by Snow, Nicole
My Uncle only had me take the truck to their shell repair shop because the other guys in town screwed him over one too many times. Talk about a dismal situation when the most honest mechanics around were honest-to-God outlaws, smugglers, and possibly murderers.
It was surreal. A few weeks ago, I'd been scared to death over Roman going off for an evening, wondering if he'd come home alive. Now, after hearing about jail, I knew I'd be feeling my nerves burning out for the next twenty-two months.
He's not the only one in prison. You're going to pay for your mistake, I thought.
Karma's come to collect her debt, and it's him. He's gone. You're going to do this alone, whether you see him alive again or not.
My thoughts pulled knots in my intestines. Or maybe it was just the changes in my body, the shadow left in my flesh by too many unforgettable nights with a bad boy.
“Here you go,” Blackjack said, sticking his hand through my car's open window. I felt so tiny in my own crappy rust bucket after driving Uncle Ralph's truck most days. “Write him anytime. I'm sure he'll answer you. Remember, the boys who run that place read everything before it gets to him. My number's there too. You really ought to call it if you need anything, rather than coming to the clubhouse. It's a bad time for too many outsiders.”
I blinked. Blackjack put both hands on the window's frame and leaned in. “There's things going on in this club right now. That's why our boy's in jail. We're not interested in babysitting civilians, or receiving them at all unless it's absolutely necessary. You look like a smart girl, and I know he wouldn't want you fucked over by any bad business that isn't yours. Stay away from this patch for awhile, Sally. If you care about him at all, you'll listen.”
I didn't say another word. Neither did he.
A crater blew open in my heart. Two years. No contact. No way to reach him at all except a note by pigeon that would be intercepted and poured over by the guards before it ever made it through.
No privacy. No help. No more loving – if I could call whatever we had that without being totally delusional.
As soon as Blackjack walked back into the garage, I turned my car around and waved to the prospects manning the gate. I couldn't wait for it to slide all the way open before I gunned it out of there, fighting the fiery tears in my eyes.
I was alone. The sooner I learned to accept it, the better.
* * * *
I didn't send a single letter the entire time. I couldn't bring myself to pick up the pen, couldn't put my hands on the keyboard. It would've written the lamest note in the world, and also the one guaranteed to stop my heart when I thought about how he'd react.
Two long years passed in a painful haze. I tried to forget, at least until he got out. IF he got out...
We never spoke once. Not until last week, when I finally mustered up the courage to walk into the clubhouse and try to tell him everything I'd been terrified to say by letter.
He'd only been free for a few weeks. His twenty-two months in prison were a lifetime to me.
I'd heard the rumors around town. The Grizzlies were fighting for their lives the past few years. They'd been warring with everybody across the wild west, rival MCs like the Prairie Devils up in Montana, and bigger worries closer to home. Nothing hit them harder than the Mexican cartels coming north, muscling in on the territory they'd held for decades.
Every other week, there was a new gruesome headline. Missing people on both sides of the border, bombings and gunfights in every major city, especially Sacramento and LA. Thankfully, the war zone hadn't really hit Redding yet.
Oh, except for the club's infighting. Their old President, the notorious old thug named Fang, was deposed. Blackjack took over the entire national organization, and he'd made Redding the MC's permanent headquarters.
Change was in the air, and nobody on the outside knew what it meant. Not yet.
Now shops funded by the Grizzlies MC sprang up all over, gun shops and strip clubs and biker bars. They cleaned up other dirty clubhouses as far as Klamath Falls and San Diego, and even ran a few charity events.
No one was going to roll over and call these guy heroes. Honestly, it didn't take a perfect vision to see through the PR stunts, and some of the new businesses they'd helped set up were likely fronts for money laundering.
Other things stayed the same.
Their cartel wars weren't over. New violence somewhere in the state cropped up every week, except now it sounded like the Grizzlies were beginning to gain the upper hand.
Me? I stayed out of it.
There was plenty to keep busy. I'd never grown beyond the ranch, and now I was managing a lot more of it since a stroke took Uncle Ralph's life last year. Cousin Norman and I shared the farm, managing the machines and the family's old employees, including a few younger guys who'd become hangarounds with the Grizzlies MC.
They were my source for most of the rumors. I never contacted Blackjack or anyone close to Roman, deciding to keep my distance until I was good and ready, and Roman was free.
Days passed. I heard he was back in town, and apparently the club's Enforcer now.
It took an entire summer week to gather my courage. I let Norman know I was going into town for a few things, but really, I was heading for the clubhouse.
The fresh paint on the place instantly looked brighter when I pulled up. Two prospects were guarding the gate, and I struggled to explain who I was while they gave me cold, skeptical stares.
But as soon as I said “Roman,” the man who's name patch said Stryker walked over and punched the button. The gate slid open, and I walked through it, leaving my car parked on the curb.
It was early evening. Two men were arguing over drinks at the bar. I'd never been inside the place before, and it was about what I expected. Dark, smoky, dizzying.
The sharp stink of booze and testosterone clung to the air, and I stumbled forward along a narrow corridor, trying to get my wits.
“Sonofabitch!” A man growled. “Hey, lady! Look out!”
Something sharp whizzed past my face. There wasn't time to dodge, or even wonder if it was a bullet. It smacked the wall just a few inches from my head, a long metallic dart, lodged in the wood like a stray missile.
An angry looking bald man looked at me, straightening his cut. When he saw it hadn't taken out an eye, he spun around to face his partner, a strong, younger man I'd seen riding around town.
“Asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to get somebody killed?” Baldie slapped both hands against his brother's chest.
The other man took a swing, missed, and drunkenly hit the floor. Before I knew it, I was watching a mini-biker brawl, two men on the floor cursing and throwing fists.
Ugh. Not exactly how I wanted to re-introduce myself to Roman and his friends. I was about to say something and try to ease the scuffle when I heard footsteps.
I looked up, and there he was, coming toward me. My heart thudded like a bomb's aftershock, and it didn't let up until he'd closed the gap between us, two fucking years apart.
Roman and I locked eyes. The words I'd practiced so many times died on my tongue.
I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe how he'd changed. Could I even believe my own eyes?
Was he always so huge – or did prison add a few inches to his bulging muscles? His face looked tougher too, accented by a few more lines in his forehead, a sharper angle to his powerful jaw. He'd probably just passed his thirtieth birthday in jail, and he had all the insanely hot finishes of a man aging into his prime.
Jesus. Before I came here, I told myself over and over I wouldn't feel the old heat. This was going to be business like, personal, but I wouldn't let my old attraction take over. Not before I saw what he was like.
Yeah, good luck with that.
As soon as his dark hazel eyes sucked me in, I lost it. The tattoos on his muscular arms rippled in my peripheral vision, forcing me to remember those hands on my body. They'd held me down so tight while he fucked me, fingered me,
warming me up for that battering ram between his legs.
The men stopped fighting when they saw him coming. The young guy with the sandy hair helped himself up, holding onto the bar, nursing his ribs after they took some cringe-worthy kicks from Baldie. One look at Roman, and he started shaking, making excuses.
The bald guy retreated behind the bar, fixing himself a drink. Roman stormed right past his beaten up brother, giving him a quick shove, muttering when he tried to stand up. “Get the fuck outta my way.”
I'd stolen all his interest. While we stood there staring at each other, lost in our memories, everything else in the clubhouse might as well have been happening on the dark side of the moon.
“Sally.” I flattened myself against the wall the instant he said my name.
It wasn't just his body changing behind bars. Prison or age deepened his voice, given it a smoky richness to go with the deep baritone he'd had before. My mind went wild, recognizing the same wicked cadence and thunder I heard that summer when he growled into my ear, ordered me to suck his cock, to come each time he fucked me senseless.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Good question. My lips tasted bitter against my tongue, as if they didn't want to move, didn't want me to remember why the hell I'd come to confront him.
“I had to see you. I heard you were out of jail.”
“Yeah, word spreads fast.” He folded his huge arms, and his biceps bulged so thick I swore they'd bust his seams. “What the fuck is this? I'm surprised you showed up. Pretty sure you'd forgotten my ass when I didn't hear from you. It's been – what? – two goddamned years?”
Ouch. Steeling myself for this crap before I walked through the door was completely different from actually facing him. The lump in my throat didn't want to go down, and it had to before I could form words.
“I'm sorry, Roman. When I heard the news from Blackjack, I didn't know what to do. He said I couldn't see you in person, told me it wouldn't be good to visit you –“
His hand shot up, right in front of my face. “And he was right. You were wise to stay the fuck away. This world's not for you, babe. If I'm not worth writing to, then I'm sure as shit not worth your time now that I'm out.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. No, no, you don't understand. I couldn't force the words out, and he just kept talking.
“What? Don't give me that fucking look. You always had a good head on your shoulders, woman, and it's time for you to put it to use. You know it's too late, too far gone for us. Mistakes were made, and they weren't fixed. If you've got any sense, you'll pick those long legs up, turn around, and walk out that door.”
I froze. The cold energy in his eyes danced over me, sucking the life out of me. “What? Why?”
“Because what happened that summer two years ago was a big goddamned mistake. I'm sorry the memory's left you hanging. If you're still wrapped up in me, then I don't know who the hell you are. I don't wanna know. I should be ancient history by now, and you should be settled down with some civilian and a couple kids. This clubhouse never was a place for a real lady.”
Real lady? Was he patronizing me, or just trying to let me down easy? Shit, the fact that he was letting me down at all hit me in the chest and shredded my heart.
Before I could say anything else, he turned, heading for the bar. “Wait! Roman!”
The blade he'd pushed into my chest just sank deeper when I heard myself saying those fucking words. Wait.
Haven't I been doing it for twenty-two fucking months? All alone, hiding my memories at the ranch, suffering in silence?
My brain flipped to a different mode. I couldn't let him get away from me again like this. I had to get his attention – now.
Running after him, I grabbed a bottle off the bar and threw it.
I wasn't trying to hit him, but the glass made a hell of a noise when it hit the floor, right by his boot. Roman whirled.
How could those eyes that were so sexy and full of life be so dead and glacial? I stared back at him, hoping he caught pure hell in my dark blue eyes. Maybe I'd see a spark of something that was still alive.
My temper took over. This wasn't the man I knew, even if this stranger had the same incredible body, the same face I'd imagined night after night.
“Go ahead and walk the fuck away again, you coward!” I screamed, my voice surprisingly steady. “At least this time I know it's not the prisons and the courts holding you back! You're not man enough to handle us.”
Christ, that idea scared me too. But I still said it, I still offered it to him, even after all this time.
I expected him to strike back, shove me to the wall, get in my face. Instead, he just turned around and kept going.
He left me alone. I was about to storm out when the brother who'd taken a beating with the bald guy stepped in front of me.
A few minutes later, I sat with him at the bar. I let Rabid – what a ridiculous name, right? – pour me a shot of whiskey. We talked about bad luck and love.
He was nice enough, and I actually felt better by the time I had a couple drinks. We must've sat and talked for hours. If he wasn't so hooked on some redhead he was chasing, I might've leaned over and kissed him just to spite Roman.
Maybe to spite myself for being so stupid, thinking this would be easy.
“Good luck, baby,” Rabid said, just before I gathered up my purse to leave. “Try coming by in a few weeks. Maybe then we'll have sorted through some of our shit.”
““I hope so,” I told him. “Thanks, Rabid. I've got a feeling you'll sort whatever's got you by the balls just fine.”
His chances were definitely better than mine, anyway. When I left the clubhouse, the only thought rattling around in my head was how much I never wanted to see that overgrown asshole, Roman, ever again.
* * * *
If only it were that simple.
At home, the reason why I practically walked over broken glass to see him at the clubhouse sat in my arms, soft and sleepy.
Soon, Caleb would be growing into a real toddler. I've tried like hell to raise my son alone, to forget about Roman and walk the fuck away, never looking back.
But every time I looked into my son's dark brown eyes and saw the same powerful jawline forming on him, I knew. I understood what he deserved, what he needed.
The kid had to have his father – even if the man who shared his DNA turned my heart to ice.
No, no, I couldn't give up this easy. God help me, I was the only one who could bring Roman into his life, or else I'd keep them apart forever.
II: Longing (Roman)
Prison changes a man. It makes him leery, anxious, and ready to fucking fight every second his body isn't so damned exhausted it makes him stay still.
We'd only been in church for five minutes, and I was getting goddamned antsy.
“Beam. Stryker.” Blackjack stood at the head of the table, staring at our two prospects like he was about to anoint them with holy oil. “You've proven yourselves. You've spilled blood and licked dirt for this club, and now you're going to do it some more.”
The room was dead silent. The two men looked at each other, nervous as hell. It would've been funny if I didn't have so much shit on my mind.
“The difference is, this time we'll be calling you our brothers. Welcome to the fold, boys. You've earned your bottom rockers, and the vote was unanimous.” The Prez stopped and looked at me. “Roman?”
My cue to get up and hand them the patches I've been sitting on since we got into the room. The boys stared at me like their damned eyeballs were about to melt.
They probably couldn't believe how quickly they'd been patched in. Well, there's more of that these days, especially with good men dropping like fucking flies along the border.
Before we really started to tango with the cartel, we were the biggest MC west of the Mississippi. Flash forward a couple years, and we'd lost hundreds, rivers of blood spilled to gain the upper hand over those bastards from Mexico. Not to mention some of our
own brothers, who'd turned this club into such a shithole it was too weak to push the invaders back where they belonged in the first place.
“Congratulations, brother.” I shook Stryker's hand, a tall man, former soldier.
Then I moved to Beam and offered the same thing. He had more of a punk ass skateboarder's look, but whatever. Seeing dudes with weird styles was nothing outta the ordinary in any MC.
“Take your seats, brothers. We've got business.” We all nodded and found our places while Blackjack limped back to his.
The Prez's bum leg probably wouldn't ever heal. He'd taken a bullet when the boys fought Fang, our old fuck of a Prez, not long before I got outta jail. When I showed up for duty with the new and improved Grizzlies MC, I wasn't sure what to expect. Luckily, the past few months have proven it's a big improvement.
Anything beat the old group of thugs, killers, and honorable outlaws getting their asses kicked by the cartel. I went away after killing for the brothers I trusted. Since I took the Enforcer promotion, it was my job to make damned sure no man sat at this table or wore this patch who couldn't be called a brother in the fullest sense of the word.
Once everybody was seated, Blackjack looked at Brass, our VP, waiting for him to deliver the latest war report.
“We're still struggling with these ambushes, Prez. The Devils are working with the Oregon crew, helping hold things down up north. But they hit us every week in LA and San Diego. Sacramento's got spots we don't control, even after several months.” He paused, as if he didn't want to say the next part. “They're still going after men's families. They beheaded a brother's old lady last week in SoCal.”
Fuck. Christ.
Hands went up and slapped the table. Men shook their heads. My guts spooled up like a goddamned chain getting ready to snap.
The brothers who've got women they've claimed looked the worst. At our table, that was Brass and Rabid, but several other guys were just as pissed. I felt it too – an iron hot fire making me wanna hit the road and strangle a few cartel soldiers myself.
