by C. L. Riley
He’d been glued to his computer, communicating with Demon in Seattle and his VP in Eugene, when I’d wandered into the kitchen at midnight, hunting for a snack.
Last night wasn’t the first time I’d found him hunched over his laptop at some ungodly hour. They’ve been using Skype for at least an hour or two every day since our return from Vegas.
Rowdy is waiting for Demon to get back from Seattle so they can make a unified, grand return to their Eugene compound. Demon might be gone, but Boone is in and out of the beach house constantly. The two half-brothers vanish for hours behind closed doors, leaving me to entertain myself, a difficult task when I can’t go out unattended.
From what I’ve learned, which isn’t a lot; Demon is dealing with a family crisis in my home city while seeking more information about Dr. Martin. I’m not sure how he’s doing both, but I don’t dare ask.
With so many restrictions on my activities, I’m left feeling powerless and useless.
“My queen isn’t happy,” Rowdy continues, unwilling to let me shutdown, something I’ve been doing more and more of.
“How can I be? I feel like we’re in a prison. Not only am I hiding from a raping murderer, now we’re avoiding assassins, who happen to be your former friends. It’s hard to be happy.”
He sighs but remains silent. The expression of guilt he frequently wears fades, becoming one of frustration. My lack of support isn’t helping matters, but I can’t seem to stop myself. My bitching is getting on my nerves too, yet I keep on complaining.
“Not much longer. I promise. Your royal treatment will be back on schedule soon, but staying alive until then is pretty fucking important. Be glad we’re not on total lockdown.” He scowls, glancing back at his laptop, his hand drifting toward it.
“I’m going shopping,” I announce, clamoring to my feet. “Yes, I’ll bring my bodyguards.” I don’t bother looking back as I march to the kitchen with my plate. I hate seeing Rowdy’s disapproval.
I can’t help but wonder if I’m pushing him away on purpose. I’ve never maintained a healthy, long-term relationship, and my opposites attract theory isn’t as “peanut butter and jelly” friendly as I’d initially believed.
Maybe I was too impulsive. Just because Rowdy makes my body sing doesn’t mean he is marriage material. Crap, maybe it’s me who is not ready for married life, or at the very least, club life.
I’m afraid his commitment to me will weaken the more his duties as an acting president increase. His club is going to require hours of his time and attention, and making things right with his men won’t be easy from what little he’s shared.
There’s a ton of mistrust and speculation between them all, and I have no desire to leave Seal’s Cove to play house in Eugene while Rowdy sorts things out. He assures me he will find a way to leave the club behind, once he’s settled things down and eliminated the threats to his leadership.
The question is how long will the settling process take and why does removing threats to his leadership even matter if he’s leaving?
I’m not sure our marriage can survive on great sex alone, not when our current circumstances are conspiring to tear us apart.
Rowdy
I’m on my feet the minute I hear Trina’s Jeep start.
Stomping to the window, I stare out, watching her taillights disappear around the corner. Two of Boone’s guys tail her, their bikes broadcasting to the world their odd little motorcade is on the move.
Fuck. What’s happening to us? And where’s the third escort?
He pulls out, joining the others before I can text the question to Wolf, the brother organizing protection shifts.
I run my fingers through my hair, a habit I’ve picked up from my half-brother. Or maybe I’ve always done it and am just now noticing another mutual gesture. We have a lot of common traits. The more we’re around each other, the more obvious those similarities become, not just to us, but everyone else too.
While Boone and I grow closer, my wife and I drift apart.
How can a relationship get so mangled in a few weeks? It’s a struggle to remember the moment on the motorcycle, the moment I swore to never forget how much our marriage means to me.
The pressures of protecting Trina while preparing to resume the role as acting president have me spinning in circles, mentally that is.
My physical body might be at an acceptable point of healing, but my mind isn’t. And I haven’t admitted my concerns to Trina, the one person equipped to help me deal with my ongoing TBI challenges.
We went from being open and upfront with our feelings to acting like strangers, unless we’re fucking.
For reasons beyond my understanding, regardless of our lacking communication, we continue to have a thriving sexual connection. The love I have for her isn’t going anywhere, but I’m unable to express how I feel, not the way I could even a week ago.
With so much uncertainty and danger, I’m not sure how to let her back in.
I can’t tell her what is going on with the club, both clubs. Not yet. And keeping secrets in one area of my life is making it easier to keep secrets in my marriage. I want to open up to Trina, but I’ve never included a woman in my club life, particularly not the politics and problems.
Since my brain injury, I don’t handle stress like I used to. I might appear calm to others, but my insides are in knots. My head is all fucked up, jumping from one problem to the next, and I can’t target solutions the way I did before. I’ve improved since the rehab center, but I remember worrying about the same exact mental issues while there.
Fortunately, with Boone’s help, I’ve made sure to shield myself from what might happen if my club takes advantage of my shortcomings and turns against me...a very real possibility, evidenced by the Vegas attack.
Snoops, short for Snoopy, our VP, assured me he had nothing to do with the drive-by and is awaiting my instructions before punishing the perpetrators. I’ve requested he hold off until my official return.
Spyder, the Soul Scorchers’ computer genius, working with Grinch, their financial guru, has spent considerable time reorganizing my personal assets, particularly the accounts linked to my club, giving me total control. At least my financial status is assured.
Over the years, I’ve poured money into the club’s coffers to expand our legal businesses, in an effort to move away from our other, less-legal revenue sources. I also bailed us out from my predecessor’s financial failures, and there were plenty. What I did to help the club with my personal wealth is pretty much unheard of, but the situation had become borderline unmanageable by the time I was voted president.
The club is contracted to pay me back with the earnings from the newer ventures. Should I demand what they owe, they’d be looking at a complete fiscal collapse.
Once I get the Crusher situation resolved, and finish damage control left over from Ringo’s rebellion, I will ask for my release, something that’s rarely approved with the Hells Guardians―once a Guardian always a Guardian. On occasion nomad status is approved if it somehow benefits the club.
Every MC has different rules, bylaws, and traditions, both written and unwritten. Ours are some of the strictest; the repercussions for breaking them the harshest.
Re-evaluating and updating those bylaws was another item that had my garnered my attention, making its way onto the massive to-do list I generated pre-explosion. It’s an item I’m no longer going to worry about.
After I’m out, challenging what’s old and outdated will fall to the remaining members and new president. Even so, I want to leave things better than they were when I was voted in. Guys like Demon deserve a solid starting place for future changes.
Tires driving over gravel send my pulse racing. I’m not expecting anyone else today, and Trina won’t be back for hours.
Fuck. My gun is by the coffee maker.
I’m not sure why I’m worried, I’ve got two of Boone’s guys outside. But despite that knowledge, my inner alarm is buzzing.
I shoo
t off a quick text to Boone, hinting at possible trouble. I know better than to ignore my internal warning system. It might not be as accurate as it was before my head injury, but it has kept me alive enough times for me to pay attention when it goes off.
I reach the kitchen the same second my back door flies open, kicked in by a big motorcycle boot.
“Don’t touch it!” Crusher bellows.
My hand hovers an inch over my Glock, my fingers twitching.
“I’d listen to the man. Wouldn’t want your wife to become a widow so soon.” Snoop, the same man I’d been skyping with less than ten hours ago, pushes past the man I plan to kill as soon as I’m out of this mess.
Six of my so-called, trusted brothers are now crowded into my kitchen, guns pointed my direction, leaving no doubt where I stand with my club, at least this motley handful―all loyal admirers of Ringo, big shocker.
They’re following in his footsteps even after his death, so much for independent thinking.
It’s Snoopy I’m most surprised about, sort of. Most of the time, he’s a fair-minded guy, mellow and eager to talk things through. I knew he could be influenced, but I never expected him to bust into my kitchen, letting Crusher lead the way.
“What happened to Tobby and Hops?” My first thought is not for my safety but for the Soul Scorchers’ prospects.
“They needed a break,” Ranger replies snidely, the first to lower his gun. “Guess we’re not good enough to watch our own prez’s back.”
I raise my brow. “Considering you’re here uninvited, ready to put multiple bullets in my head, I think I chose the right guards.”
“Some guards,” Crusher chuckles. “Idiots. Twila walked up shaking her ass and asking for directions, and they forgot all about you.”
“Enough chitchat,” Snoop barks, surprising me again. “Crusher has made some claims we need to address.”
“And you didn’t think to bring them up last night, or the day before, or―”
“Shut up!” Ranger’s gun is back up.
Crusher gives me good shove, pushing me toward the dining room. “Nice place you got here. Your bitch is pretty nice too. Would-a done more than hold her hand―”
I don’t let him finish. Fuck the guns. I charge him like a bull, tackling him to the floor.
Someone kicks me off, adding a brutal stomp to my side. I groan, rolling over, wrapping my arms around my throbbing ribs. Fuck that hurt!
“Ah, look what I found. A pussy cat.”
I swallow and force my head to turn, dreading what I’ll see.
Hippy, a white guy that wears dreads like a Rastafarian, has Fur Face by the scuff of her neck. He grins like a manic and makes purring sounds. “Nice kitty kitty.” He pulls his eight-inch Ka-Bar from its sheath, resting it on her throat.
The black blade against her white fur is obscene.
I’m suddenly glad Trina went out. She’d die fighting for our feline family.
Crusher and Ranger drag me up to my feet. “You really are pussy now,” Crusher says. “I thought maybe Twila was exaggerating.” He releases me and moves to stand next to Snoop.
“You weren’t calling me pussy when I kicked your ass. Twila helped you limp away, if I remember right.”
One of the guys snickers.
I don’t react, keeping my gazed locked on Hippy.
Another motherfucker I gotta kill. The list keeps growing. The way things are going down, there’s little doubt I’ll have an even longer list by the time this day is over.
Trina
“Let’s go with the wine color.” I point at the nail polish bottle closet to the technician. “It matches my hair.”
“Good choice.” She hands the unchosen bottles to an assistant who hurries away, eager to insert them back on their color-coded shelf. “Do you want a design? Maybe a flower or butterfly?”
“Butterfly,” I manage, battling the urge request some ridiculous design, like a toilet or troll, more suited to my mood.
I close my eyes, hoping to at least enjoy the last few minutes of my foot massage. Once the polish is on and dry, I have no reason to linger.
Jayde cut and re-colored my hair last week. My eyebrows have been cleaned up and shaped to perfection, according to the always positive salon staff. And the other day, I suffered through the wax package. I’m not sure what other service I could possibly need. I’ll save the full spa service for the next time I need to escape the house.
I’ll have to thank Olympia again for introducing me to Seal’s Cove’s best self-care spot for women.
Since my return from Vegas and Rowdy’s withdrawal into everything club related, I’ve found myself here, in the salon, seeking support from other women, not that I’ve shared anything too personal.
I’m well aware anything negative related to Rowdy or either club is off limits, but merely listening to the numerous Seal Cove residents and tourist’s gossip is distracting.
Distraction is good.
Between agonizing over the final showdown, soon to come with Dr. Martin, and worrying about Rowdy’s increasing responsibilities as Hells Guardians’ President, I’m seriously stressed.
But regardless how I feel or felt earlier, there was no reason for me to storm out the way I did, leaving Rowdy mid-conversation. My behavior was immature and uncalled for, and I’m finding no distractions big enough to divert my attention from the truth.
I need to be more supportive; correction, I want to be more supportive. I’m just not sure how to affirm Rowdy when he won’t tell me what’s going on.
“Relax your feet, sweetie,” my nail tech reminds. “Polish time.”
“So...you’re quiet today,” Jayde’s voice finally forces my eyes open. She’s holding a pair of scissors. “Take the center bowl, Candice.”
Her customer sifts through a pile of magazine, finding what she wants, before heading to the washing area. I’m not sure how she plans to read with her head tilted back in a sink.
“Just tired,” I offer the excuse I’ve been using for days.
“Uh, huh. You’ve been tired a lot. Sure you’re not pregnant?”
I almost choke, sitting straighter. “Not a chance.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Come on, now. You’re married to a hot hunk of biker. There is no way you’ve taken a vow of chastity. Remember, I’ve seen you two together. The chemistry is off the charts.”
A crack in my armor appears at last, and I giggle. “I didn’t say I was practicing nun-hood, I simply said, I’m not pregnant.”
“I’ll take your word for now.” She winks and turns back to her customer.
I glance down at my toes. The butterflies look cute on my big toes.
A bell chimes and the front door swings open. Twila, my arch nemesis, enters my safe space.
Yes, I realize this is a popular, very public business, and she lives in Seal’s Cove, or used to. But it still feels wrong seeing her inside Jayde’s salon.
I look past her perfect, boob-enhanced figure to see if my bodyguards are paying attention.
They aren’t.
Their Harleys are backed up to the curb across the street, and the guys are smoking and flirting with a couple of women in short-shorts.
Like me, they must have figured I wouldn’t get into trouble at the salon. We’ve been here multiple times without incident, until now.
I’m not sure if this qualifies as an incident yet, but considering our brawl on the beach, I can envision one developing. I’ve found my distraction for the day after all, it seems, just not the distraction I was hoping for.
“You’re ready to dry,” my technician announces. “I’ll bring your sandals in a minute.” She’s already cleaning her workspace unaware of my escalating anxiety.
The shop isn’t crowded, but there are several customers and more staff in the backroom. I doubt Twila will instigate a physical altercation here, but even so, I keep my eyes locked on her as I settle into the drying station, my feet resting on the ledge below the UV lights.
/>
“Hey, Twila!” One of the stylists calls. “Are you on the books today?”
Twila takes a seat close to where I’m sitting. “No. Just had a few minutes to kill.”
I grind my teeth, tempted to text Rowdy. Before I can dig out my phone, Twila clears her throat. Hesitating, I meet her gaze. Her pouty lips morph into a nasty snarl that speaks volumes about her feelings for me. I struggle to keep my own expression impassive, despite my mutual disgust.
“You should leave now and get home. I promise you won’t like what you find.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” A surge of panic threatens to unhinge the control I’m clinging to in her presence.
“Your husband,” she hisses the title, “might have turned me down, but not her. She will always be his first choice.”
Twila starts to rise.
“Who?” I press, taking her bait like a hungry, very foolish fish.
She doesn’t bother answering, instead slipping out the door, the bells declaring her departure.
I’m torn. Should I call home? Get the guys and go?
If I do either of those things, Rowdy will be warned in advance of my whereabouts. But how can I leave alone without my three shadows?
I peek outside again. My shadows are shadowing their short-short admirers.
Their distraction is all the encouragement I need. I’ve got my sandals on and purse in my hand in seconds.
“Trina!” Jayde yells. “Your toenails aren’t dry yet!”
Ignoring her observation, I instead rush to her station, where she is starting to cut her client’s damp hair. The woman gives me a curious glance but returns to her magazine.
“I know this an odd request, but I need to get home without my escorts. I can’t explain, but I need your help. Can I drive your car? I’ll leave my keys for you. My Jeep’s out front.”
The salon owner pauses, her expression conflicted. “I feel like I’m going to regret this.”
“I promise, it’s nothing bad. I just need to get away from here, without the three stooges following. I want to drop in on my husband unannounced.”
