by Debra Kayn
Wrapped Around Him
by Debra Kayn
Book 1, Moroad MC series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Wrapped Around Him
1st Digital release: Copyright© 2015 Debra Kayn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Debra Kayn. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Coming Soon
Sneak peek — FOR LIFE
Chapter One
Author Bio
Debra Kayn's Backlist
Sample Chapter – Living A Beautiful War | Book 8, Bantorus Motorcycle Club series by Debra Kayn | Chapter One
Dedication
To Wheels — Only you.
Chapter One
In the shade of the blue tarp pitched off the side of an old travel trailer, sixteen-year-old Jeremy Aldridge sat in a woven, plastic chair oblivious to everything around him. Christina Nickelson noted the boy's solemn expression, one that he always wore, the new scratch along his arm, and the lack of parental supervision—that wasn't required twenty-four/seven for a boy his age.
As Jeremy's former social worker, she wanted to find a reason to bring her suspicions of abuse or neglect to the judge. Her head pounded from the heat of the sun filling her car. Nobody could convince her that Cam Farrell was a good father.
Unaware of her staked out on the road, Jeremy flipped through a magazine, his ankles crossed and propped atop a metal beer keg. An ache settled behind Christina's eyes, and she rubbed her temple. Officially, she'd closed Jeremy's case when full custody went to his birth father.
She glanced down at last year's photo of Jeremy clipped to her file. She swallowed the lump of emotions choking her. He held himself stoic from life's harsh realities, never letting anyone else view the hardships he'd endured in his short life. Maybe that's why she couldn't let Jeremy's case go. She understood his need to hide his feelings from everyone.
She lived with her own loss, loneliness, and fear. The first couple of years after she'd lost both her parents to murder were a blur. The anger, the hurt, the need to understand why life decided to play a cruel trick on her soon showed up and never left.
So far, Jeremy's young life was even worse.
His mom passed away of a drug overdose three months ago. Christina ran her thumb along the edge of the binder and lifted her gaze back to the teenager. His mother's death wasn't the first time she'd met Jeremy. She'd followed his life for the last four years when the school contacted her about unusual bruising.
It wasn't until Jeremy's father stepped up after being an absent father the child's whole life and brought the teenager to live with him that she became even more concerned. She slid the file under the driver's seat of her car. Something about the arrangement didn't feel right, and it wasn't the threat she'd received from Jeremy's dad to stay away from his son or the knife he'd put to her throat, threatening to kill her if she stepped foot on his property again.
When she'd collected herself from that horrifying experience, she'd witnessed Jeremy's wide-eyed shock at the violence by a father he'd never met before that day. She stared out the front window of her car. That reaction from Jeremy held more emotion than she'd ever seen him shed in front of someone before.
She knew that paralyzing fear intimately, until the most unlikely person taught her not to be afraid. If she hadn't reached out and received help, she'd still be stuck in the hell she'd found herself in. The least she could do was unofficially keep an eye on Jeremy and pay the help she'd received forward to someone else.
A deep, haunting rumble drew her attention away from Jeremy. She studied the dust cloud rising in her rearview mirror and turned the keys in the ignition of her late model Honda sedan. The approaching visitor could only be going to one house and though she was not on private property, she wasn't comfortable being caught watching Jeremy.
She put the car in reverse and backed off into the patch of weeds at the side of the road. Heart racing, she shifted into first gear when a motorcycle rider stopped right in front of her, blocking her exit.
The biker's dark gaze caught hers through the windshield. Her stomach pitched, recognizing Mr. Farrell. She gripped the steering wheel with all her strength. He'd warned her not to come back.
Even from twenty feet away, she could feel the contempt rolling off him. She pressed her back into the car's seat. At six foot four, he towered over her by almost a foot. She couldn't guess how much he weighed, but it was a lot. His chest and arms strained against his ragged jean vest. His size alone warned her not to underestimate him.
She glanced to her right, to her left, and turned her head and peered out the back window. If she tried to drive around him, she'd go in the ditch or hit a tree.
A low roar broke through her fright and another dust cloud rose up in the road, growing in intensity. Her hope that others were coming to help her crashed into the pit of her stomach when she caught sight of more motorcycle riders. As the president of Moroad Motorcycle Club, Mr. Farrell had backup. They weren't here to help her.
Without giving anything away, she reached over, rolled up the driver's side window, and hit the lock button on the door. Her whole body shook with the need to flee. The added security only reinstated the danger of being here.
Glass windows would not stop a man who had already held a knife to her throat.
Two bikers stopped beside Mr. Farrell in front of her car. Sweat broke out between her breasts, and she wanted to desperately pull her Tee away from her body and turn the air conditioner on.
She'd purposely stayed on the public road, in case Mr. Farrell spotted her. It was her right to be here. He couldn't hurt her when she was following the law.
She blindly reached over to the passenger seat for her cell and swiped the screen taking the phone out of standby. The moment Mr. Farrell looked away from her; she glanced down and wanted to cry. The Bitterroot Mountains with its many peaks and valleys made getting reception difficult, and she was i
n a dead zone.
What was she going to do? No one knew her location. She kept to herself, because making friends meant explaining her past to them. Even calling 911 was out of the question. If her boss found out she used her free time to check up on a closed child welfare case, the county would fire her.
Children had a right to move on with their new life, and her work creed demanded that she not become emotionally involved with the kids within her care or the guardians. She'd always followed the rules, until she had to say goodbye to Jeremy and his biker dad threatened her.
Even though she only worked part time for the county, the job gave her a roof over her head and enough food to survive. She was a minimalist, and her needs were little.
Mr. Farrell got off his motorcycle and walked toward her car. She shoved the phone between her legs and held on to the door in case the lock gave way. He appeared twice as big and scary today.
His gloved fist banged on the window. She flinched and pointed toward the road. "Excuse me, if you and your friends could please move, I need to leave."
"Get out." His low, rough voice came through loud and clear through the glass.
She shook her head. "I'm late for an appointment."
Mr. Farrell stepped away from the car and walked to his motorcycle. Relief weakened her body and she held on to the steering wheel, ready to leave. The second they moved their motorcycles, she was out of here.
The biker with an ugly white scar running down his left bicep and a tattoo of the devil on his right bicep unclipped a long braided rope from the handlebar of his motorcycle. She strained to hear what Mr. Farrell was telling the man, but over the car's rough idle she couldn't make out a single word. A few seconds later, Mr. Farrell sat on his motorcycle and revved the engine. She inhaled a deep breath. Once he moved out of the way, she'd leave.
Intent on watching him ride away, she almost missed the object flying through the air out of her peripheral vision. On instinct, she ducked and turned away from the window. The explosion of shattered glass barely made any sense to her when a strong hand squeezed around her upper arm, removing her from the vehicle. Horrified, she gawked at the stern mustached man holding her before looking back at her car.
Glass littered the inside of her seat and the door stood wide open. She gasped, tugging on her arm, but he held strong.
She jerked harder. "Let me go."
The man yanked her back, and she stumbled into his body. Her throat and lungs screamed. She dropped her hand from his chest, not wanting to touch any part of him.
"Cam wants you in the house." The man forcibly led her down the road.
She searched all around her, looking for someone she could yell to for help. The other biker with the scar rode past them and parked in the yard. She looked toward the trailer for Jeremy, but he was gone.
Her arm ached under the man's hold. She dragged her feet. Surviving was her only option. She had to find a way to get back to her car and leave.
Mr. Farrell's promise to kill her if she contacted Jeremy fresh in her mind, she pulled harder, digging her sneakers into the gravel. Her shoes created a dust trail of their own. She had to get away.
"Listen, I don't know who you are." She cried out in pain, trying to pry his fingers from her arm. "I turned down the wrong road. I just want to go back to town."
"Coming here was your first mistake." The man pulled her past the travel trailer and dragged her up onto the steps of the porch to the two-story, run-down house Mr. Farrell owned.
Jeremy came out the front door and stopped. "Ms. Nickelson? Stache? What's going on?"
"None of your business, kid." Stache stepped around Jeremy, shoved her inside the house, and closed the door.
She scrambled to get to the door and leave when Jeremy swung through blocking her way. Lightheaded and scared, she grabbed Jeremy.
"I'll get you out of here," she whispered. "All we have to do is—"
"Outside, kid." Mr. Farrell leaned against the stair railing in the foyer. He gazed at her intently. "Now."
Jeremy frowned at his dad and left Christina's side. Angered over her treatment, she clamped her teeth together. He had no reason to bust her car window and force her into his house. She hadn't set a foot on his property until one of his men bodily dragged her into his house.
Mr. Farrell's gaze swept down over her chest and continued taking the rest of her in. She reached up and cupped her opposite shoulder with her hand to cover herself. He made her feel dirty and bad as if she'd broken the law, but she had the same rights as everyone else to use a public road. She wasn't encroaching on his privacy.
A grunt came from him and he brought his eyes back to her face. She glanced at the front of his jeans out of instinct and gasped. For a man who hated her and wanted her dead, his arousal frightened her more. Her racing heart slowed, almost too slow. She inhaled deeply, willing herself not to pass out.
Unlike the men in the yard, Mr. Farrell's broad shoulders and hulking arms could snap her in half. His long charcoal colored hair with streaks of gray hung loose past his shoulders. His dark brows, his black eyelashes, and half-hooded brown eyes stared at her with interest. Her fear climbed to a panic level. Most women would pant after a man with lazy eyes that lingered past politeness, but she wasn't most women.
"Open the door, Mr. Farrell," she said, crossing her arms. "You have no right to force me into your house."
"Cam," he said, tilting his head.
"What?"
"The name's Cam."
"Excuse me, but Mr. Far—"
"Stop the Farrell bullshit. It isn't my name." Cam shrugged. "For that matter, neither is Cam, but I rather you call me that."
"Cam Farrell isn't your name?" She backed toward the door and put her fingers around the handle.
He dipped his chin in acknowledgement of her question. "When you're an ex-convict, it's useful to have a few names. Now, step away from the door."
The reminder of his criminal status took all the fight out of her, and she dropped her hand to her side. He'd already threatened her with a knife, broke her window, and had one of his men force her into his house. She knew what men like him were capable of doing.
Three years ago, she'd anonymously contacted a prisoner to help her get over her traumatic loss of her parents. She worked her lips in worry. She'd needed answers to questions nobody else could answer, and the prisoner told her the truth. Bad men, like the one who'd killed her parents, never changed. They had no guilt to motivate them.
That safe anonymous relationship she'd forged with prisoner #18794 for two years comforted her in ways she never understood. After a while, she relaxed and found it easy to talk with him.
Cam Farrell was not behind bars or anonymous, but scary and deadly.
She swallowed, testing to see if she could even speak coherently. "I-I'm sorry. I had no business parking out on the road. I only wanted to check on your son. He's no longer one of the children I continue to follow, but I care for him. You must understand, I've been watching over him for four years. I wanted to make sure he was okay and getting along...with his new surroundings. I wasn't going to approach him or talk with him."
Cam pushed off from his position against the railing and walked into the living room. "Follow me."
She couldn't miss the slight limp in his stride, because she was studying him closely. Though she hadn't noticed the imperfection when he confronted her behind the courthouse after the judge's ruling or when he'd approached her car outside.
"I don't like to repeat myself," he said from the other room. "Come here."
She stepped away from the door and followed him. Cam stood in front of the large bay window, his gaze going out into the yard. He turned his head and he narrowed his gaze. She stopped in the middle of the room, keeping her distance.
Several awkward seconds ticked by, and he finally said, "What do you see?"
She couldn't see anything, because she was too far away. "I don't—"
"Jesus...look out the fucking windo
w."
She pursed her lips and moved closer. At first, she only noticed the two bikers from earlier standing in the yard. Stache, the one with the long mustache tipped his head back and drank from a beer bottle. The other biker, the one with the devil tattoo and scar, shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit the stubbed end with a lighter.
"Mr....Cam." She shook her head. "I don't know what I'm looking at besides two men who are making a questionable impression on a young man in your care."
"Look at the kid," he said.
She pulled her gaze away from the men and found Jeremy with a magazine under his nose standing beside a piece of a motorcycle propped up on two plastic milk crates. His hair needed cut and she was sure the ripped jeans were the ones she bought him for his day in court and were brand new only two weeks ago.
"Let me help you out with what you're seeing." Cam turned and faced her. "I gave the kid a broken down Harley and a parts manual. He's spent the better part of a week outside putting it back together. He's smart. I'm betting he has the bike running by the end of next week and that's saying a lot, considering the kid didn't even know what a fucking socket set was when he came home with me. When he's done, he'll have a motorcycle to ride and that bike will come first in his life before girls, drugs, and friends."
She shook her head. "You can't know that. He needs friends and when summer is over and he goes back to school, he has to keep his grades—"
"You don't know shit." Cam stepped forward, barely leaving an inch between his body and hers. "All you see is a kid who says yes ma'am and no ma'am to you. He's had a shitty life, but he'll come out strong if you give him something worth protecting."
"You believe a motorcycle will motivate him?" she asked.
Cam stared down at her. She shook her head, hurting all over as if his gaze left bruises on her stomach, her chest, her thighs. Then just as quickly, she became confused and lightheaded. Her pain warmed and caressed her. "He needs a father who will love him, not put him out in the yard with a motorcycle he'll never ride, surrounded by a couple bikers who probably scare him to death. He doesn't know you. The atmosphere he's now living in is new to him. He needs security and continual support."
