Cuffed: Pharaohs MC

by Brook Wilder

  He liked video games, he was good at them. It had the practical skill of some excellent hand-eye coordination they discovered while playing a pickup game of soccer with him in the park. He could be quite the athlete someday though Hanna warned Roarke several times not to push him, to let whatever was going to happen do so naturally. Despite his annoyance at her constant nagging, he couldn’t blame her, considering how Isabelle turned out.

  “One day you’ll be able to get in here and get your hands dirty,” Roarke said

  The boy said nothing.

  Okay so maybe he wasn’t a natural born mechanic. That’s okay. He could work with that. He could handle it. He didn’t need to be a carbon copy of Roarke, he didn’t need to fit in perfectly with the idea of what the family should look like. He was learning to be okay with that, to let this kid out and do whatever it is he needed to do with his talents. That was the freedom that Isabelle had been denied.

  He wouldn’t learn his likes and dislikes and hobbies in one afternoon. It would take year to get to know this boy fully. He was talking more but he was still quiet, reserved, and wanted to remain as anonymous and silent as possible. Roarke was certain at this point it had less to do with him being shy and scared of his new surroundings (after all he had a year to adjust) and more to do with his natural inclination to simply be a quiet, observant kid.

  He’d nurture that too. He was learning all about being nurturing and helpful and things from parenting books that said made good fathers.

  “Alright, well this has been informative and boring,” he said. “Should we find Aunt Hanna?”

  His face lit up at that and nodded. Roarke rolled his eyes but smiled, placing a hand on the back of the boy’s shoulder and giving him a nudge towards the door. He skipped out. He was beginning to think the kid had a little bit of a crush on Hanna. He smiled, he could put up with some competition.

  He saw Isabelle sometimes. They took him to the jail once a month or so. He really didn’t like ferrying a kid in and out of a state penitentiary. But Isabelle had rights, she was allowed to see her son, even if she was behind bars. They never took him to see his father. Isaiah wanted nothing to do with his son, too busy trading cigarettes and smuggling coke in and out of the jail to care what his boy was up to. Those visits with Isabelle were often incredibly hard to get through. Hanna was often the one to take him since Roarke wanted little or nothing to do with the entire thing. Isabelle was gone, as far as he was concerned.

  “She asks about you,” Hanna said, the third time she returned from a visit with Jason in tow.

  “I don’t care,” he said, cranking the bolt on the bike he was working on.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, sitting across from him. Her stomach had still been huge then, carrying a nearly full grown baby inside, ready to greet the world.

  “Yes. It’s better for everyone if I don’t go, stay here, call it a day on the whole thing.”

  They didn’t have conversations about it after that and Hanna never asked him again, silently tugging Jason along when the time came to see Isabelle again.

  He did overhear Hanna talking to Amber about it one day, claiming that Isabelle was better, was getting much more human as the days went on. He ignored it, pushed it to the back of his mind. He didn’t need to deal with it. One day he might reconcile with his sister. But as the days went on, it became clearer and clearer that day wasn’t anywhere close.

  ***

  Hanna was holding their child and it never stopped taking his breath away. Rick made fun of him often for practically swooning at the sight of the mother and child in the kitchen every time he came home. Roarke told him if he kept it up he’d take away his godfather status.

  It had been a girl, like they both wanted. The named her Jasmine because it had nothing to do with either of them. No mothers or aunts or sisters had that name. They wanted this child to have a completely fresh start in life; there was no expectations, no names or legacies to live up to. There was only life and everything that waited for her.

  “She’s been fussy all afternoon,” Hanna said, turning to the pair as they walked into the apartment. She was lightly bouncing the cooing child with a messed burp rag over her shoulder.

  Sometimes he felt bad for the way she was left home alone throughout the days. She claimed she preferred motherhood to her badge. Her last official act as a police officer had been testifying on Roarke’s behalf when the rest of the charges against him were dropped and Isabelle tried to bring up new ones. She also had signed off on the paperwork that disbanded the Caracals and liquidated their assets to the public and back to the government. Then she went off and had a baby and became the strongest woman that Roarke had ever known.

  Her willingness to walk away from that life, to put down the badge and the gun and work for their child, was inspiring to him too. So one day he woke up and handed over the presidency of the organization to his sister. Amber always had a head for things like this; she was a natural leader, an organizer. She kept the bar afloat while he was playing petty games with Isabelle and so far she was doing better than him at virtually every aspect of it. He was overjoyed to know he was a better father than he had been a gang leader. It was his greatest accomplishment.

  “If you want dinner you’re going to need to make it yourself,” she said. “This kid will not let me live.”

  He smiled. “What are you thinking, Jay? We try our hand at dinner or we order a pizza?”

  “Pizza!”

  Hanna rolled her eyes and huffed. She always insisted they needed to eat healthier but Roarke shrugged and kissed her cheek, his hand grazing the engagement ring sitting on her finger knowing that everything was exactly as it should be.

  THE END

  Read on for your FREE BONUS book – STRIPPED

  STRIPPED

  Chapter 1

  The snowcapped mountains sank like the teeth of a saw blade into the azure blue sky and streams of white clouds hung like fat cotton balls as the breeze stilled for a brief moment. It whipped up again, sweeping them away like ribbons of white caught in an eddy of sapphire and it brought the smell of crisp evergreen and earthy mulch, along with another, more pungent smell.

  Carla wiped the slight dew of sweat from her brow as she bent over the small seedling she was nurturing to life--along with the rows of its brothers and sisters--and put it back in its place before moving on to the next one. When she had graduated from the University of Colorado with a degree in botany earlier that year, Honey Bud Farms was the last place she’d imagined herself working in. She’d always pictured herself in some lab, in a clean white coat and goggles, researching new or unknown species. She learned pretty quickly that botany research jobs didn’t hang on trees, and as her student loan bills had started to come due, she’d been out of options.

  As the breeze moved in, cooler now that the sun was just starting to dip behind the mountain peaks, she shivered slightly. The temperature could drop rapidly--and drastically--at this altitude and she regretted not grabbing her jacket from her truck earlier. Her dust-coated jeans and tank top did nothing as the air around her chilled even more and Carla gratefully ducked into the greenhouse.

  She was instantly greeted by a blessed wave of humidity and she took a deep breath of the warm, peat scented air as she walked slowly down the long rows. This was where she belonged. Where she felt most at peace. Each tiny plant, some hardly more than a bare sprout, each sat nestled in their canvas bag wrapped soil, each in their place under the grow lights that hung low and filled the eighty-foot greenhouse with a warm, sunny yellow light. Carla instantly relaxed as she set to work going over each row, doing the last checks before closing up for the night.

  Her job at the farm was simple. She was in charge of making sure the species of plants were all healthy and thriving, and she was even producing a new splice of plants that should result in higher yields next season. She bent down and ran the pads of her fingers along the newly developed plants, each with their familiar five leaf shape, and
shook her head with a small grin. She never thought she’d be using her degree in botany to grow new strains of weed, but at least she was using her knowledge, and working with the thing she loved most. Plants, that is, not marijuana, even though she did indulge from time to time.

  She’d always had a green thumb, some of her earliest memories were of working out in the garden with her grandma, getting dirt underneath her fingernails and loving every minute of it. There was a special kind of magic in bringing life to something as mundane as a tiny seed, of watching it grow, nurturing it. Carla had always known she wanted to work with plants but it had taken going to college to fall in love with the science behind it. And now, she was working at Honey Bud Farm. Growing weed.

  The thought of college made her stomach knot uncomfortably, like it always did these days. The debt from her student loans kept piling higher and higher and she had to scrape together everything she could just to make the monthly payments. She’d gradated almost a year ago, believing that she would be able to walk into any job she wanted. Turns out, the jobs she wanted were few and far between. Very far between. And she had struggled from waitress gigs to bartending until finally landing here.

  On top of her school bills, there was rent to pay and groceries to buy. A girl had to eat, even though surviving on canned soup everyday couldn’t really be considered ‘eating’. Not good eating, anyway. A twinge of guilt had her shifting her shoulders. The last couple months had been really hard and her neighbor and friend, Elle, had helped her out with rent. Carla still hadn’t been able to pay her back, even though she’d been trying. It was just one more line item on her growing list of debts. At least she had a steady job now, so she could plan on her paychecks, but lately she had been wondering if it was even worth the money.

  It had been almost four months since she started working at the farm, and so far it had been great, giving her the opportunity to at least work with plants. Well, almost great. The job was nice, the farm was close to her house just outside of Denver, so the commute was fine. No, the problem was Maurice.

  Maurice was her boss and the owner of the farm. Things had been fantastic the first few months but then he’d started coming down from the small house adjacent to the farm that served as the office more and more, and always when she was on shift. Carla didn’t really pay attention at first, she had just been so grateful to have a job, if the boss was a little on the weird side, at least she was getting a paycheck.

  But he had started following her around, leering at her while she was working, and most of the time, it was just the two of them. Sometimes Eric, their regular driver, was there to pick up a new shipment but it was getting harder and harder for her to deal with. Sometimes he would just stare, sometimes he would make comments as she walked by and it made her cringe every time.

  Maurice was in his late fifties, but indulging in alcohol and smoking had aged him by at least another ten years. His skin was haggard and yellow and hung off his portly frame in unflattering rolls. His beady eyes seemed to track her every movement, and when he was there it made her job almost unbearable.

  The worst had been one day over a week ago. Carla had felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck, that feeling that someone was watching her. An itch between her shoulder blades that she tried to ignore, but finally couldn’t. She’d been alone, working outside to gather the bags that had already been dried and processed, ready to be shipped to the dispensary in Denver and the sensation refused to go away. She’d looked around her, knowing that she was alone on the farm that day except for Maurice.

  On a hunch, she’d glanced back over her shoulder towards the office and there he’d been, standing at the window, just staring at her. She’d only caught a glimpse from his shoulders up but with the way his arm had been moving, she’d been pretty sure she knew what he was doing in there and the thought had made her want to throw up. But she didn’t know how to approach him about it. It was obvious he would just deny whatever allegations she raised against him because there was never anyone else around when he pulled that shit. Just her word against his.

  As if the thought alone had conjured him, Maurice strode though the greenhouse door, his stance all cocky arrogance as his leering gaze swept over her. Nausea followed that look and she kept her head down and pretended not to notice as best as she could, but it became almost as impossible as he circled closer.

  “What is it, Maurice?” she finally asked, having to say something to break the tension that was filling the greenhouse like noxious gas. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned at her in a way that was meant to be coy but just looked greasy smeared across his ruddy face.

  “Nothing. Nothing. This is my business after all and I need to make sure I take care of every single aspect.” The way he clipped every word, all the while looking at her with his beady eyes filled with sick lust had her quickly moving to the next row, and as far away from him as she could get while finishing up. Carla hastened her movements, trying to rush to get done so she could leave. It was starting to feel claustrophobic even though the greenhouse spanned eighty feet long and over twenty feet tall. It didn’t matter. She could be in the middle of the freaking Sahara Desert and, if he were there, it would still feel too small.

  “Hey, what’s the hurry? You have a hot date tonight? You want one?” his voice slid like an oil slick as she tried to shrug off his question, deciding not to answer because she was afraid if she opened her mouth she would quit then and there, and she still desperately needed this job. But he wouldn’t let her ignore him. Suddenly he was there beside her, moving quickly despite his bulk and his hard grasp on her upper arm had her hissing out in disgust and surprise.

  “What the–”

  “I asked you a question, Carla. You don’t want to be rude, do you? Now, tell me you’ll be a good girl.” He was so close she could read the intent in his dark eyes, partially hidden by the folds of his eyelid, and the sweat that marred his brow. She jerked her arm away, taking several stumbling steps away as she fought against the sudden trembling in her legs.

  “No. No, I um, I should go. Everything is done here. I have to go,” Carla mumbled hastily while she ducked down another row, ignoring Maurice’s next words. She knew whatever they were, she didn’t want to hear them.

  She was practically running by the time she got to her truck and she didn’t spare a single glance backwards as she threw it into gear and tore down the long drive out onto the main highway. The road was nearly empty and she was glad because she could barely concentrate on the pavement as the miles went by, the sky moving from dusky blue to deep indigo as stars started to wink to life.

  But she didn’t see any of it. All she could feel was Maurice’s sweaty hand grasping her arm, his meaty fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. By the time she pulled down her own driveway, she almost had her nerves under control but, after she turned the engine off, she still she sat there, her mind replaying it over and over in her mind. Maybe she should just quit and deal with finding another job. But the only other thing she was qualified to do was waitress and that didn’t make nearly enough. She was barely keeping her head above water as it was.

  If she just kept her head down and keep focused, maybe she could save enough so that she could quit. Carla gave a mental shake of her head, knowing it would take far longer than she could stand to work there to make what she needed. No, what she needed was a big cash boost. Despite herself, her mind went to the shipments they sent out every week. Shipments that went to local dispensaries and she knew exactly how much was in even just one of those. Enough to last her a year. Five years.

  But who would she sell it to? The logical part of her brain tried to interject, but the desperation she felt outweighed it. She knew there was a shipment due to leave in two days, and she knew if she stayed at the farm Maurice would try something again, maybe worse next time.

  A sharp tap at her window jolted her out of her seat and made her swear as she rolled down the window.

  “Fuck, Ell
e, are you trying to kill me?” Carla said, and tried to slow her heart rate back to normal. Elle gave her a look over her cat-eye glasses.

  “You know I hate when you say that,” her friend said archly, but there was a glint of good natured humor in her warm brown eyes. The same humor that had finally won Carla over after she had moved into the rental house after graduation.

  “What, that you’re trying to kill me?” Carla asked sarcastically and Elle just snorted.

  “You know what I mean.” Her neighbor was a little bit of a straight edge, a piano teacher that always frowned at curse words and tattoos. She’d been horrified when Carla had shown her the ink sprawled across her ribs, but even she was sold by the undeniable artistry of the forest that grew up and around her shoulder blades and ended with its branches spanning like wispy fingers across half of her back. The scientific name of each tree and every plant was tattooed in beautiful script next to each one. Eventually, Carla had broken through to the real Elle, and when she finally learned how to relax, they had become great friends. Tequila had helped.