Before I Wake: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel

by Kimber S. Dawn

  “Okay,” I mutter around a smile before glancing down and hoping he doesn’t see the tears as they fall. “Thanks, Dreads. It means more to me than you know.”

  His hand reaches across my lap before opening the passenger door to my right. “Don’t mention it. Now, come on. Let’s go find you a room and get you settled. Your pops and cuz left town an hour ago, but they’ll be back in the morning. We’ll get you settled in though. Sound good?” I catch the hint of a dimple when the truck’s cabin light flickers on.

  “Sounds good.” I peck his cheek before ducking down and grabbing the lighter of my two bags. “Grab that one, will ya?” Then I slowly slide my way down the height of the too-jacked-up truck.

  It’s more quiet than I expected it to be when we step through the open garage doors leading into the compound and housing area of the club from the boneyard. It’s so damn quiet that the hairs on my arms rise and I shudder the farther we make our way into the main room and memories of the last time I was here accost my fragile, compartmentalizing mind.

  After Dreads kinda ducks his head, he grabs my hand before quickly clearing our path through the room of people. And when he gets past the bar, Roxy’s dad, Clutch, steps from behind it with a beer he’s in the midst of opening, but Dreads waves him off.

  “No, thanks, bro. Jacques in the garage?”

  As his words register, however, I start trying to wrench my hand from his grasp. “Wait—Jacques? Y-you said we were finding me a room first,” I stutter around trying to plant my feet, but he proceeds to drag me through the quiet crowd like I’m nothing.

  Then Clutch answers over me like I haven’t protested; like I didn’t even speak. “Yeah. A bike came in. Another one. No colors, just black on black. Third one this month. This one had a note. He’s down there, taking her apart. What’s up with her?” The much older, weathered-faced man squints as he assesses me from head to toe, and it shows off every line and crease across his features. “Rox’s here, ya know. She’s not gonna like this one being here, either. I thought Jacques knew she wanted him to tell King and Philip to head to the Holiday Inn before this one was released?”

  As the man follows behind Dreads, who's still dragging me, I keep glancing back between attempts to pry my wrist from Dreads’ grip. I can’t decide if the older gentleman who’s trailing behind us is being led by his beer belly by one or two feet in front of him.

  “Like it’s ever fucking mattered to Jacques what Roxy wants? I don’t think so. I need someplace to stick this one, and I’m not doing it without Jacques’s consent. So get the fuck off my back. The tension’s too thick for that shit right now anyway,” Dreads barks over his shoulder. Then he opens the door at the end of the stairwell, which leads to another exit on the opposite side of the compound.

  When my Chucks hit the black asphalt patched with loose gravel here and there, I assess my surroundings. Even though the sun is setting and it’s darker than it was when we got here, I can see just fine.

  Now, I understand the terms I’ve heard being used in the gates of this club and amongst these men. Words like steeple. Church. Respect. Protocol. Even though it’s built from nothing but sheet metal, chrome, and stained glass, it’s humbling. If that even makes sense. There’s a different element to this building the others don’t possess. And it’s palpable, to say the very least.

  Just before the door slams shut in front of him, cutting him off from where we stand outside, Clutch mutters, “Tension’s always thick around this motherfucker. What’s new?”

  But Dreads doesn’t get the chance to answer. As a matter of fact, his grip on my wrist doesn’t even loosen. Not even a little bit. He stops walking and looks to the left of the beautiful church-looking building. Then he glances back at me, and I can barely make out his eyes through the ill-lit section of the property.

  “You’re what’s different. God fucking save us all. I told him you were toxic when all this shit started.” He shakes his head almost like he’s lost in thought for a moment. “Come on. Garage is this way.” He pulls me towards the building surrounded by bikes in different phases of being broken down—or put back together, depending on how you look at it.

  But, suddenly, I’m feeling quite pessimistic. Sue me.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” My words are fast and very sharp ’cause I’m getting real pissed real quick. “Let me go. What the hell, Dreads? What happened to you having my back?” I growl, furrowing my eyebrows more the harder I fight him, trying to wrench my hand back.

  And what does he do? What’s his response? He drags. His grip tightens like a vise before he fucking drags me in the direction of the “garage.” Which does seem to appear more like a garage the closer we get to the building. As the driveway and the garage doors come into view, so does Jacques fucking Cain. Bent over a bike, with his back to me. All three feet of exposed tanned and tattooed flesh of it, just a smorgasbord of toned muscle and bone in the shape of a reddish, tanned V.

  “I’m just fine with Holiday Inn, actually. He’s made it known he doesn’t want me.” The words keep falling out, and I pray to God that they’ll stop, but they don’t. They keep coming. “Or this child. So why, again, Dreads are we doing this? Where’d my father go?” The anger I’ve been trying to tap into can finally be felt, and I instantly grab onto it like it’s a lifeline. “Fuck Jacques. I’m not here because of him. I’m not here because I’m supposed to be under his care,” I explain as Dreads finishes dragging me into the open bay area of the garage. “Seriously, Dreads!” I yank just as my free left hand connects with a metal bar with a lever jutting from the floor. I yank it without regards to my shoulder or dislocating it with all of my goddamn might! Then I plant my feet and square off with my so-called friend!

  I almost let him see me cry! I asked him about Jacques! See if I ever freaking trust him again!

  “Fuck. Jacques!” I shout around my quivering chin, which is embarrassing me even more. “Where’s my dad?! Where’s King? I’m not here for Jacques! I’m here—”

  His words are cruel. They’re dripping with sarcasm and reeking of sinister cynicism, “Fuck whom? Jacques?” Then the man himself chuckles, sealing the fact that whoever he is now, without the memory of who he was before, remains the same.

  He’s a fucking asshole. Either way you slice that pie, his tone alone proves what a dick he is.

  I rotate and when I’m confronted with the sight before me, my anger falters. I will not lie—it does.

  His worn-out, grease-smudged jeans ride so very low on his hips, and my eyes keep looking down where the butts of two guns are tattooed along the skin under his low dipping V of muscles that are just above his hip bones. The sight instantly makes my mouth go dry.

  On its own volition, my tongue sweeps from my mouth to wet my lips as my eyes follow the path of ink and then the short, thick, black hair sprinkled across the planes of tanned, toned, rigid ab muscle after ab muscle. My mouth dries instantly, and I try like hell to swallow the lump and the words lodged in my throat. After the second or third swallow, I can finally speak.

  “Yeah. Fuck you. You heard me right. And?” I square off with all six foot six of the towering man in front of me.

  And he never once backs off. Not that he should.

  When there’s less than a few inches between us, I jerk my head up before continuing. “I’m not like your other groupies, asshole. I won’t beg you to love me. Much less acknowledge me. I have more fucking dignity than that. And I for damn sure won’t be treated like Roxy’s treated for the rest of my life. You made it abundantly clear at the hospital where you stand. With me and this child.” I unconsciously move my hands to the front of my abdomen, and when my knuckles brush his cut before bumping into his belt buckle, I step back, but my eyes remain on his. I hadn’t realized I’d moved so close to him. “I’m not here to piss you off. I’m not here to get in your way. As a matter of fact, if you give me the right room, I can promise you won’t even see me. Or you’ll barely see me. A pregnant girl has t
o eat, and I’m starving. Constantly.”

  I smirk, trying to lighten the subject. Then I decide to be as real as I can be with him. “I wouldn’t be here if King didn’t feel like it was important for me and the few from his club to remain here until this shit’s sorted out. You have to know that, Jacques. I promise I’m not here to bug you. Let’s just park me somewhere in a room far away from you. Then we’ll figure out what we can, and hopefully...we’ll soon go our separate ways. Shall we?”

  I’m pleading. I know I am, and I hate myself for it. But, every time I’ve ever tried to use force with Jacques, it’s never worked. It doesn’t stroke well against his ego, I guess. And, if he doesn’t want me here, then I won’t be here. If he doesn’t remember me or care to, I don’t have a problem with that. Okay, other than the hurt it causes, I don’t have a problem with it. But pain, like many things, will ebb with time. And, if anything, I’m a testimony of that, right?

  Besides, I know when I’m not wanted. And I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted. The twinge in my heart almost causes my façade to fall. My fake veil of strength that covers the fact that my heart is breaking. But, thankfully, not a single tear wells in my eyes. Even as the hole in the inside of my heart gets bigger the longer he waits to respond in the silent garage, with Dreads standing eight feet away.

  The hole in my mouth, the one I’m chewing in response to the pain in my heart, causes a metallic taste to fill my mouth. When he finally speaks…

  “That our new deal? We just gonna pretend none of it happened. You just gonna forget that easily? Without even hitting your head?”

  The traitorous tear that’s been threatening to spill over my lashes finally escapes when his betraying hand cups my face.

  But I still mutter the words anyway. Responding as if I’ve been cast under a spell. For some reason, I’m suddenly unusually eager to divulge the secrets of my heart to him. It may be ’cause of all the pain in my chest. I don’t know. I just speak, muttering exactly what I feel.

  “I guess so. But don’t fucking call it easy. You haven’t earned that right. You can’t feel what’s happening on the inside my—” I cross my arms before I pull away from him and turn my back to the room. “You can’t possibly know. So you don’t get to call it easy. You got to forget. I will. I just haven’t yet. But I will.”

  “Vagab—” He sighs before he moves towards Dreads and continues speaking. “Top floor. The room next to mine. The one that connects. Put her ass in there. I’ll speak to King,” he barks at the other man before heading back towards the bike on the hydraulic lift.

  “Wait. Top floor, room next to mine—no.” I quickly turn before stalking towards him. That’s not what I just said. Nor is it what we just agreed on. “No. I said put me somewhere away from you. Put me in the church. Hell, put me in the two-by-four security room at the front gate. I’ll sleep there. But put me away from you. That was the deal. Hello?”

  I’m reaching up to grab his left shoulder when he spins on me. And there’s no fucking way I am ready. Especially with this damn pregnancy vertigo. The floor beneath me tilts, and a second later, he’s got me with his arms around my waist and standing me back up before my knees hit the ground.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, woman. The fuck are you falling for?”

  And, for reasons I can’t possibly ever explain to you, I decide to fall completely and utterly the hell apart. Again.

  “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know why I’m falling,” I whine through a sob, and it’s damn near the most horrendous sound ever to have met my ears.

  Holy fucking shit. Her waterworks just came out of nowhere. I swear to Christ she was just giving as good as she was getting. I mean, the little vagabond wasn’t missing a beat, and it was as fascinating to witness as it was to participate in. Such a solid debate, and with someone who could hold her own against me and my wit? I’ll admit. It was alluring, to say the very least.

  But what the motherfucking hell? I asked one simple question. And this is her reaction? I told her to her face I am not raising the kid she’s carrying. I pretty much called her a whore and a liar for saying that I was the only one she’s ever been with. And she stood her own. Every step of the way. Then I mention her tripping and she loses her shit?

  Pregnant bitches must be crazier than regular bitches. That or I’m missing something. Big. But that doesn’t explain my knee-jerk reaction to her tears. Nor does it explain why my arms tighten around her waist for the second time before I nod at Dreads then the exit of the garage and mouth at him, “Give us a minute, bro. Don’t ask.”

  When he smirks, I cut my eyes at him. Once he’s left, I shush her and try and comfort her with words.

  “Shh... Hey, you. Let’s not cry. This is kind of an MC, and I’m sorta the president. I have a reputation to uphold, and you’re killing it with these tears, Pipsqueak.” I chuckle against her hair, squeezing my eyes closed as the headache finally diminishes behind them. Then I tighten my arms around her.

  When she shudders around trying to gain control of her tears and breathing, I pull my face away from hers and look down into her dark-brown eyes.

  Once she’s shuddered in a stable breath, I say, “I just want you in the room upstairs because—”

  “You remember me?” she whispers, and it somehow breaks my heart. The one I assumed I wasn’t born with. “You said Pipsqueak,” she explains, blinking up at me. “And, earlier, when you called me Vagabond, you sounded... It sounded familiar. Not like at the hospital, when it was forced…”

  Shit. No one knows how to answer that. Not if they’re in my position. How the fuck am I supposed to? I came up with a valid yet ridiculous reason for wanting her so close to my room, and besides...haven’t I already fucking answered this question?

  Yeah, I have. “I already told you, Eve. I don’t have my memory. It’s called retrograde amnesia. Fucking Google it. Shit.” I shake my head before taking her hands in mine and separating us. Then I glance up at the ceiling of the garage. “I can only take it one day at a time. I can’t rush anything. Nor can I force anything. It’s business as always. Same shit, different day. Otherwise, the added stress triggers the migraines and the migraines trigger the insomnia, and the bitch nurse—or doctor—cut my script short this month for my pain meds, so...yeah.” I cough to clear my throat and move back towards the bike, trying to find something else to do with my hands—something besides touch her. Again.

  “And I’m supposed to what? Just wait? Hope you’ll remember me one day?” Her words... She must have found some anger underneath all of those tears. That’s all I’ll say.

  Her tone was just as vicious as the look across her face when I glance up over the bike to where she’s standing, glaring knives at me.

  “No. I didn’t ask you to wait. Actually, I don’t think you can afford to.” I nod at her...condition. Or the telltale sign of it: her baby bump. Yes, probably because I’m an asshole. “I’d never ask anyone to do anything like that for me. Life’s too short, Eve. Don’t fucking wait on me. But I do want your little ass in the room on the top floor. And yes, that’s the one that’s connected to mine. I like to keep my friends close…” I let my words trail off.

  But she doesn’t pick up what I’m laying down. That or she blatantly allows it to go over her head.

  “I’m not your fucking friend.”

  I point in the direction of the door Dreads exited through five minutes earlier, making no bones with my tone. I let her know just what the fuck is going on. “No, you’re not. And, until you are, you’re considered an enemy. I keep my fucking enemies closer, Pipsqueak. And, as of right now, with all this shit that’s been going down, the only person I know for certain who’s had contact with Ben in the last twenty-four hours is YOU. And you have reason or motive to have been in New Orleans around the time my uncle was killed. So, until I figure out just exactly what fucking role it is you’re playing in all of this too... Because you for damn sure aren’t ratting on your first scapegoat, Roxy. Not since I
answered your fucking questions wrong. So, until I know just where you stand, I want you close. No, scratch that—I want you closer than close. Don’t expect that fucking door between our rooms to be closed when I come up and turn down for bed. Is that understood, Eve O’Malley?”

  I jerk my hand in the direction of the door leading from the garage again, and this time when I speak, I do so with even less charm and a little more bark. “We’re done! Just keep in fucking mind that we ain’t friends. Dreads’ll show you to your room. Now, get going. I’ve got a bike to take apart and dismantle piece by piece. This shit’s gonna be all night.”

  Although she hesitates for a moment, she thankfully doesn’t contradict me or try to return another round of debating words. She quietly turns around and makes her way towards the garage door.

  I’m a holy hell sweaty mess when I finally climb the last few stairs and unlock my bedroom door at nearly midnight. I’ve already kicked my boots and my socks off, and I’m shucking my pants down my legs and tugging my sweat-soaked T-shirt over my head when I hear her gasp before something crashes to the floor.

  Fuck. And did I mention it’s laundry day? Meaning I’m commando, flashing her at the moment. I struggle with the T-shirt I’m pulling off for a second too long then yank the shit the rest of the way over my head.

  When I’m finally able to look at her, it’s through my much-more-salt-than-pepper hair falling into my face and around the exact moment I realize I’m as bare as the day I was born, not that I care. “Hey. Sorry.” I shrug before beginning to pick up the clothes I just tossed on the floor with my feet. “I didn’t realize you’d still be up.” I duck into the bathroom and start the hot water before grabbing a towel from the bathroom counter.

  After I have it hooked around my waist, I stalk back out to where she’s standing, her hand still over her mouth and her bottle water rolling away from her feet. I scoop down and pick it up before handing it to her, but she doesn’t take it. She just keeps her wide eyes locked on me.