by Nikki Riker
11
Penelope
Someone must have moved me during the night because when I wake, I find myself sprawled as always on Calamity's bed.
My fingers grope automatically toward his side of the bed, disappointed when I find it empty.
"Stupid," I mutter.
He doesn't stay with me most mornings. He's gone before dawn and doesn't return until sundown. I'm not sure who he's off terrorizing at the moment, but I should probably just be grateful that it's not me. Instead, I'm blinking back traitorous tears.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, determined to get out of here. The last attempt to help the working girls around here went disastrously, but if I keep my head down, maybe this time it'll be different. Some girls I spoke to were interested in getting a GED. I must be sneaky to educate them right under the pimps' noses, but I'm confident I can do it. And it has the bonus of keeping me busy and out of the clubhouse frequently. If I can somehow get Kylie off my back and replace her with a more tolerant overseer, then I'm golden.
My foot knocks something semi-solid, and I freeze. What the hell was that? I peek down cautiously, half-expecting a horse's head or something equally awful. Instead, I find one of those reusable grocery bags at my feet, with fabric spilling out the top. Brow furrowing in confusion, I hoist it onto my lap. A familiar pair of dark wash jeans lay on top, and when I rifle through the rest, I find my blouse beneath it, and my club jacket folded at the very bottom.
My clothes. He gave me back my clothes. I have to blink hard and struggle against the tears that haze my vision. This feels like a gesture. I'm not sure if it's a hand of friendship or Calamity flipping me the middle finger, but whatever the intended message, I'm still fucking grateful. My eyes rove the bed again, and I spy a scrap of paper on the pillow, blocky male script squeezing the margins so it's almost hard to read. It's weighed down at one corner by a dark oval stone. My worry stone. I pluck up both and squeeze them tight in my hands.
Freak storms are coming, and the weather may dip below zero. Don't freeze your damn fine ass off trying to be contrary, Penelope. We'll talk tonight.
-C
We'll talk tonight. Well, that sounds ominous. No conversation that starts with those words ever ends well. I recall prefacing my last three breakups with those words. My lips purse, and I roll my eyes at the thrill of nervousness that runs through me at the thought. It's not a breakup. There's nothing between Calamity and me to break. We don't have a relationship. We've just been aggressively hate-fucking each other in some form or another for a month.
But he left me a note, and he returned my clothes. It's these sorts of mixed signals that really fuck with my head. I like my monsters to be monstrous. I don't like the uncertainty I'm feeling when he's around. Like I only have half of the story.
I wiggle into my jeans, finding them looser than they'd been last month. I chalk it up to nerves because it isn't as though he's been starving me. The food around here is phenomenal when I have the guts to actually eat with the rest of the MC. The blouse goes on next, and I hesitate when I reach my jacket. Strolling around with it on is probably asking for trouble. So, for the first time since getting it as a young woman, I don't put the jacket on over my ensemble. I raid Calamity's closet instead, finding an overlarge hoodie at the back he doesn't seem to wear much. It nearly swallows me whole, and I find the faint scent of him that clings to it oddly comforting.
The worry stone and the note disappear into my pocket, and then I exit, startling Kylie, who's been waiting for me outside. She's wearing more clothes than I've ever seen on her, which means this storm is serious business. Most of the hookers don't wear more than crop tops and lycra skirts, rain or shine. She's compromised by wearing a tube top beneath a jacket and sheer tights under a knee-length skirt. So it's probably not just me he's trying to protect.
She assesses the hoodie through narrowed eyes. "That's the boss's hoodie."
"And?" I snap. "What's one jacket between fuckbuddies?"
Kylie snorts. "Don't get too big for your panties there. You're a whore, Spade, just like the rest of us. He'll get tired of you, eventually."
We'll talk tonight. Those words dance through my head and evoke an uneasy stomach roll. She's more right than she knows. He's gotten what he wanted. What happens to the castoff Spade when he's through toying with her? Will he shoot me? Why shouldn't he? He's tried to shoot everyone else in my family.
Outwardly, I just grin. "Let's get going. Time's a-wastin’."
Kylie shoots a nervous glance out at the darkening sky. The clock says it's only eight, but already the sky is the deep purple-blue of a bruise, and heavy clouds roil outside the window.
"We're going to get caught in this," she mutters, about as eager to go out as I am to stay in.
"Not if we're quick. Come on. Let's go."
I dart out of the foyer and into the frigid morning air before she can protest. She makes a small sound of outrage as she follows me down the slope, her four-inch heels more of an impediment to her than my sensible sneakers. I almost tell her to stay put, but I know she won't. She's my assigned guard, and without Malick here to take her place, she will get a beating or worse if she lets me out of her sight.
I adjust my pace to accommodate her. No sense in pissing her off prematurely. I will do that when I sneak off in the library.
When we get there, I slip away from her as quickly as I can, hinting to a male patron of the place that she's been checking him out but is too shy to approach. I figure that ought to keep her busy for at least a few minutes. This search may turn up a big fat nothing, but it's worth a shot. Anything is better than sitting around the clubhouse, speculating who this Trinity person is or was to cause such explosive reactions in him.
The computers are just a step above the boxy old models I grew up on. They're still obsolete and slow, and I tap my fingers noisily, waiting for them to boot up and connect to the internet. It's five minutes before I'm logged in and pull up Google. Dragging in a deep breath through my nose, I type. I'm not sure this is information I want to know. But it's too late to stop now.
Calamity Gardel doesn't seem like the marrying type, but I hazard a guess and type in the name, anyway.
Trinity Gardel.
It takes an agonizing thirty seconds for the computer to spit out results. There are eighty-six, which is way more than I expected. Googling myself was a complete bust. They buried anything about me beneath the celebrity gossip about the famous actress I share a name with. But I suppose Trinity Gardel is more unique than that. I skim the headlines. Almost all are news sites. The first blares:
"Local Hero Murdered, Suspect Still at Large."
I shiver. That was what I feared and expected to find. I shy away from it and click the second link, which is an innocuous listing of local marriage announcements.
The couple I'm looking for is in the third row down. It's badly digitized, someone clearly not taking care when they scanned the paper for the digital archives. But I rock back, the legs of my chair coming a few inches off the carpeted library floor.
Trinity Gardel is in her twenties in this photo. She's gorgeous, with tousled dark hair that falls in waves around her shoulders. She has a fine-boned face, full lips, and perpetual bedroom eyes. She also looks like she could be my sister.
No wonder he called me Trinity. It's eerie how similar we look. Is that why Gardel accepted my proposition? I'm the cheap imitation of the woman he wants to be with. The prospect makes me want to throw up. I have to drag my eyes away from her sunny smile to the other occupant of the photo, and when I do, I get the breath knocked out of me for a second time.
Calamity's masculine beauty is nothing to scoff at now. He's grown more chiseled with age, and there's something about those flinty eyes and his hard demeanor that makes me inexplicably wet for him. Young Calamity is a freaking Adonis. He's only slightly less muscled here, and his blonde hair curls around his ears in a cute, almost boyish fashion. And that smile. God, his smile is c
aptivating. Trinity has her eyes fixed on the camera, beaming at the photographer. Calamity has his eyes fixed on her and seems to take joy from just watching her smile.
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to ease the ache. Who the fuck was I kidding, thinking he could ever fall in love with me? A man in love looks like this. It's clear that he loved Trinity to pieces. I bite my cheek and force myself to read the caption of the marriage announcement.
"Miss. Trinity Jane Ellsworth and Mr. Vincent Calamity Gardel were united in marriage on August 17th..."
I barely take in the rest of the information, except to note he was married the same year and only a few months before my parents. Calamity's real name is Vincent. God, there's so much I don't know about him. Seeing this happy, effusive man is surreal. How did Vincent become Calamity?
The answer is probably in the first article, but I still can't make myself click it, even when I backtrack to the search page. I'm being a gutless little coward, but I select the next link instead.
It's a small article accompanied by another picture. It's Calamity alone this time, astride his Fat Boy, staring off into the middle-distance away from the camera. He looks purposeful and serious, but much less jaded than the man I've come to know. The article describes a drive done by an MC for charity. I secretly boggle. Calamity Gardel, the drug-running, whore-mongering warlord, a philanthropist? Who the fuck is this man on the page? How can I reconcile him with the one I know now?
It has to have been Trinity that made the difference. Post-Trinity Calamity Gardel is a bastard. But that's not always been the case. Page after page detail charity drives and good deeds done for people in need. He was a regular old Good Samaritan. A teacher. A fucking boy scout with a thing for motorcycles.
I have to know what changed. My mouse hovers over the first article on the screen.
I hear Kylie coming a mile off and hastily log-off, cursing my cowardice. Now I have more questions than I do answers. I gather a stack of reference materials and snap photos of them with the digital camera I was gifted weeks ago as she approaches.
"Where the hell did you run off to? What are you doing?" she demands.
"What does it look like?" I retort, glad that the overlarge hoodie mostly disguises my shudder. Never betray fear, as my father would have said.
"Hurry the fuck up. The storm is going to start, and I am not getting trapped here."
"Let's go," I agree easily.
I snap the books shut, my altruism withering in the enigma's face that Calamity presents. Suddenly I want to be back at the clubhouse, just so I can wheedle the answers from him. He always seems talkative after a fuck. If I seduce him, maybe I can get my answers.
That's the only reason, sure. Keep telling yourself that, Penny.
My brain can be a snide bitch.
12
Calamity
I'm waiting by the '67 Camaro when Penelope arrives, Kylie trailing her like a loyal dog. She shoots me a soppy smile, which I don't acknowledge. I really should have her reassigned if she's become so attached. I try to clarify it to all my bedmates that a fuck is all I'm capable of.
Except with Penelope. The spirited girl draws something long-buried to the surface.
Her expression is clouded over, some secret worry has her trapped in her own thoughts. Her hand is in her pocket, her thumb running over that worry stone again. I open my stupid fucking mouth, ready to ask her what's got her so preoccupied. Then I snap it shut again because this is exactly the reason she has to go. I'm not her boyfriend. I don't need the answer to that question. She's not my problem anymore.
"Get in the car," I instruct her coldly.
She balks, legs locking, and her chin jerking up defiantly. I smirk in spite of myself. Stubborn, contrary girl. It's as amusing as it is frustrating. I really ought to haul her across my lap and give her a spanking since she loves defying my authority. Now that's an appealing thought. Penelope draped across my lap, those firm thighs wriggling, her perfect ass bare.
"Why?"
"Because we're leaving. I'm taking you across the line. I've already negotiated it with your brothers."
I don't need the five grand he's agreed to pay, but it looks even more suspicious if she just turns up on their side of the line without a struggle.
Her eyes narrow, and her arms cross over her chest. She's swimming in an overlarge hoodie, her slim form disappearing within its folds. It's one of mine, though I rarely wear it. It's gratifying to see something of mine on her. It's a small but tangible mark she's placed on herself, showing anyone looking that she's mine.
"No."
I quirk a brow at her. "Did that sound like a fucking request?"
"No," she repeats stubbornly. "You're not going to drag me to the boundary line and play target practice with my brothers. You could be killed. So could they. I'm not going to be a party to that."
I notice she places my name first in that order, above her brothers. Does she even know that she's placing my safety as a high priority?
"I can take care of myself. It's already been decided. Get in the fucking car."
She takes two steps back, back leg sliding into position so she can put power behind a damn good punch if she needs to. A rumbling laugh rolls from me. She wants to fight? I'll crush her flat. It'll be interesting to see her try, though.
"Get in the car, Penelope. This is the last time I'll ask nicely."
"Did you kill Trinity?"
The question derails me, and the humor of the situation drains away at once.
"Did your father tell you that?" I ask coolly. "He's a filthy fucking liar."
She bristles, those smoldering eyes settling into a simmer. She'll blow her top at the wrong word from me. I jerk my gaze to Kylie, who's observing us with the horrified fascination of a person watching a train wreck. I jab a thumb at the house.
"Go. And if you repeat a word of what you heard, I'll kill you."
She squeaks in fright and bolts toward the house, moving as fast as she can in heels. Penelope hasn't budged, and she seems to get angrier by the second.
"You don't know my father."
I bark a bitter laugh. "Oh, I knew him. Far better than you did. You want answers? Get in the fucking car. Then I'll tell you what your sainted father did to me."
Penelope hesitates, her desire to maintain her alleged moral high ground battling with her curiosity. The need for answers wins out because she stalks to the passenger's side door and yanks it open, sliding in with the air of a petulant teenager. I open my door with equal force and settle into the driver's side. I temper the urge to gun the Camaro down the road.
"Answers," she prompts.
"What do you know?" I ask, stalling.
"That she was your wife. That she's Brooklyn's mother. That I look freakishly like her, and that's why you fucked me."
She can't conceal the hurt she feels at the last statement.
"I fucked you because I want your father to spin in his grave. It's the least he deserves. I fucked you because you're my type. And I fucked you because I wanted to, not because you look like her."
"Liar. You said her name."
I blow out a breath. "I said it because no one else has made me feel a damn thing during sex. Not a single one. Not until you."
She blinks once, and a mask settles into place, trying to hide the surprise and pleasure she feels at the statement.
"Really?"
I chuckle humorlessly. "I'm out of my damn mind. I should have just shot you the second that you stepped over the line. Instead, I went and fucked the daughter of the man who stole everything from me. I wanted to piss off your brothers. I didn't intend to care about you at all."
"You've said that before. To Kase and to me. But from where I'm standing, nobody stole anything from you."
My smile feels carved from stone. "You'd be wrong. He and his family took everything I ever loved. My wife. My daughter. The MC I founded."
"We didn't take the Kings from you," she says, latching onto the on
ly point she can argue.
"You still don't get it do you?"
Bemused silence.
I pull to a stop at a four-way and tug at the fingers of my right glove. I've never taken it off, even while finger fucking her. I expect her to be more curious as to why. But she's never asked.
"It was my brainchild. I just got Trent and Cruz on board after the fact."
I work the leather off and brandish it at her. Her eyes fly open wide, mouth forming an 'o' of understanding and horror.
"I founded the Sleepless Spades."
13
Penelope
No.
My mind immediately rejects it. It's not possible. There would have been records of it in the charter. Someone in the MC would have remembered him. There were only two founding members, my father, and Trent McNeil. Calamity Gardel can't have been a Spade.
But it's there, inked onto the back of his hand, identical to the tattoo my father sported. It's the traditional design for the Ace of Spades found on playing cards. No one else in the MC could get that tattoo. He and Trent got them together at the same tattoo parlor just before founding the Spades.
He, Trent, and Calamity, I amend.
Why else would he have it? If anyone in the Kings discovers he was a Spade at one point, they'll defect in droves. He's constantly wearing gloves to hide it, so I don't think he got it just to fuck with our heads. Which means only one thing.
He's telling the truth, or at least part of it.
"Daddy dearest didn't tell you that part of the story, did he?"
He seems to derive sick satisfaction from my reaction. My face feels cold, and my chest aches. Just how many sucker punches can one girl take in a day? It's surreal to know he was a normal, intelligent philanthropist at one point. It turns my world on its head to discover he was the wronged party in our decades-long dispute. The worst part? I know the story doesn't end at being robbed of his place in our history.
