by Debra Kayn
"Come back in a week." He walked away from her.
She trailed after him and stopped at the door he held open. "I'm not going to return here."
"You'll return." He gazed out at Jeremy. "If the kid matters to you, and I think he does."
"The case is closed." She fingered the shallow dip at the base of her neck. Her clammy skin refused to cool down. Numbed with fear, she couldn't tell if she even breathed except for the pounding of her heart. "I'll take your word that he's adjusting."
Not that she was confident Jeremy was safe living with his father and his biker friends. She walked through the door and out onto the porch. Jeremy's head swiveled toward her and he raised his hand, before dropping the magazine and jogging over to her.
She smiled for Jeremy's sake, hiding the sadness over the changes in his short life. "How are you?"
"Okay." He shrugged. "He...Cam gave me a motorcycle."
"I see that," she said.
He glanced over at the porch and lowered his voice. "He's not all bad."
"I'm glad." Her chest ached and she waited until he looked back at her. "You have my phone number in case you need anything, right?"
"Yeah." He shoved his hands in his pockets.
"Good." She walked backward. "Bye, Jeremy."
"Bye, Ms. Nickelson." He gave her a lazy wave and jogged back to his motorcycle.
Cam stepped off the porch. "Stache, walk Christina to her car and escort her into town and have her window fixed."
Every muscle in her body tensed. How had he known her first name? While working with Jeremy it was important to remain professional, and she'd never handed personal information out to Mr. Farrell.
"That's not necessary," she said. "It was my mistake for coming here. I'll fix my car."
Stache approached her and motioned for her to walk. She stared at Cam's back until he shut himself in the house and she lost sight of him. Without saying a word, she turned and followed Stache because Cam gave her no other option.
Her bank account lacked extra funds to fix the window and she had no idea where to go to repair her car. She tried never to rely on others, because doing so meant opening herself up to hurt.
Stache brushed off the broken glass on the driver's seat. She sat down carefully and flinched when Stache closed the door. Pressing a hand to her chest, her heartbeat echoed in her body. Something in Cam's eyes when he'd said her name unsettled her beyond the fear he aroused. It spoke of an intimacy she'd never granted him.
Chapter Two
The walls of the run-down house pressed in on Cam. He walked into the kitchen, opened the cabinet over the fridge, and removed his pistol. His grip tightened on the familiar handle.
Because of his criminal background and being a felon, possessing a weapon of any kind was illegal. He shoved the magazine in the butt of the pistol, pulled back the cocking chamber, and flicked the safety on.
The cool steel of the barrel slid against his back, tucked against him, out of sight. He walked back through the house and out the front door. Since released from prison ten months ago, he usually carried a knife in his boot. There was no sense gambling with his freedom by concealing a pistol, but today's visit from Christina left him antsy.
His judgment was off. His patience was tested. His mind was preoccupied by a brown-eyed woman who'd done nothing else than invade his every thought for the last three years.
He gazed up the road, knowing Christina would be back. She wouldn't be able to help herself. She cared too much for the kid. Being around an ex-con scared her to death, but she had the strength to push her own fears aside to help a child. His long awaited plan was coming together. He needed one more week before he could make his move.
"Gunner, call everyone. I want a headcount. The ones that aren't working can get their ass over here. Have Willy pick up some beer and bring it over with him," Cam said.
"Just club or can the women come?" Gunner tossed his cigarette on the ground and stepped on the butt.
"Yeah, let them come. The more women, the fucking merrier." He continued walking toward Jeremy. It was time the boy grew up.
Jeremy turned when Cam's shadow fell over him. "The club is getting together. I want you to hang around for a while."
Jeremy's grip on the wrench tightened. "Why?"
"Cause this is your fucking family. It's time for you to get used to them." Cam raised his brows, warning him not to argue and strolled away.
Nobody claimed Moroad Motorcycle Club was anything but a dysfunctional family at best, but the men who wore the patch knew no different lifestyle. Most of the members never had a mom and dad in the house growing up. Fifty percent of the members spent more time locked up in juvenile detention during their childhood, before spending the majority of their adult life in the state penitentiary. He'd trust every single one of them when it came to protecting the club, and yet trusted no one to have his back.
Inside the Cyclone fence or out, freedom was a daily struggle for him. One thing remained a constant in his life, and that was the need to survive. He never let down his guard, because his life meant nothing to anyone else.
He hopped on his motorcycle and cruised out of the yard, down the road, and pulled off near the Coeur d'Alene River. He toed the kickstand and turned the wheel, remaining on the bike. It'd taken him two fucking years to figure out a way to bring Christina to him without landing his ass back in prison. Now it was time to go the last step.
He unlatched the strap on his leather satchel on the side of his bike, reached inside, and pulled out a stack of envelopes. He read the postage mark over the stamp. Meridian, Idaho.
At first, he'd looked in the wrong area and then it dawned on him. A single, scared woman would not put her real location on a letter to the state penitentiary. Meridian was an eight-hour ride from Federal, Idaho, and close to the state penitentiary. Somehow, Christina was able to have the postmarked stamped to appear that she was right outside the prison walls.
Once he had Half-rack, his MC brother, widen his search, he was shocked to find Christina close enough to touch.
After seeing her in person, all he could think about was touching her.
From Christina's letters, she'd described herself as short, slim, non-descript with plain brown hair and brown eyes. He gritted his teeth. She'd lied.
Sure, Christina barely stood five feet five inches, but she packed a man's dream of curves on her short body. Her hips and breasts led the way when she walked, and the narrowing of her waist grabbed his attention instantly. When he wanted a woman, he wanted handles, softness, and something to remind him that he was with a woman.
Christina's brown hair was golden in the sunshine with streaks of blonde, red, and mahogany. Her brown eyes lit up in fear, anger, confusion, and he wondered if they'd get any brighter when aroused.
He ran his hands through his hair and sighed in frustration. She'd also neglected to tell him she worked for the county in the Silver Valley, and had him assuming she worked a non-descript job that barely paid the bills. Once Half-rack brought all the information to him that he needed, he'd laughed his ass off finding out she was Jeremy's social worker.
Bringing her back into his life was easier than he'd expected.
That day at the courthouse when the judge handed full custody to him, he realized luck played in his favor. He finally had the woman he'd fantasized about for the last two years of his sentence.
He could no longer blame lack of women, lack of freedom, and lack of having a soul on his choices. His delusional thoughts took the words of a woman who'd poured her heart out in a weekly letter to him and smacked him upside the head. Christina made life on the inside bearable. Something about her vulnerability called to him. Even today, the fear in her eyes staring back at him made him hard. He wanted her, and he always got what he wanted, even at the cost of his freedom.
He pulled out the first letter she'd sent him and spread the pink lined note out on his thigh.
Dear prison inmate #18794,
My name is Christina Penny. I've received permission to correspond with you. I understand that it's your right not to respond back to me, but I hope the money I've put in commissary under your name is incentive enough for you to reply. There's enough payment to supply you with paper, envelopes, and postage, plus extra to pay for your time. All I want to know with this first letter is if you believe you've ever been a good, upstanding citizen? Maybe sometime in your childhood you remember a pleasant thought or friend who you looked upon as a positive influence in your life and you did good things. You don't have to answer in detail. A simple yes or no would suffice.
Thank you for your time.
Christina
He folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope before returning the stack of mail to his satchel. He stared out at the river. Reading Christina's words put him right back inside, latching on to the only lifeline that came as close to what he believed was normalcy. He'd answered her honestly and told her no. Not once in his forty-four years of life had he been an upstanding citizen. He'd expected the letters to stop.
She kept writing, and he kept answering.
He spit on the ground, shaking off the claustrophobia that reminded him of his last stunt in prison. His mind played tricks on him, because he needed pussy, that's all. Between escorting the Moroad women into town to dance at Silver Girls, dealing with getting rid of an ex-member, and securing the chain to get the guns from the east coast to the west, he needed to get everything settled in one week. He started his motorcycle, looped the bike around, and headed toward the road. His hard work was almost over. Tonight, he'd celebrate.
Gunner and Stache stood out in the yard with Willy, a member of Moroad MC for the last twenty-two years who recently got out of prison from serving a ten-year term for going after a man with a baseball bat meant to kill.
Cam pulled his bike up to the porch at the same time the rest of the crew rode in behind him. For the next several minutes, he sat watching everyone park. There were twenty-eight Moroad members living free, and one hundred and seventy members currently incarcerated and working inside the concrete walls of the state pen. For once, the numbers inside supported their work on the outside.
They'd all gone long enough scrimping dollars, busting their balls, and waiting for the day the gun chain would be in place to transport the weapons. He swung his leg over his Harley and stepped up on the porch.
The bikes quieted, and everyone refrained from talking to hear the information they'd been waiting for.
On the outskirt of the crowd, Jeremy leaned against the junker travel trailer where Cam stored all his tools. He glanced at the kid, knowing he listened and took in everything around him. Despite Jeremy's aloofness, the kid soaked in every little detail. His eyes stayed clear, his mind remained fresh, and Moroad MC would benefit in the years to come having someone with Jeremy's dedication, once the kid learned the ropes.
"I called you all together to let you know the chain is complete." He planted his black boot on the porch railing and leaned his elbow against his knee. "Practice run went without mishap."
Cheers broke out among the men. It'd taken him almost a year since his release to make sure every district, every transporter, every holding area remained secure. The task wasn't an easy one, but with his connections in prison, they had a secure line from New York to California.
"The first delivery will begin next Tuesday. It'll arrive in the Silver Valley on Thursday where we'll send it on to completion. Each meeting will happen outside of Federal at a different location each trip. We're getting seventy-five grand up front. The rest of the money will come when the supplies hit the boat." Cam held up his hand, quieting the talk down. "Every member knows what role in the chain they're responsible for, so I see no problems."
"What if there's a hiccup?" Willy asked.
"You shoot and get rid of the problem." Cam put his boot down and stretched. "The rest of us will make sure we stay out of the block to guarantee the links remain connected."
"Any chance the six of us working in the silver mine can join in and get our asses out of being underground all the God damn time?" Ring, named after all the piercings on his body, moved forward. "The fucking heat is worse than being inside, man."
Cam shook his head. "We need brothers working an honest job to keep law enforcement off our backs. You'll receive a cut, the same as those who are putting their life on the line."
Ring's silver jewelry lifted along with his brows. "Thanks, Cam."
"The few women who work at Silver Girls will continue. As far as they know, they're helping out Moroad, showing their loyalty to the men, and it also keeps them away while we do business." He raised his gaze, catching sight of four cars barreling down the road. "The women are here. Let's shut down the talk and celebrate."
He stepped off the porch and walked over to the cooler filled with ice and beer. The sooner he could slink off into I-don't-give-a-shit-land, the better.
Car doors slammed, caps off the bottles of beer were chucked toward the empty oil barrel in the yard, and someone cranked the stereo on one of the cars littering his front yard. A quick snap of his wrist and he chugged one bottle down while reaching for another.
Jessie, a single twenty one year old, who started coming to the house with the now incarcerated Moroad member, Boot, caught his eye. Her breasts strained against the short sundress she wore. The thin material couldn't hide her nipples. His balls pulsed, noticing she wasn't wearing panties. The wind kept blowing the skirt of her dress between her legs. Every time she fussed with the material, she flashed a bare pussy.
"Hey," he said, lifting his chin. "Get your ass over here and keep my side warm."
Conversations between the women stopped, and Jessie hurried over to him. He could have any one of the women if he asked. Not one of them would turn down an offer to be with the president.
Jessie walked straight toward him and wrapped her slim arms around his waist, pressing the V of her legs against his upper thigh. He waited for the twinge of desire to come. Hell, how many years had he laid in his cell and thought about what he'd do if he had a woman beside him? Ten fucking years, and all he could pull out of him was relief to get his nut off and then get rid of the woman. He blamed his lack of needing more comfort on Christina, and while other women were here and available, he wanted something more, something he'd never get from a Moroad woman.
"Get those lips ready, because you're going to suck me until I'm done." He slung his arm around Jessie's shoulders and took her to the porch.
Jeremy watched him, staying away from everyone and still held the damn motorcycle manual. He winked at the kid, and Jeremy turned away from him. Changing his plans about sitting on the porch, watching his brothers, and having Jessie kneeling at his boots sucking him off, he pushed through the door. The kid wasn't ready to see what occupies a man's mind twenty-three hours out of the day. That lesson would come later.
Chapter Three
The pipe running through the wall of Christina's apartment above Cleo's Coffee Cave clanged three times. Christina hugged the package of letters to her pounding chest, willing the tension from her neck up into her scalp to go away. The headache she'd fought for the last week, since Cam had his members manhandle her into his house, made it impossible to work through the terror of what had happened.
Every time she stepped outside or went to do her laundry, she worried about someone from Moroad Motorcycle Club seeing her. She stroked the red ribbon around the letters. After years of battling her fears since her parents were murdered, the man she sought out in prison to answer her questions became the only person she could rely on. If only she could write him one more time, and maybe that would be enough to feel better.
She missed writing to him, but she had to let go. She was a survivor and she was safe. At least she thought she was safe until Cam stepped up and took custody of Jeremy.
Cam brought all the bad and good things back to her. She had to keep telling herself Cam was not prisoner #1879
4. The pleasure she'd found looking into his eyes right before she'd left his house were nothing more than her imagination, because he sounded so much like the written letters she'd received.
Maybe all prisoners and ex-convicts talked in short sentences and were over confident. Reality was much different from anonymous letters written in the safety of her own apartment.
She'd written to a convict for the sole purpose of finally putting the idea out of her mind that she wasn't bad for wanting the person responsible for her parents' murder dead. She knew inside she was a good person, because prisoner #18794 showed her the difference between her thoughts and his. And yet, she longed for the attention that came her way by corresponding with him. She'd enjoyed having someone stronger and smarter than her taking an interest in helping her.
In some ways, she envied prisoner #18794 and his ability not to carry guilt around with him and to act on his instincts. Guilt weighed her down on a daily basis. Fear immobilized her and she constantly struggled to find the strength to continue living a life on her own.
Cam once again made her feel weak and vulnerable. Confronting him set her back, and she was scared of losing the progress she'd made and worried she'd slip down into a depressed state of mind.
She unfolded the last letter she ever received from prisoner #18794 after writing to him for two years and read what gave her the strength to move on the last time, hoping his words would again set her on the right path.
Christina,
You're wrong thinking we're the same type of people. I've committed crimes that haven't even entered your mind, whether I had a good reason to do those acts or not. I don't care about anyone else, or what anyone thinks of my choices. My freedom is the only thing I want and yet, I would give up my freedom in the blink of an eye without any guilt. My life means shit, and a woman who is a survivor will never understand that it doesn't matter if I'm alive on the outside, shut away for life in this hellhole, or dead. It all feels the same, and I don't spend my days thinking about changing.
