Indulge

by C. D. Breadner

  INDULGE

  -A Red Rebels MC Novel-

  C.D. Breadner

  The Freak Circle Press

  Copyright 2014 C.D. Breadner

  Acknowledgements

  I have to first off thank all the fan fiction readers who told me to write an original MC story. This is basically all your fault.

  Thank you to the authors of The Freak Circle Press; Shannon Flag and Lina Andersson for your feedback and Susan Fanetti, Catherine Johnson and Sarah Osbourne for telling me not to delete it all.

  Huge thank you for the editing help to Mike Rix and Marcilyn Yanke as well.

  And thank you to my husband for letting me type. I’m sorry the keyboard is so loud.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Indulge

  About C.D. Breadner

  Connect With C.D. Breadner

  Prologue

  -NOW-

  The ceiling overhead lit up with the slanted beams of a car’s headlights, but she held no hope that it meant help was coming. She’d been lying here for … six hours now? Her neighbors were out when the commotion started, and she’d woken up when they turned on their TV. She’d hollered best she could, but that hurt, too. She guessed her ribs were broken. So she gave up. Might have slipped under again.

  The sound of traffic must have woken her. That’s how she noticed the headlights.

  The cough that hit her wasn’t her idea. Her ribs protested again, and the more she tried to fight the need to hack up a lung the worse it was. She felt the tears in her eyes, and they burned from how much she’d already wept strictly from how much pain she was in.

  On her side she could see the legs of her bed, and she cringed to notice how much dust there was underneath. On the far side she could also see a pile of smashed glass that had once been a crystal ashtray. As dumb as it sounded, that had been one of the few things that held memories of her mother that she still had. And now it was shattered.

  She’d been in this position since they’d left her. They’d stepped over her while they ransacked the bedroom, and she’d played possum the whole time, listening to them curse and swear, calling her names, running down her father, and she still had no idea what they were looking for.

  Before they’d left their leader, a large, dark-skinned man that looked to be of middle-Eastern descent, had kicked her in the ribs with his motorcycle boots. She was pretty sure they were broken after that.

  She lifted her hand to study it. Her fingernails were ripped to shit, she’d tried that hard to defend herself. They’d broken off at the point of bleeding. Still she touched her face carefully, tracing fingertips over the swollen contours that now made up her cheekbones, lips, eyes. It probably hurt, but she was getting numb from hurting. Except for those ribs.

  She flattened that hand on the carpet and pushed, attempting to right herself. But there was no way. She wondered if her shoulder wasn’t dislocated based on the flash of white light that struck, hitting her head from the inside out.

  “What the fuck happened?”

  She blinked awake again, wondering if this wasn’t another mirage. A dream. A false hope.

  Denim-clad knees dropped to the carpet she’d been staring at for what felt like days. A hand touched her cheek, feeling cool and comforting. “Gertie? What the hell? Are you with me? Gertie?”

  She licked at her lips, knowing they were cracked.

  “Oh, thank Christ.”

  She almost smiled at the relief in his voice but that hurt, too. So she just managed to croak out, “Where the hell have you been?”

  She heard the chuckle he gave, felt it in her bones, and she smiled again despite the split lip.

  “I’m here now, Gertie. We’re gonna get you fixed up.”

  Chapter One

  Gertrude Dénise was named after her grandmother who had crossed the ocean for the US during the Second World War, leaving behind a husband who lost his life during the conflict fighting for the Free French. She arrived in America at 19, pregnant with her first child. For this reason alone “Gertie” never once resented her name. Sure she was the only Gertrude in a school full of Lisas, Tammys, Jodis and Amandas, but her grandmother had been someone to admire and strive to take after.

  Gertie’s uncle Henri was the son of that Free French soldier, named after his father. Gertie’s mother came seven years later; just six months after Gertrude Bernard married her second husband, Patrick Tash. Gertrude was a brash, plain-speaking woman who had never once white-washed anything over for her grandkids. “I was knocked up when I got married both times,” she would say. “But I know plenty of people went to the altar legitimately wearing a white dress who ended up divorced. I’ve had my Patrick for forty years and he’s never wandered.”

  In short, she was the most kick-ass grandmother Gertie knew of.

  Anytime Gertie had wanted to know about France during the occupation, what it was like to cross the ocean while pregnant, how grandma met grandpa, the answers were given without romanticized idealism.

  “I didn’t want to leave. Henri threw me over his shoulder and carried me up the gangplank, dropped me back on my feet and walked away. That was the last time I ever saw him.”

  “I was sick the whole boat ride over. But everyone was sea sick so no one thought it was strange.”

  “I met your Granddad at a bar. He was staring at my chest all night. I figured I may as well dance with him.”

  Her story didn’t need harps and singing choirs. To Gertie, leaving Europe during turmoil, losing a husband and finding love again was the stuff of romance novels.

  Every tale she had to tell was from a time where life seemed fuller somehow, the needs of the human condition more urgent. Passion motivated every action from fighting to speaking to wooing. Death hiding just around the corner made life more brilliant and vibrant.

  Security, on the other hand, bred boredom.

  Gertie’s mother, Genevieve, had looked happy to the point of silliness in her childhood photos. Her mother was impulsive, Gertie always knew that. She came from a loving, happy home with two parents who would do anything for her. When “Genie” was nineteen they received a surprise visitor for the summer.

  Grandma’s late husband had a sister who remembered Gertrude well. She came to visit, bringing her son, Louis. A handsome, educated banker doing quite well for himself who wanted to move to the United States to take advantage of the land of opportunity.

  He took advantage of more than just that. Gertie’s father was charming, still was, and he talked his way right into her mother’s pants that summer. Gertie’s older brother Louis Junior was the result, but he didn’t arrive until four months after their Justice of the Peace wedding. Her other brother, Henri, came four years later. And that’s when the couple thought they were done.

  Gertie surprised them late in life. Her mother was almost thirty when Gertie was born and she was doted on. The only girl, and the baby of the family besides. Gertie learned early that the secret to getting what she wanted was to ask Daddy.

  She was his little girl, he could deny her nothing. And Gertie’s mother knew it, resented it, and as Gertie got older she became aware of her mother’s weird jealousy. It felt awful, and it only got worse once the family found out about Louis Dénise’s mistress.

  Gertie’s brothers deserted their father, wouldn’t return calls and never forgave him for walking out on their mother. Gertie did, though. She had felt the coldness her mother was capable of, she knew how her mother could manipulate, lie, and never seemed happy with what she had. Gertie always defended her father, which made her mother’s wine-soaked tirades against him take an ugly turn to name-calling on her own daughter.

  They didn’t suffer financially. All three children went to university without inheriting student loans
, all three had wonderful jobs.

  It was at university Gertie fell in love with Darryl Jensen. They had an intense, passionate romance that consisted of dorm room trysts that happened quickly before the roommate could return. They couldn’t get enough of each other, couldn’t wait to be done school so they could find jobs and move in together.

  Gertie left her mother’s home and moved in with Darryl immediately after convocation. This was love, this was perfection. They were married at the age of 23 and set off to build successful careers and happy lives together.

  Gertie’s namesake was at her wedding, which Gertie would forever be thankful for. Her grandmother passed away before the couple returned from their honeymoon, suffering a heart attack in her sleep. In their wedding card her grandmother had simply written “Always light each other up so there can be no dark times.”

  Gertie had always been a bit of a home body. And when she and Darryl were first together that was never a problem; they could barely stand to keep their clothes on. But as time wore on, Darryl wanted to go to events and take up hobbies. Gertie wanted to cuddle, read, and watch TV in bed after making love like they used to. Darryl wanted to take ballroom dance lessons. Go to concerts. See live bands at local bars. So she told him to go with his friends, without her.

  And he did. It got to where he didn’t bother asking anymore, just went out for poker night or whatever else he wanted, sending her a text to let her know where he was.

  Still, this seemed fine to Gertie. They laughed, shared jokes and stories of their days. Still made love, although it was becoming more and more infrequent. It wasn’t without cause, she found out.

  Darryl found someone that did like cooking classes. Liked going to bars to see bands. Would go dancing with him until the wee hours. So he picked Dahlia, and left Gertie.

  Gertie was able to make her own living. She bought a downtown condo so she wouldn’t need a car. Her job paid her bills and then some, so she could put money away for emergencies or shopping or holidays. But she didn’t do any of that. She stayed home, spent money on wine and books, and watched the network of friends that she and Darryl had shared slowly transfer to the fun side of the couple they had been; the Darryl side.

  Meeting people in your thirties was not easy. She knew that the fastest way to create a new circle for herself would be to make friends at work. But coworkers her age were all married, and they were friends with each other already because their kids played the same sports and they sat on the same councils and boards. Whereas Gertie … well, Gertie liked to read.

  It was almost like high school all over again. If it wasn’t for her childhood friend’s little sister, Gertie might well have turned into Miss Havisham.

  Gertie had been friends with Melanie Turner from the fourth grade until graduation. Melanie had a younger sister, Margaret, another child named after a grandmother. But Maggie’s namesake passed away just before she was born. The two of them commiserated over their incredibly old-sounding names, while also sharing that it was pretty awesome to be named after a couple of tough old broads.

  Maggie was younger by eight years. She was the “surprise” child, like Gertie had been. At twenty-five she was in the same field as Gertie, making great money, and she was fun. Incredibly lively, petite, svelte, and bubbly. Her smile was a thousand-watt bulb of neon-white teeth, her green eyes were wide and gorgeous (Gertie envied her for those eyes,) and her shining blonde hair always hung poker-straight and smooth. She was a living doll, and for some reason she took Gertie on as a project.

  Maggie was going to find her a man, get her out of her shell, and get her back in the world again. Gertie went along, flooded by the vivaciousness of this little pixie. Maggie took her to bars, clubs, and parties put on by people more fashionable than Gertie could ever hope to be. She took her shopping, helped her buy new make-up and shoes. Even took her to her personal hair stylist, but only after Gertie agreed to let the guy do whatever he wanted with her hair. He took that mop of dark, thick, stubbornly wavy locks and cut it in layers, gave her highlights, and Gertie had to admit it looked better. It was a pain in the ass every morning but the effort was usually worth it.

  In exchange for all this Gertie Make Over help Maggie went with Gertie to museums, art galleries, foreign films, and even had girls’ nights in where they shared a bottle of pinot noir and watched chick flicks on TV.

  Gertie was certainly having more fun. With all the adjustments to wardrobe and make-up men were paying her more attention, even if they were much younger, and while she was hardly the whore of Babylon she’d had a few short relationships that had been a lot of fun, if not useless in the end. In the two years following her divorce she’d really changed, while managing to avoid running into her ex-husband.

  Until right now.

  Gertie was sending a text to a co-worker in accounting. The street was crowded with people at the end of the lunch hour as everyone was heading back to work. She had a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, and she’d just hit send when she heard her name.

  She turned to the form next to her, and she blinked. Twice. “Darryl?” she asked, honestly smiling and shaking her head like she couldn’t believe she was seeing him.

  He looked good. The hair at the temples may have been graying, but that was hardly unattractive on a man. He’d always been clean-shaven with a military-precise haircut, and it was no different now. Darryl looked her up and down, eyebrows high in surprise. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he laughed, obviously shocked.

  That gave her a slightly victorious surge, but she just waved the hand with her phone. “It’s been a while,” she said, as though she was forgiving him for something.

  “How have you been?”

  She shrugged, then tried to appear as though she was sorting through all the madness of her wonderful life. “Oh, you know. Lots of work. They still send me up to Vancouver every couple of weeks, sometimes I gotta work on weekends, too. How about you?”

  Her shrugged, hands in pockets. “About the same. Work, home, you know. Oh, and …” he looked uncertain for a moment. “Well, I’m not sure if you’d heard but Dahlia is pregnant.”

  If the windows had fallen out of the skyscrapers around her, she wouldn’t have noticed. Her stomach sunk and she knew her smile likely faltered a bit. He hadn’t wanted kids, agreed with her on that. Yet here he was, pleased as shit that his wife was pregnant. And how would Gertie have heard about it? Their friends were all friends with Dahlia now. “That’s great,” she said, recovering as fast as she could. “Congratulations.” She checked her watch. “I gotta get back to the office but … tell Dahlia I said congrats, would you?”

  He nodded, smile growing wide and authentic. Gertie felt the pull in her gut, the pang of heartbreak coming back. “Will do. Take care, Gertie. And … you look really good.”

  Gertie smiled, nodding as the light to cross the street changed and she let the throng of people carry her along. Her nose was prickling a little bit and she sniffed to fight it.

  The age of romance novels had past. Her grandmother’s generation was the last with any real heroes and heroines. All that was left in the world were ex-husbands and empty apartments.

  Chapter Two

  David “Buck” Buckingham was a certified mechanic. There wasn’t a tool he couldn’t use or an engine block he couldn’t rebuild. But a damn kids’ swing set was getting the better of him and three of his buddies.

  He straightened from the pile of aluminum rods that were supposed to come together to create whatever it was on the cover of the instruction manual. After two hours they had yet to put two pieces together correctly.

  “This is fucking horse shit,” Jayce McClune muttered, throwing a wrench into the pile and likely denting something in the process.

  Spaz Phillips picked up the manual wordlessly, carrying it across the yard and sitting on a patio chair to absorb the German instructions. Not that he spoke German, none of them did. Spaz just happened to be the smartest guy there.

/>   “Just let them climb all over Tank,” Buck suggested, jerking a thumb in the direction of the mountain of a man standing right behind him. “He doesn’t mind.”

  Jayce scoffed, pulling off his ball cap and running both hands over his close-cropped hair.

  “There’s no way the four of us can’t put this shit together,” Tank grumbled, retrieving the wrench.

  “How’s it coming guys?”

  They all sat up straighter, offering smiles to Jayce’s wife, Trinny. She was about twenty years younger than him, barely pregnant with kid number three and their oldest was only four. They were putting this contraption together for little Jayce Junior and his sister, Liberty.

  “This is horse shit,” Jayce repeated, getting to his feet. “The goddamn instructions make no sense.”

  Buck had to cover his mouth to hide the smile. Typical Jayce; if the answer wasn’t immediately obvious someone must be fucking with him.

  Trinny just smiled indulgently and set her tray down on the patio table. “Made you guys lemonade,” she sang out happily, then picked up a cordless phone and held it out to her husband. “You got a call too, honey.”

  Every man in the yard fell still, knowing that Jayce had been waiting for this. He took the phone from his wife, kissed her cheek and sent her back into the house with a smack on the ass. She squealed when he did it and knew enough to get out of earshot on the other side of a sliding glass door.

  When the door was shut tight Jayce brought the phone up. “Talk.”

  As an unspoken agreement the other three men drew closer, Spaz dropping the instructions on the patio table, forgotten now.

  Jayce listened, jaw tight, caught Tank’s eye and nodded. Buck knew what that meant, so he grabbed one of the glasses of lemonade and downed it before Jayce hung up from his call. No need to waste it, and they’d have to leave as soon as this call was done.