Royally Broken (Royal Bastards MC: Royal Sons CA)

by Elle Boon

  He jerked at the bowtie around his neck, popping the buttons on his dress shirt. The ping ping as they hit the floor in the bathroom made her take a cautious step away from him. “Oh, no you don’t. You, my dear, are my wife. To have and to hold. To do with as I please. Take off that dress,” he ordered.

  She shook her head, not liking the way his eyes were narrowed on her. “Thomas, I’m going to just wait in the other room until you calm down.” Palmer made it exactly two steps before he had her up against the wall of the hotel bathroom, her face slapping against the tile with brutal force.

  “Palmer Kincaid, do you not remember your vows?” he asked, tugging on her hair.

  Tears stung her eyes as he ripped several strands from her scalp. His breath was hot against her neck, the scent of whiskey making her stomach roll. “What is wrong with you? This isn’t like you,” she cried.

  He laughed, the kind that a person knew there was no joy within the person. “Ah, my sweet wife, that’s where you’re wrong. This is me. The man who was courting you was a façade. Now that I’m married to the princess, I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not. You, on the other hand are going to need to be a damn good actress, or I’ll make sure you suffer every day for the rest of your life. If you even think I’m lying or that I won’t do what I want, when I want, I’ll show you what’ll happen.”

  When he jerked her backward by her hair, she thought she’d suffer through whatever he had planned, then get her PopPop to help her get a divorce. How stupid she’d been. She’d suffered being married to the sadistic bastard, because like he said, he could do what he wanted when he wanted. Luckily for her he traveled a lot. It was the times he was home she had to fear and loathe. Only she decided she wasn’t going to be his or anyone’s punching bag any longer, taking self-defense classes in the town over, she’d found friends who helped her learn to love herself. Until one-night, Thomas came home unannounced. The only good thing that came from that was her baby, that precious child who she’d do anything to protect.

  She exhaled the breath she’d been holding, hating the times her mind drifted to the past. Walking over to Jaxson, she lifted the blanket back over his shoulders. “You’re the most precious thing in my world.”

  “As he should be, princess.”

  Palmer tried to control her reaction to her grandfather’s voice. She couldn’t even call him PopPop anymore. The sweet older man who’d been her protector was a monster. He’d sent her to the devil, knowing what awaited her as a bargaining tool.

  “Hello, grandfather,” she said in a cool tone.

  He sighed. “I wish you’d call me PopPop. We were sorry to hear of Thomas’s death. Such a tragedy.”

  She turned away from his steely gaze. The will was being read today by the family lawyer. Palmer had a feeling her asshole of a husband hadn’t left anything to her. However, she had an ace up her sleeve none of them were aware of. In the library, with the lawyers present, if she had to, she’d produce the evidence she needed in order to secure her son’s future. For herself, she didn’t need the bastard’s money or her grandfather’s. She had her inheritance from her parents, which she’d been smart and kept separate from Thomas. Something even her grandfather didn’t know about. Yes, those old passages were truly good for a few things, overhearing the old man and his lawyer talking was one of them.

  “A lot has happened since I left here, grandfather. Where is MeMaw?” she asked. The matriarch was still the same gentle older woman who’d tried to protect her as always. She’d just been brought up in a time when the men were the ones in charge. As far as she could tell, her MeMaw was happy.

  “She’s playing Bridge with her friends. Now, are you ready for the reading of Thomas’s will? We can postpone it if you need me to?” Palmer Coker aka her PopPop asked.

  Growing up she’d loved having been named after her grandfather and hadn’t thought anything of them changing her last name to theirs when she’d been a baby. It had seemed normal. Now, she stared at the man who’d been her mentor, her father figure; the man she’d set the bar for all men to be and wanted to slap him.

  He looked at Jaxson who was stirring. “Do you need me to call a nanny for him?”

  Over her dead fucking body. “No, we’re doing fine.” She saw his narrowed eyes. “Thank you for asking though.” She moved in front of her child, blocking the older man’s view. “What time are the lawyers coming?”

  Her grandfather’s chest expanded, then he nodded, seeming to come to a decision. He rattled off a time.

  “I’ll see you down there. I need to feed him.”

  “Are you still nursing him?” He sounded shocked.

  “He’s only eleven months, grandfather.” She wasn’t going to tell him most babies were breastfed until they were a year, some much longer.

  “Well, you know men don’t like women who have a child attached to them, young lady,” he admonished her.

  Shock held her immobile and mute as he walked out the door. How dare he say that to her, especially when it had been him who’d set her up with the bastard she’d married. He who told her in no uncertain terms she was to stick it out. A Coker did not back down from their duties or their vows, he’d said the day she’d returned from her honeymoon, bruised from head to toe, broken on the inside. On that day, she’d stopped calling him PopPop as he took her home, to the home she and the bastard she’d married had bought and he’d told her to do her duty.

  “Hey, little man, you hungry?” Her precious child blinked up at her, his cornflower blue eyes were like looking in a mirror. Everything about him reminded her of herself. In that regard, she was glad. Thomas Kincaid had taken one look at the ‘Toe haired’ boy and scoffed, declaring him to be a waste and left the hospital. She’d been glad he hadn’t wanted to be part of her labor or birth plan. When she’d gone into labor, he’d been gone, showing up the next day. Her MeMaw had just made a tsking noise before insisting on calling him home. Palmer had a feeling he’d been with his latest mistress. Which had been confirmed when he’d finally arrived at the hospital.

  “You’re my perfect little boy.” She held him, letting him nurse until he was full. When his first birthday arrived, she’d wean him. Already she was starting with a sippy cup of water, not much just enough to get him used to taking from something other than her. He’d never been a pacifier baby.

  The alarm she’d set earlier dinged on her watch, letting her know it was time for them to go down to the study to meet with the lawyers. She gathered up his diaper bag and her purse. She double checked the room, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything as she slid her computer into the bag. More than likely they wouldn’t be returning once she dropped the bomb that was her ticket out of the town she’d thought of as home. “It’s just you and me, kid.” She nuzzled her nose into his neck, loving his little giggle. For an eleven-month-old, he was big. That was something he’d gotten from his father.

  Palmer tightened her grip on the bags, put Jaxson in the baby koala carrier around her chest, and headed out, head high like the Coker she was.

  “Miss, do you need anything?”

  She stopped at the head of the stairs, seeing the young housekeeper near her bedroom door. Palmer shook her head. “No, Missy, I’m fine. Thank you for inquiring.”

  Missy was a young girl who had started after Palmer left. She gave a little nod, entering Palmer’s bedroom. She and Jaxson had spent the night, but she’d cleaned the room herself that morning, having gotten used to doing such things since her marriage. Missy would strip the bedding and gather up the towels, other than that, she’d not find a lick of dirt.

  In the office, she could hear her grandfather and several other male voices. One step in front of the other, that was all she had to do. For the last one thousand and seven days, it’s what she’d done. One more day wouldn’t hurt. Hell, she’d do it for the next twenty years: she’d do it until she didn’t have to.

  “Palmer, there you are, dear. Here, let me watch Jaxson while you t
ake care of that unfortunate business. We’re all very sorry for your loss,” MeMaw said, holding her hands out.

  Palmer looked down, watching Jaxson’s eyes drift closed. “It’s alright, he’s sleeping. He’ll rest better next to me especially if he wakes up hungry.” It wasn’t an out and out lie since he would rest better close to her, and if he did wake needing to be fed, she was his food source. What she didn’t say was he’d just eaten, nor did she say she didn’t want him out of her sight.

  “All right, but if you need me to take him just give a holler.” MeMaw turned her cheek, waiting for Palmer to kiss her like always.

  The familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 brought tears to her eyes. “I love you, MeMaw.”

  Her grandmother patted Jaxson’s back, a glimmer of moisture in her eyes. “You’re so much like your mother was. You both were so maternal and beautiful with that blonde hair. I’m so happy little Jaxson has your coloring.” She pressed her hand to her lips. “You best get in there. Your PopPop doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I’ll see you when you get finished. I had Cook fix a special lunch for us.”

  Her MeMaw had always called the woman who cooked for them, Cook, although her name was Brittany. Palmer took a deep breath before heading into her grandfather’s office, knowing her and Jaxson’s lives were never going to be the same. In reality, she’d known it wasn’t once she’d sent the email to Silas, or rather to Keys as he was calling himself now. If he showed up as she suspected he would, none of their lives would be the same again. The true prodigal son of Lion County would be returning to claim his birth right. All the property they owned was his. The poor boy from the dirt road, the young man who’d fled with the clothes on his back was actually Jack Lion’s son.

  KEYS CHECKED HIS SADDLE bags one last time, making sure he had all he’d need for a long ride. His brothers’ actions shouldn’t have surprised him, but they had. Shit, he’d left the shithole he’d lived in with nothing but a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, a holey pair of socks and his sneakers he’d gotten from the lost and found. He was pretty sure they weren’t really lost but placed there for him since his counselor was the one who’d given them to him. The whole beggars can’t be choosers thing was his motto back then. Now, he gave to the weak and donated to the less fortunate. He wasn’t a boy scout, far from it. Nobody would look at him and call him a knight or even a modern-day Robin Hood. What he had was morals, and a set of rules. They might be fucked up on all kinds of levels, but they were his.

  He hit the highway, taking to the open road. With his leathers on to protect his body, and his skull cap in place on his head, which he’d been told was hard as hell. He headed East, riding until he couldn’t ride any longer. The next day he did the same, the monotony a welcome routine. It gave him time to work through what his plan would be. A sign for a rest stop loomed, reminding him he needed to call Koyn, the Royal Bastards president of the Tulsa Chapter. On the big brown sign, he saw the words Wi-Fi and other standard amenities. He pulled his Harley in on the truckers’ side. Families tended to get all skittish when he roared in next to their minivans. Like he was going to shank their asses and steal their virgin daughters. He’d had a couple virgins in his life and didn’t see any reason to do so again at his age.

  Several nods from a few truckers came in his direction as he made his way into the building with his backpack slung over his shoulder. He returned their greetings with a lift of his chin, no need to get all friendly and shit, not when he had a sinking feeling he’d be killing some piece of shits in the one-horse town he’d barely survived growing up in.

  He took care of business, washed his hands while taking stock of himself in the warped looking mirror the men’s room provided. The good folks of Lionsville would have a hard time recognizing the man in the mirror to the scrawny kid who had left there. Keys flipped himself off, then exited out the opposite side.

  The rest area had a welcome area with pamphlets for people to take, but he skirted past them, taking the doors that led out the other side. On a small bench near his motorcycle, he got his phone out, opened the app with his security cameras that surrounded his home in California. He’d told Cosmo and the woman he’d brought home with him they could stay there while he was gone. He trusted all his brothers in his MC, but Moana and Maui, they were his babies. Fur babies for sure, but he still felt compelled to check on them to make sure they liked Cosmo and the woman.

  A grin split his cheeks at the image of King on the floor of his garage with Moana’s head in his lap, her pups gathered at her belly eating while the big fucker that was Maui paced back and forth. Back and forth. Snarl, turn and then lick one of the pups before he’d start all over again with the pacing. His garage was pristine with the floor being a slick grey that had only ever had his bike on it and his babies. He had another set of garages on the other side of the place that he kept his cage rig in for when he needed one, but mostly he rode his Harley.

  King’s hand rose, waiting and then his bad-ass dog strutted over, nudged King’s hand, allowing him to pet him. Yeah, he’d be eating out of King’s palm before Keys returned. He shut the app down, sent off a text to King and Duke. ‘Checking in, motherfuckers. All is good on my end. Take care of my babies and don’t feed them too many snacks. They need to be let out to run and exercise FYI. And stop letting Maui run your ass like he’s your damn alpha, pussy.’

  He got an immediate response from Duke of the middle finger. King’s came a minute later, the double flip off, making him snort. However, it was the pic of him and Maui walking the property that made his chest ache. His traitorous dog was looking like a damn well trained...pet.

  Keys shoved the phone back into the front of his leather jacket, zipped the pocket to keep it safe, and headed back to where he parked his Harley. A big burley dude stood next to it. He took the gloves out of his back pocket, putting his hands in them as he walked.

  “What’s up?” he asked the man, stepping up within feet of him.

  “Nice bike.”

  Keys nodded, adjusting his backpack. In the saddlebags, if the fucker had tried to get in them, Keys knew he wouldn’t have found shit. However, he would’ve had to break the locks to find a whole lot of nothing. “You need something?”

  “Nah, just admiring your ride. Used to have one when I was younger. That was before the old lady made me sell it.” He rocked back on his heels.

  “Yeah, that would suck.” Keys stood there, waiting for the other man to make a move that would get him hurt or dead. He glanced around to see what kind of clean up he’d have to worry about.

  “Heh, there was a tradeoff. I get laid regularly without her worrying if I’m out on the road, getting run over by some fool in a big rig. Now I’m the fool in the big rig.” He laughed, sobering as he looked over at his truck. “We look out for you riders though, trust and believe that.”

  Keys held his hand out, bumping knuckles with the trucker. “Thanks, man. We appreciate that.”

  He slid his leg over the seat, knowing nobody had fucked with his ride while he’d been gone. Paranoid he may be, but he was also alive because of it. So yeah, he’d armed his bike with a system that would’ve rattled the windows of all the rigs within a mile of it had anyone decided to try anything.

  “Don’t let any woman get you to sell your ride, brother.” The trucker raised his hand walking off.

  Keys wanted to correct him. He wasn’t his brother, only men he respected and were part of his family had that right. Instead he pushed the start button on his bike, letting the rumble soothe his frayed nerves. The man clearly wished he was something he wasn’t. Keys would let him have that moment, shit, he might even go home and do a little role reversal with his wife.

  That night, he found a hotel that definitely wouldn’t meet a four or five-star rating, but he didn’t mind. All he needed was a place to crash that had clean sheets and a cool room. From his inspection he got that. For whatever reason, he’d chosen to stick to Route 66, call him nostalgic or stupid. Whatever the reason, h
e was taking the scenic route and enjoying whatever he could as he rode.

  He rolled over, staring up at a ceiling with questionable stains. “One fucking email from Palmer Fucking Coker and here I am, running back to the last place on Earth I ever planned to go. Fucking Pussies ‘R Us should make a place for my name to go with a sign, and slap a picture of my ugly mug right beside it with the title of the Head Pussy.” He punched the pillow under his head, trying to get comfortable.

  At one time, comfort for him would’ve been a flat surface where he’d brushed all the rocks away sufficiently enough none would stab him if he rolled over in his sleep. As for a pillow, that would’ve been his arm, bony though it had been.

  Chapter Three

  Keys woke with a start, sweat covering his body, reminding him of when he’d been a SEAL. “Fuck,” he muttered. He rolled over, sitting on the side of the bed, looking at the window to the outside. The sun starting its rise, heralding the coming day reminded him he needed to get his ass in gear. It was gonna be a hot fucking ride in his leathers. He got up, going into the bathroom with the cracked tile. The water in the shower sputtered, coming on with a groan.

  Dropping the clothing he’d been wearing onto a chair so they wouldn’t get any dirtier, Keys figured there wasn’t any use getting them any dirtier from the floor. He rolled his shoulders trying to work the kinks out, knowing the shower wasn’t going to get hot enough to help. He stepped over the lip of the shower, getting under the semi warm water, washing away the sweat and grime. Tonight, he’d be riding into Oklahoma and meeting the Royal Bastards chapter there. Tomorrow he’d be going back to the shithole he’d hoped to never see again.

  He braced his hands against the tile that might’ve once been white, the cool water beat down on him reminding him of other times he’d taken cold showers. In the military, they’d taken them out of necessity. As a boy, he’d taken whatever he could, so he wasn’t that stinky kid. Full motherfucking circle.