Before I Wake: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel

by Kimber S. Dawn

  Especially now that the infamous Vagabond has returned.

  My glacial, navy eyes settle on my best friend. “Dreads, you coming?”

  Once he’s standing next to me, I turn and rap my tattooed knuckles against the hard surface of the hospital door.

  The room is still mostly dim when Dreads and I quietly enter the cold space. Now that all the people are no longer standing in the room, shoulder to shoulder, I’m able to make out a chair in one corner and a loveseat in another. And, after Dreads had settled in the chair closest to her, I sit on top of the arm of the couch and clear my throat.

  “All right, Vagabond.” I nod towards Dreads. “My friend here tells me there’s a congratulations in order? I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized earlier, before storming out. It’s seems the insufferable migraines I’ve been forced to suffer from along with the apparent amnesia I’ve recently been diagnosed with are causing my virtue...my patience to wane quite a bit lately. Now, the doctor in charge of your care, and the care of the child you carry, says you’re being a bad girl. She tells me you’re in here spouting demands. And, while I understand how frustrating this all is—I really do because I’m just as deep in this shit as you are—I’m the one who makes the demands. Not you. Is that understood? You’re nothing. The child you carry...is nothing. Not to me. Not to my club. The only respect I have for you is for who you are in regards to your father. You’re King O’Malley’s kid. And, because of the respect I have for him, I’m here. Sitting on this couch. Giving you a fucking chance to speak. So, Pipsqueak, if I were you, I’d start speaking. Right goddamn now. You have five minutes, and after that, if I don’t have the answers I need, I’m fucking out. And you won’t get a second chance to plead your case. Do you understand? That’s where I’m at in the way of patience.”

  I finish growling my words out, grab a deep breath, and then narrow my eyes on hers. “Speak,” I demand, only somewhat allowing the satisfaction to be felt in the pit of my stomach when she flinches. “I said speak, Vagabond.”

  Before another beat can pass, her response is to strike back at me from across the room. “I said I wanted to speak to you and you alone. Why’s he here?” Her chin jerks from her knees, which are tucked under it, her body language defensive. She’s practically screaming at me to stay away from her silent spot.

  “He’s not hurting anything, is he?” I glance over at Dreads then back to her, chuckling.

  “No, but that’s beside the point.” Her voice somehow gets stronger. “I specifically said—”

  I wave her off. “Okay. Shit.” I look over to Dreads and nod towards the door. “Just...fucking give us a minute, man. No. Give us five. And not a goddamn second more.” I glance back at the little thing in the hospital bed. “Five minutes and I start getting answers, right? That’s the deal. Otherwise, I’m fucking outta here, kid.”

  Like I said—or did I fail to mention?—I don’t have time for this shit. I’d like to get back to the part where we find out who the fuck is responsible for Eve’s kidnapping the night I wrecked and whether or not Ben and/or the NNNCs are behind my coincidental wreck on a patch of spilled oil while I’d been on my way to Roxy’s.

  “Fine. Five minutes,” she whispers as she lowers her legs. After she’s got herself sitting up in the bed, she rests her hands in her lap and keeps her eyes cast downward. “I don’t suppose there’ll be much left to say after five minutes anyway, based on your answer to my first two questions.”

  I barely notice the door quietly closing behind Dreads as he leaves the room. “Oh? And why is that?” I chuckle again, purposefully patronizing her.

  But, her only answer is a shake of her head. She glances down at her hands in her lap and mouths, “No,”, and something inside me snaps. I abruptly stand before stalking towards her. And once I’m within reaching distance, my hand strikes out on its own accord, catching her face in my grasp.

  “Do you think this is a fucking joke?” I growl around the spit flying from my lips. “Do you think I’m laughing? Do you see a smile on my face? Because you’re mistaken if you think you do. I’m done. Don’t you understand, Eve? Done.”

  As she looks back and forth between my eyes, something comes apart inside my chest. And I hear it—that same voice I heard in the dark over and over again.

  The same voice I heard when I was locked inside my own head in a damn coma for two months.

  Praying.

  Now, I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. May angels stay with me through the night. And wake me with the morning light. But, if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

  “Vagabond. You’re that vagabond. The little girl in the tree—” The recognition of a vague memory occurs, but I’m barely able to sense it before it suddenly disappears. My eyes narrow further on hers as my hands come up and frame her face. “Do I know you?” I whisper the new nagging question.

  “Exactly. That’s question number one: Do you? Know me?” Her voice is stern, and her expression is the epitome of calmness. “Do you, Jacques? Do you remember me at all?”

  But I can’t fucking answer her question—besides, it was my fucking question in the first place! The migraine that’s all but turned into a subtle, dull ache since I walked into this room flares back to life, gaining strength with my frustration. And my hands involuntarily squeeze into fists where they once framed the sides of her face.

  “No. NO! That was my fucking question. Not yours!” I bark at her before pulling my hands away from her and stalking the length of the room—throwing a fit like a child. “Do you know me?” I ask, rephrasing the question.

  But her resolve remains as her calm voice and demeanor take control over the conversation. “I told the doctors to bring you in here. Not vice versa. And, until I’m released and we’re back under the roof of your club, I’m the fucking president. What I say goes in here. You want your five minutes of answers? Fine. You’ll get them. But not until I ask my first two questions. That was the deal, remember?”

  When she moves to stand from the bed, it’s done slowly and deliberately, and it isn’t until I see her knees wobble under her hospital gown that I realize how weak she must be. However, I make no move to help her. And yes—it’s because I’m an asshole. I have no excuse for it.

  Nor do I have an excuse for my reaction when she steps in front of my pacing path and my hands immediately go to her waist. Part of my brain tells me it’s because maybe I’m not an asshole. Maybe the person I was before the wreck saw the error in his ways, and I had indeed turned my asshole ways around. That part of my brain reminds me how unstable she was when she first stood from the bed.

  I glance at my hands on either side of her tiny waist, and another part of me smirks. Knowing damn good and well, from the moment I saw the pic of her splayed out across a double bed in a house with double doors leading to what looked like the ocean and there wasn’t a stitch of fucking clothing on her, I’d be trying to get my hands on her. Hell, even the sheets barely had the audacity to cover her ankles from the camera lens the morning the pic was taken. And all that ass, and all those curves. Tanned curves.

  It’s a crying fucking shame I don’t remember the happenings prior to that picture. Or, hell, even taking the picture.

  When the doc on the fourth floor gave me my cell phone and my wallet back the morning I first came to and I couldn’t remember anything—not a single thing at first—I instantly powered that damn thing on and started going through it. Contacts. Pics. Texts.

  I went through it so many times that my eyes were blurring when Clutch, the first MC brother, stepped in and realized I was awake. And I couldn’t remember shit.

  Nothing.

  I knew who Clutch was. Obviously, but I just knew who he was.

  I couldn’t remember shit about the days, months, or, hell, even the years prior to the accident. Organic retrograde amnesia. That’s what the docs called it.

  I called it motherfucking hell. The ninth circle of it.

  D
reads and Rox were my main two caregivers in the first few months after I had been released. They were there the most, helping me regain my strength and my memory. Or as much of it as possible.

  Which was good, or so I’d thought in the beginning, when they started doing different things the docs suggested to spur my memory. Because, individually, they thought different things were extremely important. Dreads focused on my strength, my fine motor skills and my math and MC history lessons—especially over the last few years. Roxy tended to focus on family stuff and...more personal stuff, if you catch my drift. Which was odd because I never returned the favor. Never. But that didn’t stop her from eagerly rooting beneath the sheets until she found it, all ten inches of it, with her warm, wet mouth.

  Roxy’s always made it easy. Always. It’s just easy to be with her. She’s so low maintenance that her suckling doesn’t even stop when I come and scream another’s name. Vagabond.

  The memory of the night Dreads started laying out pictures of people I should know enters my mind...and the third picture was the girl in the pic on my phone. The girl I couldn’t fucking place but knew was important because I couldn’t quit looking at her. Plus, she was the only naked chick in my phone.

  And then the pic of her on the back of Linda, on the side of some highway…

  That pic was by her name, saved as a contact. Under Vagabond.

  How many times am I gonna lie to myself?

  “Do you know me, Jacques?”

  She’s brave. I’ll give her that. When one of her hands reaches up before gently cupping my bearded cheek, my eyes shoot down and pin to hers as she whispers again,

  “Do you?”

  “I-I don’t know.” My hands wrap around hers, cupping my face, and I pull them back down to our sides before letting go of them. “I already told you I don’t remember. I don’t know—” I shake my head back and forth.

  “Okay, but this is your child. And I’m not doing this alone. So question number two is: Are you going to help me? With all this shit that’s going on—we can still...try, Jacques. I know it’ll be hard, but…” she whispers.

  When the sunlight peeking through the blinds glints off something hanging from her neck, I glance down.

  Ma’s crucifix.

  “Where’d you get that?” I accuse as I look at her and narrow my eyes.

  “I don’t know. It was just there. I found it the first night at Ben’s. Do you know me? Answer my question, Jacques.”

  “No—I already fucking told you that,” I snap at her the same moment my hand snatches the chain from around her neck.

  The migraine gains new strength and morphs into something past just a headache. It mimics a damn brain attack or a stroke—I’m certain of it. “And no. As for your second question—no. I’m not raising a fucking kid that ain’t mine. And, no matter what you say to me, I’ll never believe different.” My tattooed hand covers her slightly swollen abdomen, and something around my heart constricts tighter than fuck. “This kid can’t be mine. Not unless a condom broke. And I know myself in that regard too well to ever be persuaded differently. Sorry, Pipsqueak. I’ve answered your questions. Now, it’s time for mine. Let’s get back to Ben. Your pops, King, said you were being held in a house outside Queens. In a barn house?” My brow furrows when I narrow my eyes on hers even further. “You feel up for a field trip? I haven’t been by there yet. I was kinda waiting on you.” I wink,

  I’m fucking lying to her, although I haven’t the first clue why. I’ve been by there twice. Looking for Ben or any sign of these No Color motherfuckers.

  I’m almost in awe as her shields visibly go up. Right in front of me, her face seems to turn to stone as her eyes also somehow appear to harden.

  “No. No field trips.” She shakes her head before breaking all physical contact with me. Then, as she steps farther away from my reach, she says, “And our little Q and A sesh just ended. Now, get the fuck out.” Her dead tone rings out through the still room as she turns her back to me.

  He could have answered a hundred different ways. Hell, “I don’t know” would’ve been preferable. Not “No.” I’m not in the frame of mind to accept a flat-out “No.” Not right now. Not after just finding out all of that picky eating and nausea in the morning wasn’t due to the stress of being held captive. Not after being told I’m two-thirds of the way through a pregnancy neither parent wants!

  Oh my God, Grams is rolling over in her grave. I know it. Dammit!

  I let out another defeated sigh when a knock sounds on my door as I put the last of my things into a bag the nurse gave me. And, half a second later, the toe of Dreads’ boot peeks around the hospital door.

  “Hey, Pipsqueak. You dressed?”

  I barely see the tip of his nose, but he doesn’t try to peek around it.

  “Yeah, I’m sorta dressed. Come in, Dreads.” I toss my bag on the chair beside the bed. “King decide you could be trusted enough to drive me to the club after I’m discharged?” I chuckle, only somewhat wincing when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I grab the clothes someone brought for me from the countertop.

  “Yeah, guess so. You doin’ okay?” His husky voice is almost shaky when he leans over and grabs my bag before slinging it over his shoulder.

  When the nurse whips in and quickly swooshes the door shut, the breeze notifies me that my backside’s been showing through the opening in the back of the hospital gown. I quickly jerk the material closer to my body.

  “Shit. Sorry for flashing you.” I flush before scooting behind the curtain and shimmying my skinny jeans up. Then I slip a Def Leppard T-shirt over my head. “I’m fine. Been better. Had I known I was carrying a freaking alien inside my body, I wouldn’t have turned down all that good food. I’m kinda kicking myself in the ass for it now. I’m so damned weak.”

  I will admit, of all things I could be complaining about—or not, ’cause I should probably be dead—weakness truly is a small price to pay. Considering I spent the first six months of my pregnancy holed up in a basement outside Queens, stubbornly starving myself, which is why I’m even able to button these Miss Me jeans.

  Fucking Queens of all places. If I would’ve known I was that close, I would’ve tried harder. I wouldn’t have slept. That’s for damn sure. At least not until I’d found a way to escape.

  “How’s he…” I hate myself for fucking asking as I step from around the curtain.

  I hate myself for caring. I hate myself for having cried from the moment he unusually did exactly what I’d demanded him to. And left.

  After I’d told him to get the fuck out, he did. Without another word. Without even a half-assed attempt or an inkling of fight, he silently turned around and walked out. With his necklace in hand.

  Who does that? Who?

  “He’s all right.” Dreads grasps my shoulders from behind me at the same time his chin rests on the top on my head. “Nurse is here. She wants to take out your IV. Sign your discharge papers and let’s get the hell outta here. It’s gonna be a long night, kid.”

  I feel his breath when he chuckles, and I roll my eyes before turning to face the nurse. “Just take my shit to the car. Or bike. You didn’t bring your bike, did you?” The probability dawns on me as he snickers.

  “No, Vagabond. I wouldn’t do that to you. I brought the truck.” After he shoulders the hospital bag, he salutes the nurse and makes his way out.

  I’m not happy about King making me stay at Jacques’s Sons of Silencers MC. Not in the slightest. But I understand why it’s important not to turn down another MC’s offer during trying times, too. So, unfortunately, that puts me—at least for the next few weeks—under Jacques Cain’s rule. But fear not. Given our history, even if he doesn’t fucking remember it—he’ll quickly learn—I’m not bowing down to him.

  I’ll heed his warnings of policy, respect, and protocol, but I’m not his bitch. And he’s made it abundantly clear I’m not his old lady, either.

  When Dreads pulls the diesel t
ruck into a parking spot towards the end of a long line of bikes, nervousness begins to get the better of me and I question whether or not the last tray of hospital food I scarfed down will stay...down.

  “Why you swallowing so much? You’re acting nervous as shit and we ain’t even parked yet. You gotta pull your shit together, Pipsqueak. Or they’ll eat you alive. Rox may be in there. You know that?” He jerks his chin towards the huge black-and-red building. “I’m supposed to ink her tonight. Some dragon or some shit. She’s already paid.” He shrugs then slides the truck into park before killing the ignition.

  As a child who grew up in the system, I’ve had to learn many coping skills. The lengths the mind is capable of in an effort to save itself are astonishing. I’m sure you can only imagine. And the list of coping skills I’ve accumulated over the years is probably much lengthier than you could envision. From deflecting to breathing techniques. Hell, I’ve even been known to compartmentalize. It’s never been diagnosed or documented. But I recognize the enabling technique for what it is.

  After I’ve calmed my breathing and focused the majority of my attention on the positives surrounding me, I try to breathe. I’m not in a basement. I’m free to eat what I please. I’m free to smoke as long as I can get my hands on some cigarettes—

  No. A negative. A huge negative, Ghost Rider. I can’t smoke. Dammit.

  “Hey, I’m just fucking with you. I won’t let anything happen to you.” His knuckle taps my chin. Then he rests it there until I glance up. “I know he loves you. Or loved you. Okay? I talked to the fucker. Many times, when he was drunk off his ass and out of his mind. I’ve heard the shit he’s said in his sleep. I know you’re his Jacqueline. He just doesn’t remember. And, until he does, I got your back. ’Kay, Pipsqueak?” When he winks at me and smirks, tears flood my eyes.

  I don’t know why he wants to be my friend or why he’s being so friendly. Nor do I know why he’s being nice to me. But dammit, I need a friend. I need someone, and I’ve had no one for far too long.