by Debra Kayn
"What's this for?" Jeremy asked.
"It's your protection, kid." Cam stepped back and motioned for him to stand. "Swing it around."
Jeremy stepped out into the middle of the room and lazily swung the braid left and right. On the third swing, the end of the braid wrapped around his hip and the lead ball nailed him in the lower back. Jeremy's knees bent on impact and he groaned. Cam chuckled. He'd done the same thing the first time he held his Moroad braid and carried a bruise for a week.
"Keep practicing. In the meantime, latch it on the handlebar of your motorcycle. The colors will protect you and your bike. Nobody will touch you," Cam said. "If you find yourself in trouble, instead of reaching for your pistol, try the rope out when you get better at swinging it. But, remember, it can be deadly too."
"What about using it on those guys from town?" Jeremy held the braid in his hands. "I'm tired of them coming after me."
He doubt some punk ass kids knew what belonging to Moroad MC meant, but they'd learn. Cam lowered his voice and said, "They touch you again, and I'll take care of them myself."
Jeremy's slim chest expanded in surprise, and he nodded. "Thanks."
Cam coughed into his hand to hide his amusement. "Get upstairs and go to bed. It's almost three o'clock in the morning and I got shit for you to do tomorrow."
Jeremy's happiness in having someone protect him showed up in the half jog he took to seek shelter alone, where he could soak in the information Cam handed him. He watched the kid disappear down the hallway. While Jeremy would get past the killing tonight and become a better man, Cam struggled with what to do about the woman in his bed.
He picked up the two pieces of pizza Christina ignored earlier and carried the plate to the kitchen. Christina's broken spirit and lack of appetite played right into his hands, and for how much he wanted her to put something in her stomach, his plans would happen faster if she hit her low and willingly grasped the good things he could give her. A useful negotiation tool he'd learned in prison. He'd gone through his own lows and when those highs—no matter how stupid they seemed at the time— came, he'd held on tighter and became stronger.
Flipping off the kitchen light, he left the room. The back of his knee ached and he slowed his step. The damn beating he'd taken a year ago fucked with his body. A permanent reminder of where he came from and what he'd done to survive.
He peeked out the living room window. Gunner and Half-rack stood near the travel trailer smoking. Unconcerned with their presence, he scanned the rest of the yard. All his men hung around the house, taking whatever comfort they could find after dealing with Ted. From the drinking and smoking going on, they'd still be out there when daylight came. He left the window and glanced at the couch. His body wasn't going to take another night of sleeping on a piece of shit furniture.
He shut off the living room light, walked to his bedroom, and unlocked the door. Inside, he paused, taking in Christina's deep, slow breathing. She slept soundly, and he leaned over and took off his boots. In his socks, he walked to the bed and let his eyes adjust to the darkness.
Five days of solitary and she still hung onto hope he'd let her go. He had to hold out on giving her more freedom until she relied on him completely.
Christina's hair lay spread over the pillow, but that was the only part of her that appeared relaxed. She'd wrapped herself tight inside the blanket, lying on her side, her knees and chin pulled to her chest. The warm day made the nights comfortable with only a sheet. Thinking she was too hot cocooned inside his comforter, he trailed his hand over her forehead.
She was warm, but not sweaty. His chest tightened. After Christina had finally confessed her past to him in several letters and explained her reasons for contacting him, he'd imagined her covered and hiding in much the same fashion as she did now. He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
His lips lingered on her skin and he whispered, "Whether you believe me or not, I'm doing this for you."
The desire to loosen the blanket around her, lie down, and share her warmth almost undid him. He limped away to the recliner in the corner of the room and sat down. Kicking back and stretching his legs, he closed his eyes. The years he spent in prison made him a light sleeper. Christina wouldn't be able to turn over without waking him up.
Except sleep never came easy to him.
His leg muscles crawled, tensing his body. He shifted more to his hip and straightened his knee. Ever since a Los Li member caught him walking out of the day area back to his cell and introduced him to a two-foot long lead pipe to his left knee, every step was a reminder of him screwing up. He should've been aware of what was going down.
Medical attention came a day after the beat down in the form of a cast, even though the knee needed surgery. He'd lasted two weeks, before he picked apart the fibers and tore the solid brace off his leg. Going without a cast was the only way he could get out of solitary and back into the general population at the prison to protect his MC brothers.
The second day back in his cell, he'd received Christina's letter recounting everything from her parents' murders. Bile burned the back of his throat at the pain her words brought out in him. Because of the type of life he'd led, he only understood the confession for what it was...words in a letter. Somehow, the vulnerability conveyed in each painfully written sentence stuck with him. Anger built inside of him; until he wanted to do something to take away the pain another man gave her.
In retaliation and need, he'd taken the information she'd willingly handed to him, used his connections within the prison, and found out the Los Li member who'd mangled his leg was also the man responsible for her parents' murders. By the end of the week, Los Li lost one more member of their gang.
Cam had used the only thing on him at the time to kill the man responsible for causing Christina pain, his hands. He'd strangled him while the man stared up into his face. That night, he'd slept better than he had during the ten years of his incarceration.
He ran his hands over his face. To this day, the thought of Christina alone and broken left him wanting to protect her. He couldn't rationalize why empathy for her showed up in him, when the emotion neglected him his whole life.
Christina moaned in her sleep. He evened out his breathing, watching the blanketed mound on the bed for any movement without giving his presence away. More curious than worried, he listened to her squirm and moan in her sleep.
Christina's soft cries continued. He grabbed the chair's lever, straightened the back of the recliner, and put his feet on the floor. Careful not to make any noise, he returned to the side of the bed and laid his hand on the top of her head.
"You're okay," he whispered, caressing the soft curls springing out across the pillow. "Someday, you're going to wrap around me and ask me to protect you, instead of thinking that damn blanket is going to save you."
A shudder ran through her body and quickly calmed. He inhaled swiftly and closed his eyes. She'd settled with his touch. Taking her was the right thing to do for both of them.
Chapter Seven
The warm, sweet fragrance of pancakes woke Christina. She looked around the room without moving. The ratty chair sat in the corner, the leather cords, broken motorcycle chain, and neglected hairbrush sat on the dresser. She lifted her head.
The door, usually closed and locked, stood open.
She shifted, trying to prop her arm on the bed, and the blanket wound around her body constricted her movements. Frantic, she kicked and shoved the offending material away and stood, gasping for breath. Her body ached and her feet, still encased in her shoes, seemed alien and not part of her body. She awkwardly walked to the door, peered out into the hallway, and found the place empty. If Cam or Jeremy were in the kitchen, she could make it to the front door without anyone noticing.
Her bladder acknowledged morning and she clamped her teeth together against the urge. She was not taking the time to use the bathroom this time.
A pan clattered in the kitchen, bringing her up short. She waited, an
d when no one walked out into the living room, she hurried across the hall and through the main room of the house, uncoordinated from her restless sleep. At the door, she turned the handle. She bit her lip to keep from crying in relief when the latch gave way. Filled with hopeful adrenaline, she inched the solid wood door clear of the latch without making a sound.
Cam's threat kept her from rushing out. She peeked through the slight opening to the vacant yard. A man's cough came from behind her. She jumped, looking over her shoulder, but the noise came from the kitchen. Afraid she'd wasted too much time making her escape, she slipped outside, and ran.
Her legs, weighted and sluggish, held her back. She pumped her arms the second she jumped off the porch and landed in the grass. Fear deflated her lungs. She sucked in air, feeding off her desire to go faster and ducked down below the porch railing as she ran the length of the house.
At the edge of the porch, she came to an abrupt stop, careening forward onto her tiptoes. Terror flashed over her. She shuffled backward, reaching out for the railing as if two thin, half-rotten boards would protect her from the man standing at the end of the porch.
Cam's huge body towered over her from his advantage point. She gazed around the yard looking for something nearby to use as a weapon. He'd warned her about what would happen if she tried to escape. Any rash decision on her part would end her life.
"Please," she whispered, gasping for breath. "Please don't shoot me."
"It's time for breakfast." He motioned the gun toward the house to get her moving. "Jeremy made pancakes for you. Don't disappoint the kid."
She turned and walked along the porch, watching him carefully, expecting the pistol to point at her again. When she made it up onto the same level and she wasn't dead, she couldn't stop her fear from lashing out.
"A child shouldn't be raised around guns," she said, flinching when he stepped closer.
He lowered his head and looked her in the eyes. "A woman should learn to listen, so she doesn't end up dead."
"You're an asshole," she said, hissing the words.
Void of emotions, he stared into her eyes. She shook with anger. Cam neither glared nor acknowledged the impact of her statement. He totally dismissed her.
He stood in front of her, blank and unresponsive. She glanced away, unable to look at his cold, dead eyes. Eyes that reminded her of the man who'd walked away free after killing her parents.
"Move." He growled, glaring at her.
She walked past him into the house, and planned to stay out of his way and do nothing to anger him. Instead, she conserved her energy for when she stood a chance of escaping.
Cam placed his hand on her back and guided her into the kitchen. The warmth of his touch burned her, reminding her that she had no one to help her. Nobody would look for her, worry, or miss her when she was gone.
The aroma of bacon frying filled the room. Her stomach flipped in revolt, but she refused to show any sign if she ate, she'd probably throw up. She had years of learning how to hide the truth, and she wouldn't give Cam the satisfaction of hurting her more.
Jeremy glanced up from the grill, spotted her, and raised his brows. "You're awake."
She nodded, afraid her bladder would betray her.
"Give her five minutes, and she'll eat." Cam led her back out of the room and said, "You've seen the trouble the kid went through to make you comfortable here. Now you can use the bathroom, wash up, and come straight back to the kitchen."
Automatically, she walked away to do what he ordered. She used the toilet, washed her hands, rubbed her finger over her teeth and rinsed her mouth out from the faucet, all while ignoring her reflection in the mirror. She exited the bathroom and walked toward the kitchen.
By the front door, she paused. Her mind screamed to run and try to escape again, but the powerless feeling paralyzed her. Even if she made it off the porch, Cam would shoot her. To believe she could outrun a bullet was foolish. The desire to know she'd at least tried to save herself, that she'd earned the right to fight back, that she'd die knowing for once in her life she'd escaped her own troubles couldn't win against the fear of dying.
Prisoner #18794 had told her nobody ever changed. People born bad stayed bad, and the only one who could protect her was herself. To save her life, she'd have to do things she wasn't comfortable doing. A lifetime of experience to draw her decision from, she moved toward the kitchen to do what Cam ordered. She wasn't a masochist. She wanted to live.
Jeremy set a plate down on the table in front of an empty chair. "I didn't know how you liked your eggs, so I flipped them."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Cam planted his elbows on the table. The air shifted. His thick, hard arms a constant reminder of the strength beneath the surface. She took a deep breath, the smell of the food mixed with Cam so close to her he could touch her bothered her stomach and she suddenly wanted to eat to make the hungry feelings go away.
Jeremy sat down on the opposite side of the table and glanced between her and Cam. She folded her hands on her lap. Maybe Jeremy's dysfunctional life with his mother made living with his father seem normal. The illusion of pancakes and a roof over his head was anything but normal.
Cam's way of surviving included a questionable motorcycle club. She'd heard the talk from the bedroom. He was the president and while she had no idea what that title meant, she wasn't blind. The Moroad Motorcycle Club's main goal wasn't to ride the country for sport and relaxation. They took orders from Cam, including killing someone.
Cam pulled her plate away from her, lathered butter and drizzled syrup over her pancakes, leaving a small puddle on the edge of her plate, away from her eggs. He slid the plate back in front of her.
"Eat," Cam said, going back to his own plate of food.
She lowered her gaze to the food, picked up her fork, and did what he told her to do. Ravenous to the point of starving, she went through the motions of filling her sensitive stomach. After a few bites, her throat muscles relaxed and each bite started to go down easier and she actually tasted the food. She latched onto the comfort such a basic meal brought her, deciding the food was a gift from Jeremy, not Cam.
Cam wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and stood from the table. She paused watching him rinse the plate and fork off in the sink and load the dishes in the dishwasher. The courtesy of doing his own dishes belied the asinine treatment he put her through. She'd figured him a man who let the kitchen fall into disarray and ate pizza when starvation growled in his firm, hard belly. She lowered her gaze to her plate. So what if he did his own dishes and he stayed physically fit. He'd kidnapped her, and wasn't going to let her go.
"Make sure you put the rest of the dishes away," Cam said.
Jeremy chewed and swallowed his mouthful of pancake. "I will."
Cam filled up a glass with water. She eyed him, curious to know how Jeremy fit into the household of bikers. It didn't matter that Jeremy cooked the meal. He was old enough to partake in household chores and feed himself as long as someone provided groceries for him. Even his mother, before she died, failed to provide the necessities. Often times, she'd found him sitting in a house with no water or electricity, because the bills weren't paid.
"There's some girly stuff in the first drawer in the bathroom." Cam lumbered to the table and slid the glass in front of her. "It's all new and it's yours. Use it."
She stared, unable to process what he was talking about. Everything she owned was back at her apartment, and he'd taken her purse.
"I'd like to go home," she said.
Cam ignored her and looked at Jeremy. "Make sure she finds everything she needs."
Jeremy nodded. She gripped the edge of the table. He couldn't keep ignoring her. She had a life of her own, a job, and an apartment.
Cam walked out of the room. She held her breath and exhaled loudly when the front door closed. Not wasting any time, she faced Jeremy. "I want to go home."
"I know." Jeremy picked up her plate and carried the di
shes from the table into the kitchen.
She scrambled to follow him and whispered, "I don't want to get you in trouble, but I need to leave. He's keeping me here against my will, Jeremy. I-I can get away and let the police know what he's done. I'll find a foster family who'll take you in where you're safe. I promise I won't leave you here."
Jeremy lifted his chin off his chest. "I'm not going to another foster home."
"But, he's not a good person," she whispered.
Jeremy turned and faced her. "He's my dad."
She rocked back, assaulted by the conviction in his voice. "I know, but—"
"Come on. I'll show you your things." Jeremy stepped around her and walked to the doorway where he waited for her. "Ms. Nickelson, Cam gave me his old motorcycle and some clothes. Last night, he made me a gift. I know you don't like him and I know what he's done to you is real bad, but I've never had anything except charity gifts handed to me with pity. He says I can stay here, even after I turn eighteen years old and I'm out of school. I'm going to stick around and become a member of Moroad Motorcycle club like him."
Keeping her thoughts about Cam's parenting to herself, she followed Jeremy through the house. She entered the bathroom and shut the door, glad to have a moment of privacy to collect herself.
While she stood staring at the too small window high on the wall, she tried to come up with other options on how to escape. She'd never be able to climb up there, much less get her fat butt through the opening. There were too many risks if she used the front door. If it wasn't Cam stopping her, he'd ordered the other Moroad members to kill her. Her breakfast fell flat in her stomach and she sat on the closed toilet seat. After last night and seeing a man killed, or at least on the verge of being killed, the only option left was to arm herself in case Cam decided to do the same to her. Or, if he decided to take his bed back with her in it. She shivered, not liking the options.
She opened the top drawer and removed a hairbrush. The wooden handle fit in the palm of her hand and the bristles slid out of the plastic holder glued to the handle. She pried the two pieces apart and shifted onto her hip, shoving the handle into her pocket. Not wanting anyone to catch her, she fingered through the supplies looking for anything else that could help her escape or at least harm Cam, so she could get away.
