If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel

by Kimber S. Dawn

  He leans all the way over me until our noses almost touch—and that’s when I see it. My crucifix. I look up into his eyes. His crucifix, my mind corrects me.

  “Yeah, thanks for keeping up with it for me. Now we can do this one or two ways—you pick.” He holds up a syringe and I pale for the second time in mere minutes before finding my throat and trying to swallow.

  “You drugged me?” I whisper, thinking back. How? “You roofied my drink!” I glare between both beautiful blue eyes. “You son of a bitch!”

  “Easy way it is.”

  BAM. I didn’t even see the needle. But apparently he saw the vein. I didn’t even have time to register how hard his grip turned until it was crushing, and a split second later, the needle pierced a hole. Five. It took like five seconds more for my mind to shut completely off. Or who am I kidding, fuck if I knew, didn’t take many—

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, Jackie boy?” Clutch and Slim chuckle as I slide up to the bar after trying to get my fucking life back together about three minutes after chatting it up with an old friend of Pops’. One I haven’t heard from in I don’t know long—and one I hadn’t thought of in even longer. I slump into the barstool and shrug.

  “Nahhh, it’s nothing. Little less party favor and a little more party labor, brothers. We’re here for a reason, guys. This isn’t going to fuck it up,” Dreads reprimands the club, and I take the hit, he and I the only two now privy to information neither of us know what to do with after speaking briefly with a ghost from our pasts.

  Grabbing the bottle of Everclear, I line up ten shot glasses, and after filling them all up to the rim, I shoot every last drop until every glass is empty. “Yep, and I’ll get right on that. After this.” I wave over the little red thing that’s sliding up next to me at the bar and wink at her. “And possibly her. Come here, sweetheart. What’s your name?” I ask, refilling the shot glasses one by one.

  “Whatever you want it to be, baby. What’s yours?” And it could possibly be the pitch of her nasally voice, or the fake southern drawl, but one of them spurs a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “Holy shit. Never mind. Clutch—you’re up. Voice, dude.” I wince and shoot the next three shots. Dreads’ hand settles on mine, resting on the fourth shot glass.

  “Come on, man. I told you this was a bad idea. Don’t do this—not here. Not tonight.” He squeezes his eyes closed before looking back into mine, begging. “Please, brother.”

  “Fuck!” I mutter, quickly standing and slinging my cut on over my holster then making my way towards the exit. “Come on. I’m not leaving this shanty ass bar alone. It’s bad enough we’re fucking here.”

  After I storm from the honky tonk bar and shove my foot against the clutch of my bike, she roars to life and I settle on top of her. Dreads stalks over as I strap my helmet to my head. “Where ya headed? Back to her place?”

  I shake my head before straddling the bike between my thighs, and when I feel comfortable with the big black beast and the way her balance is dispersed, I glance back up at Dreads. “No, man. I can’t fuck with that. I don’t even know what I was thinking. There’s not any answers there. There can’t be.” His eyes narrow on mine, and I silently beg him to question me.

  He nods then pauses, like he wants to say something else, but thankfully for him, he stops. “Right. Just don’t—okay?”

  Wait for it. After he straddles his own bike, over the roar of my own, I hear him call my name and I sigh before shaking my head and looking back up at him.

  “What’d you call Ilsa to your pops’ face? Toxic?” His light brown eyes seem to almost shimmer. “She’s your toxic, Jackie boy. She’s your toxic. Now, do us all a favor and stay the hell away from Renee ‘King’ O’Malley’s daughter, yeah?”

  The fuck does this motherfucker think he is? But he doesn’t wait for a response. He just turns, gets on his bike, and drives away.

  ***

  I pass her house three times, and on the third drive-by I see Ty’s little red Kia Soul pull into her driveway, and I gun it, revving the engine before driving back to the hotel. The same one I rented away from everyone else. The same one I kept Ilsa and Renee O’Malley’s daughter locked and drugged in for a day and a half. “Shit,” I mutter, tossing my keys/wallet and it’s chain on the table by the front door.

  The little voice Eve used when she was telling me all that shit about her being taken away. Time and time again. I don’t know what she did to it, but it made it seem to stick to the walls of my mind. I dunno, like they coated the cogs in there or something. And now it’s like when I least expect them, they come creeping back in—

  ‘I don’t know what happened, really. I know at some point I learned to pick and choose my battles. I picked Eden. Chose to accept that I’d never make my mother proud. But by the time my mom was able to get her shit straight, we were both sixteen.’

  Besides Rox, and that’s just been sisterly love since...I don’t even know if it ever actually felt like this, though. No, it didn’t. This is different. From any-fucking-thing else.

  What Roxy and I have can’t really be explained. It’s just there. And she nor I know what to do with it. The only difference is, I’ve never given it anything more than what it was. She did that. And I honestly think she did because I was the only one around our age. Especially after Ben left. And she wants a position holder, or someone who’ll become one. I swear it’s been her dream to be an important old lady since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. Hell, I understand that—the only mother figure Rox ever had was my ma. Who wouldn’t aspire to become my ma? But I’m not the guy to do it for Rox. I know I’m not.

  Shit. Now I guess I gotta let her know it—again.

  My phone vibrates on the table and I glance down and see a text from Dreads: Intel’s early. We’re heading out. The meeting is on for next week.

  “I don’t even know what the fuck I’m thinking. Shit, just get me home,” I tell absolutely no one else in the room while shoving what few belongings I have into my duffle bag. “And the fuck away from Eve O’Malley. I’ll be alright.” Once I zip my bag up, I toss it over my shoulder before heading out the hotel.

  I glance over my shoulder at the room one last time, double checking I’m not leaving any of my shit, and when we’re all clear, I head through the door and saddle up on my bike. And the only thing I can’t stop thinking is, dammit, I wish I woulda fucked her one more ‘gain. Because it’s a whole hellava lot better than the images of her sad childhood story, and the feelings they keep kicking up.

  And I didn’t have a peachy upbringing myself.

  But that girl—I’m surprised she’s a functioning adult after the shit she’s gone through. God bless her for the ride that’s ahead. Especially with 'King' O’Malley sniffing around. I just pray to Christ her ma at least gives her a heads up.

  Shit. You can bet your ass I didn’t. When 'King' puts word on the street that he doesn’t want who he’s coming for knowing? They don’t know. And there’s good reason.

  My little vagabond and her mother are Triple D’s problem now. Renee 'King' O’Malley’s and Triple D’s. Not mine. I got my own shit to run.

  ***

  Okay, so I can’t tell you why I stopped. I did have to drive by Eve’s place; it was on the way out. So there was literally no way around that. Now—when I drove by her house and saw her sitting on the front porch alone, the u-ey I busted ten seconds later...that? I can’t explain that. Can’t explain why I pulled into her drive and stopped, either.

  Neither of us say anything when I turn off the engine of my bike. The only thing that can be heard is the swell and the fall of the ocean on the back side of the house. The moon’s still full enough for us to see each other and make eye contact even though it’s nearing ten pm. And we just sit and look at each other forever before I pull my helmet off and stand from my bike. After shoving both my hands into my front pockets, I slowly make my way over and step up the steps.

  “I ahh…” I glance over my shoulder
. Shit. Fuck. Damn. Hell. “We’re heading out. Most of the brothers already have. And I ahh…” I smile, and completely unintentionally flash my dimples. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry, Pipsqueak. There was some conflicting intel, but we got it straightened out. And unfortunately it was the old fashioned way. And that’s my fault, and I’m sorry. I just wanted to let you know, you don’t have to be worried about me. I’m not gonna be bothering you anymore.”

  When all I’m met with is her dark brown sparkling eyes blinking, I figure it’s cool to advance, so after I step onto the deck I nod towards the chaise she’s on, and sit towards the feet. “You mind?” I ask, suddenly feeling the fuck-it notion in my head cuddle up to the fact that I’m not ready to leave just yet.

  However, as soon as my tail end connects with the cushion of the chair she’s sitting on, her ass is flying off it. After she begins pacing the short length of the front porch, her accusations start, one by one and directed at me. “You drugged me? You kidnapped me? You unloaded an UNGODLY amount of bullshit and riddles, not only about my family, but about ME, on the most fundamental level? But then, THEN you drug me again...and drop me off, UNCONSCIOUS. To fend for myself?”

  She’s damn near on the other end of the deck when she finishes and tries to catch her breath, then suddenly she’s ten inches from my face. And whether or not it’s ten that’s a coincidence? I’ll let you decide. But from the look in her eyes, I’m not the only one with issues about me leaving her, again—tonight. “But now you have the audacity to fucking come back, without more answers, apologize and say goodbye?” And it’s that goddamn dark chuckle. If she ever asks you, tell her what it was that marked her mine. And tell her it was her damn dark chuckle that put the nail in her coffin. “I’m not a goodbye kinda girl, sweetheart,” she says, annunciating every word.

  When our eyes connect and the only thing that can be heard is the wind and the ocean, I hesitantly tuck some of her escaped hair behind her ear before smirking. And after I’ve brought my mouth to hers, I sweep my tongue across my lips. And then I clearly speak. “Right. And you need to learn when you’re lying to yourself, Vagabond. You are goodbye.”

  And she is. Because even though she doesn’t know it, not yet, she’s already gone. I just gotta scratch this itch of my past. Get it, her out of my system. And I’ve got no other choice, because she’s really already gone.

  I’ve had two. Two sexual encounters. And you were present for one. The good one. The first one. Not the ugly one. Not the one when Grams and I’d only been here a little more than a year, when some guy, who didn’t know the difference between a waitress at Charming Charlie’s and a dancer, picked up where he left off in high school.

  One night after I’d been at Charming’s for only a few weeks, Brad—I don’t know if you remember him from a party L and Ty wanted to go to, but he was here in town on business. Him and some business associates stopped by after a late night conference. I smiled politely when they sat in my section, of course, and after quickly making the connection, we chatted briefly, playing catch up with how everyone was back home. Then I served them their drinks. After a few rounds, his flirtatious banter picked up, and I figured what the hell? Why not? So for the first time since the SOS party I attended when I was sixteen years old, I flirted back with a guy. And for a while it was sweet and fun. He even outstayed his welcome at the club, and hung out in the lobby after until we closed so he could walk me to my car. Which was a sweet gesture.

  Or so I thought. Anyway, long story short, it wasn’t pretty. What I thought was a goodbye kiss turned into something very different. And very wrong when he unwrapped his arms from around my waist and maneuvered his weight until I was lodged between him and my car with both of his hands bracing his weight on either side of me. Unable to catch my breath, I felt my survival mode kick in. I felt it, and heeded him plenty warning.

  “Dude, seriously—I’d get the fuck off.” I know I should’ve been more worried. Or at least pretended to be. But I knew what time it was. I knew Lyle was about to make last rounds.

  His breath was suddenly hot next to my face. “Let me take you home, Eve. Come on. For old time’s sake? I waited, didn’t I?” He snickered before his knee slid between my legs and rubbed. “Just this once?” His slurred words were whispered. I quickly attempted doing the math in my head, counting how many drinks were on his tab, and how many he could have possibly consumed. Because I sure as shit hadn’t been paying attention over the last five hours.

  I think my first mistake was underestimating the power he had behind his weight. Well, that and kneeing him in the balls with everything I had with my car door open behind me. I wasn’t planning on him freaking falling directly forward towards me—shoving me back first into the driver’s side of my little red car. I could barely breathe, let alone move. And dammit, I shoved. I shoved because at the time, I thought my life depended on it. And I guess it kinda did. Well, I may be exaggerating. He didn’t get that far. The front of my stupid skimpy work uniform was hardly pulled all the way down and he was headed towards me with his drunk, flaccid cock in his hand before Lyle, the club's bouncer made his last rounds and clocked the shit out of the guy with a nightstick before tying him up and calling the cops. Once Lyle had called Ty and had him pick me up, Ty’s paternal protectiveness over me began to grow...and has just recently began to edge borderline. Growing with every instance. Broken windows included.

  So there’s that time. The ugly time. Then there’s my first time. And we all remember, well—okay, never mind. We all remember the morning after my first time.

  And fucking forgive me—but this feels a whole lot like it. I can’t keep myself from looking back and forth between his navy, almost black-blue eyes when he speaks in a whisper I can barely make out over the tide. “Right. And you need to learn when you’re lying to yourself, Vagabond. You are goodbye.”

  When his eyes can’t seem to keep from glancing down at my lips, I smirk at him and his remark before slanting my mouth over his. And as soon as I feel his warm mouth open, welcoming me, a groan escapes his chest and mine simultaneously.

  He’s standing, and he is everywhere. Furniture is scooting back, being shoved to the side, and suddenly my back connects with the wood frame of the house. He drags his mouth from mine to my shoulder at the same time I feel his blunt fingernails bite into the top of my shoulders before raking down my back. “I need you. Jesus Christ, I fucking need you,” he mutters between sprinkling kisses from one shoulder and across my collarbone. When his lips meet my opposite shoulder, his teeth sink into the flesh before laving the sting away. “Tell me you want this, Vagabond. Tell me you want me.” His words almost sound like a plea.

  So I tell him, answering his plea. “I want you. I need you.” And the denim jeans he pulled up my legs sometime yesterday are being tugged down. Our clashing mouths are gasping for breath when we briefly separate to pull our t-shirts over our heads. And under my t-shirt and jeggings, there isn’t any bra or panties. None. Apparently he’s a sans undie kinda guy. And he also prefers it.

  My eyes follow the path of my hands as they skate down his rigid abdomen. Inked tan plane of beautiful flesh after inked tan plane of beautiful flesh. My mouth is nearly salivating when I get to his belly button and follow the dark trail of hair down with my eyes…

  I almost swallow my tongue when I see his cock. “W-what’s that?” I mumble, pointing at the metal ring pierced through the head.

  “That’s Al. He’s your friend.” He chuckles before cupping my face and slanting his mouth back over mine.

  But no—see you’re not looking at this thing like I am. Was. I pull back from his kiss, and when I look up at him from gawking at it, all of it, he chuckles. “I’m not… I’ve never—” Fucking done this when it wasn’t with you. And I for damn sure don’t remember Al!

  “I’m not gonna hurt you, Eve. I promise.”

  He promises.

  And his mouth covers mine. I feel him guiding me towards the chaise chair off to the s
ide of the deck. And I know I should be stopping him. I know I should be saying something. Demanding answers. But what you don’t understand is, when Jacques Cain kisses you...like this, or really at all, there is no decision making after that. Not when he kisses you like this.

  After he leans back and puts just enough space between us, he drags his hands from my collarbones, barely skimming the surface of my skin with his fingertips until they’re just below my breasts. When the pads of his thumbs circle my nipples, I shudder as he cups each breast. And when his mouth is finished its assault on mine, he drags it to my ear before growling against it. “Give me five seconds, Pipsqueak. And anything I do to you after won’t matter, baby.” The hand cupping the back of my neck pulls my body closer to his, just before he leans me back onto the chaise. And once he has me splayed out, his mouth and hands are everywhere. My neck. My shoulders. My chest. His rough beard abrades my tender flesh between sweet kisses and swift licks. When he brings his face back up to mine, his eyes are piercing and it’s too much. I have to squeeze my eyes closed.

  “Don’t,” he whispers, begging me as his hand cups my face. “Open your eyes, Vagabond.” Whatever hand that’s not cupping my face slides between my legs before barely brushing my clit. “This still mine?” he asks, before coughing and clearing his throat. “This still mine?” he repeats in a gruff, hoarse voice.

  And this time, when I look up into his eyes and I’m able to make them out in the moonlight...this time, I don’t feel the fear of losing. I feel the fear of never having again...at all.

  “Answer me, Vagabond, before I lose my shit. This still mine?” He growls just as he sinks a finger deep inside me. His thumb pad lands on my clit before he slowly circles it. And the harder his hand works between my legs, the more the tattoos dance on his forearm from the muscles flexing beneath his tan skin. “Always looking for answers. Well, I have a few of my fucking own I need answered, but I’ve accepted that’ll never happen.” When he effortlessly sinks a second finger in and hooks them around before finding something that even I haven’t found yet—my legs tremble before falling apart. “But you will answer me. This mine?”