Hopelessly Shattered (Sacred Sinners MC - Texas Chapter #1)

by Bink Cummings

  Shifting me in his lap to make us more comfortable, my dad keeps me close. It may seem odd to some, considering I’m a grown woman. But once a daddy’s girl, always a daddy’s girl.

  “Tell us more about our grandbabies,” Bear requests.

  And I do just that. I tell them about their favorite colors and foods. How they don’t like hats, but love bandanas. That they like peanut butter sandwiches, but hate jelly. Slowly, one topic at a time, I teach them about Roxie and Scarlett, letting them get to know the two little girls who own my heart. They are my proudest accomplishment. Just as I know, I’m my father's, as evidenced by the loving gleam in his eye as he listens to me prattle on and on like a proud mama. It feels wonderful to share this with them. To reveal parts of my life that my daddy has never known, and bring Bear into the fold as their grandpa and my father’s partner. I may not be over the shock of coming here and learning what I have. However, I can tell you one thing … I wouldn’t change this visit for the world. Part of me is being glued back together, bit by bit. The hole in my chest healing. Life isn’t always how we want it to be, but we make do with what we’ve got. And I’m doing just that, right now, as I revel in the warmth spreading into my limbs, reclaiming pieces of my life that I thought were once lost.

  PAST

  “Oh god. Brent, that feels amazing,” I groan, lost in the merriment of his thumbs massaging the arch of my foot as I soak in a lavender scented bubble bath. Yesterday, Brent brought me home this bath fizz thingy, and today, drew me a bath using it. It’s flippin’ divine. I wonder if he’d pick me up a few more if I asked.

  Deft fingers press into the pad of my big toe, and another groan of pleasure slips free. This is too damn good. With all of the water retention I’ve had during my pregnancy, this is better than a hot fudge sundae on a hot summer day.

  Resting my head against the back of the tub, I exhale a peaceful sigh, melting into the bliss-filled water. He spoils me so much. You’d think by now that our new relationship, honeymoon stage would be over. Doesn’t that stop after a year? For us, it’s going stronger than ever. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living in a dream with a perfect man, and his even perfecter body. Is that even a word? It should be. Brent’s body is the epitome of perfecter.

  “You’re a sucker for foot massages,” he teases with a smile in his voice.

  “Or I’m just a sucker for yours.” I blast him a sly grin, winking like a dork. In reward, he lifts my foot from the water and tenderly kisses my instep. “You’re too fucking cute, babe.”

  A warmth skitters through me that has nothing to do with the water temperature.

  Mashing my lips together, I smother my impending smile and scrub my cheeks to hide the flourishing redness. I hate that he affects me this way. That the butterflies flutter without any notice. That he can make me smile with just a single, carefree word. He’s dangerous to my heart. I’ve known that since the moment I laid eyes on him. But I’m unable to muster enough courage to protect myself. Not when I know the reward far outweighs the possible heartache. Even if he doesn’t say he loves me, I feel it in his kiss, his touch, his words. Actions speak louder than empty promises.

  A whimper picks up on the baby monitor that’s sitting on the vanity. “Rox must be awake.” Abruptly, I sit up, grabbing the tub's edge, water sloshing up my sides. I’m ready to get out at a moment’s notice if she cries.

  “She’ll be okay. She whimpers in her sleep all the time.” Brent’s calming tenor soothes my fraying nerves.

  “But what if she needs me?” I pout.

  “Babe,” he drawls in that tone that says he thinks I’m cute for being overly paranoid. I can’t help it. Being a mother has brought out a lot of things in me, this protective mama bear mentality being the most prevalent.

  Brent slips a pruning hand from the water and dries it on his pant leg, darkening the denim in the process. Fishing into his front pocket, he pulls out a square, black box and rests it on the lip of the tub.

  “What’s that?” My sights fix on the treasure.

  “It’s a present for you. And I’ll give it to you, only if you promise to relax and let me handle Rox if she does wake up.”

  Bah! I hate ultimatums. He does this almost daily. “I’ll make you that tomato and mayo sandwich if you promise not to touch the dishes. I’ll get to ‘em later.” “I’ve got a chocolate bar with your name on it in my glovebox if you let me take Roxie to the store with me so you can get a nap in.” Sure, those sound like heavenly offers. I’d be a fool not to take them, right? Well, as easy as that sounds, a part of me loathes the idea of surrendering control. It’s like this inferno burning inside me that blazes hotter when I allow someone to take care of something I feel is my duty. Mostly, it’s guilt. I know this. But when I was a kid, I took care of my dad with the best of my ability, and took pride in that. So, handing over the reins is difficult, but Brent seems to know how to sway me in the right direction. It’s subtle, yet effective. He’s a master manipulator, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t scare me just a bit.

  Sighing long and hard, I nod in acquiesce, dying to know what’s hidden inside that tempting present. I love gifts. Always have. That’s why Christmas is my favorite time of the year. I’m allowed to gift goodies without people looking at me funny.

  The adorable smile that Brent cracks shoots straight to my heart. It’s the one he reserves just for me whenever he’s sublimely happy. And it makes me happy to make him happy. It works for us. We’re a team. Yin and yang.

  Clicking back the lid, a delicate infinity symbol rests on the soft felt attached to two thin silver strands of a necklace. It’s absolutely stunning. Not too gaudy, which I don’t care for. And it can be worn with everything. It’s simply breathtaking. Perfect. Just for me.

  Covering my mouth with dripping fingers, I “awe” behind them. “That’s so pretty.”

  Proudly, Brent puffs his chest up. “I knew ya’d like it. Roxie helped me pick it out.”

  Arching a brow, I regard him like he's silly. Which he is. Roxie’s a baby, barely able to crawl. “She did, did she?” I mock lightheartedly.

  “She pointed, and I bought, so yeah.” He snaps the box closed then sets it on the floor. “I’ll put it on ya after ya get washed up.”

  Crooking my finger, I gesture him forward, and he complies without hesitation. Climbing onto his knees, elbows resting on the ledge of the tub, Brent leans forward and lays a sweet and savory kiss on my lips. It’s soothing and makes the butterflies go berserk in my tummy as my heart strings sing a tune of love for this man. “Thank you. That was very sweet of you,” I whisper against his mouth. He smiles, his steamy breath wafting intimately over my face. Goosebumps break out, shimmying down my body. I shiver, despite sitting in a hot bath.

  “Anythin’ you want, my little Tiger, and I’ll get it for you. The infinity symbol…” Pausing, he slowly laves the seam of my lips, ripping a low, wanton moan from my soul. “…It represents how I’ll always feel about you. No matter what happens. No matter what obstacles. You’ll always be here.” Plucking my hand from the water, he places it on his bare chest, right over his beating heart. It pounds in conviction under my palm as rivulets of water from my pruney fingers drip down his pec and onto his abs.

  Hooking a damp finger under my chin, he brings my eyes up to meet his. The smoldering blue orbs glisten with emotions that I can’t put my finger on. They’re important. Profound. I can feel the significance pooling in my gut, even if I can’t decipher what they mean. “You’re always gonna be mine, Tiger. Always.”

  A maelstrom of unspoken words catch my tongue. Unsure of what to say, I tip my head in a single nod. “Always,” I whisper, somehow sealing my fate.

  PRESENT

  Reseated in my camping chair, chatting with Dad, Bear, and whoever else decides to join us, I flick my wrist toward the back door. “Is there a bathroom in there that I can easily get to?”

  Pushing up from the chair, Dad stands and waves me forward without saying a word,
so I follow. Through the yard, people watch us until we slip into the house. Once we reach the kitchen, he stops three steps ahead of me and points to the door that dumps into the long hallway we came down earlier to eat. “At the end of the hall, there’s a bathroom. It’s easy to find.”

  I touch his arm. “You don’t wanna walk me the rest of the way?”

  I’m weary because Kade would have escorted me to the bathroom. Then he would have waited for me until I was done. Then again he’s still tied up with that towhead for the moment. The last time I saw him, he was taking body shots from between her and one of her friends’ boobs. Two other guys wearing similar leather vests had joined him. They looked like they were having way too much fun for me to intrude.

  Scrubbing the back of his neck, Dad grimaces. “Uh … I normally would, Peanut. But Scooter and Hammer are in there shootin’ pool, and if I walk outta this room and they see me, they’re gonna hustle me into playin’. I’ve been puttin’ it off since last night. They’re pains in the asses to deal with when they’ve been drinkin’. But I’ll wait right here for ya to get back. Is that okay?” He looks increasingly uncomfortable asking me that. I get it. He doesn’t want the headache. I wouldn’t either. And I’m a big girl, anyhow. It’s not like he’s leaving me to fend for myself in a mysterious house.

  The clack of pool balls drifts in from the other room. “Take that, bitch!” a man hollers.

  “Fuck you, Hammer!” another replies.

  Taking that as my cue, I squeeze my dad’s forearm before seeing myself down the hall and through the bathroom doorway. There’s a light already on. Like Kade’s, it’s stark white and much cleaner than I expected for this being a predominately male household. They must hire a housekeeper or something. There’s no way that many men could keep this room so spotless. Surprisingly, there’s not even a dribble of piss on the floor or the pungent aroma of urine. It smells like honeysuckle as I close the door and go about my business. An abundance of raucous insults funnel down the hallway, ricocheting off the walls in the half bath. I cringe at some of the less than stellar ones about being a cock sucker and lickin’ somebody’s mama's hairy bush. In no time, I’m washing my hands with some fancy schmancy vanilla scented soap. Yeah. Vanilla fucking soap. Talk about weird. Apparently, my preconceived biker notions are all bullshit.

  Fixing flyaways with my wet fingers, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I don’t look half bad for having cried my eyes out less than an hour ago. Guess it’s a good thing I wear waterproof mascara and eyeliner. My cheeks are rosy from the fire, which gives me a beautiful glow. If it weren’t for the slight puffiness under my eyes, you wouldn’t be able to tell I’d just wept. Luckily, my glasses hide most of the evidence.

  Satisfied with my appearance, I yank open the bathroom door just as someone slings a racy, yo-mama joke. Head dipped, chuckling behind my hand, I walk straight into a brick wall. Or it feels that way when I bounce off, and take a stumbling step backward. A rough hand clamps around my bicep, keeping me upright, as another covers my mouth and most of my face, thanks to its size. Propelling me back into the room, he kicks the door shut with his heel, and all hell breaks loose as my fight or flight instincts kick into warp speed. Blood surging through my ears, drowning out all noise, my fingers fly of their own volition, jabbing into my assailant’s throat. He coughs, almost choking, and drops his grip from my mouth to grab his neck. Powerless to stop my reflexes, my knee collides with his nuts at the same moment my fist slams into his solar plexus, spiking an inferno of pain through my fist and shoulder. Shaking my hand out, grunting through the radiant ache, my chest heaves to catch my breath. Flexing my fist, I check to make sure I didn’t break any bones on the behemoth who’s now incapacitated. Doubled over, collapsed onto one knee, the dumbass cups his dick and stomach while painfully dry heaving. Spittle flies from his lips with every struggled gasp.

  Fuck!

  I didn’t … mean to do that! Why did he have to sneak up on me, and touch me in a way that I thought he was gonna hurt me, or worse, my daughter. Son of a bitch! I … I shouldn’t have done that. And he didn’t even fight back. Which is almost worse. He just let me knee him in the balls. Who allows that?

  Sidestepping his crouched form in front of the door, I find space against the farthest wall that I wish I could disappear into. Which isn’t far since it’s so cramped, especially with him in here, sucking up all the oxygen. Sifting my hands through my hair, I tug on the blonde tresses as an avalanche of guilt consumes my brain. Shaking my head, my gut starts to churn.

  No. No. No. Fuck. I may hate him, but I didn’t … I promise I didn’t mean to hurt him like this.

  My palm twitches, wanting to reach out and touch his shoulder, to see if there’s anything I can do to make it alright. But I don’t move, or say a word. I just flatten myself against the wall and suffer in silence as the guilt blasts a hole through my insides. I’ve never hurt anyone important before. Not that he’s important. He’s not. At least, not anymore. However, the boy in school who picked on me about my boobs … he deserved the ass-whooping. My dad was so proud of me that day. And that snobby girl in high school who regularly made fun of my dad being dead. She deserved that black eye and cooter punch. She couldn’t walk straight for a week. Serves her right.

  “Fuck,” he finally groans, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He sounds horrible—gutted. Thank God I didn’t crush his trachea. That would have been bad. Very, very bad.

  Shivering as the adrenaline begins to wear off, I croak an, “I’m sorry.”

  Pushing himself off the floor with a grunt, Ryker slams the toilet lid closed and takes a seat on top. Resting his elbows on his knees, hunched over, hands clasped in front of him, he breathes heavily. His shoulders rise and fall with each lungful as sweat glistens on his bald head and pinched brow.

  “Bre—Ryker, did you hear me? I said I was sorry.” Damn it. The guilt won’t stop reeling. Now my heart feels like it’s shredding in my chest. To dull the pain, I rub the spot above it with my knuckle.

  He expels a strained breath. “Th-there’s nothing t-to apologize for.” The rasp of his words are painfully hoarse. I cringe, knowing he’s going to be sore for days, and it’s all my fault.

  “Yes, there is. I shouldn’t have done that.” Great. Now I’m whiny—voice ten pitches too high. I wish my hands would stop trembling.

  Eyes cast on the tiled floor, Ryker shakes his head, slowly. “I deserved it.” He tries to clear his throat, only it sounds like a smoker’s cough. My cringe grows as I clasp my hands in front of me to stave off the shaking. It doesn’t seem to work, but it’s worth a try. One more second and I’m liable to reach out and touch him—to rub the sweat off his brow and pull him toward me, head resting on my belly, to comfort like old times. Sheesh, my brain sure is fucked up. My logical side knows I should feel a tiny sense of triumph for kicking his ass. While the other part of me feels irrevocably horrible. When I do something awful, I’m always trying to right my wrong. Not sure if that’s a character flaw or not, but right now, it feels like one. Especially when I remind myself of all the shit he’s put me through. A nut punch should be considered a walk in the park, compared to what he deserves. Should, being the operative word. Because I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to touch him for the sake of feeling his skin on mine, just one last time. Hate or not, there’s a history there that a small sliver of me still craves. Even if I loathe that part.

  “You didn’t even fight back. You know how to fight. You shouldn’t have let me hurt you like that.” Knocking some sense into him is better than the touchy alternative. He probably won’t be able to use those balls for a week. Not that I want to know if he can or not. That’s just wrong.

  “And what? Risk hurtin’ the baby? What kinda man do you take me for?”

  “The asshole variety,” is on the tip of my tongue, but I suck it back for the sake of my own guilt. I don’t need to feel any worse than I already do. Instead, I oust a noncommittal “huh um
” sound.

  Leaning back on the toilet lid, Ryker tilts his head to look at me square on. Only I refuse to garner eye contact. That’s too much for me to handle with my heart racing like it is, and my gut … well, it’s not feeling so hot. Bracing his hands on his knees, he goes to stand.

  “Don’t move.” At my command, he freezes midway. “If you wanna talk, which I’m sure ya do, then you need to stay seated.” Seizing my inner boss bitch, I point a stern finger at the toilet. “You’re too damn tall for me to talk to standing up. I don’t want a crick in my neck. Now, please sit down.”

  Grumbling something profane under his breath, Ryker submits and reclaims the lid, appearing mighty pissed off. “There? Are ya happy? You never had a problem talkin’ to me before. When we were—”

  “We’re not that way anymore,” I snap. “And your height was annoying.”

  I’m bitter and lying through my teeth, which I hate to do. His height was one of the many things I found sexy about him. Presently, it just gives me another reason to hate him for being so damned attractive. It’s quite disturbing how the one person in the world you’re most attracted to physically, you can’t stand emotionally. I shift from one foot to the other as the truth agitates my stomach, and the shaking finally wears off.