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FORCE: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

Page 19

by Vivian Lux


  "Well I hope I'm invited." Sammie's tone was conciliatory, and I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding.

  "Of course you will be honey! You'll be my maid of honor!"

  She cocked an eyebrow over her coffee. I tried to ignore how good it smelled. "I don't have to be an actual maid for that, do I?"

  I laughed, relieved to be falling into our old, comfortable banter. "Yes, I have a special French maid outfit all picked out for you."

  "Oh so I'm going to be the 'French' maid of honor?"

  "Absolutely. Why, did you picture something else?" I teased.

  She leaned forward in mock seriousness. "Am I carrying a bouquet?"

  "Nope. Feather duster."

  "Phew!" She sagged back in her chair dramatically and I laughed again, feeling myself approaching mania. I hadn't laughed like this in months.

  "Yep, I'm picturing hot pink, I just have to find it," I continued, eager to continue our game.

  She grinned. "Don't waste your money, I already have a hot pink one."

  I burst out laughing. "How come I've never seen it?"

  Instantly her smile disappeared. I felt a cold breeze that I knew wasn't real. "Because Em. When was the last time we got together?"

  I wracked my brain. "Not that long ago," I protested, confused by her sudden change of mood. "It was...." I trailed off, thinking.

  She held up her hand. "Exactly. You can't remember. But I do." She cradled her coffee in her hand and sat back in the chair. "It was the week after your 'holiday party.' I came and ignored all of Robert's little digs at me, and made you promise that we'd get together the next week."

  "The final shows," I recalled, and exhaled slowly.

  "Yeah, exactly," she snapped. "The final shows. You dropped out, but wanted to see everyone else's work. Last semester's work. Robert hasn't let you out since."

  "That's not true!"

  "It isn't? So why have you been ignoring my texts?"

  I squirmed. Tears were pricking at the corner of my eyes. I was losing it and that made me angry. I lashed out.

  "Because you text me all the fucking time," I spat. "It's weird!"

  I wanted to hurt her, but Sammie knew me better.

  "Weird huh? It's weird for your best friend to text you?" She sipped her coffee and regarded me over the rim. "Who told you that, Robert?"

  "No!" I lied.

  In fact it was the absolute truth. I could hear Robert's voice in my head right now, warning me that my connection with Sammie wasn't healthy, wasn't normal. On his funny days, he would laugh about her wanting to be me, how she'd kill me and wear my skin if she could. On his mean days, he just called her a crazy, man-hating bitch and warned me not to turn into her. I had learned to stop defending her to him and now just generally tried to avoid mentioning her at all. It embarrassed me how much I treasured her texts. Like she was a dirty habit I couldn't give up.

  But I couldn't say that. "Robert's been encouraging me to call," I continued, "I've just been so busy!"

  The minute I said that, I cringed. That lie was one lie too many. The truth was, since I left school to go live with Robert, I was desperately bored.

  Robert wanted me home when he got home...and he had a very irregular schedule. Some days I waited all day and half the night for him. Other days he hung around because he 'missed me.' I could never keep appointments with people; I could never get a part time job, because then I wouldn't be there for him when he needed me. In fact, the very act of going out to lunch was setting off a flutter of nervousness in my belly. I knew he had a board meeting today, but who knew how long it would last?

  And I could see by the sharp look Sammie shot me that she knew I was lying. I swallowed, ready to spin another story, when the waitress showed up with our tray.

  My fruit cup was tiny. I looked hungrily at Sammie's steaming platter of eggs, smothered in rich Hollandaise sauce. I must have been staring. "Want some Em? They're really good."

  The clamor of Robert's voice in my head made me squirm. "No thanks, you enjoy them."

  Sammie shook her head and stubbornly spooned out a heap of potatoes onto her saucer. "I'm just going to put this right here, you can eat it or you don't have to. But I promise I won't say a word."

  She set the plate next to my elbow. I looked at her and was startled to see her snapping eyes soften. "What?" I asked, feeling uncomfortable.

  "Em..." she trailed off. I sighed and waited for her to yell at me. I looked down and picked at my fruit. Yelling I could handle. I had absorbed my parents' anger my whole life. I was a pro at getting yelled at.

  But when she didn't launch into the expected tirade, I looked up at her. She had a pamphlet in her hand and was looking down at it. "What's that?" I asked. My stomach twisted and I suddenly lost my appetite. I pushed my fruit cup away and clenched my fists.

  "What is it?" I demanded.

  "Emmy, honey." She looked up at me, her bright green eyes shining with tears. "I need to talk to you. And I need you to listen."

  "I'm listening," I spat.

  "No you aren't. You want to fight me. I'm not going to fight with you."

  I felt the tears that had been gathering suddenly spill over. "I don't want to fight Sammie, please. It's been a long time; let's just enjoy lunch, please? I don't want to fight."

  I bent my head to my fruit cup, diligently stuffing my cheeks full of melons. I felt her eyes on me, but kept mine lowered. If I didn't look at her, then I didn't have to acknowledge what she wanted to say.

  "Em..."

  I swirled Splenda into my tea and took a sip.

  "Em, come on."

  I picked up my purse, pretending to root for my wallet.

  "Em, for the love of God, would you look at me?" She caught my arm as I turned to look over into the square. "Em, I want to help you."

  "Help me with what? I don't need help." I smiled brightly.

  She ignored me and pressed on. "What he's doing to you is abuse, honey."

  I sputtered into my tea but she held up a warning hand, her eyes snapping angrily at me. I was instantly cowed.

  "Forcing you to quit school? Cutting you off from your friends? When was the last time you saw your parents?"

  "I don't want to see my parents," I sulked.

  She took a breath. "Well, your brother then. When was the last time you saw Andy?"

  I felt a pain in my chest at my younger brother's name. Andy was still at home, without me around to protect him from my father's vicious temper and my mother's passive aggression. I had asked Robert repeatedly to let him visit during his school breaks. But Robert had always dissuaded me.

  "Why would I willingly invite a thief into my home?"

  I tried to explain that Andy was just mixed up in the wrong crowd, that he would be fine as long as I was with him, but Robert wouldn't hear it. The last time I had heard from Andy, he had asked me point blank when I was coming home. When I murmured something non-committal, he hung up on me. And I hadn't heard from him since.

  That had been two months ago.

  "Andy doesn't need me around. He's got his own thing," I protested lamely.

  "Uh huh. After all those stories you told me about getting between him and your dad when they'd fight. He spent practically every weekend in our dorm room, trying to get away from them, Emmy." Sammie twisted her napkin to her mouth as her voice caught. "You're telling me he suddenly doesn't need the only decent family member he's got?"

  The wash of guilt made me jump to my feet. "I have to go to the bathroom," I hissed and hurled down my napkin. I flew through the throng of people on their lunch breaks, people with jobs and lives and interests, and pushed my way blindly into the washroom. Grabbing the sink, I bent my face and splashed cool water around my eyes, rinsing away the hot, angry tears.

  When I lifted my head, Sammie's reflection looked at me in the mirror.

  "Emilia," she whispered, running her hand up my back. She never called me by my full name, no one did. Except Robert. Something about that fac
t made me listen.

  "Honey, when you called I dropped everything. I hoped, I hoped so hard," she gulped and her eyes blazed with unshed tears, "that you would tell me you left him. He's hurting you, Emmy."

  "Robert has never hurt me," I bristled.

  "He doesn't have to hit you to leave a mark."

  I wavered there. She opened her arms and folded me into a hug, but I couldn't relax.

  Robert was right, she was crazy. She was jealous of me and she was trying to drive a wedge between me and the man I was going to marry. I pulled away so quickly she stumbled.

  "Leave me alone!" I shrieked, panic rising in my throat. I had to get home, she was messing with my head. Robert might come home soon. He would tell me what to do. I reached into my purse and flung the wad of money at her. "Here, take it, it's what you're after anyway!"

  She stepped back looking wounded. "What has he done to you?" she whispered.

  But I barely heard her as I fled through the restaurant and back to the safety of my home. Back to my gorgeous boyfriend and my lucky life. A life no one understood but Robert.

  I didn't need anyone but him.

  Chapter 5

  J.

  "So this is our last meeting."

  J. leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yeah," he nodded. "You gonna miss me?"

  His parole officer laughed. "Actually I am, Johnson. You getting off parole means now I'm probably going to be stuck with absconding asshole who'll make my life hell."

  J. chuckled. "Wouldn't want you to have to work too hard now, boss."

  "Please don't call me that anymore. You're done." Officer Sayers slid a handful of papers across his desk. "Now I don't actually need your signature here, but I like to ask for it anyway. Makes this seem like more of an occasion, you know?" His voice softened. "You did it. Congratulations."

  J. took a deep breath. "Thank you," he replied. There wasn't really more he could say.

  "Your job working out?"

  J. grinned again. "Real well."

  "You do love motorcycles, huh?"

  "Yeah, I do."

  "You got a safe place to stay?"

  "Clubhouse, behind the shop."

  Officer Sayers grimaced. "I trust you J. You're one of the good ones, I know it. But hanging out with bikers all day? Is that really a good decision?"

  J. bristled and clenched his fists, then slowly exhaled as he counted to ten in his head. Anger management classes do come in handy sometimes, he thought to himself.

  "We're brothers, boss. They look out for me. Teach got me the job and lets me stay there. He and MacDougal taught me wrenching. I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for them."

  Officer Sayers pressed his lips together in a thin line. "I can't say I like it. But you've done your time well. Just keep your head down."

  J. nodded. "I plan on it."

  "Then that's it then." Officer Sayers stood up and looked him in the eye. "Good luck, J. Stop by and see me sometimes. It'd be nice to remember not everyone I deal with is a complete fuck-up."

  J. stood up from the chair, unfolding himself to his full height and brushed his hands across his jeans. Looking down at his short, pudgy parole officer, he grinned then clasped the hand extended to him. "I'll do that. And thank you."

  Officer Sayers nodded and straightened the papers on his desk. "You're free to go."

  Free, the word clanged in J.'s mind like a bell. He felt ten pounds lighter as he stepped across the threshold of Sayers' dingy office and out into the warm spring air. It was perfect riding weather, and there was no better way J. could think of celebrating. Free free free.

  J. swung his long leg over his custom Harley. It was the shiniest and cleanest thing on the entire block. He had been customizing for ages, adding parts as the money trickled in. It had been hard to scrape together while he was still paying his restitution to his victims, but now he was done. His money was his to do with as he pleased.

  He kicked the bike to life and slowly made his way out of the narrow streets of North Philly The entrance to I-95 was clear, the early morning traffic snarl having cleared up a while ago. He roared onto the highway, heading north, away from the skyline, away from the congestion. J. wanted to ride on hills, he wanted to see trees and smell spring in the air.

  Ride to live. Live to Ride. It was the unofficial motto of the Sons of Steel M.C. J. could see his brand new patch out of the corner of his eye as his cut fluttered in wind. Road Captain - it was a phrase that filled him with more pride than he had ever felt before. The position of Road Captain meant that he rode in the rear of the pack when the club went for long distance rides.

  It was up to him to watch for signs of trouble.

  When a brother fell out of the pack with mechanical problems, J. was right there with his toolbox, ready to fix things on the side of the road. Being Road Captain meant he kept the brotherhood of bikers together. Anytime they rode together, he was there blocking traffic in the passing lane until everyone in the pack could get over, anticipating lane changes and spotting problems before they happened. He watched out for them, and the brotherhood knew that he had their backs.

  Prison had taught him how to keep an eye out for trouble. Six years of ducking both the COs and his fellow inmates had sharpened his senses to hyper awareness. Six years of fear had reshaped him. He was tuned for fighting, like a radio that only broadcast one station.

  J. gunned the bike faster, hoping the wind in his face would blow away the bad memories that threatened to overtake him. Faster and faster he wound in and out of traffic, but his pain was even faster. The anger hit him like a punch to the gut, forcing him to relive it all.

  The low points where he wasn't sure if he'd make it out alive.

  The courtroom, the anxiety, his sister's anxious face. Waking up in a steel bunk every morning. The depression that threatened to swallow him whole. Red rage that made him ball his fists and blinded his sight.

  Motorcycles saved his life.

  It was a complete fluke that led him to sign up for the motorcycle repair course. J. had never had much use for school. He and his best friend Randall had skipped more days of school than they had attended, but the chaos of Strawberry Mansion High School meant that he was passed from grade to grade regardless. But once he was behind bars, his boredom led to curiosity, which led him right into the vocational classroom of Teach Jones, philosopher-mechanic.

  J. had never met a man like Teach. He had been working as a votech instructor at the correctional facility in Perkiomen for nearly twenty years and he had seen it all. Nothing flustered him. Nothing set him off. Instead, the older man radiated calm authority. He commanded respect as his due.

  One day in class, one of the inmates, a squirrelly little wannabe skinhead, gave Teach shit. He stood up at his worktable, screaming out slurs and complaining that Teach's long gray dreads stank too badly for him to stay in the room. J. watched, waiting for Teach to respond with anger when the little punk called him the worst names there were. In fact, J. was ready to beat the punk down himself, right there in front of everyone.

  But instead, Teach had folded a socket wrench into his huge hand and crossed his arms. He waited impassively for the loudmouth white kid to shut his face. The silence lasted so long, J. started to squirm uncomfortably. He had never seen a man so still, so immovable. The punk kid slowly trailed off in the face of his calm and meekly sat back down. Teach stood in the prison classroom as if he was planted there and nothing could move him from that spot.

  J. was fascinated.

  As his sentence dragged on, he learned everything he could from Teach. Mostly about motorcycle repair, but also about religions and history and Teach's favorite subject, philosophy. J. went to the prison library and picked up the teachings of the Roman philosopher Seneca, Teach's personal hero. He spent many nights in his cell, laboriously picking through the dense words.

  "The point is not how long you live, but how nobly you live." He memorized the word and took them to heart. The te
achings of the Stoic philosopher calmed the red rage in his mind almost as much as the intricate work of dismantling a 1200cc, 74 cubic inch, horizontally opposed V-Twin engine and rebuilding it from scratch.

  J. slowed his bike, hugging the curve of the off ramp. The road along the Delaware River wound among the rolling, grassy lawns of mansions as he made his way up to the bridge at Lawrenceville. Riding led him further out of Philadelphia than he ever would be without it. Riding cleared his head and soothed the riot of anger that sometimes threatened to consume him. Riding let him see the country. Riding had given his life purpose. He had a job now, a place to live and brothers who would die for him if asked. Ride to live, Live to Ride.

  The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, warming the black leather of his jacket. The wind was in his face, the roar of the engine filled his ears. He could do whatever he wanted, he was free. For the first time since that stupid fuck-up six year ago, he was his own man. "Keep your head down," Officer Sayers had warned him, and he intended to listen to that advice. No more prison, no more screw-ups, no more red rage getting the best of him. No getting mixed up in other peoples' drama,

  And no more fighting. That was going to be the hardest part.

  Chapter 6

  J.

  It was late in the morning when J. got back from his ride. Crash and MacDougal were still dead asleep in the clubhouse in back of the shop, sleeping off lethal hangovers no doubt. J. wasn't surprised to see Teach already behind the shop's counter, leafing through parts catalogs he still insisted on ordering from, no matter how many times J. reminded him of the existence of the Internet.

  When Teach heard J.'s key in the lock he looked up quizzically and punched the volume down on the news show blaring out of his old boombox. Since retiring after twenty-five years at the prison, he had nothing to do but putter around his shop full-time. Despite that, it still looked like it was 1992 in there.

  Teach raised his bushy eyebrows, but said nothing.

  J. nodded in reply to the unasked question. "Yep. I'm done."

 

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