face when he catches my arm and pulls me to his bare chest. It doesn’t even matter that it hurts like hell on my leg when he forces me to sit up. In fact it hurts so much a layer of sweat breaks out across my brow. His body is damp and cool against the thin material of my blouse. His masculine scent is otherworldly and altogether captivating. I don’t want to want him but my nipples tell a different story. Still, a girl’s gotta have her standards. I put my hands on his shoulders with the intention of pushing him away from me. The moment I see my hands on his muscles I realize the futility. Compared to me, the man is huge! My hands look so tiny against his broad shoulders; it also happens to be a turn on and suddenly I think I want this giant of a man to take me like a lion does his mate.
I want to feel his raw power and aggression. I look up into his dark eyes and he glares back at me with such a fierce intensity that it’s almost scary; and that’s part of the attraction I’m sure. There is danger in this man and I am certain I am not totally safe in his presence. He is a man that is used to getting his way; I can see it in his eyes and the expression on his handsome face. One of his hands slips around me and he hooks his fingers in the strap of my bra. Abruptly with surprising intensity he yanks hard at the thin material. At the same moment his face hardens, his teeth clench together and his dark eyes narrow.
A cold fear grips my heart as my skin burns from the fiery red lines as the material is ripped across my flesh like a rope burn only far more painful. His mouth covering mine silences the cry of pain that is ripped from my throat! Oddly enough when he begins to kiss me the pain I’m feeling actually heightens my sensitivity. My lips are tingling and everywhere his skin touches mine it sends chills of pleasure straight to my brain causing my synapses to fire non-stop. The way my head is tingling I would swear I’ve been drugged; but I haven’t. My leg has long since been forgotten. I’m pretty sure I’m going to regret this in the morning when the Vicodin he sparingly gives me fails to even take the edge off my aching limb.
This time when he moves to have his way with me I open my legs, grab his ass and pull with all my sex-crazed strength. I hook my good leg around his waist and pull as well, but this time he stops me. I pull again with my hands and leg but he doesn’t budge. What the hell game is he playing at?
I break off the kiss and look at him as I continue to use my good leg to bring his hips together with mine but I’m no match for his strength.
“Fuck me you bastard!” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“I don’t do as I’m told,” he replies. “I do the telling.
I move to slap him and he doesn’t stop me. I hit him so hard with the palm of my hand that it stings enough to bring tears to the corners of my eyes.
“Fuck me!”
This time he allows me to bring our hips together, just enough to touch but not enough to grind; it’s freaking maddening. I look away from his body for a second and my gaze falls on his jacket and the patch that says Filthy Few.
“Come one criminal,” I begin. He tenses up and I see a spark in his eyes. “Is this how one of the Filthy Few takes a woman? Do you wanna make tender sweet love or are you gonna fuck my brains out like the outlaw you pretend to be? And when he doesn’t immediately respond I try a new tact. “Or are you just some oversized fraud?”
The word fraud strikes him like a bolt of lightning energizing him so that he reacts like a lion that just got stung by a bee; a very large one. All at once he’s thrusting, pounding…fucking furiously and maddeningly crazed like a man on a mission to fuck me to oblivion; and I love it!
I don’t realize I’ve fallen to sleep until my throbbing leg wakes me up. We’re still on the couch, but his leg has fallen across my broken one and the pain is building rapidly. I squirm in an effort to dislodge him but he is just too heavy.
“Cade! Wake the fuck up. You’re re-breaking my damn leg.”
“Whaaaa…”
He stirs a little but doesn’t quite wake up. So I offer up my knee to his balls in one quick movement.
“Ouch! What the hell?”
He’s awake now.
“You’re killing my leg. Get off before you break it again.”
“Oh…sorry geeze… but did you really have to take a crack at my balls?”
“I’m in pain. You didn’t wake up. What was I supposed to do?”
“Anyone ever wake you up by just kissing you?�
�� He asks.
“Never.”
“You should try it sometime, it’s nice and a hell of a lot better than a knee to the nads.”
“I’ll consider my options.” I reply.
I am not going to make things easy for him. Men are always trying to take advantage so I have to be on my toes so to speak. If he wants me he’ll have to take me! I glance at my watch. Shit! Stacy is going to be knocking on the door in twenty minutes.
I grab what’s left of my bra and look for somewhere to stow it. Under the couch seems like a fine place. My blouse goes there too. I fish out a new bra and top from my Gucci bag and produce a mirror so I can fix my bed head; make that my sex head. I have just managed to repair the damage from last night when Stacy returns from the office. I crack open my laptop and get psyched for the day. The market will open in twenty minutes.
I’m scanning Reuters for pertinent news items when all hell breaks loose, and I don’t mean with the stock market. I hear the door open and Cade’s surprised exclamation.
“What the hell?”
SIX
When Two Worlds Collide
Then there’s a loud commotion followed by a single gunshot. I have never heard a gun go off except on TV or in the theater. The sound is loud enough to shock and awe me into stillness.
Abruptly Cade and a truly ugly looking biker type stumble into my makeshift office (the living room during market hours). The ugly man still has the gun in his hand and is doing his level best to aim it at Cade. Cade has both of his hands on the gun as well in an epic battle for control of the deadly weapon. Then in an almost comically funny move, Stacy follows in after the combatants and is hammering on the assailant’s bare head with her $500 heels. That’s definitely gonna leave a mark.
The Filthy Few (Iron Disciples MC) Page 4