by Carol Lynne
The pain of longing threatened to overwhelm her as she chose a checkout lane and waited. She’d been so close to getting out. She’d even been accepted to the University of Colorado, but that had been almost six years ago. Before her father had been arrested for murder, before the man who’d always frightened her had been sentenced to life in prison. Even then, she wouldn’t have put off school if her mother had been able to care for herself. Always a drunk, Ellie Rogers had been in and out of six court-mandated treatment programs since Santana had been a child. Unfortunately, nothing had worked until Ellie had been diagnosed with lung cancer. Even now, weighing barely ninety pounds and confined to her bed, she often used what little strength she had left to rail against Santana because she wouldn’t buy her booze. Stupidly, no naively, she’d hoped her mom would finally notice her once she got sober. Sure, her mom noticed her now, but only as a nursemaid and an object of ridicule.
“Paper or plastic?” Barb, the cashier asked, breaking into Santana’s thoughts. She’d visited the store twice a month since the age of twelve, and Barb still didn’t acknowledge her any more than she would a stranger who was passing through town.
“Paper.” Santana unloaded her meager supply of groceries onto the conveyor belt and held her breath while Barb scanned her items. Please don’t be over fifty dollars she began to chant in her head. It had happened before, and she’d been forced to go through the humiliating process of putting items back.
She dug three coupons out of her purse. The dollar-fifty she would save on the vitamin drink had allowed her to buy a two-liter bottle of generic grape soda. It was an extravagance, she knew, but it had been so long since she’d purchased something for herself that she couldn’t pass it up. She handed the coupons to Barb and waited for the total.
“Forty-nine seventy-three,” Barb announced.
Santana pulled out a bundle of wrinkled ones and fives and handed the entire thing to the cashier. “There should be fifty dollars.”
With a roll of her eyes, Barb made a production of smoothing the bills before separating them. Finally, after the customer behind Santana cleared her throat, Barb counted the money and finished the transaction. Barb handed Santana twenty-seven cents before dismissing her completely. No, have a nice day, no, thank you.
She was used to it. There were definitely three types of people in Broken Ridge. Two of which were those who worked at the nearby state prison and those whose family members were incarcerated. Unfortunately, she belonged in the latter category. Her father had been in and out of prison several times for short stretches, but the last time had been for murder. Even before her father had died in a prison brawl, she knew she’d never see him again. Not only did her mother have a strict rule about Santana not going near the prison, but also her relationship with her father wasn’t a happy one. She wasn’t sure what the fight had been about that had ended Smash’s life. No doubt, the third category of people in Broken Ridge had something to do with it. Unfortunately, the third type was the bikers of the Kings of Bedlam Motorcycle Club. Why the hell they’d chosen Broken Ridge was anyone’s guess, but because they had, she was stuck in the middle of nowhere without a single friend. She should be used to it by now. Growing up, she’d played with the other club kids. It hadn’t really been a choice. Since her mother was always too drunk to watch her, Smash had usually taken her to the club with him when he had business. The club was on a forty-acre piece of land with plenty of room for kids to play and explore without being subjected to the bullshit that went on inside the building. Except for a few quick trips to the bathroom and three lockdowns, she hadn’t been allowed in the clubhouse. Lockdowns might sound like one big slumber party, but when dozens of families were cloistered inside a building for days or weeks because of some threat to the club, it sucked after the first day or so.
The non-biker children she went to school with had been told, she assumed by their parents, to stay away from the Kings’ kids. She hadn’t really minded at the time, she’d had Gill, Jaycee and Tiny to pal around with.
She parked the cart outside the store next to the old rusted Red Flyer wagon she’d had since she was a kid. After loading the groceries into the wagon, she started the two-mile walk home. It wouldn’t have been a big deal except her flip-flop was broken and being held together with plastic tab she’d swiped from the produce department. She prayed the fix would be enough to get her home without having to walk barefoot along the gravel road on which she lived.
As usual, her mind began to wander back to the good ole days. The time in her life when she’d had a drunk for a mother, a scary fucker for a dad, three fantastic friends and a crush on a man she’d believed would always be there for her. Before the Kings had taken everything from her.
The Kings of Bedlam. Just thinking about the motorcycle club made her angry. Her father had joined the club before she’d been born, and had spent close to twenty years doing anything asked of him. He would disappear for weeks at a time before coming home bruised and out of sorts, usually smelling like pussy and booze. She still didn’t know what had happened the night one of the cops in town was murdered, but it had been the beginning of the end for their family. From that day on, they seemed to live in the gray. No one in town would have a thing to do with anyone in her family, including employers. Even her friends from the club had stopped talking to her after her father was sent to prison for pulling the trigger. And her crush? Yeah, Stake had also checked out of her life. Smash was an asshole when it came to everyone but his wife and his best friend, but evidently Stake hadn’t felt the same, or he wouldn’t have turned his back on them after Smash’s death. Without her father’s income, Santana and her mother had lived on the small government check they received each month. They were the trash of Broken Ridge and she was reminded of that fact every single day that she stepped foot outside the house.
Instead of walking along the sidewalk, she veered right and turned into the alley. On the street, she was too much of a target. It would be easy for County Sheriff Gordon to cruise by and spot her. Absently, she lifted a hand to her cheek. One run-in with Pete Gordon a week was more than enough, thank you very much. Gordon was in the Kings’ pocket, which made him virtually untouchable.
The wagon hit a rock, jerking her to a halt. Sighing, she kicked the stone out of the way before continuing. “Stupid rock,” she mumbled under her breath.
Pete Gordon had to be at least fifty-years old. With his receding hairline, potbelly and penchant for chewing tobacco, she still didn’t understand why on earth he would think she’d welcome him into her bed. She shivered at the thought of lying under the pig, knowing she wouldn’t be able to keep him at bay much longer.
At first she’d tried being polite. When that hadn’t worked, she’d just avoided answering the door each time he’d dropped by the house. Both tactics had worked for a while, but Gordon had let her know two nights earlier that he wouldn’t be put off any longer. According to him, getting into her pants was inevitable, one way or another, so she might as well accept it. She’d even caught him looking into her bedroom and had been forced to tack one of her bed sheets to the wall above her window to block his view.
Santana exited the alley and turned left down the gravel road that would take her home. She knew Gordon was not only capable of rape but would probably enjoy it more. He seemed like the type to get off on overpowering an opponent, especially when that opponent was a woman. She reached for the hunting knife that had belonged to her father. After the beating, she’d decided to fight back if Gordon ever tried to lay his filthy hands on her again. No one in town would be surprised if she killed the sheriff. Not because they knew about Gordon’s perverse nature, but because no one expected any less from a member of the Rogers family. Could she do it? She’d been asking herself that question since pulling the knife out of her father’s old trunk.
Once outside of town, she released the handle on the wagon. She dug into her bag for an elastic band and gathered her waist-length dark brown waves in
to a haphazard bun before pulling off the long-sleeved shirt she’d used to hide the bruises marring her skin. Thankfully, she’d thought to wear a thin tank top underneath or she’d be looking at heatstroke before she arrived home. Using the shirt, she wiped sweat from her face, neck and chest before tossing it on top of the groceries. It was one hundred and ten degrees in the shade, which meant she wouldn’t be much cooler once she got home. With no air conditioning, she’d been forced to put the two small fans they owned in her mother’s room because when it came right down to it, she loved her mom. Why, she still didn’t understand, but she did. Fuck.
There were days when she told herself she should call the county health department and let them take care of her mother. It wasn’t like her mother had ever lifted a finger to help raise her. Between grieving for a life she hadn’t had and drinking, Ellie had barely noticed she had a daughter until her husband had been sent up for murder. Even then, the only thing her mother wanted was Santana to walk into town to pick up her order at the liquor store. Nope, it hadn’t been until she’d been diagnosed with cancer that Ellie had needed anything real from her only child.
* * * *
Jakob “Stake” Wills set his empty beer bottle on the bar and looked around. The clubhouse had turned into a dump. The young recruits had absolutely no respect for the place and it showed in the ripped posters, smell of cum and soured spilled beer. As usual, one of the club bitches was giving Iggy head on the couch. Why the hell Ig didn’t do that shit in his room was anyone’s guess. Stake wasn’t a fucking prude, but, hell, it got old after a while. The whole lifestyle was starting to take its toll on him. It was a hard life, no matter what some people thought. Outsiders believed all they did was ride, drink and fuck, but the fucking and drinking were merely the outlets they used to deal with the real shit.
The mess he’d dealt with in San Antonio was proof of how fucked up things were. The Kings sold weed, pussy and protection, so when Cecil had asked him to make a run to the city to check on business, he’d been surprised to find an entire stable of whores with track marks. He’d immediately demanded to know where they were getting their shit, and one of them, Sweet Penny, had told him it was a new perk of working for the Kings.
Stake had stormed into the house the Kings used for business in the city to confront his brothers. He found Bones, Jimmy and Rabbit in the middle of what looked like a mother-fucking pharmacy. He would have exploded on the spot had it not been for Hog, the club’s Sergeant at Arms, standing in the corner of the room. If Hog was in the house, it meant Cecil knew exactly what was going down in San Antonio. The fact that Cecil was his uncle, and someone he thought he could trust, made it harder to swallow.
“You want another?” Mad Dog, one of the new patches asked. It was a stupid fucking name, and Stake had told him so on several occasions, but the idiot liked it. Like all biker names, Mad Dog hadn’t given the name to himself. The brothers had started calling the kid that when he was a zit-faced prospect because the fucker got caught pissing on a fire hydrant. Stake had no room to talk. His own nickname was dumber than hell, but his mom had given it to him before he could even walk. He’d been eleven before he’d finally discovered its meaning.
“Stake,” Mad Dog prodded. “You want another?”
“No.” Stake had planned to confront Cecil, but decided to do it in the weekly meeting they called church. “I gotta get outta here before Iggy blows all over that redhead.”
“You’re still coming to the wedding, right?” Mad Dog asked after him.
“Free beer?”
Mad Dog nodded. “And food. Corrine’s dad is roasting a whole pig in that big smoker he has. Bring a side dish if you want, but it’s not necessary.”
Despite his sour mood, Stake grinned. “How old’re you, twenty-seven, twenty-eight? Why the hell would you tie yourself to one pussy for the rest of your life?”
Mad Dog smiled. “God didn’t really bless me in the looks department, so when you find a woman as pretty as my Corrine, who wants you, you know better than to let that shit get away.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said as he headed out of the club. He was crossing the parking lot to his bike when Cecil called to him.
“Stake!”
Stake stopped and glanced over his shoulder. He wasn’t in the mood for Cecil’s bullshit. “What?”
Cecil produced a business-sized white envelope. “I need you to drop this by the Sherriff’s house before you disappear again.”
“Disappear?” Stake curled his hands into fists. “You think I’ve been off on a fucking joy ride? You sent me to the city because you knew what I’d fucking find,” he accused.
Cecil narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what the hell’s up your ass lately, but you’d better fucking dig it out before church tomorrow night.”
Stake took two steps toward Cecil, ready to take his frustration out on his prez’s face. The last thing he needed was to be reminded about the club meeting like he was a goddamned prospect. He fisted his hands, ready to start some shit when Mad Dog ran out of the building.
“Phone,” Mad Dog said, holding up the secured cell phone that was always kept behind the bar.
“Who is it?” Cecil growled without taking his eyes off Stake.
“Hog. He said there’s a problem.” Mad Dog’s gaze swung back and forth between Stake and Cecil. “What should I tell him?”
Cecil slammed the envelope against Stake’s chest. “Do what I told you.”
“Since when do I do a prospect’s job?” He hadn’t been Cecil’s delivery man for years.
“I need you to feel Gordon out. There’s something going on with him, and I want to make sure we can trust him,” Cecil replied. “And the next time you question me, I’ll put a fucking bullet between your eyes.”
Fuck! Stake grabbed the envelope from his uncle. He hated Sheriff Pete Gordon. The fat pig had blackmailed the club for years, and as far as Stake was concerned, it was a waste of good green. “Why don’t I just put a bullet in the fucker, instead?”
“Because there’d be someone else to take his place before the last of the shit left his body. The way our luck’s gone lately, some pencil-dicked motherfucker who refuses to look the other way would take his place.” Cecil jerked the phone out of Mad Dog’s hand before turning back toward the club. “Call your mom, and tell her I’m not your goddamned babysitter.”
Stake stared after his uncle, thankful that he’d left his gun at home.
“Everything okay between you two?” Mad Dog asked.
Stake chuckled, the sound anything but light. “That’s the question of the day.”
Mad Dog continued to stare at Stake. “Anything you want to talk about?”
Stake straddled his Harley and settled the half-helmet onto his head before fastening the chinstrap. “Be at church tomorrow night, and you’ll get a fucking earful.” He pulled out of the club’s parking lot and headed toward town. The shit would drive him crazy before he got to say his peace. A conversation he’d had years earlier kept playing through his mind. “Fuck!” He squeezed his eyes shut and screamed into the wind, opening them just in time to avoid a car that had pulled out in front of him.
Avoiding the car, he zipped around it and flipped the fucker off as he passed. He needed to keep his head straight. There would be plenty of time to chew on the past after he delivered the goddamn money.
The last time he’d made a drop-off at Gordon’s place, he’d spotted Santana sunbathing next door. Fuck, even at seventeen she’d had tits that had made his dick hard, which was really fucking sick considering he’d known her since she was four. That had been almost seven years ago, and he’d done his best to stay the hell away from that side of town since, knowing what would happen to him if he gave into his need for the sexy as fuck woman he had no business thinking of.
He pulled into Gordon’s graveled drive, trying like hell not to notice the house next door. Except for the open windows, the house looked abandoned, complete with a ra
gged blue tarp stretched over a section of the roof. Goddamn. The mere thought of his old friend still had the power to hurt him. Smash’s betrayal in telling his bitch of a wife all the club’s secrets had prompted Ellie’s greed. The fact that the club agreed to allow the bitch to continue to breathe was only due to Smash’s years of service and the innocent daughter he’d left behind when he was killed. Stake had used the shit with Smash to convince the rest of the brotherhood that messing in the hard stuff wasn’t worth it. He’d fought long and hard to get the fucking heroin and cocaine out of club business, and for years, he’d been proud of the way his brothers had gone against Cecil to agree.
Gordon’s front door opened, and the disgusting slob stepped out onto the porch, obviously alerted by the sound of the bike. He rested his hands on his stomach and stared at Stake as if he had no clue why Stake was there.
“Fat fucker,” Stake mumbled. Making no move to climb off his bike, he retrieved his ringing phone. Shit. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you call and tell me you were back in town?” Rachel asked.
“Now why in the hell would I do that? I’ve told you a million times, we’re done.” He hated to get nasty with the daughter of one of his brothers, but Rachel was like a leech that wouldn’t let go. He’d been dumb enough to fuck her on three separate drunken occasions and the bitch wouldn’t get over it.
“I’m sure my dad wouldn’t be very happy if I told him how you used me.”
“I didn’t use you, bitch. You knew exactly what I was about when I sank my dick in your pussy. So go ahead and tell Magic. I’m sure he’ll also be interested to know that you’ve fucked Tiny and Lumpy in the last six months, too.” He was so tired of dealing with bitch drama. What the hell did they expect after a couple nights of hard-core fucking, a marriage proposal?
