Possessive_A Bad Boy Second Chance Motorcycle Club Romance

by Kathryn Thomas

  But what I don’t hate – and the fact that this is true blows me away – is waking up to him. As much as it pains me to admit it, the best parts of my morning are right here, right now, with Race moaning softly to himself as he turns to and fro underneath the sheets. He’s still lost in a dream; I can tell by the way his closed eyes twitch slightly and how he sighs deeply that it must be a good one.

  His hair, the tangled mess he refuses to do anything about despite me constantly bugging him about it, nestles into the pillowcase. I too try and grow comfortable in the weight of his body. His arm occasionally finds me, falls around my waist, and pulls me into his warm, vibrating chest. On most days like today, it wakes me up, but I can’t complain. There’s so much to love about the feeling of being embraced like this.

  But Race will be awake soon enough to work out, get his breakfast (that I cook, of course), and head out for his afternoon shift. It’s all part of this weird routine we’ve begun to build up. At first, it was an act, like we were characters on a routine TV show. Now that I was his claim, I had to act like a girl who was going to willingly abide by his every direction and tend to each and every one of his needs.

  I admit, the first few mornings after it happened were the worst. Still reeling from being tied to the bed and foreplay tortured, I did everything I could to rebel. I would drink all the milk so he couldn’t have any. I would wash his clothes overnight and then conveniently “forget” to take them out, so they became moldy. I even tossed all my makeup on the tiny bathroom counter so that he would have no room for himself.

  What I thought would annoy him most, or make him at least consider letting me go home for a few hours, just made him simply shrug his shoulders or shake his head. One morning, the last morning I decided to be a bitch to him on purpose, Race brought home two large cartons of milk because he thought it was something the guy should do in the relationship. The dumb bastard had actually made one of the most considerate gestures any man has performed for me. The next day, I woke up early, forced myself out of his arms, and made him fresh pancakes.

  For every decent gesture that bastard has made over the last four weeks of us being together, I’ve at least attempted to make one back. I’ve taken over pretty much everything domestic, including folding his clothing, going grocery shopping, hosting team dinners with the boys, and keeping the apartment livable. The small tasks have kept me occupied and sane while I try to adjust to what life is like in hiding.

  Still, I would kill for a night with just Ariel and me, and not Ariel, Race, and me. I would love to order a drink at the Pipeline instead of Race doing it for me. And I would pay every dime I had to be able to go back to my home, collapse on the couch in front of my TV, and wake up in my own bedroom.

  I sigh heavily as I try to imagine the smell of my sheets and the sound of the neighbor above me. Everything is quiet here, but I’m going to change that. Today, I’m going to make Race talk to me. It’s stupid that I have to make some great plans in order to get an adult conversation going, but we’ve been “together” for four weeks now, and the most I’ve mustered out of him were a few sentences here and there.

  The most he’s talked to me is when he shoots me a barrage of questions about my past and the men I’ve been with. At first, I knew he seemed convinced that I was a mole who was there spying for another club, and that my being in trouble was some kind of trap I had concocted. But with each day that passes, and the more he discovers about my life (whether I’m the one who tells him or he finds it out himself), the questions turn to silence and dead ends.

  I take a look at the old diner clock I’ve hung on the wall. 8:43 AM. I’ve got about seven minutes or so until his alarm wakes him up. I slowly remove his arm, careful not to drop it too hard back onto the empty space where my body once was. I throw on the flip-flop sandals and the baby blue silk robe from the pile of clothes Race had his men bring from my house. I’ve put most of my things away in drawers, but I haven’t hung any of the dresses up. Every time I’ve tried, I’m reminded not to touch the closet where the pile of boxes sits.

  Unlike me, Race hasn’t even begun to unpack his old life. Everything’s sat untouched for over a month in cardboard and then stuffed into the small walk-in where it is out of sight, out of mind. I’ve brought it up several times to him, even offering to organize it myself while he’s out for his rides, but each one comes with a stern, “N-O.” Everything stays exactly where it is. No touching. No looking. No moving.

  At least, that was until I made my plan. I know I am going to break a silly rule, and I know that I am just starting to earn his trust back after the stunt I pulled sneaking out of the office our first night together. But I need someone to talk to, and this is the easiest way I can get him to at least open up to me, tell me something real. Whatever the consequences, I am going to take them.

  I start with the box resting on the floor next to the larger of the stacks. It’s smaller than the rest and the lightest too. It’s probably not pots and pans or even clothes. I walk it over to the dressing chair in the corner of the room, one of the few pieces of furniture Race has let me bring into the apartment, and I set it down as gently as I can. Now, I know there’s not a body in here, and I can guess there’s probably not some treasure either. But I still hold my breath and turn my head away as I open the fold of the cardboard lid.

  Nothing pops out at me – though I’m not sure why I would think that in the first place. It’s probably because nothing in life with Race is predictable. And I know better than most that skeletons in one’s closet should stay put. But here I was, opening the coffin. But in this box wasn’t bones or skulls, it was papers and pictures. There were leather bound notebooks with gold trimmed paper, and underneath were silver and gold photo frames that looked dusty but new. A stack of records and paperwork dotted the bottom of the box, though nothing stood out.

  I open the first notebook, thumbing through it quickly. It is clearly written by a woman with dainty handwriting. She crossed her t’s with round strokes and made oversized dots for her i’s. I catch Race’s name a few times on my first skim, but everything looks so routine. It’s a diary of no consequence. She talks about the food she has eaten or if she worked out that day. Some days are several pages long. Others are single sentences like, “It was a decent day today with nothing to complain or share.”

  Halfway through, Race’s name comes up a ton. It’s like he has exploded into her world with a flurry, taking over every aspect of her life. On May 4th of last year, she wrote, “He’s wild. I knew that when I met him, but this man is dangerous too. I thought I could handle him. I want to handle him, but there’s no breaking him. I don’t know how much longer I can take of this life with him. How much am I willing to give up to be with him?”

  I shut the book quickly. I didn’t expect this when I pulled the box down. The journal drops back into the box, along with the pictures of Race and a woman I am guessing is also the mystery author. From the short moment I allow myself to look, she’s about as gorgeous as I predicted with long blonde hair that touches the back of her curved ass. She wears tight shorts and black leather boots that lace all the way up to her thigh. Her shirt is pulled back tight and held up in a knot at her spine. She leans into Race with a hand resting comfortably on his stomach. He looks proud, but more than a little distant.

  I turn back towards the bed, curious to see the differences in the picture and what he looks like now. But he’s no longer there when I look down. I have to spin on my toes to see him hovering over me in the doorway. In shock, I stumble back towards the closet door, tripping over the open box and landing with a smack against the wall.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Del?”

  “I’m – uh…” I had a plan mere moments ago. I knew he wasn’t going to be thrilled about me cleaning up his boxes, so I had this excuse. But with him staring daggers at me and the woman’s words haunting my thoughts, nothing seems to be coming out but a string of “uhs” and “ahs”.

>   “I thought I told you not to touch anything of mine. Did you disobey me again?”

  I stiffen myself a bit as I reply, “Yeah, I disobeyed you. But I thought it was time to unpack you. It’s not like you are going anywhere, Race. Don’t you think it’s time to settle down and stop living out of boxes? I was trying to do something nice.”

  “You were trying to fucking snoop on me. Spy on my shit.”

  “No. I wasn’t. I thought the box was full of towels until I moved it. Then I thought it would be old bills or some mail you hadn’t opened yet. I didn’t know there would be—”

  “Pictures of her.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know who she is. I don’t care either. I put them back in the box, and I was going to move on to the next one.” I feign reaching for one of the boxes at the top of the stack, though my eyes remained stuck on the box I hadn’t finished exploring.

  “I don’t believe you,” he says taking a slow, deliberate step towards me.

  If I could go further back into the wall, I would, but I’m trapped. “Look. I’m sorry. You want me to stop? Leave your shit alone? Okay. I can do that. I’ll stop.”

  Just before he can reach me, close enough that I can feel his breath on my face, he reaches down to my feet and pulls open the lid of the box. He pulls out the picture on the top and holds it up to the light of the small barred window. Something passes over his face – a memory, remorse, guilt… I can’t tell. Whatever it is, he pushes it aside and pulls out the old version of him with his stony, unreadable glare. He chews the side of his lip before finally breaking the silence, “Her name is Miranda.”

  “Miranda?” I repeat, trying to hold back my excitement of getting even this little nugget of information from him about his past. Because he’s been investigating my life, he knows just about everything there is about my past and present. But I only know his name, where he’s come from, and what groceries he likes me to buy. His cereal brand isn’t exactly hard information I can take away.

  “Yeah. Miranda.” He sighs as he holds on carefully to the picture. “She was my claim back in Colorado – my girlfriend. We’d been together for years before she decided to…” His voice trails off slightly as he goes to sit on the edge of the bed. He hangs his head low and leans over, so his elbows rest upon his knees.

  “She cheated on me,” he finally blurts out, a note of… something in his voice – is it embarrassment? “The bitch had the nerve to run with guys in my circle, in my club even. That’s why I asked for the transfer here with Nico. Once she did me bad like that, y’know, there was nothing left for me there.”

  “Wow,” I find myself answering, “that really… that really blows. I’m so sorry she did that to you.”

  “Yeah?” He looks straight at me, studying my face. I know he’s looking for traces of pity, but I don’t pity anyone. A weakness is a weakness. We’ve all got it. Satisfied, he continues, “What sucks was that I had plans for us. I was the fucking sucker, the fucking loser, who thought about stupid shit like getting married, having babies, getting a house with her. All the while she was screwing my best friend and ruining my reputation.”

  I try not to laugh as I repeat back, “You want to have kids? Race? You?”

  He doesn’t hesitate to say, “Yeah. Why the hell not? Why is that so damn laughable?”

  I take a seat on the bed next to him, nearly falling into his chest as I let out a small giggle. “It just seems strange that a guy like you would want that kind of life. It’s so domestic.”

  “It’s what you’re supposed to do, Del. Spread your seed.”

  “Spread your seed? You’ve got to be kidding me.” This time, I don’t hold back the laughter. And he smiles too. It’s a wicked grin that nearly knocks me back. There’s so much lightness there when he lets it in.

  “You know, you’d make a pretty good mom.”

  “And you’d be a pretty bad dad.”

  “‘Bad daddy’… I like it. And I guess I ought to call you, ‘Daddy Issues’, you know, given your background.” He nudges me on the shoulder playfully.

  “Don’t you fucking dare, you asshole.”

  “Then don’t make fun of me wanting to have kids.” He suddenly spins on me, pinning an arm on each side of my hips. He drops to his knees before me and parts my legs. His long body slithers up mine until I’m forced back onto the unmade bed. My legs dangle off the edge, helplessly. His lips press into the side of my neck, and my eyes close tight.

  “Dammit!” The alarm rings to life, sending a shrieking noise throughout the small apartment. The moment between us, the feeling of shared excitement and warmth, dissipates in one unexpected millisecond. Race races off to the other side to turn it off.

  From my upside-down angle on the bed, I watch him check his phone and then root through the pile of his clean clothes for an identical outfit to the one he wore yesterday. Black tight shirt and dark jeans along with black socks and leather boots. He doesn’t look the part of a father, but I’ll give him those ‘bad daddy’ vibes.

  “I’ve got to go,” he says without looking down at me.

  “No breakfast?” I ask, somewhat stunned at how hurt I am at him rushing out on me.

  “No. Not today. Today is… well, it’s different. I’m going to come get you later.”

  As I sit up, something hits me – a wave of dizziness that I know can’t just be from spending a moment with him. I pull myself all the way up so that I can watch him storm out of the apartment with a piece of plain bread in his hand.

  “I’ll call you,” he shouts to me from the other room.

  “I’ll be here,” I reply softly, looking around the vacant bedroom. The picture of him and Miranda still sits on the bed where he left it. But it doesn’t matter. It’s only us now. And it’s anyone’s guess for how long that’s going to be true.

  Chapter Twelve

  Race

  Miranda. That bitch’s name seems to follow me everywhere I go like a ghost I can’t ward off. I’ve done my best to stuff her down, keep her out of my life, but she pops back up in the least unexpected moments. First, there was on the long ride over from Colorado to L.A., and now there she was in my bedroom with Delilah. The last place I want her to be.

  The last few weeks with Del has been nothing short of fucking awesome. For a guy who dreads the thought of having sex with the same woman on repeat, bedding her every damn night (and most days) has never been without surprises. Her body moves with mine eagerly, and she’s always up for whatever I cook up for her. She complies, twisting her tiny body until we end up tangled together on the bed, in the kitchen, or around the shower.

  Seeing the new girl with the old, however, is dredging up thoughts I’d rather put back in the box they came from. For now, a cleansing ride is going to have to do. I’ve managed to track down bits and pieces of Del’s background. The slim manilla folder of her life’s unimportant and bland details sits on my desk in my office. Nothing’s jumped out at me so far, and I can sense a wall coming around the corner.

  But I can’t rest. I can’t rest until I know who the hell she is and who could be after her. The only person that knows more than she does, or that of the club’s old dogs, is the woman who birthed her. The little I’ve gotten out of Del has been small notes about how nagging Shannon can be or how sad her life has turned out – single mom, working at some shitty diner on the side of the highway. She did her best for Del as a kid, but Del’s got scars from the sacrifices.

  Shannon seems like the only way I’m going to get some answers about Del’s past. And today’s the day to make a ride out to her work. It’s a half hour from here, still in Bad Devils’ land. The Rosewood Cafe almost looks like it’s been taken out of the 50s with its vinyl round seats and the Formica countertops. A few women, all in their fifties, meander around in blue uniforms that were probably retro years ago but now look stale and antique. I take a seat near a waiting waitress I recognize from a picture of Del’s family. She makes no motion towards me until I’m seated with a me
nu open.

  “Can I help you?” Shannon, Del’s mom, asks as she leans over to pour my coffee. She gives me a look that has been hardened with age. She’s probably had more than a thousand men stare her down like I am now. The sentiment hasn’t gotten any more flattering with time; the same old scum checking out her tits and ass as she does her job.

  It takes me a few seconds to snap out of whatever fog I’m in. Shannon may be Del’s perfect twin with her lean body and flowing hair, but she’s got an edge to her that Del hasn’t found. There seems to be pain in almost every one of her steps, and her back leans forward slightly from the weight of work and pressure. Her eyes are darkened and puffy while her skin wrinkles in the creases of her sunken face.

  “Just coffee,” I lie as I think of some way to approach this. When I’m usually questioning a man, I take him by the collar and throw him out some back door until his head slams up against a brick wall. They talk real fast after that. But I’m going to have to approach Shannon with some delicacy here. She doesn’t look at all like the type that would respond well to threats and punishment.