I glower back at him as he turns it back on. Visions of grabbing his precious remote and shoving it straight up his ass flit through my mind.
Fucking asshole.
This blatant disdain coming from him is nothing new. More and more lately, it seems that he can’t stand being in the same house with me, let alone be married to me. I’ve put up with his behaviour for years, and I’ve learned that arguing about it does nothing but piss us both off even more. Nothing ever changes.
I make my way upstairs and draw myself a hot bath. Sinking into the soapy water, I lean my head back, and for the millionth time, I think about what my life has become. I’d met Scott in university when I was nineteen years old, and full of dreams for my future. We’d hit it off instantly, and two years later, we were married. Looking back, I don’t really know what we’d been thinking. Even back then, we’d argued over everything, and I spent almost as much time wanting to smack him as I did loving him.
Two years after that, he’d gotten a job in Calgary. We had to move across the country for him to take it. I hadn’t wanted to leave my family and friends, and my dad wasn’t crazy about the idea either, but this job had been the opportunity of a lifetime for Scott, and as his wife, I had to support him.
It had made it all easier to accept when I thought about the children we were going to have, and I’d made tons of plans for what our life would be like. In the end, none of those plans had ever come to pass. After years of trying, we’d found out that Scott was infertile, and our hopes of ever having children of our own went down the drain. We had put our names on the lists to adopt, but after being looked over by three different teen mothers, I’d pretty much given up any hope of being chosen.
Now, here we are, both thirty-five years old, and barely able to sit through a meal together without snapping at each other or drowning ourselves in unbearable tension. I know that Scott loves me, in his own way anyway, but other than a gruff and almost meaningless mumbling of the words, not much love is shown. Even I am guilty of saying it, almost like a habit; just another way to say goodbye when getting off the phone, or goodnight when turning in for the night. Lately, I’ve wondered more and more how true those words even are.
I often daydream about what it would be like to just get in my car and drive away. To go find my own life somewhere without Scott. But in the end, I know I can’t do it. I have a job, a house, and bills to pay. This is my life now, and no matter how much it sucks, I need to accept it for what it is.
A loud knock on the bathroom door yanks me from my thoughts, and I jump; water sloshes over the side of the tub. “How much longer are you going to be?” Scott bellows. “Jesus, Holly, you’re not the only one in this house you know.”
I scowl at the door and lean forward, tugging the plug out of the drain. “I’m coming. Don’t have a stroke,” I yell, keeping the harsher words I want to say locked inside my head.
Climbing out of the tub, I wrap a towel around me, grab my discarded clothes and yank open the door. I step around Scott, who rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he shoves his way past me, slamming the door behind him.
True love at its finest.
Two
I sit in my car outside the post office and stare down at the papers in my hand, fighting back the hot tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. The package I had to pick up hadn’t been a package at all. It was a registered letter from my father’s lawyer.
My dad had died almost three months ago, and I knew there was a bit of an inheritance coming, but since I lived so far away, my uncle was the executor of the will, and I hadn’t asked about it at all. How did Dad even have that much money in the first place? I knew he was comfortable, but I never dreamed he’d had this kind of wealth. After reading over the paperwork for a third time, I realize just what this all means. I am now the proud owner of my father’s lush lakeside home, and more than seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
And if that weren’t enough, my father had stipulated that every penny left to me was to go into a private account, under my name only, and that Scott was to have no access to it. I knew that Dad had never been a huge fan of my husband, but for him to go to this extreme was truly shocking. He’d even written a little message for me into the will saying, “Holly, you are the one thing in my life I’m proudest of. You need to be proud of you too. Don’t ever settle for anything less than what you deserve.”
My heart aches, and I wipe away a stray tear. I miss him so much. Many times over the years, Dad had talked about me settling into my life. He would ask me over and over if I was working on any new writing projects, but every time, my response was always the same. “Who has time to write?” That used to bother him, but he had always been a believer in allowing me to make my own mistakes, so he never said much more about it.
Was he right? Am I settling for this life? Is there more out there for me? I know that there are tons of opportunity for greatness in this world, but I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman, carrying around a few extra pounds, working the only job I’ve ever had, and I’ve only ever been with one man. What is out there for someone like me?
As a teenager, my passion had always been writing. There are boxes stacked on top of boxes in my father’s attic, all filled with scribbled notebooks full of short stories and even a couple of full length novels that I had written throughout the years. I had always wanted to become a writer. It’s why I went to university in the first place. A degree in English was sure to help me make my dream come true.
But since I’d been with Scott, I don’t think I’ve written out more than a simple grocery list. There’s just no time. I have a job where I work twelve hour shifts, a husband, and a house to take care of. By the time I get the chance to sit down at night, I can’t even read a book, let alone write one. I’m tired all the time.
I’d always figured it was just what happens when you grow up. You outgrow your unreachable dreams, and you start working on completely unrelated goals that help you live the best life you can manage. What kind of career is writing anyways? The chances of me getting published are slim to none. It had been a naïve dream, for a naïve girl. As a woman, though, looking back, I’m starting to wonder if that naïve girl would be happy with what I’ve let her life become.
Three
Three days after I got the letter, the paperwork is signed, and all the money has been transferred to my account. I still haven’t told Scott about my inheritance. I’m not sure how to tell him that my father ensured that he has no access to it. I know that won’t go over well at all.
I’m on my way home from work when I drive past the Harley Davidson store that I’d visited with my dad last time he’d come for a visit. The showroom is massive, and he’d been like a kid in a candy store that day. For as far back as I can remember, he’d always had his own motorcycle, and he’d have it on the road every day after the snow melted. He didn’t put it away again until the first snowfall the following winter.
At the last minute, I crank the wheel and ignore the blaring horns from the cars behind me, and pull into the parking lot. I park my little Ford Focus and cross the lot, my eyes focused on the huge black building that is made almost entirely of heavily tinted windows. I don’t even know why I’ve stopped.
Walking inside, I look around at the long lineups of gleaming motorcycles, and instantly feel the connection with my father I’d been longing for. Row by row I walk the lines until my eyes land on one motorcycle in particular. The black and chrome Softail Springer looks almost identical to the one my dad had when I was a little girl. I used to love climbing on the back of that thing and feel the wind in my hair as I watched the world whiz by in flashes of color and blurred trees.
“Can I help you find anything?” I hear from behind me. At the same time, my phone rings. I pull it out and see that it’s Scott. I hold my finger up to the salesman to indicate that I’d just be a moment and answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Are you almost home?”
&nb
sp; “A hello would be nice,” I say, trying to keep the annoyance I feel out of my voice.
“Hi. Now, are you almost home?”
I roll my eyes and shoot an apologetic glance to the sales clerk. “I’m just at the store right now,” I say quietly. “I’ll be home shortly.”
“At the store? Jesus, Holly, we don’t have the money for you to just go shopping whenever you want. How many times do I have to tell you? You better not be spending much while you’re there.” He sighs heavily. “Just hurry up and get your ass home. I’m hungry.”
I listen to his voice droning on and on, talking to me like an insolent child, and something inside of me snaps like an elastic band that’s been stretched too thin. I grip the phone tightly in my hand and don’t hold back my snarl. “Then make yourself a goddamn sandwich.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. I just press the end button and toss the phone back into my purse, then I turn to the sales clerk, who is still waiting patiently, and point at the Softail I’d been checking out. “I’ll take that one.”
Four
I don’t say anything to Scott when I get home that night. I just head straight up to my bedroom, ignoring his nasty remarks as I walk past, and get ready for bed. My bike will be ready to go tomorrow, just as soon as I get things sorted out with the insurance company, and renew my motorcycle license that I’d gotten years ago.
I’ve had it. So many times in these last few days, my father’s words run through my mind, and after really thinking about it, I realize that he had seen what I hadn’t. All these years, I have been wasting my time and energy on a marriage that’s unhappy on a good day, in a city away from everyone I love, and on a job that doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. Why hadn’t I seen it before? On the way home from the Harley shop, I had devised my plan, and first thing in the morning, I was going to put it into action.
I wake up, full of excitement. Scott’s side of the bed is unslept on, which means he’d spent the night on the couch … again. He’d already left for work and the house is empty. I look at the clock and realize that I am due to be at work in an hour. I reach for the phone and tap in the number. Just before I hit send, I bite my lip and take a look around my bedroom. Am I sure I want to do this? If I do, there’ll be no going back.
My eyes wander across the room until they land on the laundry hamper, or more importantly, what’s in front of it. There, on the floor, scattered around the base of the hamper are Scott’s dirty underwear and discarded socks. For years I’ve been on his case to put them in the hamper, and still they never quite make it there. But God forbid I forget to make the bed in the morning. Scott likes his bed neatly made when he gets into it.
It’s completely crazy that something as silly as underwear on the floor is what makes up my mind, but that is all it takes for me to see that things are never going to change. Scott will always be an asshole, and I will always be pissed off about that. I don’t know if he was an asshole in the beginning and I just didn’t see it, or if I’m the reason he’s so angry. Regardless, I can’t do it anymore.
Stabbing at the green button, I listen to the ringing on the opposite end until someone picks up. “Hello? Greenfield Estates, this is Susan speaking. How may I help you?”
Susan. My supervisor, and another person who makes my life miserable. I’m suddenly very happy to say what I have to say. “Hi, Susan. It’s Holly. I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be in to work today, or ever again.”
“Wh … but you—you’re quitting?” she stammers. I don’t know why she cares. This bitch has been riding my ass at every available opportunity. It’s no secret that she hates me, almost as much as I hate her.
“I am. I will call in a week or two with a forwarding address for you to send my paperwork. Thank you, Susan. Have a fantastic day.” I get off the phone and I can’t contain the giggle that bursts from my throat. God, that had felt good. That bitch will be pissed for weeks, because I never gave her a chance to get in one of her condescending digs.
With that out of the way, I head into the bathroom and take a shower. It doesn’t take me long to get myself ready for the day, pausing only long enough to figure out what I want to wear on this first day of being the new me. I dig out a pair of jeans that I haven’t worn in ages, grab one of the Harley shirts my dad had gotten me for Christmas a few years ago, and decide to buy myself a nice leather jacket when I go to pick up my bike.
I pack a small duffel bag, including only enough clothes for a few days—my toiletries and a few pictures of my family—and then call a taxi. Just before I walk out the door, I remove my engagement ring and wedding band, and place them gently in the center of a small dish on top of the fireplace mantle. Without looking back, I step out of the house, locking the door behind me. Time to go pick up my new ride.
Five
It’s been years since I’ve driven a motorcycle, and driving through the city is a little daunting at first, but once I leave the booming metropolis behind, and am looking down a wide open road, I feel every little bit of anxiety and tension fall away, onto the tarmac behind me.
I drive for hours without stopping, reveling in the feel of the wind against my skin and the sudden freedom from my responsibilities. My stomach’s growling and my ass is sore when I finally roll through a small town on the Alberta/Saskatchewan border. Finding a quaint little diner, I pull in and find a parking spot, before carefully sliding off the motorcycle.
My ass and inner thighs ache more than I thought they would, but walking around a little helps to work out the worst of it and get the circulation moving again. As I approach the building, I notice a long lineup of Harleys standing side by side off to the edge of the parking lot, but I don’t do much more than give them a brief glance.
Stepping inside, I head straight for the facilities to freshen up and use the washroom, and then find myself a booth in the back corner. The décor of the diner itself is old fashioned. It’s almost like travelling back in time to the seventies, but it’s clean and the food smells delicious; making my mouth water as I give the waitress my order.
Off to my right, there are three tables pushed together, surrounded by a group of about twelve bikers, all wearing leather vests with patches on the back, labelling them as members of the Kings of Korruption MC, Ottawa Chapter. Nostalgia makes my belly flutter when I realize that these men are from just outside of my own home town, which just so happens to be where I’m heading.
I pay no attention to them until one calls out, “Hey, Sugar, that Springer out there your ride?”
I look over and see that every one of the burly, tattooed men at the table are staring at me, waiting for an answer, and I instantly feel self-conscious. I’m not a beauty queen by any means, and though I think I look pretty good in these jeans, my extra weight probably isn’t the most attractive thing they’ve ever seen. Besides, it wouldn’t be the smartest thing to do to let this group of bikers know that I’m travelling alone. That being said, the black motorcycle helmet sitting on the seat beside me, and the fact that they’re sitting right by the window—likely watching me park—probably gave me away.
I nod and try to act casual. “It is.”
The largest of the group grins widely, revealing several missing teeth. “That’s a lot of bike for a little lady like you,” he drawls, bringing about a hearty laugh from the others.
I frown back at him, my stomach tightening. I know deep down that he’s teasing me, but I can’t help but feel the urge to run. I don’t like the attention they are giving, but I also don’t want them to know I’m afraid. Clearing my throat, I make a show of rolling my eyes and shaking my head. “I think I can handle it.”
“I bet you can,” he shoots back. “You think you could handle—”
“Shady!” a voice barks, tearing my attention away from the greasy looking biker. “Jesus, man. You don’t know when the hell to shut up, do you?” I gape at my saviour as he slaps Shady across the back of the head, a little harder than necessary. “Let the lady e
at her damn supper in peace, asshole. Nobody here wants to ride anything you have to offer anyway.”
The other men chuckle as Shady scowls and rubs the back of his head, and I have to bite my lip to hold in my own laughter. But I can’t hold back the smile on my face. My savior’s gaze swings to meet mine and I freeze. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed him before.
He’s sitting, but I can tell that he’s tall. His dark hair is long and pulled back into a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck, his face partially hidden behind his thick beard. Tattoos cover his arms, and his eyebrow piercing only draws attention to the aqua blue eyes currently etching themselves into my memory. My heart stutters as I watch a slow smile spread across his face.
“Sorry about him, darlin’. He’s not house broken yet.”
My mouth opens with a reply, but my brain has lost all ability to articulate. I give him a shy smile just as the waitress comes with my food. I turn around, my cheeks flaming, and cram a French fry into my mouth. I can’t remember the last time I’d been speechless when talking to a man. I don’t know that it’s ever happened to me before.
Chairs scrape across the floor and heavy boots approach as the table full of bikers get ready to leave. Each of them nods or waves as they pass, and I do my best to keep the smile on my face. The last to walk by is my saviour, who stops and takes a seat in the booth across from me.
“Sorry again about Shady, darlin’. He really is harmless.”
I shrug, my eyes wide as I continue to chew furiously on the mouthful of burger I’d taken before he approached, trying to empty my mouth so I can respond.
“The name’s Hulk. We’re just passing through on our way home. What’s your name?”
Biker Chicks: Volume 2 Page 13
