Wrecked & Reclaimed (Sacred Sinners MC - Texas Chapter Book 5)

by Bink Cummings

  “I hope Scarlett and Rox love their new school,” she comments, staring out the side window, playing with the hem of her AC/DC shirt that hugs her round belly.

  “I hope they do, too,” I return out of politeness because I have no clue what else I’m supposed to say.

  I do hope they like their new school. They’ve been through plenty in the past week. Starting over in a new place is never easy. Trust me, I know. I did it a lot growing up in foster care. At least they’re lucky enough to have a mother who adores them to pieces, and a family who feels the same. Compared to my childhood, theirs is Disneyland. Even the move to Texas hasn’t changed that. Their shared bedroom at the cabin is fit for princesses. Each bed was tailored to their specific likes, colors, and textures. From what I’ve gathered, Ryker built the home for Katrina and his daughters without ever knowing if they’d see it. Each part of the cabin has been designed with them in mind. Down to the butterflies, fairies, and custom Daddy’s Girls Only sign that hangs on their bedroom door. Part of me finds his dedication to be… pathetic. While a dormant speck of, whatever you’d call it, finds the gesture a whimsical mix of romantic and… still pathetic.

  Think about it… Who spends thousands of dollars to customize a home for a woman you left and never planned to reconcile with? Then you marry another woman, aka Vanessa, whom you’ve already knocked up. Then do the stupidest thing imaginable and go back to the first woman, aka Kat, you disappeared on ages ago, only to seduce her for one night and return to idiot Vanessa. In turn, magically impregnating them both. True story, folks. True. Fucking. Story. I can’t believe it myself. And you wonder why I hate Ryker so much that I want to dismember his body and burn it in the backyard of his precious cabin. He’s the piece of shit a dung beetle shit out, after it ate shit. That’s why it’s a good thing Big didn’t order me to protect him. ‘Cause I wouldn’t. I’d hog tie his selfish ass, throw him in the back of a pickup truck, and hand deliver him to the rival club with a note stapled to his forehead that said—Have Fun.

  As we turn toward town, where houses stack one right after the other, Kat pipes up again. “Do you like motorcycles as much as Ryker, Dad, and Dickcheese do?”

  Dickcheese… what a silly nickname for Kade. It’s almost as bad as his nickname for her—Watermelon Tits. It’s like I’m back in elementary school all over again.

  “Yes,” I respond.

  “Are they scary?”

  I shrug. “Not to me.”

  Most people fear riding because they’re afraid of death. Freedom on the open road, with the wind in your hair and the sun beating on your face, comes with risk. As does riding in a car, skiing down a mountain, even walking home at night with someone you thought was your friend. For those who’ve ridden for years, the knowledge that death is merely a mistake away, is the gentle hum beneath your skin. It fills you up, making your ride all the sweeter. Because the reward of true freedom far outweighs the danger. To many, danger is the appeal. Then you have those who fear death, and in part, fear life as well. Life itself is a journey—a cycle we must complete according to the Almighty’s plan. If I’ve learned anything from my time in church, it’s clarity on the subject. I may hate that death has robbed me of the two people I’ll always cherish most in the world. But I’ve begun to understand it and do my best to find beauty when the angels come to call their brethren home. Especially when I’m the one with the calling card.

  “I thought Ryker, when he was Brent, hated motorcycles,” Katrina remarks.

  Obviously not. He has a penchant for lying.

  I say nothing as she prattles on. “They’re intriguing. Maybe after I have my daughter, I can ride for the first time. Maybe I can talk Dad into teaching me… Is it hard to learn?”

  “Not to me.” Big taught me himself. It wasn’t what I’d call an enjoyable experience, since he’s fond of tough love, but I learned, didn’t I?

  Kat bobs her head, deep in thought. “Maybe someday.” Her voice takes on a whimsical lilt.

  Sure. Whatever she wants I’m sure she’ll get, if I do my job right.

  As we draw closer to the store, she continues to regale me with stories and more questions. I do my best to give basic, nonchalant answers to appease her. There’s no reason to be rude when she’s a nice woman stuck in a not so nice situation.

  Once we reach the parking lot of the small-town grocery, which is nothing more than a brick sided square, I circle the place twice to ensure our safety. After I’ve confirmed the coast is clear, I park in the best spot available should an incident arise. Clean in, clean out, with dumpster coverage to the side.

  Turning off the engine, I twist toward Kat, and pat my chest to double check the weapons are secure. “Stay inside the truck, for now. I need to do a sweep.”

  Unfastening her seatbelt, she nods dumbly in my direction, eyebrows furrowed. “Is that necessary?” Kat looks like she wants to ask a million questions.

  Sorry, hand-holding is not in the job description.

  “Yes.” I’m extra firm.

  Giving her no chance to argue, because I’m not here to babysit, I swiftly climb out of the truck and lock her inside. You can never be too careful. An extra three-minute wait isn’t going to hurt anyone. Bongo might’ve supplied me with specs of the surrounding buildings and the names of the employees, plus their photos, but that doesn’t do me any good if a group of outlaw bikers ride in on their Harleys carrying shotguns, ready to kill.

  My boot heels scrape across the asphalt as I make quick work of surveying the land, acting natural to ward off any suspicion. By the time I’m through, I’m confident the place is secure enough for Kat to venture inside.

  Standing outside the passenger door of the Suburban, hands stuffed in my coat pockets, I unlock Kat and wait for her to exit in a pair of glittery Converse. Hand on her bump, she climbs down from the truck. Then I protect her six the short stretch across the lot to the electronic glass door, eyes peeled the entire way, looking for anything suspicious. We pause at the cart corral inside the entrance. I grab a buggy. It’s not that I want to push it, but I also know I can use it as a weapon, should the need arise.

  Kat takes point, as I drive the basket on wheels up the first aisle behind her, treating everyone we pass like a potential threat. They might be. You never know.

  This is… weird. The situation. This place. I still can’t believe I’m standing in a grocery store. Much less shopping with a pregnant woman I’ve agreed to protect at all costs, for a man I respect. If you would’ve told me a month ago, I would be scrutinizing an old woman in a green muumuu pick through peaches beside Katrina, I would’ve called you insane. But that’s what I’m doing—making sure granny over here isn’t packin’.

  Katrina smirks at me, as if she realizes I’m profiling those in our vicinity. Though she doesn’t say anything. For that, I’m grateful. She can do her job of buying provisions and I’ll do mine, of keeping her alive. Sounds like a fair trade.

  Placing a bag of round fruit in the buggy, Kat brushes a stray piece of long, blonde hair off her forehead. Her eyes drift from the contents in our basket to my face. “You got anything you would like to pick up?” Both hands cup that round belly, and I do my best not to think about the days when Sebastian danced in mine.

  Gaze straying from her to the leafy produce section, I internally sigh with nostalgia. Those were the simpler times. The ones where I’d write to my husband as I grew our son. It’s a shame Johnny never got to witness me pregnant. Never got to feel our son kick in my womb. Even now, that’s something I regret us missing out on. It’s true, when they say the small things in life matter most. They do. I only pray that after this is through, Kat gets to live a happy life with her children. Not all of us are that lucky.

  Onward, she waddles those curvy hips down the next aisle, placing more crap into our cart. By the time we reach the frozen food Katrina hounds me with the same question, yet again. “Is there anything you might want to get while we’re here?”

  “No. I’m go
od.” Out of my periphery, I study a greasy haired teenager in the freezer section. He smiles our way, and Ms. Charming raises a hand in hello. Repaying the gesture in kind, he drops a pot pie into his basket.

  I frown.

  Everyone here is friendly. Who socializes with strangers like this? How is this normal? Muumuu lady bid us a good day. Now the greasy boy is engaging us, too. Why?

  “You should wave to him. It’s polite,” Kat suggests as if I’m a child who needs social coaching.

  I ignore her and keep walking. She follows.

  Up next is the meat section. Picking through multiple packages of poultry, Kat settles on the biggest one. “Do you like chicken?” she asks, adding the breasts to our half-full cart.

  Growing agitated with her useless questions, I run a palm along the shorn side of my head and take in a deep lungful of air to sustain my Zen. I opted for this punk style to compliment my don’t-give-a-fuck attitude, which doesn’t seem to affect the friendly, scar rocking like a badass, Kat. The hairstyle’s easy to maintain with one-half cut angularly at my jaw, the opposite clipped short. It provides just enough coverage to hide my scar because I don’t enjoy answering questions about how I got mine.

  “Sure,” I reply in my usual, bored monotone, gripping the cart handle tighter than I should. Food is food. It keeps me alive. What else is there to say?

  Kat delivers a clipped nod of disapproval and leads us down the next aisle where she stops at the vast cookie section.

  Not giving up on whatever this silly crusade is, Kat holds out a family-sized package of Oreos in one hand and vanilla wafers in the other. “Do you like cookies?”

  Not again. Why does it matter what I like or what I don’t? We’re not here for me.

  “Sure.” I shrug my left shoulder dismissively, hoping she gets a clue. The longer she asks worthless questions, the longer we’re exposed. I don’t wanna be unprotected any longer than necessary. We need to pick up the pace.

  From the way Katrina stands a little taller, squaring her shoulders, I know she’s about to do something that’ll cross a line. Part of me is impressed with her tenacity while the larger piece is growing annoyed.

  Further adding to the show, her hip cocks. “Can you please tell me why you’re being so difficult? You’re staying with us. I want you to have food in the house you like. If you won’t tell me, I can’t buy the right stuff.”

  Ugh. This woman. If her heart wasn’t in the right place, I’d tell her to kiss off.

  Sight glued to the cracker section to avoid Kat’s determined expression, I groan. “Look. I’ll eat anything. I’m not picky. When I spend most of my time going from motel to motel, fast food, bad diners, and frozen dinners are pretty much all I eat. So, when I say I don’t want anything, I don’t. Whatever’s provided is fine with me. I’m not your guest to dote upon. I’m here to do a job. Nothing more. Nothing less.” There. That’s beyond what she needs to know. I’ve said more than I should’ve. My life, my club affiliation, all of it’s Area 51, top secret. If anyone in the trafficking circle caught wind of my involvement with the Sacred Sinners, it would put a giant target on the club’s head. My life is not up for discussion. Period. End. Time to move along.

  “Do you ever cook for yourself?” Kat’s voice goes soft, like she pities me. Which is far worse than her subtle momtude.

  “No.”

  “Not even when you’re at home between jobs?”

  Ha. What’s that?

  “Nope. I don’t have a home.” Why did I admit that? This isn’t about me. And people wonder why I don’t get close to anyone, especially women.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Kat tuck another stray hair behind her ear and re-adjust her glasses. “What do you mean you don’t have a home?”

  Flashing red lights accompanied by loud sirens go off inside my head. Abort. Abort. We are done. No more talking. No more… just no more.

  “With all due respect, my personal life is not up for discussion,” I shut her down quick.

  Not letting my rebuff dampen her mood, Kat drops both packs of cookies into the cart. Stubborn, sweet woman.

  I do my best not to smirk at her persistence. Though a small one sneaks to the surface. This chick’s a spitfire. How does a classy woman like her, end up with a douchebag like Ryker? It doesn’t add up.

  Arms crossed, I pretend to pay her no mind as Katrina waddles to the bread section and selects a loaf. Swiping the back of her hand across her forehead, Kat exhales a loud exhaustive sound. “Rosie,” she calls. “Do you think you could help me with dinner? Dad and Bear said they’d be coming over, and I don’t think I can do it by myself. This baby has zapped all my energy.”

  Today keeps getting worse. Big said nothing about cooking or socializing. Yet, I’ve already been forced to do both.

  Rotating to face her head on, my eyes round in surprise. “You want me to help you cook?” Not once has anyone wanted me to help in the kitchen. Not Sensei, my foster parents, or Johnny. With him, it was an expectation I fix whatever I chose to. It was always quick, easy, and often barely edible, unless it came prepared in a container. Still, he choked down every bite like it was a juicy T-Bone steak. Johnny was never one to complain. Not about my lack of culinary skills, at least.

  “If you don’t know how to prepare the meal, I can walk ya through it,” she offers in a tone that says she’d be honored to assist.

  Is Kat really that tired that she needs my help, or does she have a different motive? I can’t read her intent. Not when I barely know her, and from what I’ve already gathered, most of her actions are family or consideration based. She doesn’t come across as a woman who seeks aid unless she needs it.

  Why am I contemplating this?

  Cooking’s the bane of my existence. It’s too domestic. Too normal. I don’t do either. My life is fine the way it is.

  A ball of guilt drops into my stomach like a jagged cinder block as Kat gives me the look. One that speaks of warmth and love… of need.

  Twisting fists around the cart handle, I chew the inside of my cheek, close to drawing blood. A shuddery breath of… uncertainty, rushes from my nose. “I… um.” Fuck. “… sure? I’ve never had a job before where I had to cook for anyone, but I suppose I can.” I hate this. I hate this so much. Yet, I’m the sucker who agreed to help.

  A fraction of guilt eases in my gut, not completely, but enough I can breathe with ease. Pregnancy takes its toll on a woman. I remember that well. The sore ankles, back pain, itching in weird places, and odd cravings. Sleeping is the worst. If Kat needs me, I’ll do my best to be there for her, even if this is the most uncomfortable I’ve felt in ages.

  Satisfied with my concession, Kat claps her hands twice and points to the wall of snack foods. “Now pick what crackers you like. Come on. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

  Alright. If I must. Playing along might just get the stubborn woman out of here faster.

  “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” I chuckle to myself, more amused than upset, before combing fingers through my hair to straighten it out. Not that it needs fixed. Knocking me off-balance has me fidgeting. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does… I have no clue how to react.

  Kat shakes her head in defiance. “Nope. Not at all. You might be working a job. But that doesn’t mean you gotta eat nail clippings and pubic hair.”

  Excuse me?

  My nose scrunches in distaste. “Ewww. Gross. Whoever said I eat nail clippings and pubic hair? That’s nasty.”

  A laugh bubbles out of the buxom blonde. “You said you eat at crappy diners and cook frozen dinners. What do you think’s in the stuff they try to pass off as food?”

  Oh, right. Smart lady.

  Doing my best to keep things light for Kat’s sake, I shake a finger at her. “Touché.” Next, I snatch a box of buttery crackers off the shelf. They too join the pile of groceries in the cart. “That work?”

  The smile she cracks tells me all I need to know—she’s pleased. “Better. Now you ge
t to help me pick juice.”

  Okay. Here we go. If I can’t beat her, I’ll join her. At the end of the day, this is what she needs to feel better about her circumstances. And if I want her to trust me enough to do what I was hired to do, I must give concessions. Kat didn’t ask for this anymore than I did. The sooner we mesh, the better this symbiotic relationship will be. Even if I dislike every bit of it.

  Throughout the rest of the store we work side-by-side placing food into the buggy. I help her select an extra-large eggplant that we share a laugh about and choose a carton of eggs while Kat finds whatever else she needs. The experience flies by much faster than before. With each new addition, I breathe a little easier, my posture relaxing. Doing my best to sync with Katrina, I try not to treat everyone we pass like a criminal I need to put down. Instead, I paste on a wooden smile and do what I gotta do to get us out of here before we get made.

  At checkout, I help load our cartful of food onto the conveyor. “Don’t overdo it, Kat. I’ll get the rest,” I chastise when she attempts to reach the bottom of the cart and fails, because of a large baby bump.

  “Thanks,” she returns.

  I wave her off like it’s no biggie, ‘cause it’s not. “No problem.”

  Underneath the buggy, I bend to lift the flat of bottled water Katrina tried to reach, when a man I know all too well kneels beside me. “Here. Why don’t ya let me get that for ya, doll?” Bongo says in that thick Texan accent, wearing his signature cowboy hat and Sacred Sinner cut.

  Thunderstruck, I shuffle to the wayside, trying my damndest to keep my expression neutral, when I’m shocked to the bone that the illusive hermit is here in broad daylight, offering to help.

  Setting the water on the belt with ease, Bongo turns to Kat with a half-cocked Colgate grin. “You must be Katrina, Ghost’s daughter.” He offers his hand as I stand to the side, staring at his profile, wondering what kind of Twilight Zone I waltzed into.