Bear (Wayward Kings MC Book 1)

by Zahra Girard

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he says, his voice a simmering growl. “The woman sitting next to me uncovered corruption between a drug gang, the sheriffs department, and a fucking judge. She’s the kind of woman I’d be over the fucking moon to have my daughter model herself after. What is it you specialize in? White collar crime?”

  “Forensic accounting,” I say quietly.

  “Now, I’m just a dumb fucking biker and an ex jarhead, but, as I see it, you’ve punched your fucking ticket. You’re brilliant. Any firm in the country would get a goddamned hardon at hiring the fucking intern who uncovered the kind of shit you have. Go ahead and have your doubts about anything else, but I won’t ever let you doubt how fucking smart and capable you are.”

  My throat constricts. I squeeze his arm, and that squeeze turns into a hug, and that hug into a fervent kiss. His lips taste like chocolate ice cream, and his scent — spice and light sweat and engine grease, the smell of hard work with his hands. My resistance melts.

  Fucking hell, this man overwhelms me.

  “You’re a bastard, you know that?” I whisper against his cheek. “You’re an evil, captivating bastard, and I think I love you.”

  “I think I love you, too.”

  He kisses me, but it’s awkward as hell because we’re both smiling so hard we can barely purse our lips. This is the first time in days I’ve smiled and really, truly, meant it. If this man can make me smile and feel the way I do about us, and about myself, while things are this dark and screwed up, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t give him a chance.

  “I need to tell you something,” I say.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s about the stuff your club was bringing in. I know where it’s at. My father has a cabin out near Mount Rainier.”

  He stops me with a kiss. “I appreciate it, but there’s time for that later, Houdini.”

  I kiss his cheek and bring my lips to his ear. “If I don’t escape this time, you can’t really go on calling me ‘Houdini’ anymore, can you?”

  He sits back, eying me. “Fat fucking chance. That’s your nickname. That’s how the club knows you. It’s set in stone. It can’t be changed.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding. You don’t get to pick your own nickname. Do you think I like being called ‘Bear’ all the time? Do I look like I have a grizzly fetish?”

  “Yes, actually, you do.”

  “You’re right. I do. Because bears are fucking awesome, and I put a lot of work into growing that beard and earning my nickname.”

  “So how does that help me? How am I supposed to be proud about being named after some creepy Hungarian man?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe you can redeem it. Make it sexy. Then, when people around here think about Houdini, they won’t think about some weaselly, dead-eyed creep with weird hair and a bondage fetish, instead, they’ll think about some beautiful, brown-haired woman. Also, hopefully, with a bondage fetish.”

  I roll my eyes. “Hinting at something?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, smiling. “Still thinking about leaving, Houdini?”

  “Fuck you,” I say. “And, no.”

  He kisses me again, and with his free hand, he opens the glove compartment. Zip ties, dozens of them, spill out onto the floor. “Good,” he growls. “Because I came prepared.”

  Laughing, I gently bite his ear and, reaching down, I snatch one up and hand it over. “If you went through the trouble of getting them, well, it seems a shame to let them go to waste.”

  “Right here?” he says, his eyes lighting up.

  “Right here.”

  “Be still my fucking heart.”

  “Hurry up before I change my mind.”

  The plastic zips tight around my wrists, binding me. Another locks my hands to the door. Leaning in, he nibbles my neck and brings his lips to my ear. “I was wrong earlier — I don’t just think I love you, I know it.”

  Epilogue

  Nash

  Six Months Later

  Today happens after weeks of planning, phone calls, arguments, messages passed through lawyers, and late-night drunken arguments with myself.

  In a few minutes, a buzzer’s going to go off. Sharp, clanging, and loud enough that it probably violates a few laws against cruel and unusual punishment.

  Then, a metal door with a small, square, shatterproof window will open. In will march a man in handcuffs and ankle shackles, with a guard behind him. That man will sit down across from me at this metal table that’s bolted to the floor, in a chair that’s also bolted to the floor, and our conversation will fade into the general noise of the other conversations in this prison visitation room.

  It’s a drill I’ve been through more times than I can count, though most of the time I’ve been on the other end of things.

  I sit back in my chair, trying to get comfortable and failing; they always bolt these things down at a weird distance from the table. They want you to be uncomfortable. Every place, whether it’s a maximum security joint, or a lower-security place like this, is designed to make you feel wrong. Unsettled. Worthless. You’re not a person anymore – you’re a convict; a piece of shit who’s going to spend the next years of your life learning how to regret your existence.

  The buzzer rings. Right on time.

  The three other couples in the room — two imprisoned men with the requisite supportive wives or girlfriends, and one young kid getting a lecture from an older man who has mastered the ‘disappointed dad’ face — turn and look at the door for a second.

  In walks the man I’m waiting for.

  I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen the pictures. I was supposed to have a hearing with him. Back when he was a judge.

  He glares at me. I glare at him.

  “So, you’re the piece of shit responsible for all this,” he says. Even though he’s in the usual orange uniform and smells like he hasn’t showered in a day or two, he manages to look down on me.

  I give him a crooked ‘fuck you’ grin.

  “Sorry I wasn’t able to come up with your extortion money, earlier. I guess I just don’t take well to people trying to fuck with my family. How’s prison? You’re going to be here for how many years — three, four?”

  He spits at me. A thick gob lands on my cut, just above my rank patch.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  My grin gets wider.

  “You know I’m dating your daughter, right?”

  He glowers.

  “Get to the point.”

  I continue, and even though I’m trying to push his buttons, my voice gets warm and my chest fills up — I can’t help it, this happens any time I talk about Roxanna. “She’s brilliant. Much smarter than her old man. I’m sure she told you about that new job she landed in Seattle. And how she’ll mostly get to work from home. Except for those times she has to testify in trials against pieces of shit like you.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “With her being around the house more, I think it’s just a matter of time before she’s pregnant. Lord knows we’re trying. Two or three times a day, most days.”

  He spits again, hitting my cut a second time and then moves to stand.

  I reach out, snatching hold of him by the wrist and ripping him back into his chair. The guard shouts something, but I let go of him and wave off the guard’s protests.

  “Get to the point,” he says.

  “I’ll be proposing to her soon,” I say, pausing to watch his face as that sinks in. I want to savor this moment. This place grates on me, stirs up memories I’d rather not have, but the look on his face is making it totally worth it. “We’ve talked about it. I know she’ll say yes.”

  “Did you come all the way down here to ask my blessing? Are you that stupid?”

  I laugh. “I don’t care about your blessing. I’ve already got your daughter. She’s going to be my old lady. But that’s not why I’m here.”


  “Get to the point. If I wanted to watch someone jerk himself off, I’d go stand in the showers.”

  “Listen, I don’t know why, but that beautiful woman you raised still loves you. And I love her more than I can even understand and, to be quite fucking honest, probably more than is healthy. So I came here to give you a chance.”

  “A chance?”

  “To be in her life. I love her a lot more than I hate you. So, for her, I’m going to bite my tongue as much as I can so that you can have a second chance. If you choose to take it.”

  “How kind of you,” he says, managing to look so fucking smug that I debate whether it’d be worth life in prison to strangle him right now.

  It turns out to be a pretty hard decision to make.

  “I don’t give a fuck about you — I beat you, you piece of shit. You’ve lost. You’re nothing. So shape the fuck up and make her happy,” I say, simmering with rage at the look that’s still all over his arrogant face. “I’ll be keeping tabs on you. In here and out there. If I even think you’re starting to slip up, I will kill you.”

  “This all sounds like she’s got you by the balls,” he says, standing up, still unrepentantly smug. “Not too shocking, considering you’re a fucking idiot. Does she even know you’re here?”

  “She knows,” I say. “We came to this decision together.”

  “Right. I’m sure she does,” he says, shaking his head. “If you think I’ll just sit back and let you fuck up her life, you’re even dumber than I thought. We’re done here.”

  “Are you sure that’s how you want to do this? You won’t get another chance.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Without a word, he storms to the door and bangs on it until the guard lets him through.

  I don’t move. I let him go.

  I figured this was going to happen. Planned for it.

  I’ve got another appointment right after this one.

  I wait.

  Fifteen minutes pass before that metal door opens again and another man in handcuffs comes through. His arms are more tattoo ink than skin and his face is a spiderweb of scars. He sits down across from me and grins in an unsettling kind of way.

  He’s missing six teeth that I can see.

  “So, you’re Bear?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice to meet you. My friends call me Vulture,” he says, pausing to lick his lips. I keep steady — I know his reputation, and I know he earned his nickname the hard, and literal, way. “You know, with a name like Bear, I thought you’d be bigger.”

  I shrug. “I used to have a nice beard. Full. And pretty long, too. Made me look like an animal, or so people told me. That’s where the nickname came from.”

  He nods. “I can see it. You’ve got a good face for a beard.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, Bear, now that we’ve got the pleasantries over, can you tell me why the fuck is your name on my visitation list?

  “I asked around. A few people referred me to you as someone who can get things done.”

  He leans in, his busted mouth worming into a shape resembling a smile. “I’m an enterprising man.”

  “That’s a nice way to spin your reputation. There’s a guy in here — my future father-in-law — Albert Pierce, who needs a visit. He’s a former judge and a real asshole. I’d like it if he had a change of attitude. Learned some shame and humility.”

  “What you want is for him to take some therapy, my friend.”

  “How much does therapy cost?”

  He rolls his eyes around, considering. “Depends. What kind of therapy does he need?”

  “The kind of therapy that he’d never want to talk about. That he’ll keep with him deep inside in shame for the rest of his life.”

  The busted smile turns into a grin. “It could get twisted.”

  “Do what you want with him.”

  “And expensive. Judges cost extra.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  “Then I’ll be in touch.”

  I get up and leave before the creep tries to shake my hand or something.

  If he weren’t such a prick, I’d almost feel bad for Roxanna’s father. Life’s about to get hard for him.

  But I don’t.

  Every scream, every drop of spilt blood, every bit of shame, is long overdue for the suffering he’s caused. The old bastard’s earned it for what he’s done to my family and countless others.

  * * * * *

  The entire ride home I have one thing on my mind: my family. How fortunate I am to have an old lady like Roxanna; how lucky I am to have someone like her to help me raise my daughter.

  Life’s been peaceful, lately. It’ll be a long time before the Iron Devils threaten Stony Shores again. And a long time before the law bothers my club, after the public debacle of them working for a drug gang.

  I vault off my bike as I pull to a stop in front of my cabin. I can see her through the kitchen window and the sight of her freezes me in my tracks.

  God damn, I’m a lucky man.

  I pause, at half mast already, and take a second to appreciate what I’ve got.

  With her hair, makeup, and clothes done up like a professional — blouse, jacket, a dark skirt that’s supposed to be conservative, but looks so sexy that I flirt with the idea of busting in the door and fucking her senseless on the kitchen floor; she must’ve been in the office earlier today.

  There will never be a day where I don’t think she’s the sexiest woman on the planet.

  I love her.

  Inside, from my place on the doorstep, the crashing, tumbling sounds that only a kid can make reach my ears. Sometimes, after I spend time with Abigail or some of her friends, I start to think that little kids are just drunk bikers reincarnated in tiny bodies.

  Turning the key in the door, I step inside and make it two feet before Abigail comes running from her bedroom.

  “Daddy,” she shouts.

  A toy flies from her hands and clatters and shatters against the wall.

  I’m on my knee in a heartbeat, ready to sweep her into my arms.

  Lifting her and feeling her lips against my cheek is as close to heaven as I’m ever going to get. She’s half my world.

  “How’s my Abigail?”

  “Fine,” she says. Blunt.

  “She terrorized the babysitter,” Roxanna says. She’s standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. Even upset, she’s hot as hell. And the smile on her face says she’s not even that upset.

  I look from her to Abigail. “What’d you do?”

  “Nothing,” she says, in that kind of voice that kids use when they definitely did something. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “She snuck out of her room — twice, even though the door was locked both times — to get into the garage to try and start up one of your bikes. Without a helmet,” Roxy says.

  “Looks like we might have a second Houdini in the family,” I laugh and give my daughter another hug. “Is this true?”

  Abigail stays silent.

  It’s all the confirmation I need to hug her again.

  “When you’re old enough, I’ll show you how to ride. But remember what we talked about: you never, ever, ever, get on a bike without a helmet and either me or Roxy around,” I say. “I won’t even ride without one. Nobody does. Not even the other guys in the club.”

  Which is mostly true. It only takes seeing one accident with a biker cracking his brainpan open to convince you not to fuck around.

  “Does Ozzy wear a helmet?”

  “He does,” I say. “In fact, he’ll only be friends with people who wear helmets.”

  I don’t know how it started — but my daughter’s developed a thing for that crazy Kiwi. I think it’s his accent — it makes him sound like a cartoon character.

  “Bob the Builder and Wendy both wear helmets, too,” Roxy adds.

  “I want a helmet. When can I get a helmet?” she says.

  “When your head’s big enough to fill one,” I an
swer.

  “When?”

  I cast a look to Roxanna, who smiles and rolls her eyes.

  “You’ll have to wait until you’re sixteen, Abigail,” she says. “But, knowing your father, he’ll probably show you how to ride well before that.”

  “When?”

  I ruffle her hair. “When you’re taller than a kickstand, we’ll talk.”

  “I’m taller than a kickstand already, dad. I’ll show you,” she says.

  This argument isn’t going to end. One of the things I learned early on with my daughter is she’s inherited my stubbornness. I need a distraction.

  Fortunately, I know just the thing.

  “How about we go visit the clubhouse? I could use a beer after today,” I say, looking over at Roxy, hoping I won’t see any hint from her that she’s still got work left for the day. Abigail squirms in my hug, so I know she’s up for the trip.

  Roxy nods. “Good idea. A bite to eat sounds good.”

  My eyes drift to the kitchen counter behind her. There’s a half-eaten bowl of cereal and an empty yogurt container. “Didn’t you just–?”

  “Yep. But still hungry.”

  The three of us get ready, and while Roxanna’s changing and snacking and Abigail’s putting her toys away, I sneak out to the garage to get the thing I’ve kept hidden there for the past month. I’ve made a decision: it’s happening today.

  * * * * *

  Everyone’s bikes are parked out front — the whole club’s in attendance, which is just perfect for what I’ve got in mind. It’s been months that I’ve been free from jail, but, still, stepping through the clubhouse doors, seeing all my brothers, all the club girls and old ladies, and, hell, even the dumb prospects, gives me this overwhelming feeling of freedom and gratitude. Nowhere on earth do I feel as much at home as I do when I’m here — surrounded by my family.

  “Ozzy,” Abigail screams, running across the room to take hold of him by his leg. Ever since she met him and heard his crazy accent, he’s been her favorite of my brothers and he’s even become a backup babysitter. I’ll probably have to pry her off his leg when we leave.