Rock's Redemption: Insurgents Motorcycle Club (Insurgents MC Romance Book 8)

by Chiah Wilder

  He wished his dad could understand that the land meant everything to his mother. She’d inherited a large amount of it in the bayou, where an old wooden shack with one room stood on the edge of the waters. When they’d married, she’d put her husband on the title on condition that he never ask her to sell the land. Now that oil and gas companies had approached his parents, his father’s agreement was only a memory. He kept pressuring his wife to sell so they could finally have some money to get them out of poverty.

  Roche scoffed at his dad’s argument; he wanted the money to gamble at Cypress Bayou Casino in Charenton, buy booze, and purchase stinky perfume for the women he screwed. Roche admired his mother for not giving in to the pressures of his dad and the oil and gas companies who were decimating the bayous.

  A loud whack startled Roche out of his musings, and he rushed to the kitchen to see his father backhand his mother across her face once more. She whimpered and raised her arms to defend herself. Before Gaston could hit her a third time, Roche grabbed his hand in midair. “Leave her alone,” he growled.

  Gaston spun around, eyes blazing, face contorted in rage. “You want a beating before school? I’ll beat you so bad you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

  “Don’t touch her!” Roche’s voice sounded stronger than he felt.

  His mother rushed over to him. “Roche, go on to school. You’ll be late. I can handle this. Your father and I were just having a disagreement, that’s all.”

  His older brother, Henri, walked in before he could reply. “Roche, leave it alone. Pa’s right anyway. We should sell the land so we can get out of this shithole house. It’d be nice to have some money.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Roche glared at Henri.

  “Roche, your language,” his mother said, her face tight.

  “When you get home, boy, you’re getting a beating you won’t forget too easily,” his father growled. “Now both of you get out of here.”

  Roche glanced at his mother who nodded to him. “Go on,” she said softly. “I’ll be all right. You don’t want to be late for school.”

  Henri walked out and Roche followed slowly, his eyes pleading with his mother’s to let him stay so he could keep her safe. A knot twisted in his stomach when he shut the door behind him.

  Images of what might be happening at home tortured his mind the whole way to school. Deep in thought, he jumped when someone lightly punched his arm. “What the hell?” He whirled around, laughing when he saw his buddy.

  Andre laughed. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear me call out to you. What were you thinking about?”

  A storm passed through his dark eyes and he looked down at the pavement. “Nothing really. Are you going with your pa this weekend to the swamp?”

  “Yeah. You wanna come? My pa said it’s okay.”

  Remembering the beating his dad was going to give him after school—his dad never forgot a promised punishment—he didn’t know what kind of shape he’d be in. “Not sure. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  “Okay. I hope you can. It’s gonna be so much fun.”

  Roche nodded and looked away, and that’s when he saw Clotille waving at a black limo that had just pulled away from the curb. She wore a pale blue sweater that molded over her soft breasts and made him feel funny inside. As a matter of fact, for the past year he’d been thinking too much about her breasts, wondering if they were soft and spongy or just soft, like one of the down pillows his mother made. Sometimes it took all his strength not to touch them or accidentally brush against them. And the softness of her hips drove him crazy in ways he wasn’t used to before last year. He often used the image of her in her shorts and bikini top when he was doing something in the bathroom he knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing, but he couldn’t help it—it felt so good.

  He waved at her and she waved back. Their classes were in different buildings since she was in the eighth grade and he was in ninth. After school they’d meet up, maybe get a soda if he could borrow some money from Andre. He couldn’t wait for it to be three o’clock.

  * * *

  They met on the sidewalk near the tall chain-linked fence. She had two of her friends and he had three of his, but all he could see was how pretty she was. They decided to grab a pop at Soda Jerk’s, agreeing to take the shortcut through the cemetery. Andre had come through for Roche and loaned him the money so he could buy Clotille her soda. He’d have to work extra hours the following week at the hardware store, mopping the floors and taking out the trash, to earn enough so he could pay Andre back, but Clotille was worth it.

  As they cut through the cemetery, they crossed paths with Armand and two of his friends. Being sixteen, on the football team, and rich, Armand and his buddies held themselves above the poor kids who they felt disgraced the walls of their high school.

  “Why’re you hanging out with freshman white trash?” Armand asked his sister as he stared at Roche and his friends.

  “Stop it, Armand. Leave us alone.” Clotille turned to Roche and smiled. “Come on,” she said softly.

  Armand’s friends blocked their way, then shoved Roche and his friends backward. The jocks laughed when Roche fell on his butt. Red stained his cheeks as he jumped up, brushing off the dust from his pants.

  A surge of fire rushed up Roche’s spine when he saw the way Peter, one of Armand’s friends, ran his gaze up Clotille’s body, stopping at her breasts. Peter smiled. “You need to stick with your own kind, Clotille. Hanging out with losers never does anyone any good.” He reached out and grabbed her arm. She pulled back, unsuccessful in breaking free of his grip.

  “Take your fucking hand off her!” Roche clenched his fists, the red stains of embarrassment replaced by streaks of anger.

  Peter threw her backward, his nostrils flaring. “What did you say to me, you fucking scum?”

  “You heard me.” Roche breathed heavily.

  Clotille brushed her fingers against his arm. “Let’s go.” She narrowed her eyes at Armand. “If you don’t stop right now, I’m going to tell Dad.”

  Before he could answer, the cemetery groundskeeper rushed toward them shouting, his arms flailing, and they all scattered. Roche grabbed her hand and pulled her along as they ran, leading them behind a large cypress tree with Spanish moss that hid one of the large mausoleums. They both gulped for air as her brother and his friends looked for them. Grasping her shoulders, Roche pulled Clotille flush against him as he leaned against the large tree, obscured from sight. Clotille’s back pressed against him, his jeans tightened as he held her closer to him, his arms snuggly around her waist.

  “I think the dirtbag went this way,” Armand shouted, pointing to the cemetery’s exit. His friends grunted and followed him, taking them farther away from him and Clotille. As the boys’ voices dissipated, Roche rubbed against her slightly to get some relief from the ache in his pants. It felt so good. As he moved against her lower back, she stiffened before turning around and tilting her head back, her green gaze locking with his dark one. A funny look crossed her face and her cheeks were a deep red. He dipped his head down and kissed her. A jolt of desire shot through him and he brought her closer to him, his lips moving against her soft ones. Then she sighed and when her mouth opened slightly, he slipped his tongue inside. She tasted of cherry bubble gum and he pushed in deeper, losing himself in her warmth and softness. Then she jerked away.

  “Why did you do that?” Clotille unwrapped his arms from her.

  “You’re so pretty. You didn’t like it?” Roche’s body was humming. He didn’t want to stop kissing her.

  Looking at the ground, she wiggled from one foot to the other, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “It felt funny. I don’t want you to do it anymore.”

  “It’s natural to do it. Don’t you like me?” He laced his fingers with hers.

  She pulled away. “I do. I have to go.” She whirled around.

  “Let me walk you home.” He pushed away from the tree trunk.

  Panic laced her ey
es. “No,” she said too harshly. “I can go by myself.” She ran from him but then stopped, waved, and yelled, “Bye!” Then she dashed between the graves. He watched her until she was nothing but a mere speck in the distance; then he sighed and walked in the opposite direction to his home.

  In bed that night, his body racked with pain from the beating, he stared at the darkness, remembering how soft Clotille’s lips were on his and how warm and wet her mouth was.

  For several days after their kiss, she avoided him and when they finally got together, she made sure her other friends were with her. He noticed that she didn’t want to be alone with him anymore, and a part of him wished the kiss never would’ve happened so they could go back to hanging out, just the two of them.

  Something had changed between them after they’d shared their first kiss, and he felt like she was slipping away from him. When she entered high school the following year, she began hanging around girls who were considered the popular group in the school. All of a sudden she didn’t have time for him. Their long walks along the Vermillion River ended, as well as their afterschool sodas at the local hangout. Soon she stopped saying hello to him in the school hallways, only offering a slight smile or nod.

  He didn’t understand why she’d pulled away from him; he only knew he missed her and thought about her too much. Fearing rejection, he kept his distance, and his heart broke the first time he saw her holding hands with Luc, a football player who was in his class. Roche had lost her, and he mourned the end of what they had shared for the past four years. If it bothered her, she certainly didn’t show it, which made the cracks in his heart even deeper.

  And so Roche went his own way, as Clotille did hers. Roche’s family situation worsened, the only respite being when his father went to the bayou for several weeks to make some money from fishing and trapping. His mother still worked for Clotille’s family, and his brother Henri had begun to take on the role of his father while he was gone. Henri tried to boss him around, but Roche wouldn’t let him do it even if Henri was two years older and stronger. He mostly ignored Henri, but whenever he’d bully their sisters, Isa and Lille, or their mother, Roche would stand up for them and even fight his brother over his disrespect. His mother would pull them apart and tell Roche that his temper was going to get him in trouble one day.

  She always acted like Henri’s rudeness didn’t bother her, but Roche would hear her crying softly at the kitchen table when she thought they were all asleep. It was during those times that he swore he’d give her a better life and take her away from all the disrespect and beatings his father inflicted on her. She was such a kind, selfless woman, and she deserved a better life than the one she had. Roche vowed to give it to her.

  Henri had begun dating Lorraine, a local girl from the neighborhood. She was the same age as Henri, seventeen years old to Roche’s fifteen. She’d dropped out of school to help take care of her seven siblings while her mother and father worked. Henri seemed crazy about her and always acted goofy around her.

  One temperate afternoon in March, Roche came home from school to find Henri’s blonde and busty girlfriend sitting on the couch filing her nails. When he entered the room, her face lit up as she beamed. “Hi, Roche. How are you?” Her blue eyes skimmed over him.

  Roche shrugged. “Okay. Where’s Henri?”

  “At work. He got called in right after I got here.” She pushed out her bottom lip in a faux pout. He nodded and moved toward the kitchen. “Attends.” She patted the empty spot next to her on the couch. “Come sit next to me for a minute.”

  “I got stuff to do.” But he stood in place, staring at her.

  She smiled, her lips glistening in an orange shade. “Just for a few moments?” She leaned back, thrusting her ample cleavage out.

  Roche’s gaze lingered on her chest as he licked his lips. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he ambled over and plopped down on the other side of the couch, his gaze still fixed on her breasts encased in her tight top.

  Cupping them, she smiled. “You like these?” He gave a half shrug. “I think you do. You know, I’ve noticed the way you sneak looks at me when I’m over here.” She clucked her tongue and scooted closer to him. “Do you want to touch them? I’ll let you.”

  A surge of lust flooded him, and the tightness in his jeans made him uncomfortable. He glanced at Lorraine’s face when she grabbed his hands and placed them over her breasts. “Squeeze them. They won’t bite you.” She laughed as he squished her lovely softness in his hands. “You’re real cute, you know that? I bet you don’t have any trouble getting girls.”

  He didn’t answer. The truth was that girls did stare at him and want to date him, but he wasn’t interested in any of it. The only one who owned his heart was Clotille, and she acted like he didn’t exist. A streak of sadness ran through him as it always did when he thought of her.

  “Harder,” she breathed.

  He squeezed them firmly, loving the way they felt in his hands. Lorraine threw her head back, her lips parted, and moaned. Without thinking, he leaned over and kissed her neck. She grabbed a fistful of his thick dark hair and jerked it. “I think you’re the best-looking boy in the parish,” she whispered.

  He pulled away, heat engulfing him, before placing his hands on each side of her face. He kissed her hard, forcing the seam of her lips open and plunging his tongue inside her willing mouth.

  “Let’s go to your room,” she said thickly against his mouth. Without hesitation he stood, helped her up, and led her to his room, closing the door behind them.

  Half an hour later, he noticed the breeze picked up outside as he watched the budding leaves of the willow trees sway. He slipped on his boxers and jeans without looking at Lorraine. As he bent over to pick up his T-shirt, he heard the back door slam shut. He whipped his head toward her. “Get dressed. Now. Vite!” From the footsteps he knew Henri had come in.

  Before Lorraine could slip on her clothes, Henri came into the room. His eyes darted between her and Roche, his face turning dark with rage as he rushed over to her, yelling, “Putain!” A loud whack bounced off the walls in the small room. Lorraine’s hand rose to her face where she’d been hit.

  As Henri readied to slap her again, Roche ran over and shoved him away. Suddenly the two brothers were tangled together, fists flying amidst all the swearing.

  Roche looked at Lorraine who sat on the bed, a sheet covering her naked body, a red handprint decorating the right side of her face. “Get out of here,” Roche said as Henri’s fist landed on his jaw. She scooped up her clothes and ran out.

  From that day on, a deeper wedge was drawn between the two brothers. Henri continued to see Lorraine, and the summer before his senior year of high school, Roche spent it sneaking over to her house and hovering over her, wishing it were Clotille he was thrusting into.

  Most of his senior year was spent either in the principal’s office or at home, under suspension. His main reason for going to school was to fight, smoke weed, and fool around with the fast girls. He’d bump into Clotille in the hallway or stairwell sometimes, and she’d fidget and clear her throat a lot if he said anything to her. He still thought she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, but over the past few years his heart had hardened, bitterness replacing any tenderness he’d once felt for her.

  During school assemblies or at the football games, he’d catch her sneaking glances at him, her eyes pained when he’d make out with one of the fun girls. He didn’t have time for her anymore. He was a couple months away from graduating and getting the hell away from his father and Henri. No one or nothing was going to stop him.

  On a cool April night, the senior class had a party down by the river. The teenagers huddled around a large fire pit, their faces appearing grotesque in the glow of the blaze. Roche walked toward the party, his arm wrapped around his newest girl, Sally. He greeted a few of his friends and they all took out cigarettes and lit them, the ends glowing in the dark. Sensing someone staring at him, he glanced over to the edge o
f the river and locked eyes with her. Clotille had her arm around Luc’s waist, her long chestnut brown hair cascading down her back beautiful under the moonlight. Her gaze moved from him to Sally, who was wrapped around him like a snake on a branch. Clotille turned away, and Sally whispered in his ear, “Let’s go somewhere and have some fun.”

  A couple hours later, Sally was flying high on coke and booze. Roche’s buddy, Matt, came over to him. “Damn, Sally’s wasted. You gonna take her home?”

  “Why?” Roche knew Sally liked giving out freebies to the boys. He was pretty sure she’d screwed her way through most of the senior guys already.

  Matt shrugged. “I’m going home, so I thought if you wanted to stay I could drop her off. I go right by her house.”

  Roche laughed, knowing full well what Matt wanted, and knowing Sally, she’d be more than willing to give it. “Sure, that works.” He helped Sally into Matt’s car, kissing her back when she covered his mouth with hers. “You sure you want to go home with Matt?” he whispered in her ear.

  She nodded. “You don’t mind, do you? You’ll still call me, right?”

  “Sure,” he lied. He closed the door and watched as the red taillights disappeared into the darkness. He made his way back to the party, drank a couple more beers, and then decided to call it a night.

  He’d borrowed his dad’s beat-up old Chevy Impala, parking it down by the cluster of trees. He loved walking, especially at night. As he passed a large cypress tree, he heard crying—deep-in-the-chest sobbing—and he stopped, wondering if he should see if the woman needed any help. He decided to mind his own business and walked slowly away, but the sobs pulled him back. Roche walked toward the sounds, his eyes widening when he saw Clotille on her knees, sobbing into her hands.

  At first, he almost walked away, but something about the way she cried reminded him of when he’d met her. His heart clenched. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe, chérie?” he asked.