HOPE TRILOGY BOX SET: Sacred Sinners MC- Texas Chapter

by Bink Cummings

  Kade gifted Ryker a new knife for Christmas. He even had Sacred Sinners engraved on the handle and his name on the blade. With Kade’s knife obsession, it didn’t surprise me that’s what he bought his brother. The personalization I thought was sweet. He sent me a photo before tossing it into a used Christmas bag with no tissue paper or card. My inner elf went batshit when he told me that. Most presents deserve the tender love and care of being wrapped. Bags are for oversized and weird shaped gifts. Yeah. I know I’m a Christmas Nazi. I never said I was perfect. At least he had the decency to have the girls’ presents wrapped beforehand. From the looks of them, they were done by my father. He’s the only man I’ve ever known who could out wrap me. He’s so precise that he brings out the ruler and a fancy pair of sheers to get every angle perfect. That’s probably where I got my obsession from…

  Shit…

  I’m rambling, aren’t I? I am … I know it. This is what happens when I don’t wanna look down at my phone to see what else Kade has to say about Ryker and his feelings that I … once again … should give two fucks to the wind about. Perhaps, it’s this holiday season that has me overly sentimental. Who the hell knows? I just pray it stops, and soon.

  Taking a deep breath, I glance down.

  Oh goodie. Four texts…

  Kade: Kat, this isn’t something you need to worry yourself with. He’s a grown ass man who did ya dirty. I shouldn’t have even sent ya that picture. I’m a dumbass. Just ignore him and move on. Find yourself a better man. Have you went on that date yet?

  Kade: You’re ignoring me now, aren’t ya? I see how it is. You’re gonna make me cry. Here come the waterworks.

  Kade: Happy New Year! :kiss emoji:

  Kade: Please don’t be mad at me the rest of the night. I’m sorry. I didn’t tell ya about him because you don’t need to know. He’s made his bed and is lyin’ in it. His misery doesn’t need your company. I love my bro, but this is his own doing. You don’t need to deal with it. I know you think about him a lot. But ya gotta move on. Date that guy. You said he was hot. That’s one step in the dicking-you-good direction.

  Uhhh! Why does he have to be such a loveable dumbass? One that knows how to make me smile and wanna cry in equal measure. I wish I could squeeze him right now. I could use a good hug.

  Me: Happy New Years! You’re not crying, you big fucking baby. The only way you’d cry is if you’re looking for a sympathy fuck. And, fine, I suppose you’re forgiven. But you know I can’t help that I think about him. Not talking to him has made this time harder. Not easier. You’re right. I need to go out. I promise I’ll text Curt tomorrow and try to go on a date with him, but I’m not promising anything will come of it. And, there will be no dicking to speak of so get that outta your dickcheesy brain.

  Kade: Fuck yeah! She forgives me. All is right in the world again! Except now I gotta go get me some pussy since all these assholes are too drunk and I don’t wanna babysit. Talk to ya tomorrow. Go read your brain rotting romance and forget about my brother. Later toots.

  Me: Later, and make sure you wrap your package. We don’t need to worry about you knocking anyone up. I’m enough of a mess for the both of us.

  Kade: You’re the sanest outta us two. Don’t worry, MOM, no glove no love. I don’t need any mini Kade’s runnin around til I’m ready for some.

  Me: K. I’ll talk with ya tomorrow.

  Kade: Tomorrow. And don’t forget to text Curt. :Tongue out emoji:

  Me: I won’t, bossy Dickcheese.

  Kade: Good, Watermelon tits.

  Chuckling, I shake my head at our insanity. I’m not sure how I’ve lived without him all these years. He’s like the Clyde to my Bonnie. I love that silly man, and made a promise to him that I intend to keep… Even if I don’t wanna.

  Curt, my daughters’, tall, lean, and nerdy, in a hot way, vice principal has had eyes for me since last school year. He’s asked me out more than a handful of times. It’s not like I won’t go out with him because he’s got four eyeballs and a hunch back. Actually, he’s sorta dreamy. I haven’t conceded yet because he’s my daughter’s vice principal and that’s like shitting where ya eat—you’re not supposed to do that. Except now, since I just agreed to take Curt aka Mr. MacIntyre up on his latest dinner offer.

  The week before holiday break I dropped off Roxie’s gym shoes she’d forgotten at home. He’d been coming out of his office when the secretary took them. Needless to say, my three-minute drop-in turned into twenty because he bragged about how wonderful my daughters are, which led to a date proposal. Smooth, is the best word to describe him—since everyone knows buttering up a mother by telling her how fantastic her kids are is a surefire way to get what ya want. So I left the school with his business card tucked in my purse, which he handed me after scrolling his personal phone number on the back. I haven’t texted yet, and that won’t come ’til tomorrow. First, I’ve got a date with an extra yummy biker named Horse, who won’t break my heart, ’cause we all know book alphas rarely do that. If only real men were the same.

  Two

  “Mom! I need a towel!” Scarlett yells from the bathroom as I sit on the edge of my bed, cell phone in hand. I’ve been staring at the darn thing for a good ten minutes. Curt’s number is glaring right back at me. This should be simple—call a man, tell him yes, and hang up. Easy, right? Not so much. I’m on the verge of a panic attack. There are a lot of things I can handle. Being on the receiving end of a man’s attention isn’t one of them. Not when the only person in my life I ever cared to have the attention of is more than a thousand miles away, obliterated my heart and is married for god sake. Gah! Why can’t I stop thinking about him? He looked really good over Thanksgiving, didn’t he? Bald, and those tattoos … whoa, baby … especially the one that’s forever burned into my retinas. You know, the dates. What does that mean, anyhow? Why am I obsessing over this? Why do I even care? Come on. Tell me. You’re supposed to be my friend. Kick me in the ass or something. Tell me to forget the asshole. I need an intervention.

  “Mom!” she hollers again.

  “There’s one under the sink!” I return, because if I get up now, I’ll never make this call. Plus, I just finished towels yesterday so there’s no reason why she can’t get out of the tub and grab one herself. She’s not two anymore. Not that I left her in the tub by herself when she was two. What kinda mother do you take me for?

  “I’ll get the floor all wet!” she whines.

  “Then wipe it up!”

  “Mom! Please!”

  Rox appears in my doorway, shaking her wild bedhead. “Mom, I can get it for her.”

  “No, Rox. She can do it herself. It’s all of five steps.”

  Roxie crosses her arms, leaning her shoulder against the doorjamb, yawning adorably. “I know, but she won’t stop complaining.”

  “Yes, she will. When she gets cold and has to get her own towel.”

  “Mom!” Scarlett screeches.

  Oh, for the love of God. What’s her deal?

  “Are you dying in there, Scarlett?!”

  “No! But the water’s getting colder!”

  I raise a brow to Rox in a silent version of I told ya so, and she smirks tiredly.

  “Then I guess you’ll have to get out and grab a towel!”

  Match point. I win. Mother, one. Daughter, zero. These are the lovely little games you must play to teach your children independence. They’re nerve grating, yet effective.

  The growl that echoes sounds an awful lot like her father’s, when Scarlett shuts off the water and stomps across the floor, presumably to retrieve that dreaded towel. The slamming of the cupboard affirms my guess. Roxie giggles under her breath from the doorway as I smother my own chuckle from the bed. Scarlett must’ve woken up in one of her moods today. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen her this morning. They actually let me sleep in like I requested. My guess is that she and her sister were up way too late, and no matter when she goes to sleep Scarlett can’t seem to stay in bed past seven. Hopefully, I can c
onvince her to take a nap today. Lord knows we don’t need to deal with Ms. Diva’s attitude.

  Rox pushes off the doorframe. “I’m gonna go eat.”

  I nod. “Okay. Please shut the door.”

  Yawning once more, Roxie pulls my door closed just in time for me to hear Scarlett bitching up a storm in the hallway. They exchange a few bratty words, then quit before I need to intervene.

  Flopping my back onto the mattress, I take a deep breath and press the call button. It’s now or never. I just hope I’m not waking Curt up from a killer hangover. Then again, he might not answer, and I’ll be off the hook.

  He picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Erm, Curt, crap, Mr. MacIntyre, this is—”

  “Ms. Remington.” There’s a smile in his voice. A smile! This is weird. Too weird. I pull the phone from my ear and stare bug-eyed at the screen. I should probably hang up, right? Yeah. I should. Hanging up’s a terrific idea.

  “Hello? Katrina.” His voice carries, and it’s a nice one. Masculine. Not at all like Asshole’s, but friendly, less edgy. One that makes you feel safe and wanna suck his dick. Oh … My … God. I didn’t mean that.

  “Katrina, are you there?”

  Swallowing down a shot of nerves, I press the phone back to my ear and fake a ridiculous laugh. “Ha-Ha. Yeah. Sorry. I’m not sure how to do this.”

  “Then let me make this easy for you.”

  That sounds fantastic. I exhale a relieved breath, my stiff shoulders deflating. “That’s perfect,” I sigh.

  “Happy New Year.”

  Grinning awkwardly, I pull my legs into whatever they call Indian Style nowadays. Crisscross applesauce, is that the politically correct term?

  “Happy New Year to you, too,” I reply, and for the next several minutes, we casually carry on about our holidays. It’s easy, and not at all panic-inducing. As our conversation navigates organically, his voice deepens slightly, more intimately, giving me enough courage to chat like we’re kids in high school again, without the sexual tension or pressure.

  “I really like talking to you,” he remarks, and I crack a genuine smile, my eyes tracing the tiny fissures in the ceiling.

  “I like talking to you, too.”

  “Would you like to go out to dinner with me sometime?”

  Twirling a piece of my hair through my fingers, I hold my breath. I can do this. “Sure. I’d like that,” I mutter timidly, insides fluttering.

  “Next week, then?”

  “Sounds great. Text me the details.”

  “Thanks for calling, Katrina. I’ve been hoping you’d say yes for a long time.”

  Fist pumping the air, I do a little wiggle, messing up my covers. “See ya soon,” I reply before I burst. Then as soon as I end the call, I belt a squeal of girly delight. I can’t believe I’m going on a date! I can’t believe I talked to a guy on the phone that long and there were no long awkward moments. Perhaps my life is looking up… Take that you backstabbing Asshole. This mama’s getting her groove back. I can’t wait to tell Kade about it later. He’ll be so proud of me.

  Three

  Rolling the book cart down the aisle, I slip the next novel in its correct spot along the wall before moving to the next section. Our town isn’t the largest around, but we have a steady library flow. Which is nice; it makes my days go faster. My favorite part about working here, aside from the fantastic employees, is Tuesday and Thursdays children’s corner when I get to read a book to all our little bookwormies. Afterward, they check out a book for the week and have a snack. They left an hour ago.

  “Girl, you don’t need to put those books away. I thought you were going home to get ready for your date with Mr. Hot Principal tonight?” Rea, one of my favorite coworkers, asks from the aisle over.

  Pushing the cart out of the way, I slip into her row, only to catch Rea readjusting her big jugs for the tenth time today. Rea’s wife, Laura, has an addiction to fancy lingerie, and from the sounds of it, she insisted Rea wear a new lace bra to work. However, the thing is not a boulder holder, which is precisely what busty girls like us need. She’s spilling out everywhere.

  Finished digging in the top of her blouse, Rea notices me. Blushing fiercely, she drapes her long, black hair across her slender shoulders. “Sorry about that.” Her fumbling hands smooth down the front of her pencil skirt.

  Unfazed, I wave her off. “That bra needs to be burned. Tell Laura to get you something that actually fits next time.”

  Rea’s flush intensifies, skipping down her neck and into the top of her shirt. “She locked my others in the safe this morning so I was forced to wear this one.”

  “Did you tell her she’s being unreasonable?” Placing my hand on my hip, I tilt my head to the side, drifting into mom-mode. “Did you?”

  Meekly, Rea shakes her head, biting her thumbnail, eyes cast downward. “No. But I’ll give her a piece of my mind when I get home tonight.”

  Hiking my best Rock brow, I counter, “You’d better, or I will.”

  Head snapping up, mouth agape, she finally locks eyes with mine. “No,” she whisper screams, mortified by the idea. “Laura will be so angry and make me wear the… Never mind…” Shaking her head again, she dismisses the thought.

  To cut off her freak-out at the pass, I raise my hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay. I’m not going to pretend to understand your relationship. But I do know, regardless if you’re into that Fifty Shades stuff or not, you still need to wear proper undergarments at work.”

  “Deal.” She nods once, a grin tugging at the corner of her glossed lips. “But I’m not gonna talk to her unless you skedaddle, and go on your date with the hot principal.”

  At the mere mention of what’s to come, my shoulders slump, and a frown mars my face. I really don’t want to go. Not anymore. The more I think about it, the less exciting it seems and the scarier it becomes. “Vice Principal,” I mumble, as if semantics matter.

  Stepping closer, Rea spins me around by my shoulders and swats my butt. “Go get your man.”

  Digging my heels in, I refuse to budge. “What would a teacher at my children’s school want with a pregnant woman, when he could date anyone?”

  This question has been weighing on my mind since New Year’s morning when I gathered enough courage to call him. He was thrilled to hear from me, and that’s nice. Yet, here I am, about to go on my first date in ages, and I’m dreading it. There’s not a single wonky butterfly fluttering in my belly, sweaty palms, or happy nerves like I felt with Brent. There’s only this sinking depression that feels like I’m closing another door and opening a damned window. How many times do I have to do this before I finally get it right? Kissing frogs is not my specialty.

  Hands perched on my shoulders from behind, Rea gives them a squeeze. “You’re beautiful. You’re a catch. Any man would be lucky to have you. There doesn’t have to be some motive here, Kat. Just eat dinner and try to enjoy the company. What could it hurt?”

  Dammit. I know she’s right. I have to treat this as a friendly dinner. Nothing more, nothing less. I’m not sure why I’m so uptight. It’s not like he’s asking me to marry him. It’s one date at a steakhouse here in town. In public where he couldn’t molest me even if he tried. Not that he would. I’m pretty sure schools frown upon that kinda behavior.

  Exhaling long and hard, I blow out all my bad thoughts. I can do this. I can be just a woman, going on a date with just a man—simple. He is nice after all, and I do like the way he looks, and his voice is yummy. Those all tick the positive column.

  Confidence renewed, I hold my head high, mouth a quick goodbye to Rea, and find my winter coat in the office before ambling down the front steps. The icy wind whips the sides of my face as I hug myself for warmth, shuffling through the fresh, ankle-deep snow to my car. At least the roads are still plowed. It’s a beast out here. The girls are loving it, though—no school.

  Reaching in my pocket, I beep my car unlocked as a black figure registers in my peripheral. Snappi
ng my head to the side, a squeal erupts from my throat at the same moment three masked men attack, pinning me to the side of my vehicle. Feet slipping in the snow, I grab onto one of their leather jackets and attempt to headbutt him. I don’t get very far when another man shoves a cotton bag over my head, pulling a drawstring. Then, all hell breaks loose. Forgetting that I’m pregnant, I react on instinct, using my four senses left to guide me. There’s a pained “ooaf” when my fist connects with someone’s stomach. Followed by a “fuck,” as my foot lands on what feels like a thigh. Frantically, I try to drag the case over my head as I defend myself. It’s futile. The drawstring on the end is so tight it nearly cuts off my air supply.

  “Get her under fuckin’ control!” one man barks, right before a set of hands grab at my biceps. Fighting like a wild dog, I unleash my fists, elbows, feet—everything that I can use to connect with scraps of flesh. Profanities clog the air as I control my surprisingly stealthy body, refusing to admit defeat to these goons.

  Seconds slip by like hours as they come at me—hands trying to pin me down, seeking a firm grip. Idle threats are launched into the air like clay pigeons. Not once do I back down. No way are these fuckers taking me without a fight. I don’t give a shit who they are. I’m not gonna give up. If they didn’t want me alive, I’d be dead already.

  Quickly running low on steam, my gut screams for me to defend or flee. I can barely do either at this point as the frigid air burns my lungs, on the verge of freezing. I’m screwed.

  Pausing too long to catch my breath, something that feels like a high-speed school bus hits me square in the chest, slamming my back against the side of my car, knocking the wind out of me, and stealing what little footing I have left. There’s a deafening crack as my head collides with a windowpane. Warmth blooms on the back of my skull.

  Shit! I’m bleeding.

  Stars dance in my vision as I scramble to right myself. It’s weak at best. I reclaim my stance, shaky fists up, ready to take on the world.